Update: Blog title changed because apparently using a word for the undergarments us ladies wear - sometimes - results in poorly written spam comments and a link to Cyprus call girls. Bitches, I got my own, don't need to pay Euro or Rubles for yours. What's the Greek word for "whore?"
Love the little shops that, at one time, were old Victoria houses, painted in pastels and with a bell over the door, a ding-donging and welcoming kind. And love when a real postman, complete with government issue pith helmet, a hard round topper that looks as if it could hold a hearty serving of soup or pudding, brings the mail in person, all bills and Elle Magazine.
It was in a place exactly like this where, this afternoon, I had my first mani-pedi in months.
The black runners toe kept me from a soapy soak and luscious colors for some time. Although I came to peace quickly with the jock aspect of my injured foot digit, girl ego and commerce kept me from a proper salon procedure; why buff and polish and paint a mostly black-and-blue-bordering-on-green big toenail, the queen of the toenails. It fell off a week or so ago; mostly removed from skin, one small pull and it was gone, yellow and thick like a talon. I kept it . Not sure what to do with it, maybe string a fetish necklace of it with some dead bird bones.
It’s been dry here in Colorado, more so than usual, and both my hands and feet are crying out in parched anger. I’ve caught a rough edge on the pads on my feet against the carpet and my hands are so pained I’ve considered a dunk in Crisco followed by Saran Wrap wrap. Feeling in need of pampering and the new toe nub coming in nicely, I determined today was the day. Jet tubs, fuck ‘em; bacteria and micros I envision as round with sharp-toothed smiles and a dozen hairy spider legs live in the chutes of jet tubs. Plus, the ladies vacillate between English and native tongue and one can’t help but think the lyrical sounds of the language is a personal jab, a reverse imperial stab.
Wash your feet, bitch? I giggle at your muffin top. Pick a color!
Found a tiny shop in a boutique neighborhood, one that touts freshly scrubbed wash bowls for feet. Spendy, $15 more than the “It’s a small world” variety found in any strip mall with a grocery and a Carl’s Junior, but worth it bacterially. My toes, what’s left of them, now reflect a gorgeous white shiny hue and my hands got hip. I don’t do manicures well since I love working with my phalanges, bite at cuticles and pull at loose bits. I usually go toes dark-to-black and fingernails natural but with a nubbin at best, I went purple black, short square nails on the hands.
Love them. Can’t stop looking at them. Hope they last more than a weekend.
The mailman, real story. The nail shop is old school cute with people strolling by a large picture windows and small dogs in sweaters, loads of indy coffee shops nearby and parking without meters on the street out front.
I’ll call it home. Someday. Soon, please.
And I got new panties. Ill-fitting panties, like jeans with the wrong rise, can leave you lifted and separated (a.k.a "camel toe" or "moose knuckle"). The Jenni “Boy Meets Girl” bikini with mock-penis flap is a cotton wonder. Bought six pairs.
I so enjoy being a girl.