Me Days: Mani/Pedi Edition

Last Friday was my birthday. It was pretty low-key (read: boring), as birthdays usually are after you have kids. So yesterday I decided to go a little splurge-crazy and have a “me” day. I treated myself to a morning mani/pedi topped off with a quick afternoon shopping spree.  I realize this indulgence comes on the heels of my detailing how much it sucks always putting my kids first and basically never doing a damn thing for myself.  But I think that post really just made me see how badly I needed some TLC.  Plus, I haven’t had my nails done in a YEAR, and my cuticles weren’t gonna cut themselves.

Since I’m always looking for relatable shit to share with you all (and a trip to the nail salon kinda screams blog material) won’t you please join me on my little nail adventure?  I would take you shopping with me as well, but that part went south when I made the very bad decision to try on a bikini. I’ll save that story for another day.

So I arrive at the salon and pick a nail polish color first. I hate it already and it’s not even on my nails yet. Whatever.

I sit down and immediately wonder if the lady doing my nails is talking about me.  Why is she laughing like that with the girl next to her?  Are they laughing at my horrible cuticles? My clothes? Hair? What are they saying?? I feel like I’m trapped inside an episode of Seinfeld.


I wonder if anyone can tell that I haven’t shaved my legs today? Or yesterday. Or yet this week.

The pedicurist grazes the bottom of my foot and I giggle like a three-year-old. Why am I the only idiot in here who does that? I thought being ticklish on your foot was normal. Are these other women made of stone?

A cell phone rings in my ear. Loud gabbing ensues. It continues for an unpleasing length of time. I resist the urge to rip  the phone from this girl’s freshly polished hand and chuck it right into her dirty foot water.

I notice that something reeks.  No, not the familiarly toxic chemical nail parlor scent (I call it “eu de acrylic”). It’s like….a funeral home or something. Ohh, I see where it’s coming from. Betty White, 12:00. Why do old women insist upon dowsing themselves in nasty perfume that smells like dead roses? Seriously, lady, tone it down. I can smell you from like five chairs away. I bet the girl doing her feet is contemplating a career change right now.

Foot rubs from strangers are creepy. Just saying.

A girl wheels a baby stroller in.  Guess what? The baby is crying! Yay! Thanks for bringing a whiny, screaming infant in here.  I wasn’t looking to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT or anything. Um, newsflash, mama. No one expects a brand new mom to have a fresh set of tips. Either get a babysitter or give up on the dream.

I’m disturbed by a sign on the wall that reads: “Is permanent makeup for you?” The answer is NO. The answer should ALWAYS be no. They need to take that sign down immediately. Eyebrow tattoos should be fucking illegal.

What was I thinking with this color?  I wonder if it’s too late to change it. That’s the last time I pick a color based on the shade of wine I plan to guzzle when I get home.

Okay, I’ve been here for like an hour and I’m over this now. My nails are dry enough, I think. Maybe. I dunno. But if I sit in front of these greasy, germ-spewing hand dryers any longer, I’m definitely going to catch some potentially fatal, antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection . Or worse, someone may try to strike up a conversation with me.

I’m leaving. I’ll be careful this time. Like, extra, super careful. Now where the heck are my car keys (fumbles around in purse)…. Wow, that might be a record. Three nails ruined before even making it to the car.

Oh well, who cares if I messed up a few nails? I’m not a hand model. They still look a hell of a lot better than they did yesterday. Yay for pretty nails!

Bunk Bed Envy

This weekend, Big M and I replaced the Lightening McQueen toddler bed owned by every other little boy in the United States and the crib never used by either of my children with a set of bunk beds.  Little M is in LOVE with his new bed, as any person who’s spent every night for the last three years in a tiny bed covered by a hard, laminated mattress would be once finally entering the wonderful world of normal-sized beds.

Last night, after a particularly exhausting day, I was making Little M’s bed with his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sheets and I found myself lingering up there on that top bunk for a few extra moments longer than necessary.  It just looked so cozy, so private.

I was insanely jealous of Little M in that moment.

It was like having your own personal, cloud-covered room floating in the sky where you can do whatever you want and no one can see you or bother you. And since it was 7pm, Little M was going to get to spend the rest of the night in that little haven.  No dishes to wash, no bills to pay, no baths to give, no floors to wash, no lunchboxes to pack, no work to be done, nothing.  And he has NO CLUE what a gift that is.

Youth really is wasted on the young.

I can’t count how many times I wish I could just crawl into a private, little, cozy space and just be left alone for a while. I’m not new to the idea; as a child my parents often would find me huddled in the back of the hall closet with a book and a flashlight.  Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.

But as adults, it is something we don’t get to do nearly enough.  We don’t get to hide from our own lives enough.  There is no metaphorical top bunk haven for most of us.  We steal time when we can, but it is it enough to keep us sane?

I leave you with this awesome scene from the HYSTERICAL show The Middle, where mom of three Frankie uses the restroom at her job to steal a few minutes of “me time.”