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I got my nails done yesterday, and came to the conclusion that they should probably fire all the people who come up with names for nail polishes.
I mean, I love the stuff. It is, by far (so far), the girliest thing I do, having given up dollhouses and never having been much of a shopper. First, there's every imaginable shade of red and pink (why is that the "default" nail color?) then white, beige, lavender, and expanding onward from there to every color of the rainbow (including day-glo orange and pond-scum green), not to mention shimmery, glittery, and opalescent variations. I love having the option of a sedate French manicure (de rigeur for job interviews), and then flipping over two weeks later to a personally soothing blue or sexy red. But I have yet to pick up a polish, ambivalent about whether I want to use it, and then flip it over to read the name and find that improves my opinion even one iota.
The reason I'm writing this now is because yesterday's choice was such an egregious example. I am wearing this color polish through Sheer Force of Will, right now, I'm telling you.
First, this polish is beautiful. It is a very dark pink, if you're a straight guy. All the rest of you know what "fuchsia" is, right? It has an opalescent finish, which makes it give off blue-purple reflections. But if I describe it like that, I'm no better than the people I'm ranting about (although, perhaps, no worse).
This polish looks like the color I would wear with a new bathing suit, or the color lipstick one expects on a girl eating a lollipop in a look-don't-touch kind of flirtation. It is the color of a flowered dress I bought in Hawaii. But the name is not "Bikini Summer," "Sassy Candy," or even the pedestrianly obvious "Hawaiian Fuchsia."
It's "Valentime Enough for Love."
When I read that, suddenly, it was the color of a bow on a cheap stuffed animal or of an uncomfortable piece of lingerie sold to a stripper. I had to forcibly put it out of my mind.
Because yesterday, I triumphed over the manicure in a way that has not been done in months, possibly years. I did not scratch the finish.
One of the things I supposedly get from manicures is spending time on myself and taking time out from the world. However, I am, by nature, impatient, and I want to cram my manicure into an hour. The fact is, it takes about an hour and 10 minutes, and that last 10 minutes is the difference between a perfect manicure and an imperfect one. Over and over, I have sat under the dryer for the requisite three minutes, sprayed a blast of "Quick Dry" on my nails, and taken off, promising that I wouldn't touch anything with the back of my hand... but "that trick never works." Yesterday, I made myself sit there for the whole 10 minutes. And my Hawaiian summer candy fuchsia is perfect. The color attracts the eye and lets it admire and be fascinated, without being distracted by or forced to ignore streaks, pits, or chips. Which is the point.
* * * * * *
I'm back at my mother's house today, and yet more half-and-half has gone bad. This half-and-half, however, was dated Aug. 7, and it's only Aug. 10, and the half-and-half was unopened until an hour ago. So, I wasted coffee, watching in horror as the stuff clotted. I'd imagine that it was the refrigerator, but usually, we can't stop it from freezing stuff.
I have to remember to clean out the coffee maker before I ever leave this house, not knowing, as I frequently don't, when I'll be coming back. I had to scrub the filter free of mold again today. I am sure that I have failed at conserving resources when I buy a non-paper coffee filter but then have to scrub it repeatedly and waste a lot of water every time I use it.
I also wondered why the coffee carafe was in the dishwasher, since the coffee maker obviously had not been touched in 11 days.
* * * * * *
Many years ago, a girl stole a very expensive pair of shoes from me, the most expensive ones I've ever bought. She did it by borrowing them through her boyfriend, who was my roommate. She then quit him, her job, and her home, probably making it her most expensive pair of shoes ever, too.
I knew better than to do this, is the point; but I was willing, on the basis of the relationship with my roommate, to risk it.
Unfortunately, here I am again.
I have mentioned trying to get my taxes completed many times here, and I took my tax paperwork to an old friend, who either moonlights as a waitress, or is a waitress who moonlights as a tax preparer.
I only knew where she worked, but she gave me her business card with both her home and cell phone numbers, her home address, and her email address.
She did the taxes for myself and my ex-husband several years ago, so I know she's performed the work and been paid for it before.
I even talked to her on the phone a couple of times.
A few weeks ago (07/18/2008), she called me and said she would be in touch the following Sunday, and that it would be a good time to get together. I waited to hear from her that Sunday but did not. Since then, I have called several times and emailed once, and gotten no answer.
Finally, I went to where she works last night, and she was not there. She had quit or been fired. I did get a phone number of one of her friends, whom I called today. The friend said she did know her, she saw her almost every day, and that she would pass along the message.
I do not know what is going on, but I need to know my tax paperwork is okay.
I mean, I love the stuff. It is, by far (so far), the girliest thing I do, having given up dollhouses and never having been much of a shopper. First, there's every imaginable shade of red and pink (why is that the "default" nail color?) then white, beige, lavender, and expanding onward from there to every color of the rainbow (including day-glo orange and pond-scum green), not to mention shimmery, glittery, and opalescent variations. I love having the option of a sedate French manicure (de rigeur for job interviews), and then flipping over two weeks later to a personally soothing blue or sexy red. But I have yet to pick up a polish, ambivalent about whether I want to use it, and then flip it over to read the name and find that improves my opinion even one iota.
The reason I'm writing this now is because yesterday's choice was such an egregious example. I am wearing this color polish through Sheer Force of Will, right now, I'm telling you.
First, this polish is beautiful. It is a very dark pink, if you're a straight guy. All the rest of you know what "fuchsia" is, right? It has an opalescent finish, which makes it give off blue-purple reflections. But if I describe it like that, I'm no better than the people I'm ranting about (although, perhaps, no worse).
This polish looks like the color I would wear with a new bathing suit, or the color lipstick one expects on a girl eating a lollipop in a look-don't-touch kind of flirtation. It is the color of a flowered dress I bought in Hawaii. But the name is not "Bikini Summer," "Sassy Candy," or even the pedestrianly obvious "Hawaiian Fuchsia."
It's "Valentime Enough for Love."
When I read that, suddenly, it was the color of a bow on a cheap stuffed animal or of an uncomfortable piece of lingerie sold to a stripper. I had to forcibly put it out of my mind.
Because yesterday, I triumphed over the manicure in a way that has not been done in months, possibly years. I did not scratch the finish.
One of the things I supposedly get from manicures is spending time on myself and taking time out from the world. However, I am, by nature, impatient, and I want to cram my manicure into an hour. The fact is, it takes about an hour and 10 minutes, and that last 10 minutes is the difference between a perfect manicure and an imperfect one. Over and over, I have sat under the dryer for the requisite three minutes, sprayed a blast of "Quick Dry" on my nails, and taken off, promising that I wouldn't touch anything with the back of my hand... but "that trick never works." Yesterday, I made myself sit there for the whole 10 minutes. And my Hawaiian summer candy fuchsia is perfect. The color attracts the eye and lets it admire and be fascinated, without being distracted by or forced to ignore streaks, pits, or chips. Which is the point.
I'm back at my mother's house today, and yet more half-and-half has gone bad. This half-and-half, however, was dated Aug. 7, and it's only Aug. 10, and the half-and-half was unopened until an hour ago. So, I wasted coffee, watching in horror as the stuff clotted. I'd imagine that it was the refrigerator, but usually, we can't stop it from freezing stuff.
I have to remember to clean out the coffee maker before I ever leave this house, not knowing, as I frequently don't, when I'll be coming back. I had to scrub the filter free of mold again today. I am sure that I have failed at conserving resources when I buy a non-paper coffee filter but then have to scrub it repeatedly and waste a lot of water every time I use it.
I also wondered why the coffee carafe was in the dishwasher, since the coffee maker obviously had not been touched in 11 days.
Many years ago, a girl stole a very expensive pair of shoes from me, the most expensive ones I've ever bought. She did it by borrowing them through her boyfriend, who was my roommate. She then quit him, her job, and her home, probably making it her most expensive pair of shoes ever, too.
I knew better than to do this, is the point; but I was willing, on the basis of the relationship with my roommate, to risk it.
Unfortunately, here I am again.
I have mentioned trying to get my taxes completed many times here, and I took my tax paperwork to an old friend, who either moonlights as a waitress, or is a waitress who moonlights as a tax preparer.
I only knew where she worked, but she gave me her business card with both her home and cell phone numbers, her home address, and her email address.
She did the taxes for myself and my ex-husband several years ago, so I know she's performed the work and been paid for it before.
I even talked to her on the phone a couple of times.
A few weeks ago (07/18/2008), she called me and said she would be in touch the following Sunday, and that it would be a good time to get together. I waited to hear from her that Sunday but did not. Since then, I have called several times and emailed once, and gotten no answer.
Finally, I went to where she works last night, and she was not there. She had quit or been fired. I did get a phone number of one of her friends, whom I called today. The friend said she did know her, she saw her almost every day, and that she would pass along the message.
I do not know what is going on, but I need to know my tax paperwork is okay.
