This Guy

About six weeks ago, I stopped biting my nails.  Yes, this is the kind of hard hitting reporting you get out of me.

You care that I stopped biting my nails about as much as you care that I stopped leading with my left foot for a month, just to see if I could do it.  I, however, care quite a bit that I stopped biting my nails because it's only once or twice I decade I can pull it off.  I almost quit for good when I was four, the day my mother got all up in my face and told me to knock it off before she knocked it off for me.  I think I could have stopped; in fact, I'm sure I would have except that I was really gullible and my big brother was really bored.  He'd already tested out every other theory on me (ask him about gravity...go on) and so that fateful day, he decided to experiment with behavioral science.

"You know," he said to me in our room, just the two of us, with no one listening, "you know, those nails are your nails.  They're not hers. She really can't tell you what to do with your own fingers.  You shouldn't let people tell you what to do all the time."  

And so I did exactly what he told me to.  And I am still a nail biter.  That son of a bitch was right.

Except that once or twice every half decade or so, I can suddenly just stop biting them.  I don't know why and I don't argue it because it's super awesome to have fingernails.  I can open soda cans and scratch my itches and get stuff out of my ears without a q-tip if push comes to shove, and I don't need a fork to do any of it.  What's not super awesome is that my fingernails grow out about the same strength and consistency as parchment paper.  They get holes in the middle of them, they peel off in layers, they split and snag on everything and they drive me insane until I bite them off.  And then I wait five years to do it all again.

And so I have to get my nails done.  I have to get them polished and buffed and reinforced with that liquid cement nail stuff that doesn't smell anywhere near as good as the liquid cement stuff in 3rd grade art class did, but it works so I'll take it.  And because I am a married single mother, if I get a manicure, so does my kid.

If you're so much as thinking about telling me that your mom watches your kids for you so you can get your nails done, or that you do it over your lunch break while your kid is at daycare, or that you don't have any kids so you can get a nice, peaceful manicure whenever you want, just know that I will reach through this computer and punch you in the teeth when you do.

To be noted: Taking a three year old into a nail salon is just about exactly like taking a bull into a china shop, except that she doesn't have the ring in her nose. Yet.  That, and the china shop is full of poison.  Also, to be noted: Old women, surprisingly enough, don't think it's cute when adorable three year old try to splash around in their chemically-induced-blue pedicure soaking tubs.

So I took her with me last time, and she managed to walk out not only alive, but alive with very cute little pink-that-she-picked-out-herself fingernails with tragically cute little flowers painted on her thumbs.  And I managed to walk out with all of my hair.  Win, win.  And then there was this.

And no, she doesn't know her alphabet, she barely speaks English, she can't wipe her own butt and she thinks that purple is called black.  But she's got the "two thumbs" thing down pat.  Yes, I am so proud.