This Little Piggy

I should probably seek therapeutic help for this little episode. And for those of you who are a bit squeamish,(and you know who you are), I'd suggest you skip this column.

It's been more than a month since I've changed my toenail polish. This is an unusual occurrance as I'm usually a seven day pedicure/twice weekly polish change kind of girl. Sad as it may be, my feet are my best feature and I keep them in excellent to near mint condish. No callouses, no wonky hammer time and most importantly-flawless color on the nails. Vanity, thy name is tootsies.

How many men have lucky shirts? For bowling, for baseball, for babes? They believe the magical shirt brought them good fortune or perhaps, the shirt just reminds them of good times. I know several women who wear an item of jewelry because it holds fond memories for them.

I was wearing the toenail polish in question on a perfect day. It was, quite possibly, the best twenty four hours of my adult life.

When I remove the color, it'll be like taking an acetone swab to the last tangible evidence of complete contentment.

So, I'm torn. A lifelong dedication to impeccable foot hygeine and grooming or holding on to a feeling I'll probably never have again.

Stay tuned to my local flip flops for updates on this story.

Too Sappy for You

I come from very different parents. My mom, frequently referred to as, "The lovely and gracious Mrs. McGinn" and my father, who is known to most as "That son on a bitch."

As a kid, there was every indication that I'd grow up to be lovely and gracious. My mother was educated and cultured and made every effort to make certain I learned about the finer things in life. For example, I can spot a fake Gucci bag from 200 paces, my French is passable and I've read every Miss Manners edition printed since 1982. I know which fork is for eating fish and I can use it properly. I like the ballet. All these things are directly attributed to my genteel mom.

On the other hand, my dad was, well, crusty. A curmudgeon, if you will. He was a self-employed builder with little patience for people who didn't move fast enough to suit him. No stranger to eating while standing over the sink, the ol' man treated his regular injuries with duct tape and Bounty towels. He taught me a few things as well. I can walk like Redd Foxx in Sanford & Son. I know how to pop out and bondo the dented fender of a '42 Ford. Belching and other bodily functions are hilarious! Also courtesy of my dad; a hot little temper.


To summarize my unique blend of geneaology and personality:
I can cuss like a Teamster but with more fluidity and in better context.
After sizing up the situation, I ain't afraid to fat-mouth anybody.
I'm comfortable chatting up the Captain of the ship or the busboy from Peru.
My closet contains linen slacks and camouflage cargo pants.
Car show or Broadway play are both a fun evening for me.

I'll never be able to say it enough, thanks you guys. And I love you.