Mani/pedis are a BIG deal and no SMALL expense with the Princess.  Last time we went, she asked for (and got) a “Spa Pedicure Treatment” which costs a bloody fortune when you multiply by mine too.  As you already know, I wanted to do something fun with her since that BLONDE Cheermom cow excluded her from the pool party.  So, I took the Princess for mani/pedis earlier today at the local nail salon.  I use the word “local” very loosely since every single employee of the salon is native to Vietnam and barely speaks any English at all. 

After selecting our polish and dipping our tootsies in boiling (not really) blue water, we were ready for some foot love.  The Princess got a “Nail Technician” who was sweet and gentle as a lamb.  She looked to be about 15 years old so I assume she was probably 40.   In my experience, the Vietnamese women who live around here are freaking Goddesses they are so beautiful.   The Princess struggled to understand her English occasionally and I helped interpret and they would laugh together.  A good time was had by all.

Well, almost all.  I got my nails done by a lady who didn’t speak to me one time during the entire visit.  Not once.  Her name was “Carla” according to others who addressed her, but the name on her license was “X”.  I swear to God.  There was a last name, but it had no vowels so I didn’t even try to pronounce it so who knows.

During the hour that she made my fingernails and toenails beautiful, she talked.  A lot.  To herself.  Sometimes VERY loudly and sometimes all mumbly.  Which makes me wonder, in my precious paranoid way, if she was talking about me and my calloused feet!  I’m not always so paranoid, but what else could it have been? 

Maybe she was muttering about my lovely slender ankles.  Or my ingrown big toenail.  Or my slutty choice of nail polish.  Or  the fact that I paid for a six year old to get a “Spa Pedicure”.  Or my peach fuzzy legs (I was in a hurry and no time to shower or shave!). Or maybe she has Turret’s.

I think I’ll choose to believe the latter so I can feel sad for her and say things like “Bless Her Heart” (which in Southernese means “Stupid Fucker” just for your future reference).  See the redhead over there chatting with her pals over a bottle  glass of wine.  That’s me telling my friends about my great day, “Yes.  It’s so sad.  Poor X does a lovely job on nails, but she has Turret’s.  Don’t pay attention to a thing she says.  Bless her heart.”

Because it’s not true.  Especially that part about my callouses.