EatLoveRead.me

Funny pictures. Funny poems. Funny cats. New York, USA.

I’ve Been Pedicured

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Pink Toe Nails Pedicure Eatloveread.me

It was an ordinary, summer day. Several friends had generously given me a gift certificate for a free pedicure, and I planned on taking advantage of it.

I strolled into the salon-that-shall-not-be-named, expecting a therapeutic experience. After all, I was/am the mother of two energetic, crazy boys who sometimes act more like chimps than children. (There’s my husband, too, but he’s another story). I DESERVED pampering. Yay verily, I desperately needed it.

I might have guessed that the pedicure would not end well when the woman who greeted me  brusquely asked what color I wanted my toes painted. When I answered, “pink,” she pinched her face up and parroted, “PINK? Why PINK?”

Dear reader, is it not my choice what color I want my toes to be? Pink is my favorite color. Would the salon employee get a commission if I instead picked cerulean or ochre? Her reaction left me flummoxed, not relaxed. I decided then and there that my hostess would have been more at home in a court of law than courting customers.

After the color war, my assigned anti-pamperer’s foot care could only be described as rough (at best) and tortuous (at worst). I know the sides and back of my feet have callouses as big as Kanye’s ego, but the Salon Defense didn’t have to try digging to China to make her case.

Finally, I was instructed to put my feet under the sun lamp, to dry the contested pink polish, but because The Defense talked as quickly and quietly as my teenage son, I didn’t understand what she was saying. She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue, and I knew I was going to completely lose this case of therapeutics.

Listen, lady, I wanted to say, I’m not one of the high-rise Hollywood elite; I seldom have the extra money or time to pamper myself. When I do, I’d much rather get a massage than a pedicure (especially now). There’s no need to take me down!

But I smiled my biggest, sweetest Texas smile and resolved to talk to her boss. Maybe she read my mind, because as I was giving her the gift certificate, she talked to the other employees (again, too low for me to hear). Her gestures and body language told me all I needed to know about what she thought of me.

Sigh. My spirits were not quite pretty in pink. And I simply had no desire to re-create a Seinfeld episode.

Perhaps she was just having an off day. But shouldn’t the customer be queen, not criminal?

I put those thoughts aside and ruled against making a pedicure scene. But I decided: in the future, I’ll take my tootsies elsewhere or pamper them at home…where I can watch my favorite Seinfeld and exfoliate in peace.

Photo by Pink Sherbet Photography. Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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Wanted: Parental Potty Patience

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Potty Training Humor Funny Potty

[on a scale from wit to whimsy: Ticklish Funny]

We’re in the middle of my favorite chic-but-cheap superstore when my four year-old gets that look on his face. “No!” I yell, to the consternation of a lady who’s trying to pick out perfect melons.

I think hard…I have a cart full of groceries, no diaper bag, and exactly twenty minutes to pay out, load my stuff into the car, and be at the pick-up line at my oldest son’s school.

I know what you’re thinking. Four years-old and still not trained? Trust me, I feel the same way. We’ve tried everything with son #2:

• the encouragement technique: “You can do it!”

• the peer-pressure technique: “Doesn’t everyone else in your class wear underwear?”

• the shaming technique: “Only babies go in their diapers.”

• and finally, the bribe technique: “If you go number two in the potty, we’ll buy you ANYTHING you want from the store.” (By the way, the price limit of said reward has escalated in recent months. He could ask for a live pony now and I might say yes.)

Nothing has worked. I’m not Catholic, but this sure seems like Purgatory—or at least, one of Dante’s circles of Hades. According to my extensive (okay, two-minute) Wikipedia research, there is actually a level where people are covered in human…never mind.

The other day, I sat in the bathroom across from our little man, doing my best to affirm him. “You can do it!” I said.

Then I got so desperate for victory that I started chanting, “Push it out, push it out, w-a-a-a-a-y out!”

I’m on the edge here, people.

Back to the store. In one of those “can’t believe I’m doing this” moments, I decide that paying for groceries is more important than letting my little angel have another teachable moment.

I can stand the smell for a few minutes. I’m just not sure my cashier will be too happy about it…still, we’re in a part of town I don’t frequent too often, so I’m not that concerned.

I am concerned that this trial of parenting patience and stamina will never be over. That’s why it’s so nice to know that I’m not alone. In my saner moments, I remember that parents have potty-trained their offspring for thousands of years, and they survived the process. Maybe with a few extra grey hairs, but still.

I also know that my son is growing up fast, and he won’t be at this juncture forever. So I’m peddling for patience, gritting my teeth, and shelling out hard-earned cash for glorified diapers.

And I remind myself of a cliché that seems terribly, pun-fully appropriate here:

This, too, shall pass.

Photo by JeepersMedia, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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