All That Glitters

The other night I painted my fingers a sparkly gold. I was reviewing my miles long to-do list, it really is miles long you know, and my exhausted brain suddenly clicked into survival mode. Paint your nails! my brain commanded. And you know me, I always do what I'm told (my husband wishes!)

I have a hard and fast personal rule on nail polish, which is that it isn't for me. My fingers are too long, my nail beds too wide. I inherited my hands from my dad, who inherited his hands from his dad, and so as much as I appreciate looking at my hands and being able to say hello to two paternal generations, it is not so much the excitement for manicures. During the Black Nail Polish Fad Of 2008 I looked like I was wearing olives. It was really depressing, I felt that loss from the bottom of my heart.

My sister Amanda has perfect nails, at least so my mother always told me growing up. She has the perfect nails and the perfect elastic skin. At the time I didn't quite get the part about elastics but now with a nearing-thirty face I am starting to see the appeal.

I put on the nail polish, because as it turns out, sitting for ten minutes with your hands out of commission is a good way to take a self-imposed meditation break. Sort things out, you know. Watch a little Charlie Brown Christmas.

I took my sparkly nails to work today and together we got to pinch lots of fat baby cheeks. Isn't that fantastic? I choose to believe my sparkly nails manifested those babies. I love the mall at Christmas time. I love the over-stressed moms who come in with their babies because I love nothing more than cooing at fat things and they love nothing more than a moment's peace while they smell body splashes. After a particularly grumpy fatty came by to woo me I told a coworker that the babies were making my ovaries vibrate. She looked at me like maybe I was insane which is so confusing because, don't your ovaries vibrate ever? To be fair she was only 19. And anyway, not hardly work appropriate conversation, your reproductive organs. I blame the nails. They're just sparkly, you know. Sparkles do things to the brain.

After work I let my nails escort me to the Old Navy where I have been hounding - practically stalking! - a sweater that I keep hoping will go on sale. It was not on sale (and they were out of my size) but that was okay because everywhere I went in the Old Navy everyone stopped to tell me how great my nails were. Old Navy loves the glitters! And I was realizing it was getting to my head but I liked this new power, these saucy new fingers.

Those nails just kept on being sparkly and I couldn't help but feel that I was bringing important Christmas Cheer to every place I went. But then a terrible thing happened when I tried to deposit a lousy check for $25 and the ATM ate my debit card. Those glittery nails themselves sent that card through the thing. That's when I started to wonder. 

When I got home Brandon decided to make me dinner. This is very kind of him because due to work and my attempts at holiday traditions my kitchen has been completely ignored lately. It's just the saddest thing. I go in there and all of the cupboards frown at me. They're all, "Oh, it's you," and I have to leave before they see the tears.

Anytime Brandon gets in the kitchen it is this grand to-do of culinary adventure. Every pan in the cupboard is used, every sauce in the fridge is consulted, and there is always a special ingredient that you are obligated to try and guess while you eat. Hmmm, is it coriander? Ginger? This time, it was onion flakes.

After dinner was finished we sort of looked at each other and contemplated our evening. I was thinking of Mutual and finishing a felt ruffle wreath and Brandon had visions of Tax Law finals and I knew what was probably going to happen to all those pans in the kitchen, and three times I tried not to say it, but the nails man, those damn sparkles made me do it.

"When I make dinner I usually do the dishes," I said. The minute it was out of my mouth I knew I was in for it. Who says that kind of thing? 

And then what happened?

My Holbspapi did the dishes, scrubbed the counters, and put all the sauces in the fridge back to their chilly spaces.

The sparkles have received a stay of execution.