Recommended wine for today’s entry: Recently, there’s been a chill in the air, at least in Kentucky, and it is WAY too early for a chill in the air, so today I will suggest a hearty, warm-me-up wine: this rec comes from my friend Jill Waits, who likes Francis Coppola Cabernet Sauvignon. The 2006 got a rating “around a 9” in a recent run-down of a Sonoma tasting event on vinography.com. Check out the whole list – the writer, Alder Yarrow, rated a BUNCH of wines that I plan to try at http://www.vinography.com/archives/2009/09/top_wines_of_sonoma_tasting_no.html. This is a very worthy site, having won every wine blog award for probably every year since blogging began. Awesome!
And now I will jump from sophisticated wine blogs to pedicures with both feet. (Do they have an award for Most Pathetic Segue?)
I am not a fan of pedicures for two very succinct reasons:
1) I think feet are gross and I think people who don’t think feet are gross are gross. (You may need to read that sentence a couple times; I understand.)
2) I never quite got over the normal adolescent fear of spazzing out in a new situation. Then, my mother would prod me to go ahead and try something new – and get over my fear. Now, with mother living miles and miles away, I elect to avoid the new situations. As you’ll see from today’s post, spazzing at 48 is as bad or worse than it was at 16.
I have had a pedicure exactly twice in my nearly half-century of life. I know, I know what you’re thinking: No wonder you think feet are gross … yours are. Well that is probably true, but I do have a trusty Ped Egg that I use each week to shred most of what were formerly my feet. Like cutting back a plant, this allows for the growth of new feet that are small and soft.
The two times I have had a pedicure, it was my daughter who lured me to the living hell. With her assurances that she would tell me what to do, I acquiesced, thinking, “You know what? If my 18-year-old can handle this, I can handle this!”
Turns out, I was wrong. I couldn’t handle it. My daughter was cool and relaxed. Of course, she had a really nice Asian lady, who smiled and spoke normally, doing her feet. Me? I got a surly American man who looked like a former NFL linebacker doing my feet. As soon as he squatted his bulky self onto the tiny stool at my feet, I knew exactly what was going on.
This was a big, scary man who decided to be a pedicurist because he had a FOOT FETISH. And he was even scarier and meaner because, on a day he had been waiting for all year – prom day in our neck of the woods – he didn’t get assigned one of the fourteen hot little prom-goers with the cute feet and smooth calves. He got mom. The mom who, at this juncture, had NEVER had a pedicure and so had 47 years of barnacles or whatever that stuff is that grows on old feet. And spider veins on poorly shaved calves.
So he was a bitch about it. Especially after I thought I had the whole tapping thing down but obviously did not. If you’ve ever had a pedicure, you know what I mean. They like tap you – in code – on the back of your calf and it means either, “put this foot back into the water,” or “bring this foot out of the water and up on the grooming platform,” or “spread your toes, baby, I’m going to insert this foam and break a couple of your toe-knuckles unless you’re double-jointed.”
Well, apparently I had not deciphered the tap codes too well and I put a foot forward just as he was leaning in W-A-A-A-Y close to cut little itsy bitsy cuticles and, well, I kicked the lummox in the chin. He recoiled like a big baby and then didn’t tap code me anymore. He also mocked me for wanting clear nail polish. (I’m not a big believer in painting ugly feet in bold colors, just as I don’t advocate wearing tight shirts with arrows near my chin saying, “my boobs used to be here.”)
The second pedicure was actually even worse. I had a little more confidence going in, now that I knew the tipping procedure and what to expect. This time I got an Asian woman, who seemed very, very nice although I still found it disconcerting to have someone sitting at my feet like I was Cleopatra.
At least I think she was very nice, because she spoke REALLY softly and with a bit of an accent. Now, I don’t hear well anyway, but if you take an Asian woman who whispers while facing my feet so that I can’t read her lips, I got no shot. I found out later that she asked what color polish I wanted and I said, “My daughter is going to the prom tonight.” No wonder everyone thinks I’m insane.
Anyway, my first visit, I had decided against using the massage features on my chair because, well, they intimidated me. And one doesn’t have much muscle stiffness or fatigue if one doesn’t have muscles.
But this time I thought, “Hell, I’m a regular customer. I’ve been here in 2008 and now 2009. I think I just will give these massagers a whirl.”
So I flipped the chair on – full throttle.
The first thing it did was give me a sharp punch to the left kidney. I swear, it felt like a jab from Muhammad Ali. It literally made me go “ooommppphh,” and drop my magazine. Then, if you were looking at me from the seats opposite, (and of course, four of my poor daughter’s peers were), I began this contortion dance as I was stabbed, poked and twisted by powerful metal protrusions disguised by elegant Corinthian Naugahyde. Finally, with help, I got it turned off.
The nice Asian lady, who had lost her grip on my slippery foot and dripped the water all over her pants, sat there stunned. I was out of breath and shaken, but, after checking my ribs, determined that I would have no lasting repercussions – not physical, at least.
Then the lady painted my toes with alacrity and sent me on my way. Of course, I didn’t hear her when she told me (apparently) to sit at some special table and put my feet under the purple aquarium lights, so I just sat there in the middle of the place fumbling through my purse, frantically looking for my wallet that I had pulled out seconds prior and placed on the table where some lady was wanting to put her newly painted claws.
Never again, I vowed, no matter what my daughter offers. Feet are gross and people who don’t think feet are gross are gross. You can quote me.