I feel pretty, like Marilyn Manson with Tourette's

I went to the salon yesterday and put those pesky grays temporarily to rest. I also had my first manicure ever. Abby had one when she was 9 because I told her if she got her grades up to all A's and B's I'd take her to get her nails done. My daughter was 9, I was a week shy of 35.

The stylist asked if I wanted a regular manicure or a hot wax manicure. I said, "I dunno, what's the difference?" She gave me this blank look then said, "Uhm, with a hot wax manicure I dip your hands in hot wax." It would've been altogether appropriate for her to have said "Duh" after that, but she's so sweet she didn't. I held my hand up to her - my filing hand, no less - and said, "Oh, well you tell me which one I need." My right hand is my filing hand, the hand that is constantly in pain because my index finger and thumb are continually cracked open. She took my hand in hers and said, "Oh honey.....you're definitely getting hot wax."

She massaged my hands which felt ohhhhhh so good and we chit chatted about life and kids and stuff. Then she painted my nails and when she was done my hands felt more like a woman's hands than a crusty sea captain's hands.

See?


This was taken today, so now they look like a crusty sea captain's hands again, except now the crusty sea captain has a French manicure.



And I already chipped one.




She did tell me I had very pretty nails, though, and definitely didn't need acrylics. A little - okay a lot of - lotion, yes, but acrylic nails, no.

I felt so pampered and pretty when I got home and spent the evening admiring my nails while at the same time refusing to put wood on the fire, put dishes in the dishwasher or anything else that might mar the beautifulness of my nails.

This morning I got up before six and headed to the shower. I had turned the bathroom heater on, turned on the water and stepped out of my pajamas before I looked in the mirror. I did a double-take when I saw this:
According to the frantic Google search I did while wrapped in a towel, shivering here at my desk at 6:07 this morning, it is a subconjunctival hemorrage. Sounds scary and a little dirty if you ask me.

It's a broken blood vessel.

For some reason I think of Marylin Manson.

Shudder.

Of course, given my propensity to freak the hell out over everything, I was convinced it was a sign of impending stroke or brain aneurism or hell, another side-effect from too much caffeine, but turns out they're pretty common, completely harmless and it will go away on its own in 10-14 days.

When Paul heard me tapping away on the computer in the dark at 6:09 am he grumpily asked me whut the hayell I was doin'. I told him I was researching the freakiness going on in my eyeball. I then felt compelled to read out loud everything the internet had to say about subconjunctival hemorrages and the part that said, "Sometimes caused by a hard sneeze or cough or other physical stressor" got his attention. He immediately went, "Bonk chicka wow wow" because he seems to think he sexed my conjunctor into hemorraging. He's special like that.

Tater sat down next to me at the basketball game this morning and when I turned to say hi she leaned back and said, "Woah, dude, what the hell's wrong with your EYE????" I told her it was nothing to be worried about, but she kept quizzing me about possible causes, namely my blood pressure, which I assured her was incredibly normal. She kept looking at it, which made me self-conscious. Finally I asked, "Is it that noticeable?" She said, "Yes, noticeable and more than a little scary."

Feel free to hire me for your next haunted hayride or spook house. Well, only if it occurs in the next 10-14 days; after that I'll just go back to being my normal non-freaky self without the ability to give 31 year old women nightmares by merely looking at them.

I have also discovered something else about myself - on Saturday mornings when my son is on the basketball court I develop Tourette's Syndrome and am completely incapable of controlling what comes out of my mouth and shouting anything coherent to the players on the court. Things that I prepare in my head to sound like, "COME ON, OWLS! Rebound!" actually come out sounding more like, "Whoah! Whoo! Eeeeyah! Iggyblopenstork!" I cannot control it, I have no way of knowing ahead of time if "Way to go, Micah!" is going to come out, "EEEgah, soooooeeeee!" or if "Yeah, Ethan! Good job, buddy!" will sound something like, "AhOOgah yip yip YEAH!"

And if the other team fouls one of our boys and the refs don't see it, I am magically transformed into an African American teenager from the 'hood and my head wags on my neck uncontrollably, my fingers snap in a Z for-may-shun and I holler, "Oh no you di'unt!"

Please help me. There has to be a support group or a clinical trial somewhere. I have to get this under control before the poor child plays high school ball. He's 9 now and I am still cool and unembarrassing on most days, but if I keep this up.....he'll wear a bag on his head and play as The Unknown Forward Who is Definitely Not Related to That Incoherent Woman with the Freaky Eye.