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But It’s Just the Right Size for Soaking My Feet

I had a choice between spending $50 on a pedicure or a crock pot this weekend.  Guess which one I chose?

If you know me at all, then you probably guessed the pedicure.

But you would be wrong.

I know.  I’m staring at my yucky feet and wondering how I could have possibly made such a ridiculous impulse purchase.

This all comes from being too helpful and having a birthday.

One of the teachers at school needed a bit of technological help, so I came to her aid.  She was beating herself up about her inability to pair her iPad with her computer, so I said, “Well, I’m a horrible cook.”

This gave her the idea of “rewarding” me with 2 slow-cooker recipes that supposedly take absolutely no skill.  And one of them even includes my favorite beverage – Diet Coke.

The problem is that the only slow-cooker we have is a tiny cup-sized one we bought for heating up some special dip for which I’ve long lost the recipe.

I mentioned this to my husband, the long-suffering Cap’n Firepants.  Apparently due to his lack of appropriate nutrients, he cannot  think clearly, and he made the ill-advised suggestion that, “Maybe I should buy you a crock pot for your birthday.”

I informed him that this would be a big mistake.  But I wasn’t sure the message got through.  Kind of like the year I told him 10,000 times that I thought it was dumb to have a T.V. with a built-in DVD player, and he proudly unveiled one for me on my birthday.

So, really, I bought the crock pot to thwart myself from getting thrown in jail for mariticide, resulting in our daughter being brought up by Wonderbutt.

And this is how I ended up with a crock pot sitting in a box on the dining room table and toes that could sharpen a pencil.

I need to stop being so helpful.

crockpot

Cesar Millan Needs to Paint My Toes

Wonderbutt, our Bulldog with Attitude, has absolutely no appreciation for the luxuries he enjoys.  For example, the dog is completely hateful about pedicures.  I’m beginning to contemplate letting his nails grow until they look like those crazy nails in the Guiness Book of World Records – you know those pics you always immediately turned to when you were a kid, and you would giggle with each other and say, “How in the world does that woman pick her nose?”

Wonderbutt does not need to pick his nose, so the temptation to let him figure out how to deal with ridiculously lengthy claws is not completely irrational.  The only problem is, I forgot to clip our golden, Mrs. P.I.B.’s, nails two weeks in a row, and she ripped one off running in the grass, which resulted in a crime scene that would delight any C.S.I.  and a very unfortunate vet bill that I do not want to ever end up exposing my inefficient colon to again.

When we first got Wonderbutt, I downloaded a book by Cesar Millan in which he specifically addressed how he dealt with his bulldog’s nail clipping routine.  It involved the scent of lavender and a gentle massage on a table.  I have tried my best to replicate this routine – without the lavender or the table.  Apparently, the act of casually pulling a paw toward me when Wonderbutt is half-asleep is not His Highness’ idea of relaxation.  Instead, it is a trigger for him to immediately take my hand hostage in his mouth until I let go of the paw.  Massaging the paw just extends the time and pain that I get to endure until I surrender.

I would be offended by Wonderbutt’s ingratitude, but I realized the other day that I don’t really suffer pedicures well myself.

I had decided to treat myself  as an I’m-Going-Back-Work-After-Having-a-Fairly-Crappy-Summer reward.  Unfortunately, my favorite pedicure place went out of business, probably solely due to the fact that I haven’t been there in a year, and I had to find a new spot.  The last new spot I went to was horrible, so I wasn’t sure I wanted to try anywhere again.  But the combination of my inattention to detail, my post-40 sight changes, and my refusal to wear reading glasses had resulted in my most recent self-applied pedicure looking like a 3-year old had scribbled with a paint pen all over my toes.  Either I needed the services of a professional – or to wear closed-toe shoes for the rest of my life.

After consulting local Yelp reviews, I finally found a new nail salon.  Quiet, peaceful, relaxing.

As my pedicurist gently massaged my toes, here was what was going through my head:

“Oh, crap.  I forgot to stop by the ATM.  I HAVE NO CASH!!!  How am I going to tip him?  I could use my credit card, but people like cash better.  What kind of idiot am I to FORGET TO BRING CASH TO A PEDICURE?!!!!!  I think I might have a dollar.  But that’s an insult.  This is horrible.  I am a selfish, lazy, blind, middle-aged lady suffering from dementia.  I don’t deserve a pedicure.  Does anyone ever give this poor guy a pedicure?  I wonder what his feet look like.  I don’t really want to know.  My left arm feels a bit tingly.  I think I’m about to have a heart attack. ”

Are these the thoughts that run through Wonderbutt’s head?  Is the hand-chomp merely his way of revealing his insecurities?  If Wonderbutt could Yelp about my services, would his review berate me for the absence of lavender and special furniture or would he admit that his ability to enjoy his pedicures is inhibited by his body issues and his concerns about properly compensating for me for a job well-done?

It’s the lavender.

Wonderbutt hides his paws from me in a failed attempt to avoid his weekly pedicure.

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