I was going to post this on Facebook but realized there are just too many parts and also that I have a website I do not have the hang of yet and maybe it could go there? Only I don’t really know if you are supposed to write about misadentures on your author site because it is nothing to do with writing and that might be why people come to your page. This misadventure is only loosely to do with writing because the result of it means my typing is even worse than usual and also it stings when I do it.
So here is what happened. It is mostly the fault of authoress Tami Lewis Brown. She and I were in the same town and drank some tea together the other day, during which time I noted, as I always do in our encounters, that her fingernails were lovely. Mine tend toward the stubby and unkempt, which I don’t mind because what can I do when I have all these bitey dogs and also dishes to do all the time. But I got extra transfixed by Tami’s nails and became covetous. I wanted some. I wanted pretend nails that would be a color and I would feel sophisticated and like I had an office job that required a lot of clicky computer work. I would be as zingy and competent as Penelope Garcia, the info wizard on my secret, sinful obsession of a television show, Criminal Minds. I am addicted to this program despite its flaws because do you know what? They catch the bad guy every single week and I find that terribly, terribly satisfying. My own dear darling maintains that I love it also because there is a well-knit, highly made-up gentleman FBI agent on the show whom I like to look at. We call him Officer Fondant because of the quality of his base makeup. This is neither here nor there, but you might note that the very person who inititally made fun of me for watching this show now watches it with me enough to participate in character nicknaming.
I do enjoy looking at Secret Agent Officer Fondant.
Anyway, the nails. So the day after my jolly encounter with Tami Lewis Brown, I took my car in to get its oil changed and needed to fill in a dreary hour of waiting. Did I set up my computer and work like a good American? Nope. I went into a nail salon, stuck my fingers out at the woman there and breathlessly demanded I be turned into Tami Lewis Brown. After a short interlude of explaining myself, she set to, thoughtfully turning on the television behind me so I could watch it in the mirror as she worked. You guys, now I am all up in One Life to Live’s business and also the Bold and the Beautiful. They grab you quick, with their hospitalized people and evil villains. The fake-nail-getting itself was a totally repulsive process. Some of you have probably done this before, so you already know about the horrible box of two-inch long pretend nails from which your pretend nails are chosen. I did not know about this box, however, and nearly lost my lunch when the lady opened it. But I am stalwart, and pressed on, which is exactly what the nail lady did with those nails onto my real stubby ones.
Well. Several coats of pretend nail substance later, the door to the nailery swung open, and in walked a super handsome tall guy with sunglasses on his head, followed by a less handsome (but I am sure really wonderful and kind) man and the tall, handsome one said the words I have longed to hear for years, which were, “I am Special Agent Something from the FBI.” You guys! He was a Special Agent of the FBI! And there I was getting Tami Lewis Brown Penelope Garcia nails! It was like fate. Only not, because he was not there to wrassle a perp to the ground for my delectation, but to question my poor nail lady. They led her to the back room of the salon and there was me with sticky coats of fake chitin on while strenuous conversation bordering on shouts came from that back room. You can imagine there was something of a pall cast on the salon. Also my hands, because they were not done and it wasn’t looking good in terms of them getting done anytime soon. I engaged in some whispered and wide-eyed conferring with the other nail lady (who was already doing two other peoples’ nails at once like some kind of sorceress) so now I think I know what all was going down and without divulging her business here, I do want everyone reading this to be on the side of my nail lady. Also please know that I don’t think we have to worry too much because the whole sitch seems pretty minor, and not worthy of FBI agents, and there is a lot of spite involved so I think it’ll work out okay for her. Send good thoughts her way, though.
But the result of all this is that my nails are hilarious. They are unfinished and misshapen and look like terrible little shovels attached to the ends of my fingers. They are all different lengths are are a little hurty like they are wearing too-tight hats and typing is a misery because the only way that I don’t hit eleven keys at once is to type with the little shovels themselves and I can’t do that very well and also ow.
So I am no Tami Lewis Brown and also no Penelope Garcia but darned if I do not feel one step closer to Officer Fondant.
Officer Fondant
