Cher Called And She Wants Her Nose Back

Lately I’ve felt like anything remotely of writing-interest has just gone plop, right there on the floor. Like I was pregnant and expecting a beautiful baby chubby faced thing and instead I birthed out a giant blob of goop, possibly leaving a goopy stain on the carpet, which should obviously remain goop-stain free. But today the word-vomit is like a night after a fifth of tequila and some undercooked chicken; when I sat down after lunch I couldn’t wait to spew forth the massively important revolution in fake toenails and the shocking results of my Perfume Effectiveness Study.

The thing is, I’ve always been kind of freaked out by fake nails. I don’t like them when they’re exceptionally long or decorated because even though they are most definitely not on my person, I obsess over the shiny lacquer and it’s tendency to chip, chip, crack, must continue chipping the paint, can’t stop with the paint chipping, help. It especially creeps me out when people get faux-toesies because, well, it’s just fucking weird. All that shiny sparkly paint is rubbing inside your shoes, getting dull and matted while the claw-like length of the nails are scraping against the sides, threatening to catch and snag and rip off. And there is nothing more frightening to me than having a nail rip off, save for being stabbed in the hand with a fork. Thank you, Requiem for a Dream.

Last Friday I was preparing for my day at the waterpark by stuffing my face with jambalaya and cornbread because that last little cellulite bump was just at the cusp of saying hello to the world and who am I to hold somebody back? Upon completion of the face-stuffing I meandered into the living room of my friend’s house where I noticed something suspicious happening on the carpet. Turns out my friend Kara was calmly and methodically applying a set of fake french-manicured nails to her personage and for a whole minute I stood transfixed while she picked each new plastic nail from the pile on the floor, smeared the glue on the underbelly and then pressed it smoothly atop the awaiting toenail. The really unsettling part of this whole process were the wee little flesh-colored tabs at the end of each nail, purportedly there to keep you from gluing your fingers to your foot but I just know some under-educated woman out there is not going to realize that those things are supposed to be filed off and I’m going to be peeing in a bathroom stall and see those toes peeking out at me and I’m going to end up splashing urine all over myself in my attempt to vault over the door.

When Kara had completed her task and finally convinced me to look at her feet, I grudgingly admitted that had I never seen her gluing those things on, I would never have known they weren’t real. And truly, I hated making that statement because it was like encouraging her, and hence others, to continue with the fake toenail gluing and that just wasn’t my goal. But holy crap, were they pretty. Like perfect shiny toenails, exactly as they should be, not clipped to the quick or oddly shaped because of a run-in with a wall.

But as soon as those words had left my mouth everyone was offering to pick me up a set on their trip to Wal-Mart, a trip I was forgoing in lieu of sleeping, which takes precedence over shopping. I didn’t really expect the girls to come back with a set but when I woke up in the morning there they were in a nice red box beside my bed. It took an entire hour for me to convince myself that women across the world utilize the fake nails and the earth will not stop spinning just because I succumb to an undeniably girlish practice.

So I pulled out the box and selected the appropriate sizes, lining them up on the floor beside me. I took each little nail and pressed its glue-slick back to my own freshly un-polished toes, where I quickly understood the necessity of the wee little tab bits because those movies? The ones where they joke about someone gluing body parts to themselves? IT HAPPENS. Had I left my finger there for one half second longer I’d have lost more than just the first layer of my thumb pad, I’d have lost the whole damn thing. But at the end it was worth it because for the first time in my life I had beautifully painted shiny toes. This is not to say that I don’t paint my toes, because I do. I loofah and exfoliate and rub the calluses off with special girly instruments. But those toes spent an entire decade in pointe shoes and while I was lucky in the fact that my toes aren’t seriously jacked up looking, I have this overwhelming compulsion to clip the nails as short as possible. And if you’d ever stood in a pointe shoe with a long toenail then you understand what I’m talking about and if you haven’t, well, you’re missing out on some extreme uncomfortable-ness.

The only unfortunate part of this whole episode, besides the fact that I’d just used super glue to semi-permanently adhere plastic nuggets to my toenails, was the fact that I could not. stop. staring. Seriously. In the car on the way to Magic Springs, I did nothing but stare transfixed at my new nails. In the wave pool I would float on my back just so I could see them glint in the sunlight. At the pool the next day I arranged my lounge chair so I could see them in all their perfectness. And the next day at work, I kept taking my shoes off under my desk and peeking into the dark depths, trying to catch a glimpse.

So two nights ago I decided it was time for me to move on. But the thing about super glue is that it doesn’t respond well to commands and as it turns out, I’m stuck with these things until they fall off or until I finally give up and shove my feet in a bucket of acid. Which is why I busted out my industrial strength filer and sawed the faux-ness down to near-stub level and then painted them hot pink, which has effectively rid me of my narcissistic obsession with their elegantly-white-tipped loveliness.

Of course I’m lying. I’m totally sitting here right now wondering if I could get the pink polish off without harming the French manicure part beneath it.

Holy catpoop, I am so demented.