Fail nails part 1: The razor toes incident

Yes,  my life is awkward enough that I have not one, but TWO awkward stories relating to fingernails and toenails. This is a toenails story.

I don't understand foot fetishes.

I mean, not that feet are particularly more unsexy than any other part of the body. They're just kind of... awkward,

Is there an awkward fetish? Oh goodness, maybe there's hope that I won't die alone.

Anyways, the scene is senior year prom circa 2008. EVERYTHING MUST BE PERFECT. Not like I had anything stereotypically prom-ish planned, like losing my V-card in the back of a crappy car or winning homecoming queen. I coordinated a big group of about seven friends, all of us with our respective dates, for dinner, promming, and a girls-night-in movie extravaganza after. So of course, a lot of things went disastrous. But those are stories for a different day. Especially that time I had to be cut out of my dress. But I digress.

I went to the drugstore to get fake nails. Bad idea number one. I should have at least sprung for a decent set of acrylics instead of the $5 glue-ons. But I wanted to pretend I didn't have stubby, chewed to the quick stumps. I wanted to be a lady, dammit. Using regular nail polish over them hid the gooey glue patterns underneath, and my fingernails turned out looking pretty nice.

Right next to the fingernails they had FAKE TOENAILS. Bad idea number two for even looking at them. There were some really pretty french-manicure ones. T-minus 6 hours until dinner and prom festivities, and I had no hair appointment or spa appointment booked. My mom, cruel woman, reasoned that a $200 dress and tickets and everything else was more than enough expense for one night. But MOM, think of the facebook pictures! This is supposed to be the MOST IMPORTANT NIGHT OF MY LIFE. No avail. I was Cinderella, with no pumpkin or pedicure. This had to change.

I am no expert in ideal toenail length, so I just grabbed a decent-looking pack. It turned out to be the longest set of toenails in the store. BAD IDEA NUMBER THREE. These things stuck out a good 3/4 of an inch past my actual toes. I though they looked kind of cool in an avant-garde, Alexander McQueen way.

Then us girls had to do the stereotypical arms-in-all corsages picture, followed by the right-foot-in-to-show-off-shoes picture.

"WHAT IS UP WITH YOUR TOES?!"

My good friend the Italian saxophonist laughed. Everyone looked down at my feet. Wonder if there were any foot fetishists in the crowd? They certainly got an eyeful of the bizarre.

"They're fake toenails. It looks like a french manicure."
"THEY'RE SO LONG. AND SHARP."
"Okay maybe they're a little long, but it's prom and I can be outlandish for one night."
"OH GOD DON'T CUT ME WITH YOUR RAZOR TOES! THEY ARE SO FRIGHTENING. THEY LOOK LIKE TALONS. TALON TOES."
"Please stop yelling about my feet."
"RAAAAAZZZZZOOOORRR TOOOOOEEEESSSS."

And so it went.

At prom, we all kicked off our shoes and danced like dancing fiends. Then we got ready to head over to some "after party" that had maybe two bottles of vodka and lots of coca-cola. Soooo badass.

As we were changing into our-post prom gear, I located my heels and put them on, looking at my feet in horror I realized...

Only my big-toenails were still attached. There were eight missing talons, scattered about the dancefloor. The big toenails were the longest, and next to my regular-sized toenails appeared to be vulture claws. Yank. Yank. Those suckers wouldn't budge. I couldn't cover them up with closed-toed shoes because they were TOO LONG TO FIT.

I hobbled off to the afterparty, talons probably scraping the floor at the point, and made an effort to sit at tables or stand in dark corners, lest someone glance down at my feet and run away screaming, fearful that I might claw their eyes out.

After 10 minutes of soaking in nail-polish remover the next day, they finally came off. I have never worn fake nails again... but the italian saxophonist still calls me razor toes.

I am wearing the black shoes. Thankfully most of my toes are hidden by the grass, but can you see that  big toe? TALONS!

The little whipping girl incident

One time, while trying to impress my 3rd grade class, I accidently almost got my parents arrested for child abuse.

Social studies always bored me the most. I was a super overachiever kid in a dirt poor rural elementary school. I got bored easily in class and would ask questions that were most in depth than my teacher could answer, flustering them. Today in social studies the teacher droned on about slavery - something to do with the civil war, I guess? Some average-reading level kid stumbled over a paragraph in our kiddie textbook about how the slaves had it rough, sometimes got beaten with whips...

My first-grade brother owned a bull whip! Santa AKA my dad (I never believed in Santa growing up. JUDGE ME MOMMY BLOGGERS.) got it for him for Christmas and my mother was appalled. This is not some sort of kinky, sexy, wow-your-familys-weird type whip. I think it was from a Cracker Barrel. This was a real manly bull whip, braided leather, wooden handle, made for rugged adventure and wrangling livestock. Sadly, we possessed no livestock on our quaint little cul-de-sac, so my brother usually resulted to wrangling me.

My teacher said something to the effect of "isn't that sad? How would you feel if you were a slave?" Something basic and banal, trying to get the class of ragamuffins engaged.

I raised my hand.

"Yeah guys, being whipped with a bull whip REALLY HURTS. It leaves big ugly welts and the initial hit isn't as bad as the stinging afterwards. The stinging's the worst."

My teacher stared at me in horror, while I daydreamed off, congratulating myself for making a "personal connection to the lesson." That was a good thing. We were encouraged to connect to what we learned about in class.

The teacher met my mom at the door at the end of the day. This was mildly annoying, as I wanted to leave right away and she blocked my path to my mom. All the other kids got to leave and I was hanging out at my desk alone. Probably talking about what a great student I was, I though.

My mom later explained that my teacher was ready to call social services, one of those 1998 cell phones in hand. Why does your daughter know what it's like to be BEATEN with a bull whip? (And I thought I was dramatic.) Is she in danger? What have you been doing to her? She announced it to the whole class, ect ect.

Apparently my mom had a long, mortifying conversation about the Christmas present, this was all Dr. Dad's poor judgment (ha!), and it would never happen again. Being a small, close-knit town, the teacher believed my mom but told her she'd keep an eye out. That crazy doctor family, she probably thought.

That night the bull whip got put in permanent time out and I never saw this again.


While accidently framing my mother for my brother's Indiana Jones-esque mischief is funny, real child abuse is no laughing matter. Check out http://www.preventchildabuse.org/ or your local domestic abuse shelter for more information in your area.