Do you think I'm Tex-y? - grace grits and gardening

In my zone. I was typing away furiously, the words freely flowing – life is good. Typing is one of my true talents – I am speedy, and I have the high school trophies to show for it – at home in Arkansas, underneath the sink in the bathroom, where the mice play. Tall trophies. I won them at the Cotton Boll Vo-Tech School in Burdette, where Mrs. Byford took all her bright, shiny Future Business Leaders of America students. And unlike today, there was a 1st, 2nd, 3rd place trophy and a whole room of leftover slow typists who went home with nothing but a day off from school. I might never speak French, but I could type. This one girl I knew once said, “I never want to learn to type – Everyone will always ask me to type their papers in college.” What? What kind of sense did that make? Who was going to type her papers? Kids today are born knowing how to type. The typing gene was passed down from those of us who took timed speed tests in the 1970s.

So as I was on a roll, cracking myself up, a certain mischievous schnauzer plops a raccoon on my air mac hitting just the wrong key and launching me into a whole new level of cyberness. Ugh!!!!!!!!!!! She typed a whole line of jumble. Of course, it wasn’t a real raccoon, although I wouldn’t have batted an eye had it been. Thank goodness for the Undo Button. I threw the raccoon across the room and looked down at my keypad and screen to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. That’s when I really noticed Great Grandma Creecy’s hand searching for the undo button! WHEN did my hand turn into a piece of fried chicken?

Daddy always said, “Doesn’t matter what you do to the rest of your body, your hands will give you away.” Once again, here he was, speaking from the grave, right as rain. He didn’t say a whole lot but when he did he was usually right. And his message was usually delivered deadpan. There was nothing funny about this.

Maybe it was the bad lighting in my bedroom this morning? And I probably needed to drink more water – that was my new years resolution this year (and every year). Like most resolutions, I did really well for a few weeks…. I bet I was dehydrated! All that night sweating was shriveling my hands! And my nails were disgusting. My cuticles were jagged and each fingernail was a different shape! Gross. Looked like I had traded in my banking job to pull Johnsongrass full-time. But the most glaring thing was this warty thingy near my wrist. It was sorta like a wart but wasn’t. It was like a hard knotty zit – one that had nothing inside but you kept thinking it might. Handsome-Dr.-Ruben-with-the-perfect-skin said it was nothing, “But I can freeze it off, if it bothers you.” Yeah it bothered me – it stared at me all day long. While I typed. It was stifling me.

So he burned it off, turning it really nasty for a week or so. It blistered up and popped and drained and scabbed and healed. And then lo and behold, it came right back. Staring at me again. A bit smaller but still there! I hit the Undo button, restored my words, put Mac back on the desk and ran downstairs to get rid of this carbuncle myself.

I got the duct tape. Duct tape fixed everything, right? I cut off a piece and taped it over the heinous thing. Somewhere, somehow, I heard that duct tape cured warts – maybe it suffocated the virus? This wasn’t a wart, but it was wart-like. It might not work, but it couldn’t hurt, right? At least I wouldn’t have to feel it glaring at me. I didn’t have the silvery original duct tape, but I had white. Would the color affect the outcome?

There aren’t that many things I would undo in my life – one things affects another. If you undo something in junior high, you might not have that fab typing trophy in high school. But I would undo the amount of time I spent baking in the sun which has brought me to this point of wearing a piece of duct tape on my KFC hand.

Needing a professional, I tossed a couple of dog treats to Annabelle and Lucy so they wouldn’t eat a book, and drove to the nail salon for the works. All my little Vietnamese friends were thrilled to see me – no one else was there at 10:30 am. Everyone had jobs.

One of my favorite parts of the experience is picking a new toe color. There is an entire wall of polishes arranged in rainbow fashion with like colors grouped together. The color itself is important, yet secondary – I choose based on the name of the polish. If the color doesn’t have a cool name, I’m not gonna wear it. I can’t walk around for weeks with toes named “Getting Miss Piggy With It” or “I Eat Mainly Lobster”. This is just like choosing a horse at Oak Lawn. First the name of the horse, then the color. I always bet on a gray house, unless it has an unfortunate name. Bad name. Bad karma. Wasted two bucks.

I only do browns, cherry and blue/greens (polish not horses), but only if the name speaks to me. If the bottom of the polish has lost the label and I can’t identify the name of the color – I pass. I had been wearing Rosey Mistletoe’sies pretty much since Christmas – it was time for a change. After careful consideration, for my toes I selected “Do You Think I’m Tex-y” from the new Texas Collection. It spoke to me. But only for my toes. I keep my fingernails au natural. I’m predictable that way. I like my fried chicken plain.

I sat in the big spa chair with my feet in the hot water and prepared to relax. I was plugged into my favorite tunes to drown out the odd Vietnamese instrumental renditions of Moon River and Deep Purple that played over and over – with a random Christmas song thrown in. I’d rather listen to my own odd assortment of songs… This was my chance to catch up on Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher’s split. My favorite nail lady, Na, was attending to my feet. A lady I didn’t know (or maybe I just didn’t recognize her?) came over to address my nails. Hmmmm, interesting outfit to say the least. Was she hiding from the law? I should definitely watch America’s Most Wanted just to make sure… Maybe she was from another planet. I do think it’s a possibility. As she studied my nails, I studied her. On this beautiful, warm, 60 degree February day, she was smothered head to toe in strangeness.

“What this?” she barked, pointing to my hand. Oh, I still had duct tape on my warty thing. I ripped it off – ouch – and dipped my fingertips back into the water. She looked at the thing on my hand, shook her head as if thinking, “I not believe these white people”. It wasn’t that bad. I wanted to say, “What’s this?” and wave my fried chicken hand the length of her entire ensemble. But of course, I didn’t. I hold these thoughts in, to later spew forth into cyberspace. Sparkly black beanie, beige turtle neck sweater underneath a thick second pink sweater with pink furry collar(!) underneath a white lab coat. And odd yellow reading glasses perched on her pointy nose like an exclamation. She had to be percolating under all those layers! Her face was flushed, especially her nose. I studied her. Oh great! She was sick! Bird flu or something which would be passed to me.

“Are you sick?” I asked. She did not respond. I knew she heard me. She acted like she couldn’t speak English. “ARE. YOU. SICK?” I asked again a bit louder and more slowly in case she couldn’t hear through that beanie on her head. “No. Not sick.” She replied. “Allergy.” Hmmmm, I was skeptical. I should have never asked because suddenly the floodgates opened. “My father in Vietnam have allergy. My nose run and run and run. It horrible. It not stop. I up all night. My nose run.” Oh God.

The allergy lady dipped my hands in paraffin wax and then wrapped my arms to the elbows in towels. I had flashbacks of my recent facial. Typically I pass on the paraffin, but maybe this would help my wart thingy. As soon as my hands were all bound and tied, my nose itched like crazy. Oh great this would drive me nuts! This was ruining the whole relaxing experience. I tried to rub my nose with my huge hand which was now brining in paraffin, but couldn’t adequately maneuver. Allergy lady glared at me over those yellow glasses, looking perturbed. “What you do?” “My nose is itching – I’m trying to scratch it,” I whine. Without warning, she reached up and swiped my nose with her bird flu hand!!!!! I flinched and accidentally kicked Na who was massaging my feet. This immediately set off an incessant chatter of choppy Vietnamese. You know what I mean – we’ve all heard it before. A customer does something that doesn’t sit right and off they go on a rant. The customers have no idea what’s being said, but we all know it’s about us! Great, I’d done it now. I’d have to find a new nail salon.

After the paraffin wax treatment, my bump thingy was still there of course, but now it was pink and glowing. Still, I felt better. Fresh toes always make a girl feel better.

talya

Musical Pairings:

The Rolling Stones, “Get Off Of My Cloud”

R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”

Comments

Kathy Hess says

February 8, 2012 at 7:02 am

Oh.my.gosh Talya! You could be describing me!! timed typing tests, polish colors based on names and all … tooooo funny!

Jenny says

February 8, 2012 at 7:28 am

Hahaha!! You will need to find a new salon! Too funny! I haven’t had my toes done since November; I think they are about to fall off. Do you think they have the Texas collection in Colorado?!? 🙂

courtneysmum says

February 8, 2012 at 2:13 pm

Oh my sweet Jesus! ROLLING!!! Yes, we have all heard the rants! We are so much alike, from typing fast, choosing the nail color to passing on the paraffin! The last time I went to the salon, it was a new guy. The new ones always ask “what hoppen to your leg?”. His response to my answer was, “what a big, fat OLD lady like you doin goin down firepole?”. I just looked at him in shock while looking at the lady next to me who also was stunned and had her mouth still open! I proceeded to explain to him that he was presently in a very vulnerable position (near my feet) and if it were someone else with not so good of humor as me – it could have been BAD for him. Oh yeah, and I told him this big, fat OLD lady would not be leaving her customary (VERY generous tip) on this day – then the choppy, animated chattering in Vietanmese began! The lady in the other chair reached over a gave me a ‘high five’! But now I have to find yet another NEW place to go to get my nails done…oh well – maybe they won’t be as verbally abusive!

- grace grits and gardening says
  
  February 8, 2012 at 3:31 pm
  
  I can’t believe he would say that! Rude! But your story made me laugh:)
  
- courtneysmum says
  
  February 9, 2012 at 12:17 am
  
  I couldn’t believe it either! And another thing…WHY do they always look at our nails and shake their heads in disgust? They are usually the last person who touched them! LoL
  
Bryanski says

February 8, 2012 at 3:13 pm

If you hadn’t posted the pic, I wouldn’t have beleived you (with all that writer’s embellishment)! Too Funny!

- grace grits and gardening says
  
  February 8, 2012 at 3:30 pm
  
  All true! It was the oddest outfit.
  
SueSue says

February 8, 2012 at 4:07 pm

OMG!! I would so have loved to have been with you….we probably would have been arrested…or killed!! I just can’t wait to get on here and see your blogs…they make me smile! Love ya!!!

Timmie Lynn says

February 8, 2012 at 7:12 pm

hahahaha…..this is too funny Talya and the picture made my night. My daughter would say she’s not wearing an outfit….she’s wearing a get-up…hahahaha. I wanted to check with you to see if your ears were burning earlier tonight since your name came up during dinner. My husband and I ate at the Country Club (I’m afraid we do this often since I gave up cooking years ago for Lent) and our neighbor and I were talking about your blog and how you have this amazing talent. Thanks again for sharing….please keep writing!!!

Angi Cartwright says

February 9, 2012 at 1:02 am

Mrs. Byford, oh how I remember her. Funny how this new generation grows up with a keypad in their hand. Your stories are great & funny & the comments from Cindy are just as funny. I now have a smile and my day will be good.

grace grits and gardening says

February 9, 2012 at 5:37 am

Thanks Angi! Haven’t heard from you in 30 years…! Thanks for reading:)

- Angi Cartwright says
  
  February 10, 2012 at 5:27 am
  
  I think its more than 30, but we can leave it at 30. Ha. Love all your stories and the Experiment Station, well I never ran for Coach Graham as a basketball player but we did have to run laps around the football field and the trips to the Experiment Station was chopping cotton all summer with other Employee teenagers. Blaghhhhh
  After getting married, I remember your Dad always like clockwork driving down Cat Alley gravel road, turning on Shorty’s road checking on his crops. Great farmer he was and is still talked about today, cause if anybody knew how to farm gumbo dirt, it was your dad. Farmers talk about him every year to me & I’m proud to have known him & his sweet family.
  
Kathy Hess says

February 9, 2012 at 6:33 am

I forgot to mention that, while I cannot remember my HS typing teacher’s name, I will never forget following along with her “arra, arra, arra, space” as she got us used to the R on the keyboard!