1 post tagged “nail polish”
Secretly and not so secretly, I long to be a petite flower. A woman like my grandmother, with perfectly manicured hands and elegant ankles. High heeled shoes and a dulcet voice. I tried. Really, I made an honest effort. I manicured, pedicured, and I've always followed my grandmother's regimen against sun exposure. I haven't been outside without a hat in probably ten years.
Sometimes, I almost succeed. I catch a glimpse of myself in a restaurant window and think, "Yes, I look rather elegant and feminine." Usually, though, I revert back to my usual notions of Kansas womanhood. I buy power tools. I clean my guns. I squat down in the garden and poke around at things. I say things like, "Yup," and "don't got."
Like my forebears, I won't say no to any request for help that's reasonable. So when friend of Hubbicula's wanted to store stuff in our basement for the summer, I agreed. Big deal. I was a poor grad student once and stored things in people's basements, and I only lived 8 hours away from college. This kid is German and he's going back to Germany for the summer.
He and his mother arrived with a small trailer full of the contents of his apartment. Plenty of room in my basement for that. Except for the sofa. The Germans and I tried several different approaches to get it down the stairs and around the corner--why do basement stairs always have a sharp corner at the bottom. To no avail. The legs of the sofa were about three inches too long. They kept snagging against the wall and the doorway.
We dragged it back up to the driveway and considered. The sun was setting. The Germans were supposed to fly home the next day. Time to decide.
I said, "What if we cut the legs off?"
"Sure," said the German. "Do you have a hand saw?"
Ha. Ha ha ha. Hand saw. There I was in all the glory of my petite flower of womanhood. I whipped out the circular saw, put on my goggles and zing zing zing zing--sawed off the legs of the sofa. While the Germans stood back and stared, slightly open-mouthed.
I try, you know. I painted my toenails last night. The problem is, for every bit of genetic information I got from my elegant town grandma, I've got an equal share from my rough and tumble farm grandma. A woman who rode a tractor until she was 78. A woman who repaired lawnmowers and reupholstered furniture. A woman who once climbed up the windmill to reconnect the pump line.
I need some heavy duty nail polish.
