Dear Kid,

When I was in 5th grade, my best friend Judy T. and I would stay up all night painting our nails. We stayed up all night because A) that’s what 5th grade girls do and B) our nails were a Production of Intricacy and Major Proportions.

Between gossip and snacks and life goals, we would first plan. This was important because we had nearly 9 billion shades of polish to choose from and One Had To Get It Right.

Between more gossip and snacks and life goals, we would paint. First the base coat. Then the first and second coats of color (probably not the same color on all nails and DEFINITELY not the same colors on hands and feet).

Then came the artistic portion of the evening. We added stripes and polka dots and dots within dots. Remember, this was back in the days before this was commercially available. It was a Process.

And we loved every minute of it.

I remember (might have been in 6th grade by then) a teacher (a man, but I don’t know why that should matter) looking at my nails and commenting that I wasn’t nearly old enough to have purple fingernails. Au contraire, my friend.

Painting my nails these days is usually a little different.

First there is the matter of removing existing polish which is no easy feat (read about it here if you’ve forgotten).

Choosing a color is no easier than it was in 5th grade. Not only have the cosmetics companies made every shade imaginable available in a polish, they’ve also created shimmers and glitters and gels and shines and mattes and magnetics and…the list goes on. These days I’ve been drawn toward either Brisbane Bronze or Tanacious Spirit (get it? Tan?). I think my next career should be as the person who thinks up the names for nail polishes and lipsticks.

The real challenge is that nail polish requires time to dry (I remember when Uncle David first explained to me that nail polish drying was nail polish liquid evaporating—mind blown) and time is something I am generally in short supply of.

I’ve taken to painting my nails in the car on the way to work. Red light—paint one hand. Red light—paint the other hand. Rinse and repeat with a second coat.
There are problems with this. The first is that—inevitably—when I want to paint my nails on the way to the office, every light magically turns green. The second is that this is much (MUCH) less enjoyable when the temperature is minus 400 and one would really rather shove one’s hands deep in furry mittens.

For the record, mittens (furry or not) and wet nail polish do not mix well.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

You might think it is a simple matter to remove nail polish. A task that can be accomplished in a mere minute or two.

As accurate as that thought might be, it is also (and simultaneously) dead wrong.

Here is how it actually works.

Day 1

Look at nails. Be pleasantly surprised that the polish is still in reasonably good shape and since it’s a neutral taupe you can go another day.

Day 2

Determine it’s time to remove nail polish, but you’re too tired and tomorrow will be soon enough.

Day 3

Decide it REALLY is time to remove nail polish. Get distracted by reruns of NCIS. Start texting friends to find out what reruns they are watching. Remind yourself that Tomorrow Is Another Day. Search Google to find out what year that film was made (1951) and realize it wasn’t the movie you were thinking of after all.

Day 4

Get serious about removing nail polish. Search for cotton balls. Eventually concede that there aren’t any in the house. Realize there is just about Nothing In the World that could persuade you to go out to the grocery store at 10:30 at night just to get cotton balls. Convince yourself that it’s too late to paint your nails and naked nails would be embarrassing.

Day 5

Stop at Walgreens for cotton balls. Feel victorious when you check out having only bought 6 items. Place all 6 items in the car—and go back into Walgreens for the cotton balls you forgot the first time around. Hide your fingernails while you pay since they are in a state of embarrassing chipped-ness.

Review a term paper, answer three texts, and write a blog. Go downstairs to the kitchen to find the nail polish remover because you live with a teenage girl and Duh.

Go back downstairs because you left the cotton balls sitting on the dryer because life.

Remove nail polish.

Realize your nails are in terrible shape and you really shouldn’t have waited this long.

Now I have to go find some polish. But that’s another story for another day.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Some days writing a blog is easy. Words fly into the computer at light speed and land with the grace of a gazelle in the right order.

Some days writing a blog is more difficult. Words stumble around like a drunken baby giraffe before collapsing in a more or less understandable (albeit graceless) order.

And some days writing a blog is basically impossible. As I stare into the Pit of Words, billions of letters (not all of them from the same language) stare back in unrecognizable order, mocking me, making obscene gestures at the deadline, and showering my screen with despair.

Which means that writing a blog is exactly like studying for finals (as long as by “exactly” you mean not at all).

Guess which category today’s blog falls into?

If you like, you can also guess how many blogs I’ve started only to discover that they either don’t go anywhere or they go someplace highly unsavory. (A blog about migraines seemed like a good idea when I started it….)

I’d like to blame it on my chipped nail polish. But not even my twisted brain can figure out a way to make that logic work (suggestions welcome).

Do you know the proper way to deal with chipped nail polish? You take all your nail polish off and repaint your nails. With lots of drying time.

Do you know what I’m doing? Not that.

I’m painting in the chips, hoping that Dad won’t notice the smell of nail polish and that I don’t smudge them while I type. Probably zero. Of both.

Yet hope springs eternail (sic).

Love, Mom