Uuuuuuuuuuuungh ANGRY!!

The burning ball of fire is in the sky – again! Uuuuuuuuuungh does not know why it return, but Uuuuuuuuuungh want it go bye-bye. Uuuuuuuuuungh say, “Uuuuuuuuuungh!!!” at stupid noise-beeping-thing-with-flashy-lights this morning, but it do no good! {beep beep beep}, again, again, again!!! Uuuuuuuuuungh need big club, that what…

Uuuuuuuuuungh, in case you were wondering, is my new name. I respond to all stimuli with this sound now, apparently. When I don’t use @*^&@, or even ^&@^*!!!, which while in some ways more satisfying also take up more energy – so I tend to stick with Uuuuuuuuuungh.

Yes. The vacation recovery is going splendidly, why do you ask?

Well. Sort of splendidly. This is the weirdest thing ever. One of my vices is acrylic nails. I’ve been one of those women who starts whining vigorously that she simply must get to the nail salon for a fill every two weeks for going on fifteen years now. (Gads. Really? {counts on fingers} Yup. About that. Wow.)

I was a bit overdue for a fill thanks to the sojourn in hell vacation, but not totally outside the window of reasonability. I noticed one (1) crack in one (1) nail last night. I swore a little bit and resolved that at earliest opportunity (uh, about Friday-ish) I’d make a point of zipping in for the redeeming fill.

Then this morning while making breakfast, I swear I am not lying to you, six of my ten fake nails broke and/or popped off.

“Stunned” is too mild a word. I mean, the first one I was like, “Oh, bummer. That cracked one popped off!”

Then the second one went and I said, “Dude, that’s not right. Stupid things…I must have hit those two fingers on something…”

By the time the sixth one cracked in half widthwise for I swear absolutely no reason, I gave up, got the medieval implements of fingernail torture and removed the last four without further comment. (Note that I do not say ‘without further whining’ – there was whining and lots of it.)

Nine years, and I have never had something like this happen before. Sure, I’ve had one or even two break and/or pop off between fills, but this? This was Twilight Zone material. I’ve been casting back in my mind for hours now, asking myself what I may have gotten onto my hands that is different from stuff I get on my hands all the time. The only thing that was different last week was that I did wash my hands about eleventy-gazillion times, a full one gazillion times more than the average week, because of the theme parks.

I swear I’m not a true germophobe, but honestly when you see some kid wiping his nose with his hand and then putting it all over everything he comes near…ewwwwwwww! Where’s the soap? Pass the Purell! GET ME A CAN OF LYSOL, STAT!!!

So as I was applying a layer or three of nail lacquer over my raw nail beds, I found myself wondering why in the world we women DO these things to ourselves. I mean, I know why I do the acrylic nails: I use them as picks on my harp. But why do we dye our hair (and have to keep on doing it, every six to eight weeks, like good little drones)? Why do we slather our skin with oils and unguents that lie shamelessly claim they will keep us looking young or ‘refinish’ our skin or what-have-you? Why do we smear our faces with artificial color as if $DEITY hadn’t made us fine enough?!

Why do 6” heels even exist? C’mon. Why?!

I really want to know why I own any makeup at all. Lay it on me. Why? First of all, I about never actually wear it. I buy it, wear it for a few days, and then shove it in a drawer. I ought to just send money to the companies but take no product. It would have the same net effect: I still am wearing no makeup, only this time I don’t have a drawer full of crap I’m not wearing nor ever going to wear because even on special occasions, no matter how romantic, I don’t remember the freakin’ stuff.

Also, when I wear it for more than a few hours at a stretch d’you know what happens?

Chemosis. You know, where your eyeballs suddenly start glowing red, itch and burn and water and otherwise look horrid AND THEN JUST TO MAKE IT THAT MUCH BETTER the membrane ‘skin’ covering your eyeball puffs up and swells away from the eyeball itself, making you look like a grotesque travesty of a human being?

Yeah, that. If eyeshadow hits my eyeball, BANG! Vampire time. Most makeup bases, too. And we won’t even discuss mascara.

So why do I own the stuff? Why did I just buy more eyeshadow?

Idiot.

**sigh**

Oh well. I’ll give me the nails, but it really is probably time to put the kibosh on the snakeoil.

And I will do so, just as soon as I grow up.

…oh dear…