Atleast my nails were pretty... for a second....

So.....what is this you ask????

THIS, my friends, is what happens when I decide to paint my fingernails for the first time in two years. That's right.

Normally, I think logically. I think to myself, Self, there is no need to have pretty fingernails because you are a stay at home mother, and nobody cares about your cuticles. Tuesday, though, I get a wild hair and think, I wonder what it would feel like to scrape the mashed bananas out from under my nails, pull out a file and some polish, and actually try to have atleast one part of my body look cute for a couple of days.

I'll tell you....the above is what happens.

Yep....the above picture is what happens when you are in your first trimester of pregnancy (which we all know makes you so tired that a nuclear bomb could explode, and all of the newly pregnant women out there would still have their chin resting in their palms with drool slowly oozing down to their elbows with each comatose muscle twitch). I finished painting my nails, and let me tell you, they were beautiful...like Revlon commercial beautiful. I put down the bottle of polish to admire my work, and then in true "pregnant brained" fashion, completely forgot to put it away.

Enter Ava, my 19 month old tornado...I mean toddler.....

Within seconds, this child grabs the bottle of polish, runs into our kitchen (where our nice tile floor is, of course) and proceeds to chuck it to the ground like it is one of those Fourth of July poppers.

Now--cut to me jumping over the back of the couch to sweep up my joyfully squealing child in order to save her from the millions of shards of broken glass that surround her tiny bare feet. She was fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.

I plunk her down in her high chair so that I can pick up the glass and wipe up the polish. I sprint to the bathroom only to find that I am completely out of nail polish remover. Fan-freaking-tastic.

I call Lorraine, my neighbor who has saved my behind in more instances than I can count, and within minutes, she is knocking on my door with nail polish in one hand and paint thinner in the other. She was like a stay-at-home MacGuyver. In no time at all, the floor had no evidence of being so violated by fuschia enamel, and Lorraine was out the door in one angelic blur.

Atleast my nails look nice. I thought as I glanced down to admire my work once again.

That was about the time that I noticed that the scrubbing of the floor with polish remover and rags had completely desecrated my nails until they looked like they had melted into a puddle at the tips of my fingers.

Guess I need to fix those. I thought for a millisecond before I realized that my nailpolish was now all soaked in rags and resting in the bottom of the trash can, and Lorraine just walked out with the rest of her polish remover.

Crap.

So, it's a week later, and my nails are still half melted and half chipped off by my other hand. I couldn't get my hands to look more white trash if I tried. I swear, I'm going to put a piece of straw in my teeth and start talking about "chewin' tabaccey" just to finish the facade....

I swear, though, for those five minutes, my hands were stunning.

Sigh.....