Let’s start by saying I blame the bees. The following tale of injury and woe started with a broken cable box, and ended with the bees both ruining my pedicure, destroying my already ugly feet, and seriously hindering my daughters’ progress in math. Epic poems can’t be summarized (as she takes unheard of license with the phrase “epic poem”, which, in her current state of trauma, she feels is justified), so if you so dare, come with me…

On the night of our first big snowstorm, the new cable box arrived.  Perfect timing! Instead of forecasting actual amounts, our Weathermen state, “We’re expecting somewhere between 1 and 15 inches. You will either have no problem getting to work and school tomorrow, or your commute will be akin to driving through the gates of hell. Stock up on essentials.” Because Hoosier Meteorologists are commitment-phobes, we have turned snowfall predicting into a sport. At the first warning of impending snow, Indiana (in its entirety) runs out to buy Doritoes, Diet Coke, and Toilet Paper.  We will stop any stranger, neighbor, or friend, sharing our snowfall estimates, and mutually agreeing Snow-Mageddon is upon us. We then park ourselves in front of the TV, and yell out the snowfall by the half-inch. “It’s 6.5! I told you so! 1 inch, my ass. Check the closings! If that Weatherman breaks in during Duck Dynasty, someone is gonna die.”

TV paired with snow days is almost a necessity, especially when I consider how little my children have been exposed to The Price Is Right.  Thinking about their futures, I worry there is no chance of them even MAKING the Showcase Showdown; they can’t play Hi-Lo worth a darn. I’ve watched them price a bottle of Tide BELOW a jar of Whipped Marshmallows.  I KNOW.  I know. Let’s say by the luck of the wheel, they GET to the S.C.S.D.? Unlikely, but I’ve seen jokers just totally flag a game of Plinko, and then pull out some shock and awe at the Big Wheel.  I think you know what I’m saying. Without proper training, my daughters are sure to be passed Showcase #1 (PASS, if you’re in Slot #1, always PASS America), they will panic, get the boat, a trip, some lawn furniture, and a snow-blower, and bid $1,879,399.24. Next guy bids a cold DOLLAR, and it’s all over. You aren’t taking any trips on your boat, or lounging in your lawn chair on your perfectly snow-blown driveway.  It’s over Darlin’, and now the entire United States knows you can’t add.

As you can see, it was becoming exceedingly important that we have working Cable. For the math lessons…duh. Greg opened the box, only to discover a BEE had been packaged with our new cable box.  A dehydrated, hungry, and quite justifiably….PISSED OFF bee.  It flew out quickly, dove for Greg’s foot, and stung him immediately. Thank you Comcast. Not just for the angry bee, but for the brand new, non-functional cable box. Yep…the new one was as useful as that (now) dead…bee.

After many attempts to get it to work, Comcast scheduled a technician.  Something about how it needed to be sync’ed, but I wasn’t listening, because I was imagining all of the heartwarming stories I was missing on the Today Show. Oh yeah, PLUS, my kids aren’t getting their math class vis-a-vis The Price Is Right, so THANK YOU Comcast. You owe me a BOAT. And some sting cream.

Good news: Comcast called 3x to confirm our appointment.  Bad news, they never showed up.  However, did they make a follow up call to ask how the appointment went.  Boy, these cable folks really run a tight ship, don’t they? Amazon drones have nothing on Comcast. I was disappointed they didn’t ask on the progress of Greg’s foot.  It would have been the polite thing to do, but I can’t blame them.  Imagine how many stings those technicians got, packaging up bees inside every shipment?  Hey boss! What gifts are we sending our valued customers for Christmas this year?  What? Angry bees?! I’m calling my Union Rep…

Greg agreed to wait at home for the technician while I ran some errands.  It was the night of Greg’s office party, which is always a week long stress-fest for me.  A) I don’t lead a life which requires holiday-esque formal wear. I’ve found lace gowns and duck snow boots make for an odd combination while grocery shopping. B) The venue changes every year, along with the formality of the dress.  Keeps it interesting. C) Almost every pair of heels I own are open-toed, requiring a pedicure, which feels like burning money in the winter. How often do Hoosiers show their bare feet in the snowy months? ONCE. At the office Christmas party.

I felt badly for Greg, waiting at home with an itchy foot for the imaginary Cable Guy, so rather than waste time in the Pedi chair, I decided to do MY OWN TOES for a change! I can do this!  They sell the supplies at Wal-Mart, and because the snowstorm had passed, there was a chance I could score some restocked chips. Bonus! This will be so much cheaper and faster (she thought out loud, refusing to acknowledge this phrase always precedes a disaster).  And here is where it got dicey: as it turns out, there is a certain amount of SKILL involved in painting ones toes. A dexterity threshold perhaps? Whatever is required, I do NOT have what it takes. We know this now…

After spending a small fortune on a pile of supplies, I headed home. First step, cuticle cream.  Why so much prejudice against cuticles?  Why do we even have cuticles?  I was thinking these thoughts as I realized my toenails are made of nothing but cuticles. I decided to take a break from what was clearly some kind of cuticle cancer, and moved to my heels, where I pumice’d…and rubbed…and scrubbed…and pumice’d. It tickles at the salon.  It DOES NOT tickle while I’m sitting on my bathroom floor.  The good news is that while it didn’t work, I didn’t draw blood. Yet. Back to the overwhelming cuticle “issue”, so I ripped the cuticle nippers out of the packaging.  “Cuticle Pit Bulls” is a more appropriate name, or perhaps, “Tiny odd scissors of death”.  How does one angle those things and CUT OFF THEIR OWN SKIN?  Oh, I cut some skin alright. More than a little. Perhaps it was a lighting problem.  I crawled in behind my sewing machine and unplugged my Ott light, and took it to the bathroom.

Where I proceeded to nearly amputate my pinky toe.  It wasn’t painful, as I now know my entire foot is made of nothing but dead skin and weed-like cuticles. At this point, Greg walked in to find me on the floor, sweating, my old grey robe ripped down to my waist, with my legs spread around the brightest light in the house, surrounded by Wal-Mart bags and bloody Kleenex.  He wasn’t sure if he had walked in on a kinky come hither moment or a crime scene. With a facial expression of complete confusion, Greg asked, “What on earth are you doing?”

Giving myself a pedicure.

“I will assume it’s not going well.”

Next came the filing.  I purchased the “7-step Emery Pro Board”, thinking that while I had no idea there were 7 steps to the nail filing process, I also had no idea Comcast was in the bee-keeping business. It’s good to learn new things.  I now know that an emery board thick enough to have 7-steps will, in no way, under any circumstance, fit UNDERNEATH a nail. Therefore, I filed on top, wondering out the loud the difference between “Step 6: Shine The Nail” and “Step 7: Buff The Nail”. I had to assume this would be the difference between “Pedicure done while cursing and bleeding on your bathroom floor with your hair in a towel while singing along to the Indigo Girls”, and “Professional Salon Pedicure”.  Well, THAT, and the pint of blood I would soon require.  I bought gold nail polish, in a fit of holiday spirit and complete naivete. It mixed beautifully with the red, which was dripping around my nail beds.  The blinding glittery-ness made the shards of cuticles hard to see, an added bonus. Why I thought gold needed a shiny topcoat is beyond me, but my nails went from bright to “could double as runway lights”.  I was suddenly one shiny, sweaty, (sliced and diced), classy lady.

Let’s Party! I mean…Office Party!

I came downstairs to find Greg had shoved his itchy, sore foot into his shoes, and I was not to be outdone.  If he could hobble to the party with a bee sting, I could slide my battle-torn toes into the cruel shoes. Let’s do this thing.

In the end, I spent as much money as a professional pedicure would have cost, and it took twice the time.  But it looked like I let my 6 year old do it, so I had that going for me. It’s possible one, or both Greg and I, have deadly staph infections in our feet. Autoclaves: not just for salons and cable companies anymore. In the end, I don’t blame Comcast, the Weathermen, The Snow Miser, or even my new favorite marketing whore, Sally Hansen.  That witch and her cuticle sticks will never see another dime of my money.  Nope…I blame the bees.  Wisdom Comes Suddenly.

[Caption for the picture above: lift and shift your weight! AND…shift.  AND…shift.]