They don't give mulligans for manicures up there...
This really has nothing to do with anything, but I made a promise, and, while I may be stubborn and judgemental and impatient (not to mention really cool), I goshdamn surely keep my promises. Unless, of course, I forget... which is really no one's fault.
So heee-ey, dead people getting manicures. Holla back, y'all.
This past Saturday, I'm sitting there, getting a little manicure action, pointedly not minding my own business (but doing so quietly and politely), when my radar tuned into this:
Nail Tech (yes, they refer to themselves as such): I'm sorry to hear about your mom.
[note: Arlington is a city where you can't pump your own gas or buy alcohol, so you are forced to ferret your way into other people's lives. I belong there.]
Lady: Oh, thank you. Well, the services were beautiful and everything went smoothly, so that's all we could really ask for...
Nail Tech: Do you know who did her nails for the casket viewing?
Horses and men of the apocalypse, I call you forth.
And another thing: "Huh?"
And one more: "Really?"
I know that's your job and all, but do garbagemen* go into Dunkin Donuts and have this conversation?:
Garbageman: Large black and a blueberry scone.
Dunkin Person: Anything else with that, sir?
Garbageman: Yes, actually, I was wondering who takes out the little trash receptacles in the women's bathroom stalls?
Some things aren't, like, filler fodder. Some things are sacred. For example, dead people. And, like, private female bathroom trash.
That's really not what I wanted to talk about today, but I do feel better that I didn't tease you and leave you like all the other metaphorical sluts in your lives. 15 pineapples for keeping promises; 88 crabapples for drowning the dead with trivia.
Check out my thumbnail though... they did a good job, even without social grace.
*Sanitary Engineers, Garbagewomen... I'm there, I'm there... I knooow... storyteller's license on this one-- opting for a male ups the skeeze of the scene.