My mother. What a piece of work. Every two weeks, Her Royal Roundness squeezes herself behind the wheel of her trusty 4-door steed and tools off to get her acrylic fingernails re-applied. I have never understood her obsession, her willingness to drop $40 odd bucks a month on what looks like cheap guitar picks pasted onto her wrinkled Vienna sausages.
I’m starting to think it has less to do with fingernails, and more to do with having another person rub her hands and fuss over her for a half hour (or however long it takes). I’m starting to think this whole fake nail thing is the equivalent of a Catholic massage. Anything involving nakedness and scented oils, well, that would be positively Protestant.
Woman, you could put that money in your grandchildrens’ college funds. You could donate it to charity. You could buy a lifetime’s supply of chili, sauerkraut and Beano and let the battle rage inside your lower GI. But no. You have chosen to spend your money on something far less meaningful (and entertaining). You best start praying to the patron saint of acetone, for I sense that karma is whipping up a wicked-ass nail fungus with your name on it.