Once a week, my dear friend Martha Martinez (of the San Antonio Martinezes) and I meet for a day of being female. The excursion often includes a leisurely breakfast, shopping and when the chips are down, as in across all 20 of our bodies’ digits capable of nail growth, it’s time to right the aesthetic wrongs.
Not only was my polish chipped on my fingers and toes, the overall state of my nails was deplorable. My mother always insisted that you can tell a lot about a woman by the way she keeps her nails. I know I look down at other women’s feet in a checkout line or as they splay out against the hard floor in the bathroom stall next to me. If I see brindled nail polish that bears an uncanny resemblance to a Rorschach Ink Blot Test, then I instinctively raise an eyebrow. If I look down and see the same harrowing appearance on my toes, I quickly drape some toilet tissue over both toes.
Then, I hightail it over to the farrier to have my hooves buffed.
Today was one of those days. I met Martha for breakfast. We dined on tacos and planned our day. Shopping first. I had earrings to buy (and God help me, I bought waaaaaaaaay too much) then we would have a full complement of work down on our nails. You see, it was compulsory. We are being escorted this weekend to cocktails at a higher end establishment, followed by a performance of Cirq de Soleil, and we didn’t want to look like rubes.
My nails were uneven; damned near jagged and resembling one of the incredibly utilitarian fork/spoon utensils called a “spork”; the kind that Church’s and KFC unabashedly hand out with any of their variety meals. Sporks are tremendous tools. Id’ like to see Oneida and other makers of flatware consider the “spork” asd part of a starndard place setting. The makers of the Swiss Army Knife should consider it as well.
Martha and I go to a nice little salon on Houston’s SW side. It’s run by and staffed with sweet little Vietnam women, as are many salons these days, Plus, Houston has a vast Vietnamese population which exploded around the time Saigon fell. Needless to say there are nail salons on every corner.
Martha got a mani/pedi and I got a manicure with a change in toenail polish. I chose a deep purplish-brown color. I wanted drama and Martha chose a variation on a theme of her pinkish/red favorite.
We finished within minutes of each other and were escorted as we shuffled toes up, to the ultra-violet booth where we’d allow hands and feet to absorb hundreds of rads in an effort to dry faster.
That’s when we noticed something odd. Through the front door came these men–wearing suits–Armani and jogging—and those in jeans and T-Shirts. They seemingly came from all walks of life. They’d walk straight to the cash register, shell out cash (never a credit or debit card) and be taken into separate rooms adjacent to the lobby, by women with towels draped over their arms. Now, keep in mind this was a fairly steady stream of men. They all left a short time later, smiling and adjusting their clothing,
Massages? Hhh’mmmm….something told us that wasn’t exactly the case.
We were just about to pack up and leave when one of the ladies came over to make sure we were dry. She chatted with us, well, as much as the mutual language barrier would allows and then she walked away.
And in the course of her exit, she farted.
She didn’t expelled gas–that would’ve been too lady-like. No, this diminutive 5’1″ waif of a woman, cut a fart. Manly and gnarly. It was a silent, but one that permeated this incredibly, horribly, flower-wiltingly acrid expulsion of intestinally processed nastiness.
I surmised she had just finished a lunch consisting of two week old krill, cow dung and corpses in full decomposition. It was just that bad, people.
I smelled it first as it wafted up my nostrils like the fingers of some ectoplasmic demon. I looked a Martha with a pained expression. A fraction of a second later, she also inhaled a blast of pure evil.
We both started laughing, mouths covered for fear we’d ingest what only could’ve been the same gas used to kill all those Kurds in provincial Iraq a decade ago.
Martha covered her nose and fanned herself with a magazine. I quickly grabbed some rose scented some hand lotion on the counter and swabbed a substantial portion under each nostril–a little trick I learned from watching what coroners do on TV’s Quincy and The Silence of The Lambs.
It was funny, yet so, so very repulsive.
She was one of the women who had just gotten through dealing with one of the cash paying fellows who entered the salon 15 minutes earlier. Obviously, I’m not a man and I’ll admit that I’m rather ignorant regarding the seedier side of commercialized sex. Consequently, I’ve never experienced the particular carnal delights that men often seek, but I have heard of the term “happy endings” , especially where Oriental massages and certain pleasures are concerned. I know it’s come to mean the culmination of a sex act. I’ve been told it often has to do with the mutuality of certain sex act called “a 69”.
Whatever that is….
Well, I have to tell you my Brothers, I’m glad I’m not a man because if THIS one nasty, smelly reprehensibility is what a “happy ending” is all about, then I know for a fact, I could never handle the remaining 68!!!!!!!