I have a new addition to my arsenal of superpowers. Microwave toes.
The power of the Microwave Toes came in handy this evening, serving to give me the confidence to deflect the potential attentions of a Big Burly Man and to remain calm in the presence of a Block-headed Brown Lab with Giant Balls, as well as to immediately broadcast the level of my blood flow and rise in temperature.
I swear I am not drunk. Nor was I during the course of the events to be described.
I was, however, exposed to a lot of chemicals today during my two salon visits. I suppose that could be a factor in the development of these events.
First, I had my hair cut and colored today by the Awesome Angela. Like pretty much every stylist before her, if I win the lottery and/or become famous in some way and have the need for a personal stylist to all the events I will no doubt be required to attend, even in my own mind, she will be hired. I seriously love what she does for my appearance. So I had that going for me today. Perfect hair.
Of course, the process of getting that just right tawny tousled sexiness was a certain amount of chemical application.
My second trip immediately afterward was to a nail salon to get my toes re-done.
You have to love a salon that upon arrival thrusts a menu in your hands. This is, no doubt, to overcome the language barrier.
This was my second visit to this particular salon. I also received a menu the last time I was there, but no one ever asked me what I wanted. I just got a basic pedicure/manicure, although I did ask for a shellac version.
I was introduced to shellac a few years ago. Totally worth the extra price for a klutz like me that also finds her feet regularly implanted in hiking shoes and her hands immersed in dirt and doling out dog treats. My last manicure lasted three weeks. My pedicures average a good six weeks or longer.
Today, I was actually asked to specify a preference for the type of pedicure I desired. Since I was only doing a pedicure and felt like treating myself, I went with “#3.”
Apparently my interpretation of “#3,” the written version of “#3” and the actual version of “#3” are different. For instance, I did not get the special mineral mud slathered all over my legs. But since I did get some good smelling and silky feeling lotions rubbed on them, I did not complain. I also got a paraffin treatment that I don’t recall being included in “#3.” Whatever.
As is traditional at salons, I was asked to select a color prior to being trapped in the slightly sexual massage chair and before my feet were plunged into the steaming hot blue whirlpool water.
Silly me. I thought I had clearly pointed to a gorgeous jewel-tone shimmery blue-green.
This is clearly not a jewel-tone shimmery blue-green, a color one might imagine on a high caliber actress up for an Academy Award. No, this is the color of the starlet that gets lambasted the next day by the fashion critics and gay entertainment reporters for wearing that dress and color that just didn’t work and wasn’t classy enough.
This photo also demonstrates why my ballet career ended at the tender age of five. Ballerinas are supposed to point their toes away from each other. Little girls with extreme flexibility and with the mad skills to point their toes inward do not get selected for recitals and their ballet instructors are not shy about letting their parents know, within earshot of the budding ballerina, that their daughter is not ballerina material. Thus ended my very first career aspiration. Is it any wonder I immediately set my sights on becoming a jockey?
This color shift did not go unnoticed during the application process. However, I was informed that I’d selected something called “moody” and that the white color that was being painted on my precious tootsies would turn the color I selected as soon as my feet got cold enough.
I was urged to shove my feet back in the microwave/toaster oven thing.
When a shellac application is done, a small machine that spews out ultraviolet rays is used to adhere and set the polish. There are articles out there for the health conscious indicating the use of these machines is extremely harmful.
I am pretty sure that dying of toe cancer is pretty low on the list of things I am possibly going to die from. Therefore, I stuck my feet back inside the toe microwave.
The woman attending to me laughed and laughed, seeming to think my white toenails were hysterical. But she assured me that the color would darken once my feet cooled down and splashed cold water across my foot as an example. Holy crap! My toes turned a light pale blue. Apparently, the heat resulting from my cooking microwaved toes was resulting in the freaky white color.
So, other than being a tad bit disturbed that my toes would now turn a sickly white color when my feet got hot, the visit to the nail salon went well.
It did take until I got home for my feet to cool off from the toe microwave and for the color to turn the robin’s egg blue seen in these pictures.
I suppose now I’m going to have to bring a flashlight to bed and check at regular intervals to see the color of my toes when I kick my hot feet out from under the covers, and then when they get cold again and I return them to the bedsheets.
Not that this wasn’t interesting enough, I then decided to document my newly microwaved toes and create an artsy photo gallery of them in varying positions.
I wasn’t satisfied with the pictures I was getting at home, so decided to gather up JaYoBaCa and take them to one of our favorite ball-playing places to take more photographs. Possibly to take some of them too.
I soon tired of my own feet and started playing around with taking pictures of them. The impromptu photo shoot was going fabulously, as evidenced here.
I was fully immersed in the moment. And maybe a little chemically overloaded.
Because I was so dedicated to capturing some fabu photographic memorabilia, and because I thought I was the only one still at the park, I didn’t give any thought to my perfectly tawny new hair, carelessly and no doubt tossed about in a sexy manner. Nor did I think about the fact that I was laying down and crawling about in the grass and elk droppings in a short skirt.
Therefore, I did not see the initial onset of the intruders.
Brady did though. And so did Jasmine as she’s not even in this shot.
Next thing I knew, a man was walking toward us and his dog was running toward us.
Ordinarily, this might be a moment for panic. Maybe it’s because I was laying on the ground in a short skirt. Maybe it’s because I’d been exposed to a lot of heavy duty chemicals for much of the day. Maybe it’s because I was in a silly mood, having just spent an inordinate amount of time taking pictures of my own toes. Or, just maybe, it resulted from the power given to me by my newly microwaved feet.
I was extremely calm, despite the large brown block-headed lab barreling into the midst of my tribe of four.
I reasoned that, really, this guy was taking a mighty chance letting his dog run amok among mine. Also, mine call off fairly quickly.
Jasmine and Brady were quick to run up to the intruder. Youke stayed a safe distance away, but was clearly agitated. Camm opted to protect all the balls and stayed with them. The intruder, “Buster” as I found out he was named, thought this seemed like great fun. Camm though was not having it and warned him off with a snarl as she hovered over the three balls she’d gathered between her front feet. Youke growled a warning when the dog got too close to me. Youke is highly possessive and considers me one of his prized possessions. Brady decided he wasn’t that interesting after all and proceeded to stare at the balls gathered between Camm’s feet.
But Jasmine was ever so interested with Buster. Buster had balls. Very large balls swinging between his legs and a perfect accessory to his block head. Jasmine loves herself big block-headed intact males.
Meanwhile, the big burly man who also came with Buster had gotten closer to me.
He attempted to be friendly with an apology. “Sorry I busted up your photo shoot,” he said.
I stifled a giggle, and adjusted the length of my skirt, as Buster lived up to his name and proceeded to bust into my small family gathering.
Here’s where it gets really good. Big Burly Man attempted to call Buster to him. Buster though was not having any of that. I calmly raised my hand in the universal drop at a distance signal that I’ve trained for all my dogs. All four dropped and looked to me for further instruction. I quietly asked them to wait while Big Burly Man tried to get Buster to pay attention to him.
Buster and Big Burly Man swirled around us in a dance of sorts until finally Big Burly Man seemed to have some semblance of Buster’s attention. He opted to walk back in the direction from where he’d come.
However, Buster had other ideas and ran back to us. Clearly we were more fun. I stifled another giggle. Youke and Camm were now getting a little pissed. After all, the balls were being endangered. Jasmine clearly thought that she might have some things to teach this young buff lad. Brady just looked confused. Sometimes social situations are a bit beyond his understanding. I calmly raised my arm again and asked them all to get into a down position. They complied.
Big Burly Man was now looking very disconcerted. I think a short-skirted woman with perfect tawny sexily tousled hair with such control over four dogs without raising her voice might have been a little much for him. After chasing Buster about for another 45 seconds or so, he grabbed him by his studded leather and metal collar and walked him briskly away. Poor eager block-headed Buster was having a little difficulty gasping for air as he was marched off the field.
Before we continued on with our photo shoot, I looked down in dismay at my toes.
Then we went back to doing what we do best.