Polishing Off Bugs

So I’m back in Colorado. I decided I wanted to look pretty for The Funasaurus when I got home, plus I had time to kill at the airport, so I decided to get a manicure. My hair was crap and I forgot makeup, but surely a bit of nail polish would cure all that. A *bit* is actually a quite accurate description. That was the shittiest manicure I have ever gotten. It wasn’t even a manicure, just a polish change. They didn’t even have to take any old polish off, just slap the new stuff on. She rushed through it, used her own nails imprecisely to scrape off sections that she went outside the line on, and in doing so scraped part of the polish that should have stayed on my nail, off.

I was charged $12 for polish I could have done better myself. So I left a really bad tip. I just couldn’t justify the normal 20% that I am accustomed to just doing for most any service. It was a terrible job, it was rushed and overpriced. But I’ve been feeling guilty about the bad tip ever since. Of course the polished chipped the next day, and I can’t decide if it’s the universe punishing me for tipping badly, or if it’s a sign from the universe to show the bad tip was justified. Or maybe it just means I shouldn’t have been trying to take a price tag off a plate with newly-polished nails. The universe is a mysterious thing.

So are space station science experiments. Rogue spider on the international space station!

Meanwhile back on the ranch (aka our little house in our cookie cutter neighborhood) is a disaster zone. Between two weeks of a couch-surfing Funasaurus and me returning from a long trip and feeling the need to spread out the unpacking process into every single room… we’re a big frickin’ mess. Plus, we are supposed to host an early Thanksgiving for 14 of our nearest and dearest on Saturday. I have decided to make the fiscally prudent decision to hire a cleaning lady for a one-time gig. She’s going to ignore our upstairs, and just try to help get our livingroom/kitchen/dinning room/bathroom area in shape. I am excited but also apprehensive. I need the help, but I am squeamish about letting someone else touch my stuff. My grandmother’s cleaning lady came once while I was visiting, and despite my saying “I just got here two days ago, no need to go into my bedroom on this trip,” she went into my bedroom, rearranged everything, and threw out all my little dental floss head-thingies because I guess they looked too messy to her. Grrrr Never have I felt so possessive over little bits of plastic and string.

On the other hand, I don’t really feel like cleaning out the moth that died and smeared his carcass (I suspect some help from our feline roomies) all over the inside of the white lining. Here’s hoping the cleaning lady is less squeamish about incredibly large dead bugs than The Funasaurus and me.