one grande java chip frappuccino with a side of toenail polish

You know I never did some stuff (see: post from last week) and naturally some people took that to mean I'd created some sort of funky bucket list that involved following NASCAR and knocking down wedding guests so I could catch a bridal bouquet. Au contraire. Nevertheless, prodding came from all corners to quit being a fuddy duddy about my toenails. My neighbor gal, J, invited me out for ice cream-coffee drinks and pedicures to help celebrate her birthday. "Go! You must go!" everyone encouraged.

Well, here you go, readers.

I began the day with reasonably clean feet and picked up J after lunch.

toes in the buff

We arrived at Starbucks and J explained the different drink categories. After much discussion while studying at the menu board, I decided to copy my friend Sarah's daughter and order something called "Java Chip." Totally copying J, I ordered a "grande java chip frappuccino." Naturally this led to the barista asking more questions--"Whole milk? 2 percent? Skim? Soy?" "Whipped Cream?" Obligating with the "routine" of a Starbucks counter, I filled in the blanks, including, I think, my blood type, athletic shoe brand preference and marital status.

Eventually this arrived:

Smooth, creamy, I confess I should've gone with another flavor because those little java chips kept lodging in my throat like tiny pills. It was yummy, but not unlike a chocolate milkshake. People, the jury is out. I like coffee and I like ice cream, but they don't need to be mixed together for any particular benefit that I can fathom.

After sitting at an outside table and enjoying our cups o' frothy sweetness, we headed toward the beauty school where our side-by-side chairs awaited us.


The chairs had massage features (nice!) and the hot bath felt pretty relaxing on my feet. The photo above is of J's feet. Note her pedicurist's long blonde hair--it was really remarkable hair. My pedicurist (M, a nice gal from North Carolina who was seeking a career change from her gig as a CNA at a nursing home) was only in the nails program, her hair was nothing to get excited about.


Here's the little tub for my feet. Yes, those are my Germanic calves framing the shot, lending the entire photo a p*rnographic quality I just now notice.

The view from our chairs was really nice.


After much soaking and exfoliating and disinfecting, some clipping and filing took place. I thought the sloughing with the big file would feel worse than it did--really wasn't an unpleasant sensation. My cuticles (I have them on my toes? I had no idea!) were softened, pushed back and trimmed. Massaging, rubbing, scraping and polishing took place. My feet never looked quite so clean and pink before.


Then the pedicurist painted them.

I confess, every time I look down, my toes make me smile. Kind of like when you see a monkey wearing a dress. It's unexpected, you never thought the monkey looked naked before, but now with a dress it looks sort of cute.

I have cute toes.

Cute, robin's egg blue toes. On Green Girl feet.


My verdict? A pedicure is a relaxing treat and, unlike getting a facial or massage, you get to actually see the results which in my view adds bang for your buck. Will I get another? I imagine I will. Will I always paint my toes? Highly unlikely. Am I glad I did this? Yes, I am. Thanks, J, for a fun afternoon--and happy birthday!

(J's toes look elegant--she opted for OPI Red.)

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getting the lead out

* We're back from vacation and we only spent money on consumable things--mini golf, ice cream, bait, beer, pizza, pontoon rental.* We brought home some rocks, shells and photographs and I did every thing** I set out to do during the week.

From the sounds of your comments,

* Hoo boy did I read last week. I finished 7 books! A new record since I had kids!

* Team Testosterone teetered over the brink of eating junk food and having no structure or schedule. I'm reeling them in slow and steady, adhering to an early bedtime and early wake up, stuffing them full of broccoli and oranges, forcing them to do chores.

* Mr. D sometimes watches Sons of Anarchy--it's brutally violent. He switched it off mid-scene the other night because I think he got a little disturbed. I explained that the gun introduced in the scene would go off. It was only a question of who would get shot. "It's a rule when writing," I told him. "You can't have a gun in a scene if it doesn't get used." (Thanks for teaching me that rule, Nina!) After considering this for a moment, he turned the TV back on and sure enough, the gun went off. Twice. Then Mr. D lay awake watching through the end.
"It's over now, right?" I asked.
"I just want to see the previews for the next episode."
"I'm guessing they'll ride motorcycles really fast, shoot guns and somebody gets beat up. Just a wild guess."

These bad guys like the get the lead out.

* After spending 2 hours rigorously laboring upstairs, Team Testosterone's rooms are put to order, I got rid of 3 boxes of crappe and found a long-overdue library book--a huge victory.

* Happyland PTA's playground project will be finished TODAY! It's all over but the shouting--of children playing on the new equipment, that is.

* Last night's 3 mile run wasn't pretty. I slogged it out, but a week of sitting on my arse definitely caught up with me. My feet felt leaden. The first mile was great, the second had me sucking wind, the third had me whimpering for mercy. Feel free to create any life metaphor from this--dating, childbirth, new job...

* The backpacks are packed for Tuesday and I have to wonder why my 1st grader needs 10 glue sticks, 3 boxes of crayons, 3 boxes of magic markers and 24 no. 2 pencils. His older brother only needs 20 pencils in 5th grade and one imagines he'd have more use for all that lead than Mr. B...

Will Mr. B get this much lead out in 1st grade?

* And speaking of school supplies, I have NO idea how we came to have a dozen packages of looseleaf paper.

* Am I the only woman with champagne chilling for that first day of school? I have grand plans for my 2 hours and 40 minutes of free time every afternoon when Mr. G is at pre-K.

* Of course, if it's 80 degrees, I plan to float in the pool ALONE all afternoon.


*Hope, that pontoon image is just for you--your comment cracked me up.
** Including waxing Mr. D in cribbage. More than once, thankyouverymuch.

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Little Boys

Aside from wanting a robot to do his homework, a chainsaw to fell trees, his own computer and cell phone (to call who? we have no clue.) and a skeleton because they're cool and he can learn all about how bodies work, Mr. T has a very reasonable wish list. NOT!

Great guesses, everyone. He'll get an ipod shuffle and a telescope (not just any telescope--a Geovision Omega Reflector Telescope--and yes, he might shoot his eye out). We'll all share it. He'll enjoy a smattering of folk, jazz and baroque music tossed in with Good Charlotte and High School Musical tunes. Our family will bond over starry nights and taking turns looking at constellations through the lens, murmuring our appreciation of the heavens.

Oh, and Hotfessional's question about ice cream? It's Badger State Fun Fact Time! There is a law on the books of the Dairy State that anyone serving pie in a restaurant must offer ice cream with said slice o' pie. There is a law on the books of Green Girl's house that ice cream must be ever present in the freezer because her family Big Puffy Heart Loves ice cream. There will be ice cream with Jenn's cake.

In other news, yesterday after school Mr. B informed me of his Big Plans. "I want to go live in the woods so I can be around the birds and the trees all the time. I want to just live there and sleep there and eat there."

Then he headed out with his backpack on his little boy back.

"What did you pack in there?" I called after him, curious to know what Thoreau Junior thought would be useful while going into the woods to live deliberately.

"My soccer ball and a jacket."

Of course. Just what one needs for survival in the wild. Christopher McCandless had nothing on my kid.

Later he returned through the yard, shoulders slumped, arms dangling dejectedly by his sides. "Mo-om! The M____s won't give me matches."

Turns out Mr. B was upset that his plans for living off the land in our woods were thwarted by our responsible neighbors who thought that a five year old boy should not have his own box of matches to play with. Sheesh. Grown ups ruin all the fun.

When we returned from Mr. T's soccer practice, there was a message from Mrs. M_____. I called her back and learned that Mr. B had asked her for matches--and went on to present a compelling argument in his attempt to convince her that giving him matches would be a good idea. She was happy to know he'd already told me about their conversation and she shared that she'd given him a little "talk" about fire safety and matches. I'm glad the M_____s are our neighbors. It'll take a village and then some to raise Team Testosterone.

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Take Me Out to the Ballgame

My house is abuzz with excitement--first Mr. T earned his black belt. Last night we had our awards ceremony at church which culminated in the first Dilly Bars of summer. All boys were pleased with how they'd done and I have a new batch of certificates and ribbons for their scrapbook drawers. (I don't scrapbook. I keep their stuff in a 3-drawer Rubbermaid unit, one drawer for each child. It's not pretty, but we keep it safe from crumples and getting lost and everything is filed chronologically which seems pretty damn acceptable to me.)

Tonight we head to Fox Cities Stadium to watch Mr. D's high school varsity baseball team play ball. The Irish are 3 and 2 so far, and our favorite boy on the team, Lefty, has pitched like a dream and hit beautifully. (Lefty works for us in the summer months--taking care of Mr. D's "honey-do list" and keeping marital peace when he isn't helping watch Team Testosterone. You'll read more about him in future posts, no doubt.)

We're all pumped to head to the stadium and watch a game from plastic seats with cupholders. I've promised hot dogs, nachos, popcorn and soda for supper tonight--plus the treat of their choice. (Yes, nitrates, sodium, and sugar for supper--Mother of the Year, right here.) I've gathered their team caps and found team colors for us to wear. The weather promises to be fair and mild, albeit a bit windy, but hopefully our seats in section 109, row L will be sheltered.

The best part of the experience will be for Mr. T since he's the team's bat boy.

No, not this kind of bat boy. The kind who runs out and gets the team's bats after they hit. The kind who talks to the team in the dugout and gets his head rubbed as a sort of good luck ritual as each hitter goes on deck. Do you think Mr. T's excited to be in the dugout at the stadium? Only after I promised him the same supper I'll be feeding his brothers during the game.

Baseball and dilly bars. What are the sure signs of summer in your neck of the woods?

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