Nailed

In addition to my not so healthy eating and exercise, I like to add a bit of relaxation to the mix every now and again. In case you haven't "had the pleasure,"unemployment is quite a job in itself. From time to time I need something cheap and satisfying to take the edge off of whatever it is I do. I'm too ADD for the beach, naps are already part of the daily regime and internet porn is...ummm...expensive. I decided a trip to the nail salon was in order. I use the word "salon" lightly. After all, when $25 buys you someone nice enough to drill your calluses while you relax in a massaging chair, there's not much left in the way of expectations. I could have gone to the fancy salon, dipped my dogs in wax and had some woman in a smock tell me how nice my feet are, but let's face it...A. My feet are often mistaken for paws B. Smocks are soooo 7th grade art class and C. I don't like liars... even when I have paid them for their services. So....off to the Asian nail salon it was!

You may be wondering why someone who's unemployed would chose to part with $25 just to get their nails done. Allow me to splain: Getting your nails done when you are unemployed...$25, upgrading to a French Manicure...$30, being an overweight unemployed fatty with great feet....priceless. Moving on...as discussed, I don't have high expectations when it comes to a $25 pedicure. I have no need for said manicurist to speak the Kings English nor do I care to speak to her at any time. Nope. I'm happy to sit silently in the massage chair in attempt to get a back rub and great feet all for under $30. That being said, I do have some rules: A. It must be sanitary B. They are not allowed to talk about me in their native tongue and C. They must pretend to like me. That being said, I would expect them to greet me with open arms....not so much.

I walked into said nail salon promptly at 9:30am. Being that they open at 9am I didn't want to appear anxious by arriving too soon. My 9:30am arrival was intended to send the following message: " Take some time, fire up the incense, put some fruit around the Buddha statue and relax before the customers arrive . Apparently it doesn't work that way. As I made my way through the door I was greeted as follows: "Why you here?" Far from the Kings English and a bit bitchy if I do say so myself but as a lover of words I understand the language barrier and responded politely with, "A pedicure please." Without so much as a smile, I received the next in a series of orders "You sign in." Right. Because I'm the only one here and I wouldn't want to confuse the 8 nail ladies (and the 1 guy who is clearly the husband of one of the nail ladies who is too meek to divulge said information thus allowing me and endless game "guess who's the wife"for the next few visits) that are waiting to bust their drill bits on my dogs. In a very militant fashion, I signed my name on the list just in case their was a rush. Fully prepared for these situations I started to sit down and rummage through gossip mags for entertainment. Not so much. Before my unusually large ass could brush the seat cushion I was again called to duty. "You pick polish." This was starting to seem like work. Maybe they didn't get the memo...I'm unemployed.

After picking my polish I decided to wait for further orders before preceding with "my" plan. Good thing bcs as soon as the polish was in hand...the next order came. "You sit here." Well at least I was sitting and doing so without the fear of additional duties. After all, what could be asked of me in this position?" You pull up pants, give me foot...no other foot, turn on chair...too strong" just to name a few. I was exhausted. I decided to play a quick game of "Guess who the wife is" while my feet were being filed down to human proportions. There was really only one choice...the cute young girl who always smiled and said "Hi Kelly" when she saw me. If she was nice to me there had to be a reason...profit. In fact, I know for sure that they only way she could have known my name was bcs the militant worker made me put it on the sheet. Trickery. That's what that's all about. Pretending to know me so I'll like you and come back. I invented that one.

Now that I had mastered the"wife game" and the "general" was busy sawing away, it was time to fire up the chair. I prefer a the rolling massage to the kneading. Actually it didn't seem to matter bcs every setting I tried felt like large women was doing the River Dance on my back. Bored, I decided to incorporate my daily nap into this experience. Bad idea as I was about to get in trouble. No, not for sleeping on the job. Apparently I cut my toenails wrong thus causing the General extra work. "Ouch!" No, I wasn't screaming. The General said it for me in preparation for the surgery she was about to perform on my ingrown toenail. Correct me if I'm wrong but the cosmetology licenses hanging on the wall don't include an MD! I smiled bcs she was smiling but clearly I was delusional. My smile was in response to a glimpse of joy from the General. Her smile was in response to the joy she would take in causing me great pain! Once again...language barrier. YOU don't say ouch before something is about to hurt ME....I say ouch to let you know that it hurts! Mentally mailing a copy of Rosetta Stone to said nail salon.

In any event, the pain would end up being a result of my inability to "Cut nail straight across." That's when the "chatter" started. You want to know how you know when someones talking about you even when you don't speak the language? Simple. Listen for random laughter and sporadic eye contact followed by the burying of heads. In response to this attack, I decided I would seek revenge on the checkout lady (who I know for a fact doesn't speak a lick of English yet has been entrusted to money handling). They definitely trained her to say "No Credit...Cash Only" bcs I heard that no less than 14 times while under the command of the General. They like to refer to the handwritten 4x4 plaque posted on the wall that says, "No Credit...Cash Only." As if that's feasible when 9 out of 10 women in the salon are spending money that don't have. Nonetheless, they will gladly hold your child hostage while you run to the ATM. Luckily I had cash. When I got to the "register" (there really isn't a register...all the money goes into the drawer of the lady who sits closest to the front... who I'm convinced speaks fluent English and will one day make a break for it) the Money Lady" said, "25." I responded, "Que? Quanta Cuesta?" She looked around for help but the General and her troops were too busy giving orders to notice. Not sure what to do she placed a 20 dollar bill and a 5 dollar bill on the table. I politely responded, " Yo no se." Desperate, she picked up the 20 and the 5 and placed it in my palm. "Oooooh, gracias", I said as I handed her back the $25 and walked out the door.

Being a fat girl who wants great feet...$25, being a fat girl who wants great feet while being treated like crap...$25, being a fat girl with great feet who was treated like crap and speaks another language....FREE!

Fatsourcing

The word of the day is Fatsourcing. The outsourcing of fat if you will. A true SIF knows full well where I am going with this. I've tried everything imaginable to lose weight...that is except for hard work and sacrifice. I find those two items to be highly overrated. From the grease expellers to the legalized crack...they've all been employed by this SIF at one time or another. I like the idea of outsourcing my weaknesses to others. It's empowering...except for the fact that it has yet to work. I've even gone so far as to call in the King of outsourcing himself...the big "JC." ** Pause for sign of cross***"Give your burdens to him" the bible says. So I did. If he can turn water to wine he can surely turn me into a size 6 right? Apparently not. I guess he didn't have his miracle ear tuned to Fatty 101.1 bcs I have yet to lose a pound. Not one. In fact, I have since gained 10. Maybe I am too evil to go that route. Yeah that must be it. That's why I love the SIF. They are always on top of the latest tricks and treats.

I was having lunch with my friend Sharon...bitching about weight loss...eating fries....bitching about eating fries/weight loss when she started telling me about this Fatty GPS gadget thingy. You strap it on your arm and it tracks everything you do. Interesting. It calculates every step, every calorie and well everything! Intriguing and frightening at the same time! Here's where it gets good...I have to tell it what I eat! Thank God! Lord knows if it could see down my throat that thing would spontaneously combust! I think this could work for me bcs I actually like to exercise. In theory...the little machine and I would be great friends. It would send all sorts of positive information to the computer about what a good little egg I am...blah blah ran 5 miles...took 10,000 steps... burned 4500 calories. That is until I have to do my part in the outsourcing master plan and enter the intake of calories. That's where it's gonna get ugly! Real ugly. Like..slap yo mama ugly! No worries... got that all figured out. It's a little something I like to call, "lie." I mean really...if I were to enter what I actually ate, the damn computer would flash the following message: "CLEARLY THIS IS WHY YOU ARE FAT! ASK FOR A REFUND NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"

Even though I am an unemployed, starving writer, with no job prospects, dwindling assets and a family to support, I managed to find some room on the ole credit card for this one! What if this was the sign from "JC" I'd been waiting for? The thing that would revolutionize my life? Clearly the odds weren't in my favor given my track record but who likes track anyway? I am in receipt of the said gift from heaven and am currently loading the program on to my computer. So far I find it very intrusive. How much do I weigh? How tall am I? ..."5'10"/ 120...just bought you for kicks dumb ass!" I decided to be honest mainly bcs I know that my husband cannot find the program on the computer. If he saw my real stats I'd be ass out! I mean... I can use a Sharpie to get rid of the 1 in the size 12's and hide Ho Ho's in the sock drawer due to like consistencies... but if he saw the numbers I was really puttin up...divorce would be immanent. Which may could work(southern ghetto vernacular...frightening yet noteworthy) to shed a few pounds but seems a bit drastic. Anyway, as is always the case, I will start the "new tech savvy me" tomorrow. I don't want to have to log the 400 beers I plan to drink at happy hour. No good can come of that. I wouldn't want to overwork the system the first day n all.

Successful weight loss is around the corner. Not sure which corner, which state or even if I have enough gas to get there but I will continue to have faith that someone else will do it for me! How does that saying go? There's no I in team. Together Everyone Achieves More! Nope..no I in there! See..I've had it right all along. This whole weight loss thing doesn't belong on my back at all! It belongs on the back of others...these people they call teams! I will continue my quest to oppress others with a solution to my fatness. Fatness after all is next to greatness....no "I" in there either. I'm just sayin is all...