Blame it on The Bloggess

I've been reading a great new book by Jenny Lawson, also known as "The Bloggess," called Let's Pretend it Never Happened.


Don't we all have moments like that in our lives? It seems that poor Jenny has had more than her share, at least according to her own account. I have been getting some much-needed laughter (and a few deep philosophical insights as well) from this book since purchasing it for my Kindle last week. Her hilarious tales are admittedly only semi-true, but it's fun just to try and figure out which random situations are true and which ones she made up.

This morning before church I will admit to some procrastinating ... I am emotionally spent after the events of the past few weeks. Doing anything seems like way too much effort. But I decided to finish just one more chapter loaded with her crazy funny stories about working in Human Resources, and some of the unbelievable incidents she related were still rushing around in my head when I decided it was really time start getting ready.

While reading, I had realized in my OCD-ness that I needed to touch up one tiny spot on my toenail before someone at church caught me with an ugly smudge. Although I seriously can't imagine who might possibly be examining my toes. Or why.

But of course by this time I was in sort of a rush and thinking about a million other things (including, perhaps, why someone would email a photo of their genital area to a co-worker, and think they could somehow get away with it). I'm not quite sure how it all happened but suddenly I realized that a nearly-full bottle of bright-ass pink nail polish was all over the bathroom floor.

And the bath mat.

And the cupboard doors.

And myself.

I just stood there looking in horror for several awful seconds before finally deciding what to do. Umm, trying to wash my hands with soap and cold water was definitely not the appropriate thing, but it helped me to gain a little bit of time to think that possibly I could grab an old washcloth out of the closet, drench it in nail polish remover (of which for once I had [emphasis on had] an ample supply), and start rubbing away at the multitude of pink spots on the floor.

I swear, though, that those pink splashes kept multiplying like rabbits. I would go completely over a small area, move on to the next area, and look back to find a half-dozen more splatters of polish. They were all over everything, and I expect to find minuscule pink dots all over my bathroom for months to come. I certainly found enough smudges on my hands and feet during the times I was supposed to be praying.

After all that, I still did get that nail repaired. Suffice it to say that how I managed to get dressed or put on a pair of sandals as I was getting ready to head out the door for church, without messing up that one tiny toenail that caused it all, was a tricky proposition, best left to a not-too-fertile imagination. But please, still don't look too closely at my toes.

And for the record--it's all Jenny's fault if I went to church smelling more of nail-polish-remover than of Chanel No 19 perfume.