bitten.

so i'm stricken. taken. silly about the fact that i have, for 2 months now, nails. real-over-tops-of-fingertips-kinda-pretty-in-pink-able-to-be-used-as-pointing-devices nails.

and i look at them and feel the ever-growing strength of them in a ceaseless way (except when i sleep, and hell, maybe i do it then too). i scratch with them. i FILE them to keep them even with one another. i am dizzy by the fact that i now can get the mani/pedi combo. seriously, this is a big freakin deal to me. Essie, OPI, Sally Hansen - watch out. your sales will be trending up, bitches!

you see, it's not ever been a luxury of mine. because i've had the incessant habit of biting them since i was a wee one. and a little worry-wart wee one was i. oh sure, i've had a few intermissions in my nailbiting past during which i grew them a bit. but then, it was almost a pressure that built up and i didn't want to get used to something i KNEW i couldn't keep. so i'd bite off every goddamn last one of 'em.

nailbiting has been a constant visual reminder of my stress level. and the way i see it, there's been an assload of stress these past 36 years. i have always been this laid back on the outside, wound up on the inside gal. perfectionist extraordinaire.

i was probably shaving off my nails at the ripe age of 8 during which time i had to be medicated from the stress of Red Cross swimming lessons because i was terrified of water and being plunged into the 10-foot. a time when i was certain i'd be sinking like a 2-ton 8-year-old anchor in that deep end of the pool. oh yes, i was biting my little elementary-school nails in between math and language arts... and it continued, through papers written on sunday nights. thru relationships that taught me what i really didn't want. thru jobs which felt like boot camps led by the devil himself.

there's been a change. not a temporary one. not a fleeting idea of possibly thinking i might stop biting. it is what i'm deeming a nail-growing manifesto.

come nail away with me.

clean clothes rising.

i've come to the conclusion that i have the most extreme dislike for doing laundry...but now that my hubby-love plays the very famous role of laundry boy, i can't make room fast enough for the clean clothes ascending from our basement. christ, this man can get done in one day what would take me WEEKS to accomplish.

i should be taking notes and learning the techniques of such a diligent master of the machines. observe the habits of running toward it upon beeping call. i've been more a girl who does this sort of task out of necessity. like my ass needs a canopy, so guess it's time to wash a pair o' pants. my cootch needs cloak, better throw in a load by golly.

so did i create the habit of hating laundry because i've always known there's not QUITE enough room for all the shit i buy? or do i keep buying shit because i hate laundry duties & in my many years of being a singleton never got my ass in gear to do laundry fast enough.

these are the just a few of the questions i ponder as i fold, pile, stack, roll, carry, hanger, shove and tuck into the very limited space of our 1930's home which is not meant to contain my new millenium retail needs.

truth is, folks - i don't WANT all the laundry finished. because i'll surely be exposed and the "homeland security" of this cottage will kick up to RED ALERT. sirens will sound. credit cards will self-destruct within 60 seconds. there i'll be with nowhere to turn, a basket full of clothing waiting for its place but alas there will be no room for it.

so i'm convinced that i have to clean out my drawers so my nordstrom lovin'-late night web shoppin'-trend watchin'-retail therapy needin' ass doesn't get busted. yet.