I say potato, you say tomato

For my birthday, my Aunt and Uncle "surprised" (read: sent me an email saying HEY - whaddaya want?!) me with a Topsy Turvy Hanging Tomato upside down grow-y basket. And dirt. And a 'mater plant. And all the other fixin's for tomato-taming.

Its common knowledge that I can't grow bamboo. Imagine my trepidation at taking on an actual edible plant. Yes, I know I asked for the thing, but I saw it along the lines of asking for a pony or a puppy - nobody's actually gonna get you a living thing unless they think you can handle it. Soooo, Mimi and Glenn must see me as capable, right? RIGHT?!! Come on, tell me I'm right. And funny. On we go...

I followed the directions in the box (and even managed to do it all by my lonesome - even the instructions said you need a helper to hold the plant upside down. Pssshh. I scoff at you, directions!) and have watered it (semi-)regularly. Not so tough...however, no matter how little or how much I water the damn thing, it all immediately gushes out the bottom. I'm sure I've doomed the future of this creature, but I keep on awaterin', and it keeps on adrippin' on my downstairs neighbor's patio - whoopies.

When I went to water it this morning, THERE WERE TOMATOES! Little green gems of high-five-aliciousness. They're surely super bitter and unripe, but I was tempted to snatch one off the vine and pop it in my mouth. Now I just need to tackle basil and learn to make my own mozzarella and I'll be all set...

hello pretty little flowers...

yaaaaaaay!

and she walked away unscathed.

Anyone who knows me - and I mean really really knows me - knows that my feet are pretty much off limits. Like the Mona Lisa. Small. Cute. Protected by sixteen inches of bulletproof glass. I buy them (lots of) pretty things (shoes) and you keep your grubby mitts off 'em. You then get to look at my awesome shoes and we both don't get maimed. It's a win-win.

Until yesterday, in line with the don't-touch-approach, I'd never had a legit pedicure. I do all my own stunts, folks. I'm crazy ticklish, complete with violent and expletive-laced reactions (seriously, I'll gouge your eyes out), and one wrong clip of a toenail and I'm down for days. Literally. Hence the lack of pedis in my past.

When my Mom mentioned that we should/could/would go get manicures and pedicures together for a belated-Mother's Day-and-birthday-celebration, I guffawed. Aloud. Yes, I'm an ass. We went anyways, so you see what being an ass gets me: pampered. ; ] While I may have blacked out for portions of the experience, this is my rendition of the 56-minute appointment:

Petrified of being cut, tickled, contracting a staph infection, I reluctantly climbed into the pedi-chair. Naturally, of the FOUR Spa-Ladies appointed to our little group, I got the one who spoke shattered English, and did so well below a whisper:

Spa-Lady: Houw ah ewe toodai?
NicB: Ummmm, super ticklish.
S-L: (uncomprehending smile)
NB: Seriously. I apologize preemptively if I nail you in the teeth while donkey-kicking to get you away from my feet. ((by the way: immediately after uttering the word "preemptively", I threw up my hands because I knew I'd lost her...though I'm no quitter, so I finished my sentence))
S-L: whaa culla you wahn fo yow toess?
NB: (thrusts bottle of own polish in her small, unmanicured hands) This one! I want this color! Please!

((annnnnd all talking ceases))

Terrific.

Everyone else's Spa-Lady started with their feet/toes. Mine: hands. Awesome...can't wait to delay the inevitable here. I'm not scared of blood, by the way. I'm scared of pain. Lots and lots of pain.

While my Mom, Kellie and Aunt Amy settled back into their massage chairs, I plotted an escape route. Okay, once she puts the topcoat on my fingernails, I'll claim the swine flu and run for the door. I can totally walk back to Mom's from here. Reaaaddddyyyyy... 'Cept that sneaky devil woman didn't give me time (or eye contact) to tell her of my hellacious (non-)disease and got right to work on my footsies. At this point, I swear I was close to hyperventilating. Cold, sharp, pokey tools are within inches of my little piggies. Are those gem-appraising glasses?!?! Did she just scrub up like a surgeon?! I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie!

A damn interview with Lauren Conrad in a water-warped issue of Glamour magazine was the only thing to divert my eyes from the horror I imagined would soon follow. Thanks to some hardcore yogic breathing and severely concentrated focus to drown out a fellow salon patron directly across from me yellllllllling into her cellphone, I only jerked/winced/yelped twice (that I recall). Spa-Lady walked away with all the teeth she'd brought to the appointment, and I walked away with all my toes.

Overall, I didn't die, I didn't hate it, and the results are remarkably similar to those of my own handiwork. Huh. Suppose I could go again, sometime...and, oh yeah: THANKS, MOM!