Yesterday was my favorite kind of Sunday. The kind where I don't leave the house. I putter around the house, cooking, tidying, playing on the 'puter, and snuggling with the cats.
However, I am in desperate need of a pedicure. And since I didn't leave the house, it meant that I had to take my feet into my own hands. The problem with that is that I can't paint polish on my nails to save my life. You'd think after 34 years, and a Girl Scout badge in "Fashion, Fitness and Make-up," I would have figured it out, but no. My nails end up looking like a coked up 4-year old did them.
So, my toenails are now nice and short and in the buff. I keep glancing at my feet and wondering who's feet they are -- I'm so used to seeing color there. I also find that I'm walking softer in the house, padding around like one of the cats instead of striding to and from rooms. Funny the difference some color -- or lack there of -- can have.
