Helping my mother set up for a church luncheon today and, helloooo, it’s Special K’s big night — Homecoming! She is nominated for Queen, in case I did not mention it ten times today yet. What was I thinking? I need to get ahold of her and figure out when she wants hair, makeup, etc, and if she wants it from me or has someone else doing it, where homecoming even is (our high school does not have a stadium), everything. I’m way too busy to go picture-whoring!
Okay, Special K called right while I was writing all that. Info is straightened out. As soon as I hung up the phone started ringing in my hand; it was my mother calling to shout from some bulk grocery store where she was shopping for the luncheon with one of her trim old-lady cronies to ask what you put apples in to keep them from browning. “I hate to bother you but I’m sure you’re at the computer.” I told her it was lemon juice, confirming what the trim old-lady crony had suggested already, and was apprised of my portion of the set-up schedule. Suddenly my day went from quiet drive with my cameras to nonstop blow-up.
Blah! It’s all happening. I hate that I forgot this day is nuts and have no emotional groundwork laid in preparation. I have to be around people soon. I am not ready. Anyway, so I deduced that I have an hour or two before the chaos descends. So I painted my nails to kill some time, having let kidlet choose the colors (red with pink tips). I got random shakes, like I always do whenever a nail varnish brush is in my hands, so it also looks like a five-year-old painted them in addition to picking their style. It doesn’t matter how old I get, I always fuck up my nails. I can cook gourmet meals, I can apply layer after layer of flawless mascara, I can make perfect pincurls in my kidlet’s hair, but I cannot for the life of me paint my fingernails. I think I will always be a child in that department.