Death by Pedicure

     Let me preface this story by saying that I am an extremely passive person. If you wrong me in any way there is a great possibility that I will pretend it never happened just to avoid conflict. I especially never complain when someone is doing me a service, such as taking my order at a restaurant. If I was allergic to peanuts and my waitress accidentally gave me a peanut butter sandwich (instead of the chicken tenders I would most definitely be ordering in this hypothetical scenario) then I would probably get out my Epi-pen, eat the sandwich, stab myself in the leg, and then take a trip to the hospital because I wouldn't want to tell her she messed up my order. In short, I would die of discomfort before I complained that someone has wronged me.
     That being said, you can imagine what I've let slide under the rug when going to get a pedicure. Normally, whenever I go there's some form of painful incident. Whether it's pain from the "massage" as they so cutely misnamed the beating I received from a woman a third of my size; or pain from a burly man trying to get rid of the hangnail in my not-so-big toe. Either way, something always goes wrong and I always end up silently writhing in pain.
     Although these instances occur almost every time I go, I still go back with the same logic that, "It can't be worse than the last time." And every time another small Asian woman with a personal vendetta against me proves me wrong. But the last time I went may indeed be the last time. I've named it The Great Nail Clipper Incident of 2015. It started off as any normal day. I had just woken up from a 3 hour nap, after eating a helping of chicken nuggets, when my stepmother asked me if I wanted to go with her to get her nails done. I must have been still hazy from the nap because I agreed to go. We arrived at a nail salon which, for legal purposes, I will refrain from naming. I should've known I was in for it by the looks of those who were leaving. I think one lady even mouthed, "Get out now. Save your toes." But my feet were looking crusty so I said,"Screw it! Show me the nail polish!" I took a seat in the next available chair and waited for the inevitable to happen. Sure enough, the person who worked at this chair was a 70 year old bald man. Not only am I uncomfortable with men touching my feet, but I also would not trust this man to see a billboard if it was right in front of him let alone my tiny toes. 
     In an effort to relax I turn on my massage chair which felt like I was being stoned to death from behind, but I didn't know how to turn it off so I just went with it. So as this gentleman was so graciously touching my crusty feet and trying to make them less vomit-inducing, I was trying to relax in the massage chair from hell. As the pedicure moved forward he takes out the small trimming tool to cut my cuticles. I'm thinking, "Yes! Please fix these sad excuses for toes." Just as I'm praising God for this pedicure, I feel a sharp pain on my big toe. I look down to see that he has plucked a chunk of skin from my foot. I, being me, pretended not to notice and just let him due his thing, In an effort to stop the bleeding, so he could actually paint my toenails, he poured some blue liquid into my cut, which I'm sure was not safe to be travelling in my bloodstream. Aside from the blood toxicity, it also burned like a thousand fires. I, again, pretended like every thing was fine and continued to silently writhe in pain. Some time went by and the pain subsided so I began to relax again. He finished taming one of my feet and had moved on to the next one. He pulled out the same tool of mass toe destruction, and, again, managed to pull off another chunk of my skin, but on the other foot. Now familiar with the pain I did not even have to look up to see what had happened. Without moving a muscle, I waited for the burning sensation of the mysterious blue liquid. Sure enough, a thousand fires again began to scorch my skin. It was at this point that I should have said something, but now I was determined to just get through this experience without crying.
     I held my ground with the grace and dignity of anyone being personally victimized with heavy artillery; meaning, every muscle was clenched and a tear started to form in my right eye. As he put the clippers away I began to think "Well at least the worst is over now." *face palm* I said the thing you should never say! There's always something worse whenever those words are uttered. Even if I think the pain is over, there will always be another Asian ready to inflict worse. As he is painting my nails, each nail polish-covered brush stroke onto one of the afflicted toes is causing a burning sensation that I can only equate with being lit on fire. But, alas, the pain ended and I still tipped him because scrubbing feet all day must suck and he seemed like a nice enough fellow, even though he caused me so much pain. But, moral of the story is.....paint your own toenails. Unless your significant other has a foot fetish no one looks at feet that closely anyway. 

                                                       
                                                    Until next time.
                                                                      Research what that blue liquid is and go eat a pineapple

"IT'S NOT A TUMOR!" - Arnold Schwarzenegger

     Yes, I am one of those people that thinks a head ache means a brain tumor and a stomach ache means appendicitis. Whatever the worst possible scenario is, that's what's happening to me. In my lifetime I've been "afflicted" with scurvy, kidney stones, cataracts,  multiple heart attacks, and anything you can imagine that wouldn't even make sense for an 18 year old girl to have. I remember overhearing my grandmother say that a distant relative was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Me, being about 10 years old and an already suffering from anxiety and hypochondria, said, "Oh no.....I might have that." Then my grandmother had to delicately explain to me that prostate cancer was something only boys could get. I didn't understand why until I realized that prostate was a fancy doctor term for male genitalia. So at 10 years old, while all the other children were playing and eating dirt (I don't know what kids do) I was worried about getting prostate cancer *face palms past self* Eight years later and nothing has changed. Well except now I know to research diseases before openly expressing that I have them in front of my family.

     To make matters worse, I also have a fear of the doctor. I only make doctor's appointments when it's absolutely necessary and there is no way out of it. This fear probably stems from the fact that I like to live in denial. "Was that a sharp pain in my side? Let's pretend that didn't happen while I'm actually subconsciously obsess over it until I forget about it an hour later." The truth is, if there's something actually wrong with me, I really don't want to know about it. I know that sounds dumb considering if I just go to the doctor they can probably fix whatever's wrong with me instead of it festering in my body and growing worse until it kills me. But I like to live life the fun way. And yes I do mean fun. You see, now I can play all sorts of games like "What disease could this be?" and "How long do I have to live?" These games are made possible by the various sites Google has provided me from searching my symptoms. Web Md is bookmarked on all of my devices and it's my most frequented site. Which is such a mistake if you have anxiety and are plagued with thoughts of disease. At one point I needed an intervention and my family made me delete the symptom checker app I had on my phone.

     But let me explain to you my screwed up logic behind my constant need to identify with medical ailments. In my mind, I feel that if I think of all the horrific possibilities that my ailment could be, then none of those will come true. You know all of those Facebook articles you read that are about some horrific disease that takes over someone's life? Well in those articles the person affected always says, "I just never saw this coming" or "I had no idea" or something that shows the disease just came out of the blue. So in my head, I've equated that with if I can think about every worst case scenario for my ailment then it couldn't possibly be that because the worst ones always sneak up on you. So if I expect to have a brain tumor everyday then I have a better chance of it not happening. I mean, what are the odds? .....probably really high now that I said that. You have to admit.....it kind of makes sense right? Yea....probably not. Anyway, I've been thinking about this because I'm starting college and I'm required to go to the doctors. My appointment is tomorrow and, as you can tell, I'm  not looking forward to it. But hopefully they'll say I'm as healthy as a horse and I can go on living in denial and ignoring that suspicious looking mole.

                                                Until next time,

                                                            Go eat a pineapple and avoid Web Md

Let's talk about underwear..

 
     This is a very important topic to me because I LOVE underwear. I can admit that I have fallen victim to the marketing techniques of companies like Victoria Secret. I probably own a pair of underwear for each day of the year. Who needs 365 pairs of underwear besides someone who's constantly afflicted with bladder problems? And no, I don't have urination issues. I've had my kidneys checked and their doing just fine. My underwear obsession however, is not fine. But despite my dangerous frequency of underwear purchases, I do understand the craziness that is women's underwear. Men have two options; boxers or briefs. Women have 300. Bikini, boy short, thong, briefs, hipsters, and the infamous G-string. I'm pretty sure underwear started with the briefs, hipsters and boy shorts. Then after some deliberation panty makers thought, "what would make these more comfortable?" And they answered, "Less fabric!!!" So underwear got skimpier and started moving into crevices that should definitely not contain fabric. And then the panty makers thought even more and said, "You know what would make this thong even better? ...Lace!!" So they made everything out of lace and anything else they could find that showed more skin even though we wear clothes over our underwear anyhow. So now, underneath my sweatpants of course, I'm wearing a thong that's made completely out of lace so that practically nothing is covered or protected. Which is ironic because I think that was the original purpose for underwear. But nevertheless, I'm drawn to the pretty patterns and sexy lace designs even if my butthole hates me for it. 
     You can probably contribute multiple things to the creation of the various underwear types. You could blame it on our patriarchal society that thinks women should wear lingerie for their husbands since sex and cooking are the only things we are good for in life. But I wear the low cut bikinis with the lace trim because they make me feel good. It's my own little secret from the rest of the world. A secret that hopefully one day I will get to share with some lucky man who can make me dinner for a change. But for now I don't wear it to please some guy, but to give myself the confidence that society tries to take away from me on a daily basis. So screw all the slut shamers who say thongs are for whores. You wear those underwear with your chin held high and your butt looking fabulous! 

                                                                   Until next time, 

                                                                                Go eat a pineapple and bedazzle your thong. 

Traveling in Style: My Classy Ass Family

     I don't care what anyone else says, Summer is the best time of the year. The Pope could proclaim summer to be the three months run by the devil  and I would still hail to summer....and I guess Satan if I'm following that connection. Summer means no school, no responsibilities, and no more early morning wake up calls from my mom's raptor-like voice. But, the most important tradition of summer is the family vacations. Not to brag or anything, but my family has the best vacations a teenage girl could ever ask for. There's drinking, fighting, public embarrassment, and A LOT of beach time. You probably only agree with me on one out of four of those things, but that's because you don't know my family. Now trust me here, there's nothing better than hearing your grandmother call your drunk Aunt a cry baby because she's freaking out that she lost her sunglasses in the ocean. Or, watching your 68 year old grandma chase after the lifeguards jogging on the beach in order to get their phone numbers. You would think that with stories like these I would have had the worst teenage years imaginable; but it was actually quite the opposite. I never had that "ugh my family is so lame" outlook when I was out in public with them. I was always chasing after lifeguards and picking on the weak relatives right along side them. I know it seems a little unorthodox but I've got one hell of a family which makes for one hell of a vacation. I mean, it's always the bad vacations that get remembered as the best, right? Chevy chase made a whole movie franchise based off bad family vacations and everyone loves them. Of course, our family trips haven't involved tying a dead relative on the roof of our car like Clarke Griswold, but I have seen my sister lose her bathing suit while boogie boarding, and that was just as upsetting. Well, everyone's got their own crazy family with their own stories to tell. I hope you cherish those times as I've cherished mine. 

                                                Until next time, 

                                                                Go eat a pineapple and watch a Chevy Chase movie 

p.s. I'm going on that iconic family vacation next week so I'll let you know how that goes.....hopefully not well at all(;

Summer Flings and Purity Rings

     Blog title aside, I've recently been trying to reach out to members of the opposite sex. You see, I went to an all-girls high school, so I don't have that much experience conversing with guys....unless you count my fifty year old biology teacher, but if I were you I definitely wouldn't. But, based off the encounters I've had with people I'm not sexually attracted to, I can only imagine the mortifying "conversations" I'm going to attempt to have with people I actually do want to see naked. Despite my anxieties about these situations I want to at least try to get acquainted with the whole "dating" thing. I'm eighteen and I have never had a boyfriend. I might as well buy a purity ring and change my name to Mary because my virginity is here to stay. If I ever write a blog announcing I'm pregnant anytime soon I would start praying because Jesus is coming and he's taking us all down. The "impending rapture" aside, I'm starting college this year and I don't want to go in completely inexperienced. Romantic comedies and after school specials can only teach me so much, and I doubt Topenga and Corey's relationship is all that relatable to real world couples. So, like any other rational teenage girl, I've decided a summer fling might be my next move. Now I'm not exactly the one night stand type so that's definitely not what I'm trying to pursue. I need someone to just date for a month or so with no strings attached. Or maybe date around with a few guys. Well I might be getting in over my head with the dating around idea. Finding multiple men to want to date me? Even Cupid couldn't pull that one off. I know that's unrealistic, but if I at least had your average (hell I'll take below average because right now I'm at "cat lady" level)  run-of-the-mill teenage romantic experiences then I can go to college with a little more confidence. However, getting to the point of tricking someone into finding me attractive is going to be difficult; and then getting that same person to then like my personality is going to be even harder. But before I can even get to that point I have to strike up a conversation with someone that isn't an 80 year old grandma at the supermarket but, let's face it, my communication skills are limited. The closest I've gotten to talking to a guy in public was just extremely awkward eye contact followed by me immediately leaving the premises because (God forbid!) he could have come over and talked to me. Maybe next time I'll smile and then run away.....baby steps....baby steps. Well, I'll keep you updated on my search for a summer fling. Wish me luck!

                                                                   Until next time,
                           
                                                                                     Go eat a pineapple and shine that purity ring!

First Blog Post

     This is my first blog post so I have no idea what I'm doing, but I've gotten this far in life not having a clue and I haven't died yet. *Self high-five* As you can tell from my blog title, I am single. And if you read the little "About Me" section, as well, then I know exactly what you're thinking. How could a girl who has an unwavering love for pineapples and equates herself to the genius mind of Conan O'Brien ever be single?? The answer is simple. I never leave the house. And this information brings you to the explanation of the "and not ready to mingle" portion of my blog title. Now, I have to be honest. Even if I had the social butterfly attitude of Jimmy Fallon and actually left my house, I would still be stuck with the social grace of Jennifer Lawrence. Of course I don't have her good looks and charm so it's not as endearing when I trip and fall up the stairs. In fact, people usually leave that scene covering the eyes of their children while a feeling of second-hand embarrassment lingers over the innocent bystanders. However, when I do step into the light of society, and manage to return safely to my computer, I always leave the situation gaining something from the experience. So that's what you'll be reading if you follow this blog. I'll post my tips for surviving social situations, opinions on relevant issues, advice on what NOT to do with your life, and, most definitely, embarrassing stories of the many social faux pas that I hope will make you laugh.


                                                                      Until next time,

                                                                                Go eat a pineapple and call your mother