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02.08.2003 - 4:25 p.m.

Saturday

Check out my swanky new manicure (bonus: Dog)! And I assure you the deathly pallor is due to the flash, thankyouverymuch. In reality I am a delicious light caramel, sun-bronzed and sultry. Except, well, that's a dirty lie and I look like I live in a cave. Damn you, Seattle.

A while back I happened to notice that my coworker Scott's fingernails were in a state of utter disgrace. "Have you heard of a little device called a nail clipper?" I asked in (rude) disbelief. "My god, you could take up ice climbing with those puppies."

No really, we're friends.

I convinced him to come with me to get a manicure. So yesterday we had our appointments at InSpa, a place by Workplace that does nails, facials, massages, etc. I asked Scott if he was maybe going to get clear polish or anything and he emphatically replied in the negative. "No WAY," he said. "I mean, are you kidding?"

I picked out the El Slutadore Rojo color pictured above, and an miniscule Asian woman took me to her station. While she was working at my nails with various tools, she asked if I wanted my husband to come sit next to me. I arched an eyebrow (or, actually, since I can't do that, I 'raised part of my face') and told her he was my coworker, leaving off the fact that he's gay as a goose.

When I was in the standing-around-waiting-for-everything-to-dry phase, I looked up to see Scott happily flapping his hands at me…painted with an even SLUTTIER dark burgundy color. "I thought you weren't going to do polish!" I said. "Well, I don't know, I just figured I was doing all the other shit - might as well go all the way, eh?" he replied.

A bunch of us went for drinks later in the day, and both Scott and I spent most of the evening gazing at our shiny new nails.

When we were at the bar, we talked about verbal idiosyncrasies - like what certain words you tend to say when you can't think of the right word. My coworker Brian says "thingie". This replaces either the missing word or an entire phrase that he feels he can't say right. I tend to say "whatchamajigger" and "hooyah" (hey, where's the hooyah that attaches to the battery charger?), myself.

The conversation meandered along as booze-filled chats tend to do, and at some point we all thought it would be the absolute pinnacle, the very zenith of humor if, when one is presented with a brain fart on the right term to use, one were to issue a loud macaw squawk.

Picture a table full of people, red-faced and teary-eyed, all of them delivering giant parrotty screeches then laughing until they wet their pants. Yeah, you didn't want to sit next to us last night.

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