Nails, or Good Mood Sunday

I reason with myself it’s an easy enough time to be in a good mood. It’s a Sunday that you wouldn’t call warm, but it’s finally not freezing, either. You have pole dance class at noon, in two and a half hours. It demarcates the single hour of your week you spend not at home or work or driving between the two. Now, since the beginning of February, I’ve been using an hour every Wednesday for therapy.

So now I have two things, two hours of my week, arguably the two most productive hours of my week, and they cost me $52, like clockwork. What’s a girl to do?

See now I’m thinking about money and I’m in less of a good mood. If my husband were here (he’s at work, like usual for Sundays, which is why I think of Sunday morning as more “my” time than Saturdays, when he’s here) he’d admonish me for bringing up something unpleasant so early in the morning. But he’s an expert at just never talking about or dealing with anything, because it’ll be unpleasant (not that he’s ever said that, but live with someone 10 years and tell me you don’t know them) so I tend to get irritated. But frankly I guess I get irritated about almost everything.

Which is why I’m trying to tell myself to be in a good mood.

It is a good morning. I’m drinking black coffee (yes, I’m one of those people) and sparkling water (because dear, I have an obsession) and smoking weed, and writing in CF. Well, editing. I have this cockamamie idea that I’ll have a polished draft to give to my best friend when I see her for my birthday. But that’s 13 days from now. Also this my last two weeks of being thirty. How weird. It wasn’t a great year, I won’t lie, but it had a lot of great moments. I will say that.

Today is one, I guess. I have nothing but writing time until I leave for pole.

After pole, I need to go to a Dollar Tree for painters’ masks, because you need those for my newest distraction endeavor.

Guess what it is.

It’s doing my nails.

See the long backstory is, I was jealous, really jealous, of the girls who went to my private high school whose mother’s were somehow willing to drop as much on their daughter’s beauty routines as on their own. Perhaps it was a bonding thing. I’m not judging, I’m just saying that looking at it right now, I can see why some mothers would be exasperated that these unrealistic $90 salon trips were the norm for some of their daughter’s peer group. So I saw A LOT of girls who got to get their nails done professionally (back then, in the early 00s, it was all acrylic pinks and fancy French tips, I refuse to do this style, for that reason). So I did what young Cassie was like to do, figure out a way around it using my inability to let something go when I’m into it.

So I learned how to do nails, and lo and fucking behold, it’s SUPER cheap (compartatively, to salon prices) to do them yourself. Plus the added grossness of a public place where hands and feet are cleaned and groomed and pampered is nonexistant if you do them at home. So in high school, I would at times have crazy long and fancily-painted nails, all of which I did at home by myself. People would ask me where I got them done.

It’s just another example of how you can get around a lot of the stuff that you want, if you try hard enough.

So, for awhile…let’s say….two years, right around the time I got married until a little before things with R ended (thank God), I was getting my nails done. When I interviewed for the job I have currently, I remember having brown and clear glitter sparkle alternating with a pointed gel job.
But, I got sick of having this extra errand to run at minimum twice a month, and one that involved a lot of time and being around strangers and in a public place and worst of all, coming into physical contact with someone else.

(HUGE SIDE NOTE/FOOTNOTE ON PHYSICAL CONTACT AND CASSIE: I hate, HATE, physical contact with other people. If you’re close enough to me for me to smell you, I do NOT want it to be happening….additional footnote – the ONLY time this is not true is if it’s someone I’m fucking, OR someone I would like to fuck….LITERALLY the only time I will ever ever ever touch someone. I don’t even mean in a sexual or intimate way, I mean in the world’s most professional handshake. In Hannibal at one point, after giving a rousing lecture on the connection between greed and death by hanging, Hannibal Lecter holds onto a pile of books so he isn’t obliged to shake anyone’s hand as they congratulate him on his stunning success at impressing them. I remember reading it and being like…smart..so smart…need to start doing that… So yeah, if someone I’m not fucking or want to fuck hugs me, on the inside, I’m fucking cringing, at best. It’s how I’ve always been. This isn’t to say I’m not physically affectionate…but again…with the people I have sex with. ANYWAY, I just thought I’d explain that, because it’s a huge part of my shit).

So now I’m going to start doing my nails.

I have pole class, then to buy painters’ masks so I don’t breathe in a ton of toxic nail dust.

I think about it…and I go WAY out of my way to not look like a poor person…don’t I….

At least as much as I can.

I haven’t gotten my hair cut at a salon in at about four years. If you read my disclaimer you might understand why I don’t like it. Also, it’s expensive. Plus I like having super long hair and it’s NOT hair to cut your own split ends and layer your own hair, it’s just not.
My clothing, the nicer pieces, were all gifts from my mother in law. I buy the random piece (on credit) but that’s about it. I tend to wear things for as long as possible.
With make up, I stopped wearing a ton of it every day, but what I wear every day is still top of the line. Two years ago I had eyeliner tattooed on my eyelids, so that saves money and is the best in many other ways, like it’s always perfect.
But, honestly, since college, when I was FINALLY free of the fucking dress code restrictions of my grade school and high school, people have always noticed/remembered me by my wardrobe. And makeup. Time to add nails, is it not?

Plus idk, it’s something I kind of miss having done, and I’m yet again at a point in my life where I could never afford getting them on the regular basis that they need. My husband took a lower paying job, the lowest paying one he’s had since he graduated college, for better insurance. So we could go to therapy. Which still costs us a combined $60 per week. Then my pole dance class is $22. His gym is $25 every other week and then a twice years $600 infusion, I believe. WHY DOES IT COST SO MUCH TO BE HEALTHY AND LOOK FABULOUS?

Wow that’s like literally the point of this blog and all of my thoughts that aren’t my book, CF. Which still isn’t as good as I want it to be, and I’ve read it BY MY FUCKING SELF so many times that I can’t even begin to look at it objectively.

Anyway, I should get some writing done before class, with the quiet and the cool spring morning and the dozens of active songbirds (so adorably trying to get laid by singing so prettily) and the weed high and all.

I keep myself on a strict cleaning schedule so I don’t neglect anything to grossness but also don’t lose all of my time and energy to cleaning (because instinctively, that’s what I want to do…) and I’m caught up for the weekend. So I can spend the whole afternoon while dinner crockpots itself doing my nails and writing. I’ve been on a vodka kick but I bought some of those Fosters fat boys for this afternoon as well.

Sometimes, I can’t tell

If it’s the weed and the booze and my general state of numbed acquiescence that I brought with me from childhood

Or if my life isn’t actually so bad

I guess it depends on perspective

and your list of needs

All I know is

My best friend, and now my therapist, they both don’t like my husband

Is there something I can’t see?

Or is it just how I put things to them? That I have the same shit-talking negative bent every other member of my family has? I had someone else straight up ask me if I was being abused, from reading this blog.

So I’m literally super confused

And like. Depending on how I feel in any given moment dictates how I feel about my life

AND THAT, dear readers,

is a rare gift from my mother.

See, that’s the thing.

That’s the fucking problem

She, the one with the SUPER depressive personality, and massive inferiority issues, and the mood swings and the stress eating, she was the one example of love I had

Sure, everyone, EVERYONE, always commented on how nice she was. Yeah. In public. When she was around people she was worried about keeping up the facade around. That was NOT the case at home, especially not when it was just her and I.

Anyway. Back to my book.

Love you

~C

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