Folks, it’s a little hard for me to stand on my feet and walk. I’m gonna tell you though, I’m watching my dollars. So good I’m watching my dollars, I damn near filed my feet off on Saturday. I have this idea that I can do just about anything. I really do. My kids, Little Totsy and Mr. Boy, believe I can do just about anything too.
One day, we were walking in the mall and Mr. Boy came across an outdoor bench that could be put in the yard. He told me I should get it for the house, then he got to studying it and said, “You could build that,” which I could. We’d see shit in the store and I’d go, “But I can make that,” and it’s become a family joke ’cause as much as I feel like I can do, I’m pretty much gonna stick to what I know I will do. I’m not boasting. I’m just cheap, is all, which is why I’m in this predicament with my feet.
On Saturday, I go to get some things at the As Seen on TV store. You ever been there? I bought a steamer for my clothes and that pedicure egg. I can’t remember the proper name for it but that’s the shape of this thing my sister turned me onto for a self-hook up of my feet. I guess it would be like exfoliating and you know women, it ain’t hardly right to have all that dead skin caked up on your heels. I worked with this one woman and her feet looked so bad, it was almost unsanitary with all that shit caked up on them, which reminds me on my step-dad’s feet. Oh folks, if you stepped on a toe nail he’s cut off his foot, it was like something clawing at you. He had one helluva file and toe nail clipper. Like some shit built for the animal kingdom. I wouldn’t lie to you, folks.
Well, I was all happy to get this pedicure egg, with the cold weather approaching and all. I went to work on my feet soon as I got settled back at home. On Sunday, I was okay. No big deal but come today, my feet are tender as hell. I look back at my heels and they’re all reddish-pink and shit. I be damn if I ain’t been tipping around here for two days ’cause I’ve just about filed off the back of my feet. And I’ve become such a baby over time, that I have a low tolerance for pain. I hate feeling all delicate. I mean, it doesn’t quite match up with my tough talk. Of all things, I’m sensitive to a little over-exfoliation. But I have to say, this ain’t hardly as bad as the time I thought I had meningitis.
Folks, I was painting the carport ceiling of the house I used to live in. Naturally, I’m looking upward for long periods of time. Next day, I can barely get out of bed, or turn my head. I rush to the doctor to hear my ultimate fate, that I’ve got X amount of days to live and remember, ooohhhh, it was the painting that got me feeling this way. Talk about a wasted co-pay. It really bothers me to act typically womanish, being dramatic and all. Where’s the fun in being average? How are you sizing up out there, ’cause it ain’t sitting too well with me.