My gentleman friend Lust has a brother we call Little Larry, because he’s named after his father, Big Larry. Although Little Larry took pains to tell me once that he ain’t really “little.” I said, “That’s nice,” and changed the subject. Men!
Now Little Larry is finally getting married, thank God.
Lust’s side of the family is throwing a big wedding rehearsal dinner over at the Roosevelt, and I want to look decent for this thing. So I buy a long dress and high-heeled sandals from Dillard’s.
Then, the day of the dinner, I happen to look down at my feet, and my toenails look terrible — all uneven and stubby. And I got no time for a pedicure.
I call my daughter Gladiola at school and ask, “Can I use a set of your fake toenails? I’ll get you some more at Walmart.”
She says okay. She “don’t got any big plans until Halloween and…” but I am in too much of a hurry to listen to her plans for Halloween, so I say I’ll call back tomorrow.
Her room is a mess. But I found this pack of toenails on top her dresser. It includes glue.
These toenails actually look orange to me, so I lay them on the counter and paint them shell pink with my own nail polish.
I get my makeup on, and my hair all fixed, and my dangly earrings hung from my ears, but before I pull my long dress over my head, I squat down on the bathroom floor to glue on the toenails.
Evidently, there is something wrong with the glue cap, because a lot of glue glops out the wrong end of the tube.
I jump up to grab some tissue to wipe it up, and accidentally step in the glue puddle. Turns out this is VERY strong glue. I had no idea. My foot is now glued to the bathroom floor.
Lust is around somewhere, but I ain’t going to yell for help. I refuse.
I use water out the tub faucet, and work at it with my hands. I lose a few layers of skin but finally I wrench my foot off the floor and finish the toenails. They are kind of long, but I file them down into nice ovals.
I pull my dress on and slip my feet in my sandals and take Lust’s arm — he’s actually wearing a suit and tie—and we walk out to an Uber, feeling real snazzy.
The dinner is very nice, and we all toast with Champagne, and eat fish or chicken or beef, and there’s dancing after. I stand up to dance with Lust, and that’s when I realize my thighs are glued together. I must have had glue on my hand when I braced myself to stand up and put my hand on my leg. Or something.
So I need to excuse myself and hobble to the powder room and rip my legs apart. When I am walking back to Lust, I bump into Little Larry. “You missed your chance, Modine, but I couldn’t wait forever,” he whispers.
What? I should haul off and smack him one. But I am a lady. “I know you’ll be very happy, um, Medium-size Larry,” I tell him. And then I strut away on my unglued legs.
Next day I talk to Gladiola about her Halloween plans. She says she went all the way to a Halloween store in Metairie or somewhere to get special orange glue-on fingernails which she and all her friends are going to be flashing with their sexy witch outfits.
“Um,” I say.
“How did my little pink press-ons you borrowed work out? The ones in my top drawer?”
So that’s why I am elbowing my way through a lot of creative creepy costumes at this Halloween place to scoop up the last pair of glue-on orange nails. “Maybe you’d like the matching nose-with-warts too?” asks the sales guy “The label says ‘little witch nose’ — but it ain’t little.” And he chuckles.
Enough is enough. “I LIKE them little,” I say, kind of loud. I slap down my money and storm out.
Men.
