Nails

Woke too early, got catsoup started at 0430. Dishes run, showered while Dylan was home, walked to get groceries. He's got the allergies, trees. Napped around 0900. More walking, got beer, odd/consignment clothes shop had harem pants. Got home, did not fit. Getting menopause-spread bad. Walked back, exchanged pants, met Dylan at the library, read Rolling Stone's Jordan Peele, in part, waiting for end of shift.

Sat out with Moby a long stretch, as he basked. Eton Grasse.



Keeping myself busy, moving, engaged. Have not had more than a week of vacation... since moving out to Boston? Oh.

Went for a pedicure, toenails a mess, Dylan anxious about hurting me. Best thing to happen to me all week. Feet and lower legs cleaned and tended, young woman with a lot more English than I have Vietnamese, which is none as should be obvious. (If I go in again, I will learn how to at least say thank you.) When she put the hot towel over my feet, I cried, quietly, in humble gratitude. The color on my tiny toenails is silly, but irrelevant.

I find having my feet washed more humbling than washing another's feet.

Fingernails are my own issue, Dylan trimmed my left hand for me. My damn right hand can just fuckoff.