Countdown to Matrimony

Friday night, June 22nd. The no-rehearsal dinner happened at a pizza place in my hometown. The specialty on the buffet was pizza with "croc sauce." The desserts included chocolate pudding and M & M pizza. No question about it: We know how to live.

My betrothed and I went our separate ways for the night. He stayed at the wedding location to hold vigil over the fickle tents. I love the phrase "fickle tents." It morphs nicely into "tickle fence". Uh, anyway, I hung out with my parents and sister, and we walked through the "preview" of my parents' condo association's multi-garage sale. This is among our favorite activities. 2 years ago, we participated in the sale ourselves. I drove 2 hours on a Saturday morning before it was even light outside, snacking on cheese fries and a chocolate shake from Steak 'n' Shake in order to make it to Mom and Dad's by 6:30, when the early birds start shopping. And, as is usually the case with yard sales, we worked our spleens out sorting and pricing and displaying and at the end of the day we were blisteringly tired and said we would never ever be stupid enough to mess with this again, and we had made about 12 dollars each. Which we spent in the other garages. This year we skipped the painful part and went right to the part where we spend money on stuff we don't need. I bought 3 identical keychains: replicas of the Roman Coliseum. All for a buck. And don't tell me you wouldn't have bought them if you'd gotten there first.

June 23rd: Ta-Daaaa! Wedding Day.

The day I would be married. The day I would walk down the aisle. The day I would exchange vows with Scott. The day I would be made an honest woman. Whatever that means.

Oh. And the day it would rain. But first things first.

At noon, I went to the local Korean manicure shop for a wedding day mani-pedi combo. Even in my hometown of 8,000, there is a local place filled to the brim with hyperactive fume-crazy Koreans whose speed and voracity for their nail services is Asian Game Show crazy. Race-the-clock crazy. Do this manicure faster than your colleague and we'll unlock the freezer where we're keeping your children crazy.

The girl who was my nail-ist was the size of a stick of gum. She immersed my feet into water so hot that my flesh sizzled like the first unlucky french fry tossed into the Ronco Fry Daddy.

Me: Holy crap. That's amazingly hot.

Stick of Chewing Gum: You get used to it.

Me: No. Seriously. It's like lava. I'm dying.

The skin just above my ankles had headed north, rolling itself up to my thighs into a makeshift pair of skin culottes.

Stick: You want me cool down?

Me: Yes. Just enough to keep me from screaming.

She rolled her eyes and turned on the cold water nozzle. The culottes slowly unrolled.

Stick: You want noh-mal pedicyuah or de-rux?

Me: What is de-rux?

Stick: Oh! Yo feet feel so good you no bereeve it! Many special rotions.

Me: Sure. What the hell.

What followed was a test of my female endurance. Stick made my feet and calves her special bitches. She scraped my heels with some sort of miniature machete, stopping only to admire the exposed bone shining whitely into her tiny face like a light from an ancient ancestor. I sat watching her and wondering if I'd be able to walk down the aisle or if I'd have to be wheeled in on a gurney, leading with my foot-stumps, appearing as white gauze watermelons.

But I was snapped back to the present when happy little Stick started applying some kind of lime green mixture from my heels to my knees. Something harsh, with sea salt and aloe and agent orange mixed together. Let me tell you something. Never ever be fooled by the stature of your Korean nail girl. She slathered it on and then squeeeeeeeezed my legs so hard with her little mouse hands, rubbing up and down, that I was sure every vein had burst and every bone crumbled under the pressure. When she finished, if she ever did, I was sure that my legs would shrivel and curl up like the wicked witch's legs in Oz. The one under the house. I was going to die.

Me: So, uh, what is this supposed to do for me?

Stick: (Throws head back in glee.) HA! HA! HA!

When she finished my toenails, what was left of them, I limped, in my salon flip-flops, over to the manicure station for above-the-waist torture. I was afraid to watch what she did with the cuticle scissors. I did not speak. Stick had proven herself unstable and I knew she had performed medically unnecessary tracheotomies with those little scissors.

My mother has gone to this salon. Once. My niece got her a certificate for a pedicure and only after we prodded her for a year would she go redeem it. It drove her mad listening to the Koreans talk. She's convinced that they're saying not-nice things about her. I scoffed at this until I heard Stick animatedly yelping something to her colleague, jumping several octaves and back with each word. I don't mind hearing foreign languages. After 9 years at a Big Giant University, I barely notice anymore. But there is no doubt in my mind that after Stick said to me, in English, "Boy you really needed a manicure." she said, in Korean "I could ram this pasty hag's paws into a Cuisinart on 'liquefy' and she'd still look better than when she brought her fat ass in." Some things you just know.