stereotypes are wrong

I had a whole host of things to rant about today but something miraculous happened instead. First, everyone meet my new best friend, the blogess: She’s everything I admire: professional writer that “needed an uncensored space to say the f-word and talk about ninjas.”  I love her just for loving to say fuck. Speaking of fuck, I paid a lot of extra money to get this Cristal coating on my glasses so they don’t glare and streak and they are ALWAYS fucking dirty. You can’t have glare when you’re looking through makeup and every particle of dirt in the atmosphere.

Ok so I had to be up at 4:30 a.m. to attend our all manager meeting. My “job” was to hold up a sign for our senior VP that said “2 minutes” when he had 2 minutes left to talk. Then I flipped it over when there was 30 seconds left to tell him to “wrap up”. I wanted to change the sign to say “wrap it the FUCK up” but my coworker in charge of logistics vetoed that idea. I am confident it would have gotten Dennis’ attention and he would have loved it. I guess I need to stay employeed. For now. Plus, we just got our bonuses so I got to buy a face scrubber brush and  some new makeup and jeans and a sweater from Gap. I can feel my whiteness seeping through this posting. Anyway, I bought some OPI polish the other day at my hair salon called “I have a herring problem” from the Holland collection. Mostly, I love blue polishes for some reason. So I sat down on the couch tonight with my fancy polish and an OPI kit I got for free from Sephora by cashing in all my points. I filed my jagged and ragged nails because I decided that biting them was far better than taking care of them. This is my process when I paint my own nails: base coat, apply two coats of color in a thin but even manner, top coat. I don’t care if I get paint all over my cuticles. It comes off in the shower the next morning. As I am following my tried and tested process, Captain decideds he needs to help. This spawns a completely reasonable conversation, fueled by a few cocktails I enjoyed eariler.

Him: Oh, I can do it.

Me: Ah, no you can’t. I have a system here.

Him: No, I’ve done this hundreds of times.

Me: Oh really? How many manicures have you done, sir? Just because you’re Asian doesn’t make you an expert.

He then proceeded to paint my right hand. I am immediately enraged. He’s not going all the way to my cuticle and is taking about a decade to paint my thumb. It’s blotchy and sticky and thick, like a sorority full of freshman girls. This goes on for the rest of my right hand, pictured below. I’m fairly confident he painted other girls’ hands in his lifetime and half admitted it, but my vodka sass wouldn’t let him fess up. Either way, nothing to be jealous of but a bunch of girls with shitty manicures. Whatever, hookers. I am confident his Norwegian side painted my nails. The Korean side would have been swift, efficient, a little brutal and given a painful but later relaxing head massage, but perfect in the end. The Norwegian side mostly could be used to move several tons of decorative gravel but not do manicures unless the manicure could also ski, shoot a reindeer, skin it, make clothing for the village from the hide and a hearty stew from the meat then bench press the bones in an Arctic Crossfit challenge.

In the end, I elbow-bombed Captain in the legs, chest and pretty much anywhere I could reach while my nails were drying. I’m sure they’re beautiful. Everytime I take a picture of my nails I can’t help but think that my fingers look long and creepy and like they will make excellent daggers some day. Or now.

stereotypes are wrong

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