Kicking and Screaming, Don't You Ever Look In a Mirror?

I am writing this blog entry from the living room of T's house.

While sitting in front of the television.

Wireless Internet....oh, how you will change my life.

T's computer is a complete bastard. I have mentioned this before, of course, as well as the annoyance of sharing the computer with a house full of people, all of who believe their need for the internet is equally as great as yours.

T and I received a wireless router for an engagement gift. We purchased the wireless card today. After hours of troubleshooting and three phone calls to IT friends in California, I can now write blog entries while sipping a diet pepsi and watching Investigation Discovery (my new drug of choice.).

I love to multi-task. Love to use the computer in front of the TV, while listening to the radio. The knowledge that I can take my laptop into ANY ROOM OF THE HOUSE, including the YARD or GARAGE(!) and dick around to my hearts desire....I'm thrilled.

And out of reasons not to blog. (Stay tuned!)

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My sister and niece (who is a year older than me) were in town this week.

Kill me.

After lots of passive-aggression, lots of closeted insults, and lots of my wanting to set fire to them both, T and I were set free to do as we pleased in the Metropolis. We shopped some, visited my new favorite over-priced store on the planet, and visited the most disappointing coffee house I have been in for a long time. Voted best coffee and gelati in the metropolis, they offered up improperly named desserts (that were not gelato/i in my humble non-italian opinion, nor in T's humble italian one)(Oh, and panna cotta and creme brulee are different things, dicks.) and shitty coffee. So there.

Anyway, all that aside, we were taking a mode of public transport back to our car that evening, and a couple sat directly across from us, eating vegetarian burritos. The woman had on blue socks and black sandals, as well as a scarf. The man was wearing shorts and hiking boots with a tye-dyed shirt. It was not the clothing, nor the unwashed smell that horrified T and I. It was the length of the mans fingernails.

Ok, kids. I like nails....on women. I have acrylic nails, which I keep quite short. I got them to stop me from biting my nails, as a smoker that also bites their nails needs to go get on some serious anti-anxiety meds, and liked the way they looked so I ran with it. Nails (depending on what you do for a living, there are exceptions to every rule) should be short, clean, and orderly--especially on men. Always on men.

This man had fingernails that were longer than mine. Longer, and stained and pointed....it gives me shivers just to think about it. He had to clean the burrito out from under them when he was done eating.....oh, sweet Lord.

What motivates people to do thinks like that? What could this man do for a living that would require, or even facilitate nails of that length? Why is his wife/spouse/lover/life-partner/anyone-he-sees-on-a-regular-basis ok with this?

So. Gross.