After our recent home improvement bender, I was thinking of calling Martha Stewart's people and asking if she could do her home time at my house, because I could really use her. We have nice new floors and great new furnishings, but that bout of the flu left my house looking (as I mentioned to a friend via email) like a reasonable fascimile of a crack house.

On top of that, I've needed a haircut, and have been biting my nails so ferociously that my fingers ached. I figured out that it was probably a low-iron thing, so I've started a suppliment. But the mindless habit has me gnawing away despite my best intentions. Bleh.

On Saturday, I marched into our local cheapo hair-cutting chain and demanded that they make me really cute and thin. The stylist gave me a trim and a few layers which bring to mind Yvonne's description of her "Heavy Metal Hair" except my hair is not all glossy like hers.

Waaaaaay back in the day, I had artificial nails - nails so strong that I could be hit by a bus and still have princess hands. That year or so was the only time in my life I haven't been a biter. Aha! I will get pretty plastic princess hands again! Except I can't budget for a manicure once a week.

I marched into the drug store, bought myself what I thought was a basic nail set and whipped that puppy out during American Idol last night. Imagine my husband's amusement when I opened up the box and extracted the 6" talons of death from the box and began to glue them on all crookedy. Nothing says high class better than crooked plastic nail-tips, baby.

For 5 minutes I was all hoochie until I managed to locate a nail clipper and file, and then I was down to a manageable length. I painted 'em fyahr-nah-nah red (that's how my little bro used to say fire engine) and waved them around for a good 15 minutes to dry (also to be the center of attention.)

That done, I've discovered that while I do not want to bite them, I cannot do a damn thing well. I forgot how unmanageable my hands become when I have long nails. I need to find a way to channel Charo. Perhaps if I chant "cuchi cuchi" I will be able to manipulate my hands in a useful way.

While I was attempting to hook my bra this morning, my son got tired of waiting and busted on into my room. "Mommy! I love your mulka-patches!" he exclaimed. (My son called nursing "gawk-gawk" and the delivery system was dubbed "mulkas" which I haven't bothered to correct.)

I had to laugh. "Mulka patches, huh? It's a bra," I corrected as I pulled my shirt over my head.

"Bwwwwwa."

"Right, but with less lip flapping. Bra."

"Bwwwwa. I wike my way. Those mulka patches make you wook wike Tarzan."

*pounding chest ah-ee-aa-ee-aaaaaa*

In other, not frivolous news - a dear friend's daughter is in the hospital, and the family is facing some dramatic changes. If you are so inclined, please send your good wishes/prayers/vibes to sweet Claire and her family. (Love you guys! Hope you are home soon.)