Valentine's Embarrassment

Once I thought I understood embarrassment. I thought it started as it always does, with the phrase, Hey Ya’ll Watch This. The other place you might find yourself in a potentially embarrassing situation is at mediocre restaurants. I’ve never had anyone sing happy birthday to me in an expensive one. At the cheaper ones they hardly notice you’re there in the first place and certainly ain’t about to care if it’s your birthday. But the ones that are just affordable enough to be special will get you every time.

You know the ones I’m talking about, they have yummy food, which doesn’t require a payment plan to afford. They all have those baby back ribs with sauces with names like, sweet, sassy and sassafrasy ribs. Been down to the creek, killed me a hog and slathered him in sugar water ribs and artery hardening, mouth smackin ribs. You get the idea. I don’t go to these places often; I’m a broke writer and let’s face it, I’m more likely to be eatin soda crackers with ketchup on em. So when I go there, the last thing I want is for a bunch of young people who have no clue who I am and whom are being paid to act like they care, singing happy birthday to me as I eat.           

I once thought I might die from such a thing, until yesterday. Wives mean well, but they sneak up on you sometimes. They are pretty skilled at it too. When we left the house my wife’s behavior indicated I was being sneaked up on.  I imagined ribs or a Chinese buffet at the worst. I was still unaware as we parked; no, scratch that, as I parked. A respectable woman and Mary Carmen is a respectable woman, can arrange things in a way which allows you to lead yourself to slaughter.

We got out and headed toward several of our favorite restaurants in a strip mall near the house. Suddenly she tugged me to a stop. We were standing in front of one of those nail salons. I always wondered how someone cold stay in business by doing nothing but nails. However, I never intended to find out. She had skillfully delivered me right to the door of one; I was skillfully trying to avoid going any further. I have lived fifty-one years without a pedicure and was not figuring on breaking a perfect record.           

She spoke sweetly and coaxed me with soft, comforting words. A gaggle of pretty Vietnamese women stood inside, possibly placing bets on the outcome of our exchange. She explained that this was my Valentine's present which made escaping impossible. After only a few minutes, she realized sweet wasn’t working and started to toughen up a bit. I had already lost but was unaware of it.           

Giving up, I entered and began an hour long blush more suitable for a bride from before the turn of the century. I was lucky I had just taken a shower and put on clean socks, half the time I don’t even wear socks. I sat down, and my chair started to vibrate. I was trying to relax. A sweet young girl sat down and started on my feet. I could see the look of concern on her face. After all, they closed in less than four hours and Valentines was less than a week away. She spoke to the other women in alarming tones, but when she addressed me in English she was sweet and cordial.           

She dug, and she burned, then burned and dug. She wore out a pair of sturdy wire cutters, broke three hack saw blades and dulled three scalpels. She was sweating like she was diggin up taters. Eventually an older woman, more experienced no doubt, came from the back room with a gas powered set of toe nail clippers. They were old, rusty and smelled of two cycle oil. Other customers came and went as the girl worked trying to trim nails and the pads on my feet. I was glad we weren’t payin her by the pound.           

Eventually she collapsed and was relieved by another woman with more stamina. She mumbled incoherently as the replacement placed her out of the way, before beginning. Poor girl may have nightmares for years.            

By the time, it was done they had applied acid, paint striper, marine jelly and more creams and ointments than you can buy at Wal-Mart. But I had to admit my feet felt amazing. They feel fabulous today, but today I am a smarter man. The next time my wife lets me drive and doesn’t tell me exactly where we’re going, I’m staying at home and having those crackers and ketchup. So men let me warn you. If your wife is ambiguous on Valentines, you are probably not about to get, Fat Macks, slap yo mama in the mouth ribs. Run and or hide.