Monika Blogwell

I don’t ordinarily get manicures or pedicures. And I’m beginning to think I should keep it that way. Marianne and I went tonight to get our nails done at the salon that boasts the “best ventilation” in town (I found this little detail out later…).

Marianne picked a lovely peach color for her toes, and I picked a dark purplish black to go with my dress for the wedding tomorrow. After waiting for a while, my pedicurist finally came to save my feet from the lukewarm water.

I tried to control my laughter and shrieking as the nail tech took a sander to my feet. And I said nothing when she stopped midway to answer her cell phone… I again tried to restrain my giggling when she smeared lotion on my feet using the oddest of tools: a plastic bag. The entire time, Marianne waited patiently and tried to distract me with photos of Zac Efron and girl talk.

I moved over to get my nails done. My manicurist made her dissatisfaction known about my dark color choice. Apparently, my skin is “too yellow” for red tones. “Terrible, terrible,” she mumbled, scoffing at my selection. Thanks, lady. Good to know.

More than two hours later, as I waited goose-bumped and bewildered in the never-ending wind of the nail fan, the techs were finally done. Another manicurist had to step in to fix the damage done by the first.

Thank God for Marianne, though. She kept it all in perspective for me, and she even (reluctantly) let me blog about her feet. Now, that’s a real friend! (Apparently, she’s extra shy about having pictures of her feet on the internet after someone once told her her toes looked like crinkle-cut french fries.) When I told her I’m considering throwing in the towel on manis and pedis, she gave me the sound advice to not neglect regular hand and foot maintenance.

(As an aside, I once took a flight where the man sitting next to me looked at me soberly and said, “You have really nice feet.” I beg to differ, and also… that was really creepy, dude.)

Here’s our final foot product. Don’t be surprised if those Styrofoam flip-flops wind up as next year’s summer fashion trend. You may want to get yours before the “best ventilated” salon closes for good.

So you know all that cheesecake chatter yesterday? I guess no one heeds my advice. At a luncheon workshop I attended, they literally forced me to eat pumpkin cheesecake. Well, maybe not forced, but it would have been rude to not eat it once they set it in front of me.

Torture. Delicious torture.

Saturday, it’s me versus the cake at my cousin’s wedding. Wonder who will win that showdown? I guess it’s safe to say my diet’s off for the week. Next week, though, it’s back to quinoa for breakfast and sugar free pudding.

My sweet tooth got the best of me today, as it so often does. I don’t drink a lot of alcohol or eat fast food, but if I had to choose a weakness, sugar would be it. As I devoured a “magic cookie bar” on the car ride home from dinner, I stopped and asked myself midway, “Are you actually enjoying this?” I didn’t speak the words out loud, but the question was crystal clear in my mind. And I responded back “not really” before gobbling down the rest of the graham cracker, chocolate and pecan layers. I guess that’s why they call it “magic” — it makes you lose all self-control.

I got to thinking and wondered if my love of desserts would be something I would remove if I could. Would you take away your vice, destroy your appreciation for it, simply to never have it overpower you again? If I could be hypnotized to refuse a piece of cheesecake or a slice of pie à la mode, would I take the opportunity?

When I go out to eat with friends, I like to “split” a dessert. Confession: I usually secretly hope to get a whole serving for myself. And baking is my way of showing my love for others. I often speak more through butter, flour and sugar than I ever can through words.

So would I take away this vice if given the chance? Probably not. But a word of advice: it may not be the best idea to leave any cheesecake out the next time I’m around.

Patrick is making me dinner tonight. He’s in the kitchen breading tofu for General Tso’s Tofu. Yes, my Alabama boy is making tofu for dinner–and that was his pick. It’s hard giving up my dinner duties for the night. He isn’t letting me lift a finger, which is in some ways a treat, but also makes me really antsy. I’m not good at relinquishing my power. Instead of breathing down his neck about how he does it, I took a few pictures of him at work and decided to stay out of his way to write this post. I’m a lucky girl.

In other news, I bought a glue gun this week to unleash my inner Martha Stewart. I’m pretty pumped about it. No matter how old I get, I’ll never grow out of arts and crafts.

The pre-walk warm-up got everyone movin’ and groovin’. It was perfect weather for a walk.

Lots of people made signs to show their support.

Some hair-dye was also involved…

But even in the middle of all the excitement, not everyone could stay awake.

Halfway done, but still going strong.

The finish line!

A cool post-walk pose. We did it!