A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.
After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"
Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.
"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."
It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.
Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.
the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen woman
5 comments:
Thats hilarious. Gotta love living in modern times right?
Actually, I am not sure which is more scary, the fact that he had that opinion, or the fact that he had no qualms in asking you!!!!!
It's true, there's not much that people won't say to each other in this town. Most of the time, I'm glad about it...with the occasional exception.
Slut.
You ain't seen the half of it, baby. My fingernails are up next.
Post a Comment