Before I delve into the disgust, I want you to know it’s taken 40 years to stop picking my nails. Occasionally I could grow them, but they were so thin and weak, they’d instantly split. Thanks to Gel polish, I have a bit more support and my nails have been long since November.
I know I often yell at hubby for not prioritizing his chores. For example, the other morning while I was running around trying to prepare lunches and breakfast while simultaneously combing my kids’ hair, hubby deemed it the perfect time to “troubleshoot” child two’s iPad. Clearly she needed it fixed that moment because after all, time flies in school…. Regardless, I was annoyed!
This morning, I woke up after 7 hours of poor sleep, and was going to wash my hair but when I let the dogs into the kitchen for their morning snack, I noticed our pigs had a filthy pen. Hemming and hawing over the smell and filth vs. my own stench, I opted to quickly wash their cage.
Naturally I put on my gloves and began the task of scraping off the shit from the plastic bottom. I used my gloved hands because I wanted to quickly do this vs. look for some scooper. Whilst I was nearing the end of my scraping, I felt something that would rock my world for all eternity.
As I looked down at my hand, I saw the most disturbing thing I’d ever seen- a tear in two of the gloved fingers.
Knowing I was rather late at this moment for work, I had two choices, cut off my hands rendering me 100% off the hook for all child tasks, or cut my nails off and douse them in lighter fluid and alcohol.
Quickly, I poured bleach all over my hands, found a nail scrubber and Mommy Dearest’d my hands. After half a bottle of alcohol and nail shaving a new bar of soap, I’ve come to understand how sexually assaulted women feel.
Lastly, I will be putting together a class action against the flimsily thin surgical gloves that are the possible reason for the spread of rampant diseases within hospitals.