Today is one of those days when McIrish is at work, and Dearest Son and I are home alone. We have no plans to leave the house. I baked cookies this morning, the first of the season. There are leftovers for dinner.
And so it seemed like a great day to tackle those calluses on my feet! Yeah, baby! About a year ago, my friend gave me the Hardcore Pedicure Kit of her own making—products such as a cheese grater, something with razor blades, and Mr. Pumice, a huge, rough purple thing whose letters wore off long ago. Also included is a mystery solution she bought from a shady website. I don’t think you can get in America because it’s possibly illegal and may have uranium in it. It was the best present!
“Honey!” I called to my 18-year-old son. “I need you to help me put acid on my feet!”
There was a pause, and then, oh, readers! Has heaven ever heard such a sigh of martyrdom? I think not. Remember in Christmas Vacation when the grandmother offers Rusty a quarter to rub the painful burr on her foot? I always get a significant look from my son at that part. Not sure why.
At any rate, I smeared the “made in China” magic illegal elixir on my feet, then had my brave son wind a couple yards of plastic wrap around my feet so nothing would drip and burn a hole through the floor.
He finished the job and left without comment, probably to go to the Internet to a chat room for Sons Whose Mothers Ask Too Much.
My feet are starting to sting, dear readers. It’s a good sign. If I burn off a couple of toes, I’ll let you know. And post pictures. Of course I will.