Gemstones for Grumpy

There is something about me that would still find discontent living with a princess and working in a diamond mine.

That and the fact that I’m at the stage of life when my mood jumps from irritable to "dinner party for twelve" crazy and back again without pausing to register a change in barometric pressure, gave my husband the inspiration to buy me a set of hot pink summer lounging pajamas emblazoned with Grumpy the Dwarf the last time he was at Wal-Mart on a quest for the perfect window fan.

Grumpy is staring out from the shirtfront as if someone just lined the bed of his pickup truck with dotted Swiss and edged it in tinsel and pom pom fringe. Imagine that same dwarf with hot flashes, swollen ankles, and hair like raw spaghetti, and you’ll have some idea why the Captain is sending up distress signals.

“Other wives get Victoria’s Secret. I get Wal-Mart separates.” I’m sitting on the deck at Raelynn’s house guzzling lemonade and hatching red blotches. My goal is to join the blotches together to give the impression of a sunburn. There’s no vacation in the checkbook this year and I want people to think I’ve been to the beach.

“At least he paid full price.” Raelynn has a bargain finder instinct that’s better than a Global Positioning System set on Sale. She sometimes gets heartstopper deals at the Good Will store, and one time snatched a formal gown out of the jaws of white trash, but she never goes cut rate on gifts. She says real friends deserve retail price.

I don’t agree. If I thought a rash would get me a sympathy discount, I’d manage a wheat allergy that would wipe out the store. I emptied out a restaurant once, but that turned out to be the flu instead of food poisoning. There’s a fine line between bargain hunting and contagious diseases.

“Full price came to $12.00.” I stretched one leg, pointing my toe to check for progress. Looked like freckles up my shin was the best I could do toward achieving a full body glow. “Plus tax.”

“Didn’t he get you that opal necklace you wanted for your birthday?”

“Yeah,” I peered at a likely spot on my arm, then flicked away a lady bug. “I broke the chain.”

“And the opal earrings to match for your anniversary?”

“The posts hurt my ears. I thought I’d get some on French hooks.”

Raelynn looked at me like I’d just snatched the last Prada bag off the clearance shelf. Men give her presents every week of her life, but she’d trade every trinket for a man who fills her sails like the Captain does mine. “Girl, it might say Grumpy across your chest, but it says Dopey in your eyes.”

I grinned and gathered up my towel, empty glass, and trashy magazines.

“Where you going?” Raelynn raised an eyebrow with an arch that was better manicured than the one in St Louis.

I padded into her empty house to put my glass in the dishwasher.

“Home,” I called back over my shoulder. “To show off how nice Grumpy looks in opals.”

Something's Afoot

Raelynn unfurled a leg longer than the weeds in my herb garden and regarded one foot. She pulled out a cell phone and pressed a button. Immediate attention from Emergency services was essential.

The only numbers I have on speed dial are my kids and the plant doctor. If the Peta people cared as much about geraniums as they do about houseflies, they’d be hurling organic fertilizer at me every time I strolled through the Lawn and Garden section at Sears. A day doesn’t go by at my house without another senseless murder surrounded by potting soil and peat moss. But more important matters were afoot here.

My dear friend Raelynn was experiencing a crisis. Climbing out of her Town Car, she’d chipped the polish on one of her piggies.

Raelynn spends more money on her big toe than most people spend on their first real car—not the beater that got you through college and collapsed in a sigh of oil-induced relief on graduation day, but the one whose odometer turned to 100 for nobody but you. Spread this kind of upkeep over all available footage, and I could float a Ferrari over the Autobahn like a hovercraft for what she spends on the care and feeding of her feet.

If I ever spend that much time on a part of my body I haven’t seen since the last time Waldo was spotted, please repossess my WalMart Master Card.

“They’ll take me at four,” she said, snapping her cell phone shut the way a prosecuting attorney would close a file of incriminating evidence in front of a condescending judge. She watched as I shucked off my Converse sneakers.

“You could take better care of your feet. It isn’t that hard.”

“I don’t have time for all that oil and lotion and sanding them with a rock. I’ve got to peel the potatoes for dinner and vacuum the living room.”

“You use frozen potatoes. How long can it take to push Start? And that little automatic vacuum cleaner of yours scurries around like a mouse sucking up hairballs. It’s like playing room to room air hockey.”

“Well, it’s too much trouble.”

“Taking care of your feet is easier than cooking dinner. Why, after you wash and dry them. . .”

“You have to wash them?”

Raelynn looked at me as if I’d suggested she upholster her Lincoln with vinyl siding.

“You don’t wash your feet?”

“I’m not exactly sure where they are. I figure they must be at the bottom of the pile somewhere. They get the soap and water runoff when I take a shower.”

She blinked. “You’re going with me this afternoon. You need it more than I do.”

Two hours later my feet were softer than cumulous clouds, better decorated than my guest bedroom, and smelled like the perfume tester counter at the mall. I was afraid to walk.

The girl in charge of my new look played the cash register like a slot machine and announced a total. I could have bought a registered Shih Tzu and a groomer to find its eyes for what I paid for my feet. I handed over the little piece of plastic that big girls use to buy new toys and sighed.

That night, Bill and I spent the evening calculating whether it was worth sacrificing the kids’ college education to support my feet in their new lifestyle.

“Well, he said, watching the light dance off of the Pink Passion polish. It gives a whole new meaning to the term “foot the bill.”