World of KdeL

Nails, Nails, Nails!

Ladies (and the select, discerning male friend), I have discovered gel nail polish. 

I haven’t had a manicure in over a year. It started raining finally, so I decided to get my nails done in a brash, summer color as a fuck you to winter.

Mission accomplished.

But instead of getting regular polish that chips, dents, and damages my nails, I opted for the pricier but indestructible gel nail polish. Note - these are not fake nails. It’s just a base coat of gel applied to your natural nails followed by polish and a top coat.

Each layer is applied over your regular nails and sets under UV light while you get your manicure. You are free to dig through your purse looking for keys, wallet, phone the minute the top coat is applied.

While the instant dry is awesome, it’s really just a perk. The real benefit to gel polish is that it doesn’t chip, dent, or wear off. Like a regular manicure though, you’ll need to reapply in 2-4 weeks, depending on how fast your nails grow.

Warning - gel nails take about an hour in a salon and range from $35-$70. DIY would probably take twice as long until you get the hang of it. If you’re committed to DIY, there is a good how to post here.

There are three basic types of gel nail polish: Shellac, Gelish, and Bio Sculpture. Gelish is the most popular, but I opted for Bio Sculpture since I have pretty thick ridges in my nails and wanted to ensure the gel would adhere.

I’m not going back to regular polish. 

Wear Your Politics On Your Sleeves

Support Spread Shirt and show your opposition to SOPA with this t-shirt. Also, write and call your representatives and senators, many of whom are still supporting these two pernicious pieces of legislation.

Keep Calm And Vote NO to SOPA (for only $16.90, wink, wink).

A Magical Day In Which Deep Throating Saves My Life

It all started at Berkeley Bowl.

Damn it if they don’t have the most amazing prosciutto. Normally, it looks like this.

But Berkeley Bowl also sells prosciutto ends.

I fell victim to the not so tender prosciutto end because I had worked out for two hours that day. TWO HOURS. I was fucking hungry. I wanted to eat an entire boar, not some thinly sliced delicacy draped over a sliver of melon.

I purchased my morsel and unwrapped it in the car, careful not to sully my fingerless gloves. I was beside myself with desire, my nostrils filling with the prosciutto’s hazelnut and sea salt aroma.

At first, I ate like a lady, tiny bite after tiny bite. But the bites got bigger and bigger until I was happily chewing a dense, golf ball sized piece of prosciutto in the parking lot.

And then I felt it. That golf ball was in my esophagus. I opened my mouth to cough. Silence. Shit!

Now I’ve been around long enough to know that if you can’t cough, no air is getting into your lungs. Chocking to death is right around the corner. So I started digging around in my mouth. Could I pull the prosciutto up? Could there be a strand of fat still connected to the wad that I could grab onto? Not a chance.

I was out of options. I had to get out of my car and pantomime for CPR or I had to shove my fist down my throat and get that fucking thing out. Public humiliation is always a last resort for me, so I went with the latter option.

I did not panic. No, sir. I knew how to deep throat. I’d had bigger things than that piece of prosciutto in my esophagus.  I had an entire routine for this, a cheat sheet even, I (silently) cried out.

I was indignant. I was a fucking pro. How dare that prosciutto challenge me. I would teach it a lesson.

I rammed my fingers down my throat, grabbed the hunk of cured meat, and yanked it up. It spilled into my palm and mucus tumbled into my fingerless gloves. Snot hung limply from my nose and covered my upper lip, water (not tears, damn it) filled up my eyes and ran down my face. But come now, that’s not so different from learning how to deep throat. 

I tossed the piece of prosciutto out the window (sorry Berkeley Bowl) and took a deep, triumphant breath. I removed my fingerless gloves, wiped up my face and hands, and started the car. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I cursed the wasted prosciutto and grabbed what was left. I nibbled it all the way home.

The moral of the story is – if you don’t know how, learn to deep throat. $64 + tax on goodvibes.com will get you more than half the way there.

Don’t have $64 + tax? This is practically free.

Although, seriously. I don’t recommend putting food in your esophagus. 

PS - Special hugs to you know who. Thanks for teaching me how to save my own damn life.

Good Enough For An IUD? Good Enough For Jewelry

I got my first copper ring (for my finger) when I was 8 years old. It immediately turned my finger green, and I’ve wondered why ever since. I won’t bore you with the details, but (shock and awe) copper isn’t gangrenous to humans. My finger turned green because the ring was cheap.

Now that I am enlightened, I’m turning my eye back to copper jewelry. Today, I found this!

I’m saving up for one, but instead of having “Just Because Everything is Different Doesn’t Mean Anythings Changed” etched on the cuff, I’m going to get:

0100011101101111011011110110010000100000010001010110
1110011011110111010101100111011010000010000001000110
0110111101110010001000000100000101101110001000000100
1001010101010100010000111111001000000100011101101111
0110111101100100001000000100010101101110011011110111
0101011001110110100000100000010001100110111101110010
0010000001001010011001010111011101100101011011000111
00100111100100101110

“Good Enough For An IUD? Good Enough For Jewelry.” I think that’s the decoding anyway.

PREPARE TO DIE (no exclamation mark because this is calm and collected advice in preparation for your impending doom)

It’s 1987. The Princess Bride is in theaters everywhere. It’s a love story to end all love stories, and every girl around the country wants to be Bella … er, I mean Buttercup.

Every girl except me. If you’re anything like me, you wanted to kill bad guys with a sword. Like Inigo Montoya.

But I’m not prepared to do what it takes to become Inigo. Work out? Sure. Grow a moustache? Kinda wish I could for shits and giggles but definitely won’t. After all, I love my curves and nail polish.

So instead, I’m going to buy this sweet shirt on ThinkGeek.

It’s the best of all possible worlds, really.