Hang the Hell Up

I had a pedicure today. I LOVE pedicures. A good pedicure is better than chocolate cake. It's better than sitting through "Kung Fu Panda" (but I'm not sure it beats the popcorn) and it's better than a detail on your car. Though it's not quite a good as a new pair of shoes or an A on your research essay, it's darn close. That is not what mine was today.

As I sat on the pampered woman's throne at the nail salon, my post-workout feet steeping like tired tea bags in soothing hot water, the pedicurist, a sharply dressed middle-aged woman, began to do her thing. Then she started talking to herself. In Vietnamese.

I peeked surreptitiously at the sides of her head, sure that there was a Blue Tooth tucked away in there. Sure enough, there was. I caught her eye and she said, "I am singing."

"Singing?" I repeated. It didn't sound like singing.

"Yes," she said, "In my language."

If she was singing, it was a strange type of Asian rap music that had absolutely no rhythm, groove, or tune. And the "song" made her smile between "verses," nod her head and say things like, "Uh huh. Mm hmm."

I started to get mad. Not only was the woman clearly talking on the phone during my entire pedicure, she had actually lied to me and said she was singing, as though my ignorance of the Vietnamese language also makes me too stupid to understand what a song sounds like in any language.

This, I think, is akin to having your doctor shoot the breeze with a friend during a pelvic exam or your lawyer chat with his kids about their school day while you are testifying.

I gave her a cheap tip and walked out mad. I wish I had as much nerve as she did - I would've told her off.

"Hang up and file," I would've said.