Thou Shalt Not Bite Thy Nails

At exactly 8pm on August 25th, I stopped biting my nails.

Five days away from what would have been a one-year "anniversary" with someone I was no longer dating in any way, shape, or form.
Thirty-seven days after my twenty-third birthday.
Five months after my dad went into the hospital and nearly didn't come out.
More than a year since I had started a blog determined to find "Mr. Right" and failed.

It was a great time to start changing...well...everything.

I am, however, a big believer in baby steps.

ADAM: Wow, sounds earth shattering.

Meet my friend Adam.

ADAM: Nail biting? Why don't you quit something that's actually ruining your life?
ME: Like what?
ADAM: Writing stupid blogs?

He's very honest.

ADAM: Your hair looks dumb like that.
ME: I wanted it to look messy.
ADAM: 'Hot' messy or 'I just rolled out of the gutter and now I'm looking for money to buy more crack with' messy?

Very very honest.

ADAM: Or 'I had sex with someone off their meds and now I can't find my kidney' messy?

He enjoys a little bit of gossip.

ADAM: Oh my God, guess who calls their #$%* John Denver?
ME: I'm not sure I want to know.
ADAM: And they call their ^&*@ area the Rocky Mountains.

He can be a diva at times...

ADAM: Can we talk about how fierce I was at karaoke last night?

...Especially at karaoke.

ADAM: That bitch dared to sing 'I Believe in You and Me.'
ME: And you couldn't believe it?
ADAM: Did you just pun?
ME: Well, I--
ADAM: Get away from me.

And yet he's my best friend in the world.

ADAM: P.S.! I detagged some photos of me today on facebook.
ME: Why?
ADAM: I looked fat in them.
ME: But not in the others?
ADAM: Well, I was sitting. You always look fat when you're sitting. Rolls appear where they're really not. I don't need people on facebook who don't know me thinking I'm fat.
ME: I'm sure they would understand.
ADAM: Mmm...Better to just detag. Be on the safe side. You never know who you're going to want to have sex with in the future.

He's always a good person to bounce things off of so I decided to share with him my idea of changing my life one step at a time.

ADAM: I have a better idea. Write a blog about fierce Broadway divas. Start with Leslie Kritzer.
ME: I want to write about something more meaningful and use it as a stimulant for me to better myself.
ADAM: Better yourself? Did you just say better yourself?
ME: You're going to go right into 'Little Shop' now, aren't you?
ADAM: Alarmmmm goes off at seven--and you start uptown!

As Adam was riffing on the last note of "uptow-ow-ow-ow-own," it occured to me that although he may not have wanted to take my blog seriously, there were others who definitely would. Namely, Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia.

I'm referring to the three women I work with at the library. They're all in their sixties, so that when the four of us together, it's almost like we're The Golden Girls...and yes, somehow I'm Rose.

We all work at the Circulation desk together, and because we have a lot of down time, we often get to talking about things in our daily life.

There's Martha, my direct supervisor. She's a bit of a hard nut to crack. She's been divorced from her ex-husband for over thirty years but still gets alimony, probably because she knows where he buried most of the bodies. Her hobbies include Disney movies and solitude.

Millie is the sassier, more practical one. She often agrees with whomever she's talking to at the moment, she enjoys gambling, and she's eaten fish and chips from the same place every Friday since I started working at the library six years ago.

Then there's Daisy, a real sweetheart. I often tease Daisy for being an 'investigator.' She's the one you send onto the battlefield to tally the casualties, just because she's so unassuming. She's also the queen of making a nasty remark followed by an adorable little giggle so that you can't possibly get mad at her.

MILLIE: How long has it been since you stopped biting your nails?
ME: Two days.
MARTHA: How have you been doing with it?
ME: I've eaten two toes and an elbow.
DAISY: You'll pull through. Hang in there.

I cataloged some new non-fiction while Martha hunted for Danielle Steel online.

MARTHA: My ex-husband bit his nails.
ME: How'd you get him to stop?
MARTHA: I divorced him.

Remind me not to marry Martha--regardless of how much I love Harold and Maude.

MILLIE: I have an idea. Just put tobasco sauce on your fingernails.
ME: I did.
MILLIE: And?
ME: I found out that I really like tobasco sauce.

Daisy was looking over at the guy on the computer we all think is a pedophile. We call him, appropriately, Pedophile Pete, even though his first name is Hank.

DAISY: Today I caught him on manspace.
ME: You mean myspace or manhunt?
DAISY: He was looking at a girl.
ME: A real girl or a guy dressed as a girl?
DAISY: A real girl--from Fresno. I checked it out when he went to the bathroom.
ME: Well if she's in Fresno I think she's safe from harm.
DAISY: He could have her fly here. I hear pedophiles do that sometimes. They send them plane tickets and then kidnap them at the airport.
ME: Yeah, but he's a Rhode Island pedophile. Chances are he's not going to pursue anything long distance.

I noticed that as I was talking to her I had started biting my nails again. I was doing all right with quitting on a conscious level, but subconsciously I was as hopeless as seeing something classy on VH1.

ME: Great. I'll never quit. I'll be an eternal nail-biter.
DAISY: I guess it's true what they say about the homosexuals--no self control.

Giggle giggle. I should have been offended, but that giggle is just so endearing. Luckily, Martha is resistant to it.

MARTHA: You know what they say about you Italian women--big mouths, big tits, no brains.
DAISY: Speaking of breasts, have you stepped on yours lately, Martha?
ME: All right, enough girls. You're both pretty.

Millie snapped her fingers--this is what she does when she gets an idea. When Martha gets an idea she just lets it die in her head. Daisy says "Hmmmmmmmmmmmm" over and over again until you ask her what's up.

MILLIE: Gloves. Get yourself some hospital gloves and wear them all the time.
ME: Isn't that a little extreme?
MILLIE: I thought you might say that. That's why I found a photo of an infected finger on google.

She handed me the sheet of paper.

ME: That looks awful.
MARTHA: It looks like my Bennie--after the divorce.

Good thing I know where to get hospital gloves from. My mom works at a women's hospital in downtown Providence, and she's always good for a favor.

Basically, my mom is my hero. That might sound cliche, but it's completely true. As I grow older, I find that I keep trying to emulate certain qualities about my mom, but there are also other qualities that could use a little toning down.

MOM: You need what?
ME: Hospital gloves.
MOM: Jesus Christ, you're into that now?

For instance, she's a little too paranoid at times. She thinks I'm some kind of a sex maniac.

MOM: So whose going to be the patient in your little scenario?
ME: Nobody Mom, I'm trying to quit biting my nails.
MOM: Oh...GOOD BOY! Of course, you have no will power. You're just like your father. Except you stick your fingers in your mouth. He sticks his--
ME: That's quite enough of that.

The phone rang. Ironically it was my Dad. He and my Mom have been divorced since I was three. Whereas most people have a hard time accepting their parents' divorce, I was begging for it by the age of two and a half. My parents are all right on their own--My dad and I have a rather tumultuous history--but together they're...um...this:

DAD: What's she screaming about?
MOM: Tell your father your fingernails are falling off.
ME: They're not falling off.
DAD: What's not falling off?
ME: My fingernails. I'm not biting them anymore.
DAD: Good. It's a dirty habit.
ME: Dad, you eat a pound of animal fat a day with extra grease and you swallow it down with two bottles of Cocoa-Cola.
DAD: And?
MOM: Leave your father alone. It's nobody business that he's let himself turn into a blubbered up couch sore.
ME: Mom--
DAD: What did she say?
ME: Nothing, Dad.
DAD: What the hell is blubber?
ME: Mom, can you get me the--
MOM: I'll get you the gloves tonight.
DAD: What the hell do you need gloves for? It's winter?
ME: My nails, Dad. To stop me from biting--
DAD: And what the hell is blubber?

My Mom smiled. Winning arguments like these are what got her through her divorce without having a nervous breakdown.

ME: I gotta go, Dad. Love you.
DAD: Love you, too. Hey, my boss' daughter--
ME: Gay gay gay, Dad. Gay gay gay.
DAD: I'm just saying.

Now you see what I mean by tumultuous.

A day after wearing the gloves, I was starting to feel really confident. Every once in awhile I'd forget that they were there and go for a nibble. There were even a few times during the day when I got a little anxious. I never realized what a crutch the habit was until it wasn't there anymore. Of course, it would only take a short time before my mind got used to not having it there and then I would have kicked it once and for all.

...Had it not been for the rash.

I'm guessing it started on my hands. I felt the itch after an hour, but I thought it was just the gloves chafing my skin. It wasn't until the rash crept up both my arms that I realized I might just be allergic to the gloves.

ADAM: Tell me again why you were wearing gloves.
ME: To stop me from biting my nails.
ADAM: Wasn't the goal of this to get control over yourself?
ME: I was getting control.
ADAM: You were cheating! You were forcing self-control upon yourself and now karma has punished you with a communicable disease.
ME: It is not a disease! It is a rash!
ADAM: Don't you have a date tonight?
ME: Oh, f**k me sideways.
ADAM: I'll pass on that.

My date was with a really cool guy named Cal, who I had absolutely no faith in--allow me to explain. Cal was going through life changes of his own. About a month ago, his boyfriend dumped him...for a woman. He quit his job because the ex-boyfriend worked there. He moved back in with his parents into a little room in between their kitchen and their garage that I call "the cave." He constantly drinks and can't really seem to focus.

So why did I agree to go out on a date with him?

He plays guitar, he's pretty cute, and I live in Rhode Island--the land of "eh, whatever."

I should probably mention that since the ending of the old blog (www.100dates100boys.blogspot.com) I've found myself to be rather cynical when it comes to dating. I realize most people weren't too happy with the way the blog ended, and honestly, neither was I. I wanted a happy ending just like everyone else, and when it didn't come right when it was supposed to...it felt like the laws of the universe had abandoned me...not to be melodramatic or anything.

I met Cal at his house. He was throwing on his shoes in his room when he noticed my attire.

CAL: Aren't you warm?
ME: Huh?
CAL: You're wearing a long-sleeved shirt.
ME: I like long-sleeved shirts.
CAL: You should roll up the sleeves. It'll look better.
ME: Um...yeah, maybe.

What could I say--No? The rash was looking extra pink today. I was hoping he would think it was a double-armed birthmark and have the tact not to say anything.

CAL: What the hell is all over your arms?

No such luck.

ME: I got a rash from hospital gloves.
CAL: You work in a hospital?
ME: No, my mom got them for me so I could wear them and stop biting my nails.
CAL: Why couldn't you just stop?
ME: Because I couldn't.
CAL: Why not?
ME: I don't know. Why can't you stop drinking?
CAL: Because I'm an unemployed alcoholic. What's your excuse?
ME: I'm on a date with an unemployed alcoholic who lives in a cave?
CAL: You added the cave part.
ME: Oops.
CAL: It's not a cave. It's an inter-room.
ME: Is that what they're calling walk-in closets nowadays?

Cal took off his shoes.

CAL: Maybe we should postpone the date.
ME: Because I just insulted you.
CAL: No, I don't care about that. I just don't want to catch your rash.
ME: It's not catchy. It's from the gloves.
CAL: Yeah, you caught something from hospital gloves. I'm not going to take a chance on that. It could be bacterial.
ME: They weren't used hospital gloves.
CAL: How do you know that?
ME: So you'll soak your liver in vodka but you won't hang out with me because of my rash?
CAL: Sorry man. Can you hand me that bottle?

I went home and bit my nails. I enjoyed it. While I was biting I checked my e-mail. Who was I kidding? I couldn't do this. I couldn't make dating work, and I'm not going to make an entire life make-over work just by blogging about it and thereby forcing myself to do better at everything. I was throwing a real pity party when I read an e-mail from someone whose address I didn't recognize.

Hey Kevin,

I love your blog. Can't wait for the new one. I've decided I'm going to do it with you. My ex broke up with me two months ago and I still can't seem to get over it. I'm always sad and miserable, but from this point on I'm making a change. If you can do it, so can I. Hope the writing is going well.

~ Max Wright ~

I looked down at my tiny little cuticles and said 'No more.' And this time I meant it. So far it's been a week of absolutely no nail-biting, and I feel like I can keep it up. Of course, it's not all self-control and sometimes I slip, but that's okay. If nothing else, I need to learn that nothing is all or nothing. Screwing up isn't an excuse to give up.

The only thing that scares me a little is...

I've only just begun.