When I was in kindergarten in Houston, Texas, I went to a private, church school.  They were pretty pathetic and for some reason I was roaming around by myself one day heading in and out of various classrooms.  I know what you’re thinking, why was a 5 year old roaming by himself through the halls of the school? I’m pretty sure the word “accreditation” wasn’t part of the the school’s charter!  But that’s neither here nor there.

The important part is that I was by myself and I accidentally slammed my right thumb in a doorjamb.  It hurt like a mother-fucker….although I’m sure I wasn’t screaming obscenities at 5 years old.  I waited until I was 8 to scream the work “fuck” in times of stress.  I must thank Tim Hardin for teaching me that word.

Actually, let’s get a little sidetracked here for another story.  This story is the reason you should always look up the meaning of a word…or at least ask someone you absolutely know understands the meaning of the word!

Sidebar Story:  When I was in 3rd grade, I was coming home in the carpool and we stopped at my best friend’s house to let him out.  My best friend was Tim Hardin.  Another girl in the car had to get out of the car to let Tim out.  When she got back in the car she screamed to her mother, who was driving the carpool that day, one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard:

“Mom!  Tim called me a fuck!”

A fuck?  Hmm, that’s strange.  I just couldn’t put my finger on it but something just didn’t sit right with that word in that context.  The word fuck seemed like it should be a verb (You know, I would really like to fuck her!), not a noun, even though I had never heard that word before and had no idea the meaning.

So, I let it go and headed on home.  I put up my books, probably got something to eat, and ran back out the door to head back to Tim’s house.  There was only one thing on my mind and I wanted to ask Tim before I moved on to a higher authority: Mom!

Once Tim was outside I asked Tim the meaning of the word.  Here’s the conversation, exactly as it happened.  I will never in my life forget this.

Sean:  Tim, what’s a fuck?
Tim:  It’s a nigger!

You know, I’m not the smartest guy in the world.  I think I’m pretty average.  But the meaning of the word fuck that Tim provided just didn’t seem right.  Why would you use the word fuck to describe the word nigger?

This was 1975.  Tim’s parent’s were young and hot.  His mother looked like Farrah Fawcett (trust me, Farrah AND Mrs. Hardin were babes in 1975) and his dad looked like the star quarterback of a college superpower.  They were young, hip, and threw OUTRAGEOUS parties at their house.  I’m guessing that Tim heard that word, more than once, from the various parties that were thrown at that house.  I would also be willing to bet that a handful of orgies were thrown at that house in the 70s!  But I have no proof…damnit.

So, onto a higher authority.

The next conversation I remember is the one I had with my mother about this word (I’m guessing about an hour later.  Tim and I still had to play in the tree house!  Hey, that deathtrap was cool as hell for a bunch of 8 year olds!):

Sean:  Mom, what does fuck mean?
Mom (eyes bulging, hair standing on end, her cup of iced tea drops to the floor in astonishment – obviously freaked out that her 8 year old is asking the question): WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT WORD?
Sean:  Tim.  He told me it was a nigger but I don’t think that’s right.

I’ll spare you the nauseating details of mom’s description.  Mom handled it in her usual way.  She told me the truth.  My mother ALWAYS told me the truth when it came to difficult explanations like dirty words and sex.  I was going to find out anyway so why bullshit the kid?  It would have just created confusion.

Ok, back to our original story….

So, I’m screaming bloody fucking murder in the Baptist kindergarten because I slammed my right thumb in a doorjamb because the staff was too busy demonizing homosexuals and wasn’t watching after a certain precocious 5 year old.

Let’s skip ahead about 4 months.  Damn, I really fucked up that thumbnail.  I mean I REALLY fucked up that thumbnail.  My nail has now grown back split!  Not split down the middle, split as in two nails.  Here’s how my dermatologist explained it:

Try to imagine the most boring human being you can, wearing a light attached to a headband around his noggin, white lab coat, sensible loafers.

Doc: You see Sean, your nails are formed from two places: the cuticle and the bed.  They merge to form one hardened nail.

For 37 years, my nail has been split because I fucked up something where the cuticle and bed are supposed to merge.  Most people can’t tell, until recently!  It has started to get brittle and yellow.  GROSS!

Sean:  So Doc, here’s the dilly….yo ( I always like to speak gangsta to a man with 400 years of education).  The upper nail is beginning to get brittle and it’s cracking.  That means that I have a messed up nail that is always cracked and snagging on stuff.  What can we do to fix it?
Doc: Nothing.  You’re stuck with it.  We could operate and completely remove your nail, but I don’t think you want to that.  I suggest you get some Nailtiques to harden it up so it will stop cracking.

Damn, bad news.  I mean, this is going to be something I have to deal with for the rest of my life.  I’m a man.  I don’t DO NAILS!!  But I do scratch, and this little ailment could cause major problems when I go to scratch certain places.

So off I went to the beauty supply store.  I needed a nail file; a hardcore nail file.  I found one I could live with.  Now I needed to pick up the Nailtiques.  Who knew there are 2,736 types of Nailtiques that do everything from harden nails to tell you that your hair looks pretty today.  I don’t care how my hair looks.  I just needed the one that will make my nail look less icky.  That’s the technical term, by the way.

Here’s what I ended up with:  Nailtiques Formula 2 Treatment.  Nail Protein for Soft, Peeling, Bitten, Weak or Thin Nails.

For six months I’ve been using this stuff on my thumbnail every two days.  I look very manly when applying it and I even drop my voice a couple of octaves just to increase the testosterone flow throughout my aging body.  But it’s a necessity.

Friday afternoon I was sitting at my desk, applying my Nailtiques when a co-worker, Amber,  commented on how ridiculous I look filing my nail and applying the Nailtiques.  What the hell am I supposed to do?  I HAVE to put this stuff on or the nail will get all cracked up and stuff and snag on stuff!

Amber: You should just get a nail transplant.
Me: Right, like I could find one that matched my other nails.  Besides, insurance wouldn’t pay for the procedure.
Amber: They could take a nail from your big toe and put it on your thumb.  Although, there could be crazy side effects.
Me:  Like?
Amber:  You might start walking on all fours!
Me:  Or I might try to kick the cat with my thumb!  What if I get a transplant from someone else?
Amber:  Ewww, then you’d have some stranger’s toenail on your thumb.  What if you accidentally (on purpose she meant to say) pick your nose with your thumb.  It would be like you had that stranger’s big toe up your nose!
Me:  Hey, I wash my hands!
Amber:  Doesn’t matter.  You’re picking by proxy!  Every time that ThumbToe would go into your mouth or your nose or, well, you know where….you’d have to think that the strangers big toe was violating you somehow!
Me:  Stop sucking the fun out of my new ThumbToe!…no pun intended!

I think I”m just going to have to live with the Nailtiques and the every-other-day application for the rest of my life.  I don’t think insurance will pay for the operation anyway.

Plus, could you imagine having to apply Fast Actin’ Tinactin’ on your thumb for the rest of your life?

Damn, that’s a LONG way to go for a John Madden joke, huh?

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