Nail Polish Nightmare

My most recent situation was part Incredible Hulk, part Carrie Bradshaw. The Hulk because it involved my super human strength; Carrie Bradshaw because the culprit that led to this predicament was a beauty product.

We're twins. (Fraternal, not identical.)

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I want to be.

This is the Carrie Bradshaw I actually am. (Except I don't even look cute in tutus.)

Additionally, both of these characters are fictional. Audiences watch in wonder and say, "Surely that would never happen to anyone in real life." Ladies and gentlemen, you've just described my 23 years on this earth.

Only I can lock myself INSIDE an apartment.

Only I can unintentionally put on a peep show for 40 Asian tourists.

And only I can end up in urgent care after a run-in with a nail polish bottle.

It all starts with open-toed shoes. I don't realize until I'm at work that -- gasp! -- my toe nails are not painted and the whole world can see thanks to my open-toed shoes selection. I realize it's a little silly I'm concerned about such things because I work at a zoo. Nail polish is not a must-have for most zoo employees, but it is for this one. Exposing naked non-painted toes is just a no-no.

My plan: remedy this situation at home during my lunch break. "Oh!" I think to myself. "It's officially fall, and time to crack out my fall nail polish colors!" I decide on a deep red and settle into a chair outside to enjoy the lovely weather and these faces staring at me:

Witnesses to the incident

This particular bottle of nail polish has been out of use for a few months, and it's stuck. I mean reallllllllly stuck. I should have thought back to my experiences with things being stuck (i.e. when my struggles with a fidgety door knob broke the knob entirely), but I've never been one to learn from such mistakes. I always assume ridiculousness of this caliber won't happen again, and I'm always wrong.

For a brief moment, I think I almost have the bottle open. Then the bottle breaks. No. No I do not almost have it.

I guess I technically succeed in opening the bottle, but the problem is that I open the bottle by ripping off the lid along with a large chunk of glass. Where does my momentum from trying to open the bottle of nail polish send that shard of glass? Right into my hand. Excellent.

This is what Hulk-like strength does to a bottle of nail polish.

My first thought: "WHAT. Did my eight dollar nail polish just BREAK?! What a piece of cheap JUNK!"

I am paying top dollar for this product. Is it so much to ask that when I lay my fall/winter colors to rest in March, they be ready and waiting for use the following October? No. I don't think that's asking much at all. OPI, YOU'RE ON MY LIST. More on that later.

My second thought: "IS THAT MY BLOOD OR NAIL POLISH????"

Oh, right, that large gash on my hand. The red liquid spilling everywhere is a combination of my body fluids and "Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ" red. Mostly it's blood. I'll refrain from sharing the gory details, but let me just tell you: Though I've never had stitches, I know that I need them right away when I see my hand.

Driving is not an option since I can't move either of my hands. One hand is gushing blood while the other hand is attempting to stop the gushing. Meanwhile, I'm about to pass out because blood grosses me out, especially my blood seeping from my body. I call my friend, Suzie, mid-freak-out and fail to give her any details other than the fact that I'm bleeding a lot and need stitches. Based on these statements, she assumes I'm dying. Imagine her relief when she arrives at my house to discover that I'm just nursing a nail polish wound. She laughs. I laugh. We both agree that only I could accomplish such a feat.

The great news about having a blood-spurting gash in your hand is that you don't have to sit in waiting rooms. The triage team gets called and you are on your way! My doctor's name is Angel -- cliche of all cliches. We laugh through most of the appointment and Suzie fills out my medical form for me.

I leave with three stitches and an over-sized bandage that screams, "Ask me what I did to my hand!" Guess how many times I've been asked that question? A million. Guess how many people have laughed when I tell them I got stitches because of a nail polish bottle? A million.

Please take note of #3.
Dr. Angel gave me three stitches!
The problem? I now have a claw hand.
Depending on what mood I'm in, the claw hand can also be used as a beak hand to blend in with office art.

Where do things stand now? I told OPI about my dilemma on their FB page and THEY DELETED ME. Bottom line: they'll be hearing from me again, and things could get ugly. Clearly they don't realize they're messing with the Incredible Hulk's fraternal twin.

I'm going to the mattresses. Details to follow.

If you're the squeamish type, don't read past this sentence.

If you want to see the nail polish blunder for yourself, see below.

Which part is nail polish and which part is blood? I leave that to your discretion.

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