Claws @ MindSay

Recently I had an occasion to have breakfast out which I do frequently and I saw a women and her daughter enter and be seated after me. I happen to look over and what I saw actually made my skin crawl. This woman had some of the longest fingernails I've ever seen, they looked like claws. These nails had to had been 3 inches long maybe a tad longer. They were so long until they actually curved onder. Now I ask you is this necessary? I watched her use a cell phone with her knuckle, writing was a chore I noticed also. I mean this to me, just the sight of those nails made my skin crawl. I thought women were a thing of beauty, thats why God made her different but this is a bit much, I'd say.

I'm not a sexist and don't mean to sound like one, but I think about this womans safety on the job and her employer. What do clients of her employer think about her nails, are they offended, is she a safety hazzard a liabality? Does she have to be especially carefull so as not to break them and injure her hands ? Is she a risk to her employer or herself, does she compliment her job with nails like this ? How does she perforn her household chores, washing, ironing, dishes, cooking  without being a hazzard. Why would she want nails that long in the first place ?

How would you react to seeing someone with 3 inch painted fingernails like this, or would you have a reaction or have any comment ? I wonder ? I personaly found them offensive to me, they put me in mind of an animal or rather large foul. She's not the first I've seen with those nails, I had the same feeling the last time. Maybe its just me .....

      When I was five or six years old I was attacked by a turkey, the kind of bird that hangs around in barnyards. The attack was sudden, unexpected, surprising, even painful. Nothing prepared me for the attack. No hunch, no  intuition. Being unforeseen, the attack caught me completely flatfooted.

      I had just finished eating breakfast that morning. I told my Mom I was going out to visit my playmates. My Mom told me not to tarry out late or stray far away from home. I wandered into the yard of our neighbor, Mama Dolores. She raised chickens, goats, hens, ducks, roosters and turkeys. She let these creatures roam around the yard. The fowl were scratching the ground as fowls are wont to do. I already  knew what turkeys were at my age. We called them pabo in our dialect.

      A bit away were five cute looking turkey chicks. I picked one up to stroke it and all hell broke loose. A big fat turkey was cackling and leaping up at me, claws outstretched, clawing and pummeling me every which way. It was screaming something like it was screaming something unprintable. I was small and short, standing knee-high to a grasshopper as the saying goes. The turkey attacked me at will, frontally and when I turned my back, then on my backside. Luckily, instinct made me turn my back, else the bird would have clawed my eyes.

      I was stunned and immovable by fear. Mama Dolores heard my screams. She drove the turkey away and hugged me tight. She brushed away the dirt from my clothes. When she saw I was bleeding, she took me home to my Mom. She apologized, saying she did not see me on time to shoo away the turkey. Mom gave me a bath, washed my wounds with disinfectant, and dressed me up in clean clothes. Mom warned me against playing with turkey chicks if their mother was around. Mama Turkey will attack anyone who she thinks will harm her baby.

      That evening, our family was about to eat dinner, when we heard a knock at the door. Dad stood up to open it and there was Mama Dolores holding a covered dish in her hands. Invited to come in Mama Dolores step inside, laid the dish on the table and took the cover off the dish. She announced she had cooked the turkey that attacked me. She brought it over for us to eat for dinner. Dad and Mom thanked Mama Dolores for her thoughtulness and invited her to eat with us. Mama Dolores politely declined the invitation. Her husband and children were waiting for her to come home to eat dinner together. When she left, my brothers and sisters teased me saying: I should try to get attacked again by still another one of Mama Dolores' turkeys; then she would come around again bringing another cooked turkey in a dish. My Dad asked for quiet. He said a prayer of thanks for the cooked turkey. We ate a delicious turkey for dinner that evening. Come to think of it, when my Dad prayed that prayer of thanksgiving that night, it wasn't even Thanksgiving Day yet.