True story: Two nights ago my daughter Casey (age 10) painted my fingernails. She enjoys doing this: A. Because I’m the only one in the house who allows her to engage in such an endeavor; B. I usually forget my nails are colored—until an embarrassing situation reminds me of such.
Enter: B.
Earlier tonight, I was invited to appear on Keith Olbermann’s excellent ESPN2 program to talk Showtime. I was excited, and throughout the afternoon repeatedly reminded myself to remove Casey’s polish before heading off to the set. Of course, I forgot, and literally yelled, “Shit!” while washing my hands in the studio’s bathroom. My plan, therefore, was to not speak with my hands; to keep them under the desk and merely use my mouth to communicate. Which, if you know me, is impossible.
My hands go this way. That way. Up. Down. I forgot about the polish until the end of the program, when I shook Keith’s hand, looked down at my own and thought, once again, “Fuck.”
Having just watched the show, however, I take back the “Fuck.” More than writing or my book or being on TV, I love my daughter. She’s my absolute joy; my bundle of love and happiness. Tomorrow morning, she’ll wake up and I’ll show her the above photo.
And she’ll be elated.
