It all started two years ago, when I was scrubbing the floorboards of the room,
In the Shaldon Hotel, down the hall, and around the corner from good old room 218,
Because my philanthropist roommates suggested
That we do “Extreme Home Makeover: Slum Hotel Edition.”
As I washed, a splinter of the slipshod floorboards dug down deep under my nail.
My finger has never been the same since,
With a thick white scar, and a diagonally slanted nail.
This didn’t bother my in any way, except for my hand vanity.
On Sunday night, the guys were playing violent floor hockey and I was bored.
I’d rather drink tea and chat.
So, I fulfilled my gender stereotype and
Washed their dishes, instead of joining them.
I’m not too lady-like though—
Up to my elbows in slimy bubbles and orange water (the drain was blocked),
Pouring gallons of elbow grease and steel wool into the mix.
I let out all my rage on that damn, unappreciated cookie sheet,
Stained by years of torpid teenager’s stubborn pizza grease.
The cruel combination of grease, suds, and steel
Led to my finger’s flaw breakdown.
The scar split,
And I thought I might go into shock from lack of blood.
Happy International Women's Day.