Heather Christena Schmidt

Well, I’ve been sitting on this one for well over a week, faithful blog followers – and now that Mother’s Day and my Trailer Trash Mom are behind us, I can tell you the wonderful news I received last week. Apparently, I was right about that whole hooker nail salon thing.

Some of you have not been around for long enough to know just what the fuck this crazy bitch is talking about now, so let us review.

A few months back, I went to my regular nail salon – of many years as a client, having a major problem with ingrown toenails – and saw what appeared to be a young woman held hostage in the storage closet of my nail salon. That same day, I was checking my blog stats and someone had come to my blog by Googling the term “Korean hooker hostage.” Was that woman in the closet of my nail salon the Korean Hooker Hostage?

I know, I know – you are all saying that most of those places are run by the Vietnamese. Well, I was under the impression that mine was by Koreans because (1) they spoke Korean (I used to work for a guy that was married to a woman from Korea), and (2) the owner once told me they were Korean. So my theory was loosely plausible.

Then I went back a few weeks later and this crazy shit involving the owner’s husband and one of the young women that worked there went down. He was visiting because he was off work for the holidays or something and he went in the back with the girl and like 15 minutes later they came out and she was eating a banana, only in a seductive-“I’m going to shove the whole thing down my mouth with my head tilted back and my eyes closed” way.

Then the employee weirdness died down a little only for it to be replaced by perverted customers. One lady that seemed to be on crack was there spewing her crackheadedness all over the place, another time the woman sitting next to me leaned back and had an orgasm while sitting in the massage chair, and finally, the last time I was there an older man waiting for his wife had some sort of an erotic oral event with his pretzels.

So then I went on vacation and had a pedicure done while out in Chicago with one of my friends. It was the greatest experience of my life and for the same, exact price as I paid for that slum house near my home. I vowed when I got home to find a new nail salon, which I have been searching for ever since we returned. Last week I found it, and I got validation of my former place’s hooker house at the same time.

I was just sitting in my chair, reading Great Expectations and relaxing while the woman took care of my awful ingrown toenails, and all of a sudden I heard “Heather!” from across the salon. I looked up and it was one of the women that worked over at the Korean Hooker House. She came over, talked a little bit about nonsense and my vacation, and then she told me that she had recently quit the slut palace. When I asked as nonchalantly as possible, she spilled everything.

1. For some reason the owner and her husband have the impression that people will think that place is the “cut above” if it is run by Koreans instead of Vietnamese. They are all Vietnamese – most of whom were born in Vietnam and immigrated here. They tell everyone they are Korean though. Not really being up on my inner-Asian-dialogue, I have no idea why this would be and did not ask.

2. In the back of the salon, there is an office and a storage closet that employees other than the owner, her husband, and her brother are not allowed to go into. That means that everyone who comes in and out of the place is not allowed to go into these secret caverns – except under one circumstance: if they are taken in there with the owner, her husband, or the brother.

3. Two of the newer girls recently hired (I wonder if one is the banana blower) are currently having affairs in said office/storage room with the owner’s husband. Everyone knows. No one apparently cares.

4. The woman that was talking to me said that the final straw for her was when some young women that did not even speak a lick of English started coming in and just sitting around in the break room and the office. They were not employees. There were three of them (by her count). She finally asked one how old she was and was informed the young girl was 16.

So I was right. I was right. I was right. I WAS RIGHT! This doesn’t happen often. Usually I am terribly, terribly wrong. Usually I’m only right about things that are inappropriate and funny, and inappropriately funny. But not this time – this time I was spot on. What a crazy thing to be going on, and probably bad that I found out because now I feel justified in all of my other crack-pot conspiracy ideas. On to figuring out if my suspicions about all the neighbors are true too…

For some completely unrelated, yet inappropriately funny, stuff: