Let's file this under "WTF, really?"

The other day, Hubby told me that I need to buy new sheets, because the current set is "ruined."  I asked him what he meant by "ruined", and he told me they're "just ruined".  I asked if he crapped the bed when I wasn't looking and the sheets took the brunt of it, and he said "no, they have a hole in them."

So I went and looked at the sheets. We've had a long-running battle about the state of his feet, particularly of the heels, and how he should just start getting pedicures, already.  Sure enough.  His feet at the 1,000 thread count egyptian cotton sheets.  They were shredeed right where his feet go, about a foot across the fitted sheet.  This isn't the first set of expensive sheets his feet have eaten, either.

I count my blessings, at least he trims his toenails, but heels that are so calloused and rough they will shred fabric over a period of time (these sheets are less than 2 years old, and super high quality) is just nasty. 

For our first wedding anniversary, we went down to the Oregon coast, to a little town called Manzanita.  I set us up with spa treatments as anniversary presents, and he flat out rebelled at the idea of a "pedicure".  This spa was smart, though.  They have a special "man foot treatment" which was a pedicure without buffing and painting the toenails.  I even got him some special pumic gel and a scrubber to make it easier to maintain the callous build up.  The bottle sits unopened in his medicine cabinet, the scrubber is still pristine in it's wrapping, and the sheets are "ruined."

Manzanita Beach.  Way nicer than gross feet.

I did a google search for images of "nasty feet" and, while I found many to choose from, I will not inflict any on you, dear reader.  It's bad enough I have it burned in my brain!

We are always comparing our own body parts to BabyBoy's, to see if there is some concrete contribution we've made in his gene pool.  BabyBoy likes to sleep like his Daddy, on his back, snoring, with one arm thrown over his face.  He sets his mouth in a determined little line when he's thinking hard about something, just like me.  On his feet, the second toenail (the one I call "home", because there's no "thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky" finger equivalent for toes, so I call them "Market, home, roast beef, none, wee wee weee".) grows out and bends over the end of the toe,  just like his Daddy, as well.  I hope this is not a genetic indicator that he will have nasty-assed feet as an adult.  If he does, I'm going to teach him the value of a good pedicure.