The Mushroom Who Buys the Drinks

Few things are amusing in this dark time, when we must pull together as a nation and concern ourselves with my fingernail fungus.

It is a curious situation. I've never had any type of fungus anywhere around me, unless you count the ex-boyfriend who was overfond of conveneintly forgetting to cash paychecks. But two weeks ago I noticed a greenish blob under the thumbnail of my right hand, and so as with all life problems, including career issues, teaching philosophy questions, and whether or not Jack Palance is dead, I turned to Friendboy Andy. It was his birthday, so he was allowed to have a nice long look at the nail over dinner. You are welcome, Friendboy Andy.

"That's a fungus," he said, and informed me that his mother had the same problems with her toenails until she got them all removed. Awesome.

Well-- where did it come from? And what should I do with it? All the over-the-counter stuff advertised itself as a cure for athlete's foot, which... ew. Maybe I picked it up from one of my students. I teach mainly boys, so this isn't beyond imagining. College-age males live in fungus. They would sleep under logs if there were a Playstation hookup.

What I need now is a whole bunch of humidity and moisture, so it's excellent that we now have this bearing down upon us. Why does everything have to happen to me?

O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers at: mb@blondechampagne.com