When Rachel used to get overwhelmed by a particularly nasty cuticle or a tan line, she could be found trying to claw her way out of her cosmetic misery through the hole in our kitchen floor. No more! My dad and I sealed up the hole and put in a subfloor. While I fear what will happen the next time she breaks a nail sipping margaritas on the front porch, I’m confident she will be able to handle it. Maybe.
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