Chin hairs and the implications therein...

After 31 years, you think you know your face. You're comfortable with it, you know how to take care of it, you've come to a sort of uneasy peace with the way it's arranged.

31 years, and then one day, it turns on you.

It's not the ever expanding wrinkles. It's not the weird brown spots that aren't freckles but you tell yourself they're freckles because you don't want to admit that they're actually the beginnings of liver spots. Nor is it even the pores that are enlarging at such an alarming rate you're worried they are actually tiny black holes that will end up sucking in your entire face.

No, the ultimate betrayal is none of these.

It is chin hair.

Truly, the most offensive thing a face could ever do is grow a chin hair. Or in my case, multiple chin hairs.

In my younger days a chin hair was a novelty. I would occasionally find one, have a good chuckle, yank it out with some tweezers, and go on about my day. But now, at my advancing age, the chin hairs have taken on a more sinister air... They are becoming more and more frequent. Closer together. I am about 30 chin hairs away from growing a full out granny beard.

How??? Why face??? Why??? Oh I know I went to bed without washing you sometimes, and possibly rubbed you against some unsavory characters in my younger wilder days, but is that any reason to do this to me??? We've had some good years, haven't we? I've treated you right, rubbed you with wrinkle creams and massaged you with the good Mary Kay soap. I don't deserve this!

Pretty soon I'm going to be able to macrame my chin hairs and sell them at craft shows. It might be fun and I could make a little extra money. The other day I tried to pull one out with my fingernails and ended up making it curly like a ribbon on a fancy present. It's an outrage.

At what point do I just have to admit defeat and have my husband teach me how to shave with his straight razor? "Mandy, is that razor burn?" "What? No! Of course not! That's ridiculous! It's a hickey. I ran into a door. I burned myself with my curling iron. God, don't look at me! I'm hideous!!! Whaaaa!!!" And then I run away screaming into the night.

Perhaps it would be more dignified to just go with it... Grow out my granny beard. It might make me look smarter and more interesting. I could thoughtfully stroke my chin hairs as I solve mysteries or philosophize.

Maybe I'll invent a catch phrase like, "And that's the way the chin hairs wobble." Okay, okay, I know that's a terrible one, but chin hair catch phrases are super hard to come up with. Seriously, if you come up with one post it in my comments section. I'm going to need those catch phrases when I no longer have the strength to fight and I end up having to join a circus.

I hope that when I do, you'll all come visit me and bring me beads to thread upon my Guinness World Record award winning chin hairs. I mean, if I am to be cursed with them I might as well have big dreams for them.

Have a great week everyone, and "may your chin hairs ever go unnoticed." No, that wasn't a good catch phrase either? Eh, I'll get it eventually.

Martinis

Let's face it, I like drinking. Oh, don't get all uptight on me! I'm not some psycho, boozy, sad 50's housewife (I'm looking at you, Betty Draper). I just don't mind having a glass of wine with my ladies every now and then. And when I say every now and then, I mean it in a sad way. Like every six months.

Anyway, on those exceedingly rare occasions when I do get to indulge in a glass of wine, I'm secretly wishing it was something else... That's right, I am fantasizing about something else when I am snuggling with my lady love red wine...

What is it that could possibly tempt me away from the perfect plummy red beauty of a glass of Shiraz?

Why, a martini of course!

How cool is drinking a martini? The frosty glass, the olives... You just look cooler holding one. How impressed would you be if you were standing next to me at a bar and I said, "I'll have a vodka martini, dirty, three olives. Shaken, not stirred."? I'm guessing pretty impressed.


See??? Don't I look super cool holding this martini glass???

I feel like if I could conquer the martini my life would automatically expand. I would begin jetting off to Europe, calling people "dah-ling", and wearing red lipstick like some saucy vixen (even though I was genetically cursed with no lips to put it on, thanks Dad).

There is a cool factor to a martini that no other drink could ever possibly hope to capture. Is it because of James Bond? I doubt it. James Bond wishes he was as cool as a martini. Martinis made that man... Okay, I know he's a badass ladykiller spy too, but whatever! I'm making a point here.

What is it about the martini that has so captured my little imagination?

Perhaps it has something to do with the glass... It has the coolest shape... All, "Hey, I'm drinking out of an upside down triangle on a stick!" Okay, it didn't sound cool the way I put it, but you've seen one so you know what I'm talking about.

I find them so appealing, so alluring. My husband orders them and I gaze at him adoringly... I can't help myself, he's just so damn manly ordering that. He becomes a mysterious stranger for a moment (and as any of us old married ladies know, any kind of mystery at this point is a good thing).

Of course I always ask him for a sip. I then gasp, shudder, say, "ppppllllleeeecchhhhhht!!!!" and drink something else as fast as I can to wash away the horrible horrible taste.

Why martini??? Why??? Why can't you taste better so I can enjoy you like the super cool hep cat I know I am???

In my research for this blog (don't look so surprised, of course I do research for this masterpiece!!!) , I interviewed my baby brother about his love of the martini. Well, he's not really a baby, just so you know... I don't have a weird booze hound infant for a brother, he's an adult. I definitely do not condone alcoholic babies. They're usually mean drunks. Anyway, he said that a good martini is like drinking a cloud because it's all "cool and clean and wonderful tasting." Now that I'm thinking about it, the martinis I've tasted sort of did taste like clouds. Clouds of jet fuel. And burning taste buds. And disappointment.

I guess my tongue just isn't groovy enough to enjoy the flavor of a martini. I really shouldn't be surprised, this isn't the first time my tongue has betrayed me. I tried to say, "Sup?" on more than one occasion when that was a thing and I sounded like a buffoon. And I don't even want to get into the "You go, girl!" era. Let's just say no girls were going anywhere when I said it.

Should I give up on this quest to enjoy a martini? I clearly don't like them. But I can't, I just can't let go of the idea of myself with that upside down triangle in my hand. I feel like giving up on the martini is giving up on the part of myself that has the potential to be not a nerd. It's a very small part of me, but still, it's something!!!

So, who wants to make me a dirty martini??? I'll bring the olive juice!!!

The Carpet Lawn

The first signs of spring are starting to appear. The weather is getting warmer, that fresh smell of sunshine is beginning to touch the air, bugs are starting to appear in my shower and freak me out. All around my neighborhood flowers are getting ready to bloom and lawns are thinking about getting green (possibly... It's really hard to say what lawns are thinking, they're so enigmatic).

For some reason the spring thaw has me contemplating a favorite yet rather bizarre subject: The guy with a carpet for a lawn.

This contemplation may be a bit baffling to you. If it isn't, you're from Worland. For those of you not lucky enough to be from the Land of the Wor, I shall explain. There is a gentleman in our fair village that has made the decision to forgo grass for carpet. Yes, he really has. His lawn is a carpet. Or rather, a compilation of many carpets.



For those curious souls who want to see a carpet lawn for themselves, here it is! I seem to remember the carpet lawn of my childhood as being much more colorful, but perhaps I embellished it a bit with my kid brain.


How does this man mark spring and the summer to come? Does he step out of his front door, inhale the beginnings of the mildew as it's thawing, and think, "Oh yes! Spring is in the air!"? Does he turn to his best gal and say, "Almost time to take our shoes off and squish around in the carpet. There is nothing, NOTHING, like the feel of damp carpet between your toes on a lovely sunshine-y day, don't you agree?"? It just isn't summer until you see that first lady bug making its way across the Berber.

Is it obvious that I've spent some time thinking about the carpet lawn? Definitely not a lot, like, a totally normal amount of time. I for sure haven't driven by it every chance I get just to gaze in wonder. The point is, I have so many questions, so much I would love to say if I ever got the opportunity to speak with this self-made landscaper of carpet.

Here the short list of questions I would ask if ever given the opportunity to interview this intriguing character:

1. How did you arrive at the decision to put down carpet?
2. Why not rocks? Or even just dirt?
3. What was it about carpeting your front yard that first drew you to the idea?
4. What type of carpet is best suited to an outdoor space?
5. Does it need to be vacuumed? Or scotch guarded?
6. Did you have to put down those spikey rulers to make it stay or did it just lay there on its own?
7. Do you change the carpet when it gets worn out?
8. Did you have to pay for it, and if so, at what point does it become too expensive to continue carpeting?
8. Did you ever consider hardwood or laminate? They have some really nice linoleum now that looks like tile!

God, I'd love to crawl inside that man's brain, just for a minute. I'd probably crawl back out looking like I'd just seen the Ark of the Covenant, but it might be worth it just to know why. Why?!? I would no longer have a face, but I would know how was this idea was born. I would know what manner of dark-dwelling, unnatural bugs live under there and how one would fight them.

Yes, spring. Beautiful spring. Harbinger of toxic smells rising from a man's carpet lawn. It's the small things such as this that make us truly glad to be alive.

P.S. I hope you don't think I'm being mean in writing about this fascinating subject. I am writing from a place of sincere affection and interest in a man and subject not oft (if ever) considered (by anyone but me, that is). You just don't see that kind of stuff these days and it is to be treasured.

Did you miss me? I missed you!

So, it's been awhile, hasn't it my friends? I know we've already discussed how weird and lame it is for me to call you my friends, but I'm pretty weird and lame so I'm not really sure where to go with that... Anyway, you may have noticed that I didn't blog last week (if you loved me you would have noticed). I have a very good reason... Or an okay one at least. I'm trying to remodel this blog so it's not a giant cheese ball and so the "theme" is a little more cohesive. Insofar as the barely coherent ramblings of a slightly deranged housewife can be a "theme."

Let's just say I am having little to no luck making it look the way I want it to and I am frustrated beyond belief by the whole process... I wish you could see me with my hair literally standing on end screaming at my computer that I "just want it to be preeeeettttyyyyyyyy" and then slumping over in grief and despair. It's quite something I'm told (by my husband, who doesn't even look up from his book anymore when I start sobbing).

I was hoping that this week I could say to you all, "Okay, I didn't blog last week, but here's why: Ta da!!!" and then you would all be like, "Hey, that's better! What a beautiful layout! Totally worth missing out on the little gem that is Mandy's blog!" In my imaginings you all really like my blog and missed it terribly when it wasn't there.

Unfortunately, I have no freaking clue what I'm doing and I have yet to make my blog pretty. So, maybe by next week I'll be able to say, "Ta da!!!" But for now, please just pray for me. Because with my web design skills, that's the only way it's ever going to happen.

Blame it on Gramma.

When I was young, I dreamed about getting married. Dresses, knights in shining armor, poetry, the whole generic sappy thing. It was quite pathetic. I wish I could go back in time, slap myself, and say, "For God's sakes woman, dream about traveling the world, not snaring a man!!! What is wrong with you???" And then younger me would be like, "Hey, I could have done without the slap, that was really mean!" And I'd be like, "Yeah, sorry, just trying to add a little drama." Anyway, I digress...

The point is, I blame it on my Gramma.

"Well, that's a little weird," you might say. How is this crazy girl's romantic mental illness her poor old gray haired Gramma's fault? Well, I'll tell you why... That sweet old lady? She had a secret passion... A dark habit. Yes, dear old Gramma had a taste for the bosom heavers, the smut novels, a bit of the "dirty pages" if you will. And one day when I was at her house, all of 13 years old, I stumbled upon one and I was never the same.

That's right, Gramma got me started. I would sneak one of her little novels home under my shirt every time I went over there. Yes, it's true! I did it!!! I stole from my own Grandmother!!! Just to get a taste of that sweet, sweet romance. I was an addict and I didn't care how I got my fix.

The historical ones were how I preferred to get my kicks, but really... I would take anything I could get. For a 13 year old kid in a town with watchful librarians, sexy novels are hard to come by.

(This was my favorite one... I read it at least 5oo times.)

I would rush upstairs when I came home and hide them under my bed, then feverishly read them when I was supposed to be sleeping. Growing up as a pretty sheltered, innocent girl, reading those books was as naughty to me as smoking a cigarette... It was wrong, wrong, wrong, filling my head with that sleaze but I did it anyway. Gram would always tell people she skipped over the steamy parts, but I can tell you something... I didn't.

Had I only known the consequences.

Those damn novels warped my little brain. For years after that, my romance-novel saturated mind would swirl and spin in pink cotton candy visions of that perfect happily ever after scene as the story book closes at the end of a fairy tale.

A deadly combination of Gramma's novels and teenage hormones created a sort of love gas in my brain that clouded my judgement about boys for years to come... I envisioned a heart of chivalry and gold inside each dorky college boy that quite simply wasn't there... I obviously had a very active imagination. Going through my old photo albums is beyond cringe-worthy. If a heart of gold or any semblance of chivalry was in there, it was quite well hidden.

So the moral of the story is, friends, keep your daughters away from the romance novels. They were quite obviously written by 50 year old spinster virgins, but 13 year old ones can't tell the difference. Their little psyches will be warped well into their 20's by that stuff... And they will never again be able to think of a man's part as anything but "turgid manhood," even in anatomy class.

P.S. If you could all avoid telling my Gram that I blogged about her personal stash of "lady porn" I'd appreciate it.

Tiny Underpants

Hi blog friends!!! Should I call you that??? No? It's the worst thing ever??? I have to agree with you, it is... Not only is it super lame, but it's also a little sad.

Let's start over...

Happy blog day, everyone!!! Oh, that's bad, too??? Uuuuug!!! Don't worry, I'm keeping it short today. I won't subject my sweet readers to a long day of bad blog. Just a short one.

I spent my day in abject frustration. I didn't sit down for more than 10 minutes, yet my house looks like a badger got into and tore it a-freakin' part. Why a badger? Because they're mean, that's why.

As I was circling my house, amazed that it was still capable of being messy after I had cleaned it within an inch of its life not 20 minutes before, I realized something...

I have spent my entire day picking up tiny pairs of underpants off the floor.

Every couch cushion I turn over, what do I find? A pair of underpants. As I'm sweeping under my couch... Whoops! Uh-oh! How did those little undies get under there? Think you're going to dust the coffee table? Nope, not until you move those underpants off of it!

Listen, I'm not just infuriated by the underpants. They're a metaphor, really. A metaphor for something... Um... A metaphor for the fact that I freaking work all day long and have nothing to show for it except another tiny pair of underpants under the couch mocking me!!! Mocking my sore feet and sweaty brow. Saying, with their very presence, "Ha! You're never going to be done cleaning. NEVER!!!"

Tiny underpants. As the mother of two daughters, I suppose I must simply resign myself to the fact that this is my lot in life. To pick up the tiny underpants of the world and never stop. Never give up. Fight until I can turn over a couch cushion and not find underwear.

Oh, who am I kidding? This is a battle I can't win. I'm just going to be happy with the fact that my kids like to wear clean underwear and call it a day.