The mail lady has been sitting up the street talking to one of my neighbors for more than ten minutes. I ought to stomp up there in my slippers and huffily demand my mail.
So, I have some facial hair – I think I’ve mentioned my thick, lush mustache before – and in an effort to battle it (since I didn’t much care for the waxing experience last year) I purchased some Nair
| okay, now she’s sitting in front of the mailbox right before ours, talking on her cellphone. What the hell does a girl have to do to get her freakin’ mail?! |
made especially for facial hair. Since I have always been burned – literally, I’m talking, not emotionally – whenever I used Nair, I put off actually using the stuff. "I should wait until (whichever day), because (day after whichever day) I don’t have to go anywhere, so if I end up with a mustache-shaped burn, at least I won’t have to go out into public with it and be stared at," I kept telling myself. Unfortunately, I apparently never go two days without leaving the house, and so the perfect time to try out the Nair never came.
Finally, last night
| let’s see – insurance bill, yard guy bill, and 7 crappy catalogs that are going straight into the trash. Why was I so eagerly awaiting the mail, again? |
as Fred toddled off to bed and I prepared to watch Felicity and The Amazing Race II (both of which I taped Wednesday night), I said "I need to just suck it up and try the stuff out!", and so I went into the bathroom and slathered my mustache and between my eyebrows (I tend toward unibrow-ness) with the Nair. I waited five minutes, washed it off, put more on, on the areas I’d missed, waited another five minutes, and washed THAT off. No burn! Whee!
Until this morning, when I thought my skin had had enough time to heal from having the hair chemically dissolved off of it, and slathered my face with the moisturizer I use. The moisturizer that contains alpha-hydroxy acids, among other things.
I am now sporting a fashionable little red mustache.
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Y’all, help me out. There exists, somewhere in cyberspace, a picture of an old woman holding up her middle finger. If it strikes a bell, help me out, won’tcha? I can’t seem to find it anywhere. And I need it! (Note: I’ve got it! Big thanks to the readers who sent it to me – you rock!)
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I am finally, you’ll be pleased to know, virus-free. I ran McAfee twice to double-check myself, and found 8 infected files on my system. They’re deleted, and I’m all clean now. No more cyber-ho’ing for me, no sir.
Of course, it could have been the spud who infected me, as she’s wont to surf to incredibly cheesy kid sites, and watch cartoony things and follow links. In fact, I started up my internet explorer yesterday, and instead of the page going to google, which is what I have my home page set as, it went to search4u.com. When I investigated further, I found that not only had search4u taken it upon itself to set itself as my home page, but there were also some PORN sites bookmarked.
No, the spud hasn’t been looking at porn. There are sites out there that are kind enough to bookmark porn sites for you without your knowledge – I’ve had it happen before. Honestly, I tend to find most porn fairly boring. Probably because most porn is geared toward men. "Oh, look! A thin blonde with large breasts! A skanky man with a large penis! This is so exciting! WhatEVER will happen next?"
Anyway.
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I went into the garage to lift weights this morning, and as I lay on my back counting out loud, I glanced at the ceiling and said "Oh, shit."
In case you can’t tell, those are two very wet lines working their way across the garage ceiling. We apparently have a leak or something, and so now I’m sitting and waiting for the plumber to show up.
It’s always something, isn’t it? Dishwasher, leaking pipes, hepatitis.
This is what we get for living the high life.
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