Happy March, bitches.
2006-03-17, 12:54 p.m.
And today is the day we celebrate DW’s and my SECOND date, in which he behaved himself (by my standards – no surprise crotch touching, just the standard type that I fully expect of everyone) and he was him’s sweet wil’ self, and I thought to myself “Oh shit, here we go again.”
We went to dinner last night with LG, since all anniversaries should be celebrated with one’s child(ren) in tow, and we explained to him that we celebrate the first date more than the second date, because the first date was a bit odd, and the second date was just a second chance that went particularly well.
“So you thought he was weird or something on your first date?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s it. I thought he was weird.”****
Here at The Way Things Are, we at times indulge in what has been snickered at widely across the Internet, not at us specifically, but more in a general sense, as intense navel-gazing. But we do it a little differently here. We indulge in intense pore-analysis.
To wit: what the hell is up with my skin? I have middle-aged breaking out zitty nonsense going on, and as an extra
boner bonus, I have some kind of sandpapery, itchy rashy thing that inflames and settles and inflames again, and sometimes morphs into something that looks like pimples, that covers my forehead (mixed in with your standard geriatric acne), flows down the sides of my face, curls sweetly under my earlobes, and runs down the side of my neck, nestled lovingly amongst those nice cordy neck ligaments that tend to poke out when I’m under stress.
What is that? It’s pissing me off.
Oh, and in addition, I have found through trial and error that I have apparently developed some kind of allergy to my former BFF benzoyl peroxide. It makes me break out in nice, big, hivey-looking, itchy bumps.
Nice. You want to date me, don’t you?
So yesterday when I got my hairs cut, I asked my haircutter if the little beautification complex she works in has a good skincare person, and after looking at my skin, she frog-marched me down the hall to a European skin care specialist and introduced me. I explained to the nice lady, “I have middle-aged crazy skin, and buying stuff at the grocery store isn’t helping me anymore.”
She said she gets that a lot, and now I have an appointment for next Thursday. When I called her this morning to set up the appointment, she asked me “We’re doing a facial?” and I said, “I will let you look at my skin and decide what needs to be done.”
I hope she fixes me. Right now, I’m longing for the moderately teenage acne-plagued skin I had in junior high. At least I knew what the hell that was. This is some kind of pox or something. Chicken flu.****
Speaking of which, are you prepared? Are you ready for “an extended stay at home”? Are you paranoid? Are you an alarmist? Is it Armageddon? Are we all gonna die? Is my face going to break out? Will we still have satellite TV?
While I’m at it, are you ready for this? It’s going to suck. Hey, do they still have duct tape on that list?****
Today, I am going to loosely (like a very loose slut) follow Flylady’s recent advice, and clean all the shit off my desk and out of my office. Honestly, do I need these?
I think not.
How about any of this?
Maybe…it should be filed.
Yes, but there’s got to be a better place to keep it.
This keeps getting closer and closer to me each time I look down. Those are my knees and feet, for scale, and for your entertainment. Nice shoes, Granny!
I won’t be ignored, Dan!
I’m skeert of my own squalorous office.
Oh yeah, and happy March, bitches.
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