About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Random Tuesday Thoughts: Beards
I recently learned that my aunt shaves her face with a razor and that my cousin had eyebrows tattooed on because she plucked them off and they never grew back. I wish I'd known that before I bought their Christmas presents. Shaving cream is a lot less expensive than electronics.
My brother’s ex-fiancée Holly came over last night. She brought a bottle of wine and fancy cheese. I fed her tator tots. I guess that qualifies as our second date.
Holly now knows the relationship is officially over because my brother set his Facebook status to "single." Fucking Facebook.
Things were going great (well, better) until my brother called my house phone and left a message. She cried when she heard his voice. I jumped up and gave her her Christmas present—I thought it might cheer her up.
“I love it!” she said. Then she burst into tears again. Turns out the colors in the scarf I’d given her—turquoise and pink—were going to be the colors in her bridal party.
She’s only 22 but she knows she loves my brother. She also knows she wants to settle down and have kids. She said she’s known since eighth grade, when her teacher asked everyone what profession they wanted to pursue and she answered “I want to be a mom.”
Do you know that the teacher wouldn’t accept her answer? She made Holly pick “an actual profession” (the teacher’s words).
Holly's present is the only one I've bought so far. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for. Maybe for things to be 100% off. Oh wait, that's shoplifting.
We're having 20 people for Christmas Eve. I'm terrified. Last year my gravy looked like simmered brain in mud sauce, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to cook meat.
If you read about a family that spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room, you'll know they belong to me. Except for the bearded woman. I'm not ready to admit I know her just yet.