One of the first things I did after buying my house in Saint Charles was to marvel that two people could – simultaneously – poo at the same time. Going from the condo in Oak (no) Park (ing) which had one wee bathroom to a house with three bathrooms was like the ultimate in luxury…until I realized that the first floor bathroom looked like it had been decorated by Granny, On Meth.
This was pre-moving in. I don’t do angels. Ever.
But the three-patterned wallpaper remained until, in stunning fit of bad judgment, I decided I wanted to remodel the bathroom “for my birthday.” Which meant that I spent the next four months scraping tiny bits of the wallpaper off the drywall with a putty knife in the moments I wasn’t holding my incredibly fussy baby boy. It’s no wonder I hate my birthday.
Before the wallpaper was removed, I couldn’t stand to be in the bathroom for any longer than necessary, because, well, it looked like Little House On The Prairie barfed all over it. This was especially bad news for my eyebrows, who require constant upkeep lest they turn into unruly, beastly caterpillars perched nattily atop my face. Eventually, all the wholesomeness of the bathroom got to me and I broke down and bought one of those makeup mirrors that magnifies your pores like 8000000 times.
I opened the box, pulled out the mirror and about passed out. What the hell? When did my pores become the size of Texas? And when did I get to be so BLOTCHY? Look at those ROGUE hairs! It was disgusting. I was just GROSS looking. How had I not noticed how nasty I’d become?
I was about to rechristen myself “Sasquatch,” when I realized that I might be able to find photographic evidence of when I had become so haggard. I needed to know when this change had occurred, for my own peace of mind.
First I found this, from my old camera, which, I’d seen immediately, looked as though it had been dipped in Vasoline before the shot had been taken.
I was also horrified to see that the green walls – the same shade of green that I hate like mayo, in fact – followed me everywhere I went. Even to the Caribbean, where, in this picture, I am on the phone with Delta, arguing over my lost luggage, I am stuck in front of a green wall.
In fact, in EVERY picture I could find, I appear to be out of focus, underwater or in a Soap Opera.
Or rocking my sweet, sweet corn rows:
(let’s make out)
Also: could that dress, which I had to buy in the gift shop because Delta lost my bags, have made my boobs look any saggier?
So my photo expedition didn’t help much. I couldn’t figure out when I’d become Sasquatch so I had to assume that I’d always BEEN Sasquatch.
I did the only thing I could think to do: I bought a DSLR and got pregnant.
Then, I forgot about my Sasquatch-ness (rib-spreading seemed much more pressing an issue) until recently when I realized that I was rocking some pretty dark circles under my eyes. It was time to address my Sasquatch-ness with a facial.
Lady Giving Me A Facial: “OH MY GOD.”
Lady Giving Me A Facial: *offendedly speaking in Russian*
Lady Giving Me A Facial (picking at my face)(rolling eyes): *sighs deeply*
So, apparently, I am in such dire shape that even the Facial Lady was both offended and saddened by the state of my face. NOT ENCOURAGING, PRANKSTERS.
Immediately, I went home, my face all swollen, blotchy and sore, and asked The Twitter about eye cream.
The Twitter + The Pranksters = Smarter Than Anything Else. How did people make decisions before The Internet?
Then, I ordered a whole bunch of stuff. I need to combat the Sasquatchness in a MAJOR way.
Problem is, it’s fucking annoying. Who the hell enjoys putting 87 different kinds of cream on their face three times a day?
Hm. I wonder if I can just install mood lighting wherever I go.
Here’s where I turn the tables, Pranksters. What do you use to combat Sasquatchness? Do you enjoy slathering your face with creams? Is this something I’ll get used to? Can I install mood lighting at your house and come over?