Three Kid Circus : Pheromones? No, it's Feria.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Pheromones? No, it's Feria.

Ah, the stankyness that is my over-the-counter beauty enhancement routine.

I got the kids into bed at EIGHT! Woooo! EIGHT!

This calls for a celebration, right? I decided that I needed to spruce up the old mare a bit, since the evening was stretched out before me, and my hubs is up to his eyeballs in a new computer game of some sort or other. A quick inspection of my head reveals 1/2 inch of regrowth. Break out the gas masks, baby. Tonight? We dye.

I decide that a glass of wine is in order, what with my aching wrist and swollen ankle and all. I discover that operating a cork screw is beyond my gimp wrist's ability. I decide maybe drinking and dyeing is a bad idea and head to the bathroom.

Now, whoever designed our house was insane, because we have no ventilation, save a weenie fan in the ceiling. This little fan whirs and sputters in cycles, but it doesn't ventilate. Not even close. It mocks me with its noise.

Yea, though I am supposed to remove the foulness, I do not. Behold, the bathroom grows ever stinkier. Even now you flap the door, yet I will not remove this stench.

Throwing caution, and probably all the cilia in my nose and throat to the wind, I crack open the box and prepare to become a Natural Highlights! Extra Shiny! Now with BOTANICAL Conditioners! shade by the name of "Iced Mocha."

Can I just confess how much I love cosmetic names? I really do. They are so optimistic and evocative. My eyeshadow? "South Beach." Love my lipstick? It's "Sunset." Makes you wanna make out with me, huh? I know. Me too.

While mixing all the ingredients, at one point I looked into the mirror and noticed I had one of the bottles dangling from my teeth. Now I know where the kids get it from. My hubs walks in midway through the squirting and "massaging" part, and exited quickly, sputtering and coughing. "That stuff is poison! Poison!" He threw over his shoulder between coughs.

My eyes were starting to water quite a bit, but finally, the icing of my head was complete. I've got goo on my head, and 25 minutes to kill. Hmmmm, I'll paint my toenails. I locate my bottle of "Candy Apple" red nail polish and attack my toes. The weepy eyes are now stinging from the combined fumes, so I flap the door a bit. It occurs to me that I could mosey out to the bedroom to do this.

On my way out, I decide that with the next 20 minutes, I need to shape my eyebrows. I grab my tweezers and sit on the floor in front of our hall mirror. Since I painted my nails, I have to sit with my feet flat so that I don't mess up the finish, and I grow increasingly frustrated at my attempts to improve my eyebrows. I end up with one thicker than the other, and other with no arch. Whatever.

The nails are dry, the goo on my head has done its work. I give up on the brows and hit the shower. 15 minutes later, I emerge, like a butterfly from its chrysalis. My head smells like a new car. You gotta love it.