Yesterday I spent my lunch break e-chatting with Glamour’s Girls in the Beauty Department blogger Beth Shapouri about my beauty routine. This makes me giggle. For one, I’m not exactly what you’d call glamorous, and my beauty routine? It’s a bit… haphazard. But, what I lack in fancy, I make up for in brand loyalty. I’m a die hard about the products I love and if a single one of these gets discontinued, there will be tears. Anyway, for a flighty trip down the beauty aisle, hop on over to the Glamour blogs to check out the interview!

Also, and I’m a bit late to the party on this one, but I’ve been simply LOVING this blog. I can’t decide if I wish we were friends or if I’m glad we were not. Such a friendship might end in a deathmatch over the love of His Crankiness, Dr. House, MD.

P.S.  While we’re on the subject, got any beauty faves you want to pass on? Like, the super ultimate red lipstick that will not make me look like a psych ward escapee? Gimme!

Even with the rattling winds and persistent rain, Saturday’s storm was much less of a to-do than the weather people had prepared us for. Still, the startling beauty of yesterday morning seemed so out of place, it was almost… garish, in contrast. Kind of like watching a luxury car drive through a bad neighborhood. Bright sun, intensely blue, cloud-streaked sky. It was stunning. Up with the sun, I went for a jog and with that sun on my shoulders and a nice breeze, it felt good. Really good. But what felt even better was going home, opening all the windows and shutting off the AC. Plunk! Plunk! I could actually hear the coins dropping into my imaginary piggy bank. I’m hardcore pining for the days when it will be in the off position on an extended basis and my electricity bill will drop by two-thirds. Baby is on a budget.

Actually, baby is in the process of preparing a new! now with 60% more realism! budget. It’s a lot less fun than it sounds. Strangely. Things were tighter than I’d thought, and for the past few months I’ve been unconsciously living a tad bit beyond my means. That’s like being a tad bit too fat for your low rise jeans. Un. Comfortable. Believe me, I know.

Good thing isn’t any room in the new budget for beer. Because there certainly isn’t any room for new jeans. 

I almost cried when my alarm went off this morning.

The bed was a nest of twisted sheets and crumpled duvet, and all but one pillow was flung to the floor – evidence not of some wild and crazy nocturnal extracurricular activities, but of a restless night. Sleep without rest is just cruel. Especially when 5:30 rolls around and you have to decide between getting up to meet your running partner or catching another hour of sleep. This morning, I chose to fight the good fight, but damn if that was not an easy decision to make. I waffled more than once. Like, when I stumbled into the bathroom and saw that my eyes were swollen and puffy like I’d actually gone ahead with the boo-hoo fest and I thought, See? I can’t POSSIBLY go running today; my eyes are puffy! What if they get even puffier and I can’t SEE and run into a tree or a BUS?

If I were ever in a pageant, my talent would be rationalization. I have a gift for it. But I also have a pretty strong desire to not suck in the Whiterock Marathon relay in December, and an even stronger desire to wear pieces from my wardrobe I don’t normally refer to as “my fat clothes,” so I splashed some cold water on my face, laced up my sneakers (while singing a refrain from Billy Madison. “…got my shoes tied tight. I hope I don’t get in a fight…”) and headed out the door.

Outside, the sky was gorgeous, clear and starry, and after a few minutes of walking and gazing, I forgot all about being tired. See, I thought. You’re not tired. You’re just lazy! Look what a beautiful morning you would have missed! Run! Run and be in love with life!  Aw, inspirational right? Well, the magic of that sweet little moment lasted only as long as the 2-mile run. Because at 7:45AM when I woke up on my couch in my running clothes, sweaty strands of hair plastered to my cheek, with no memory of having lain down in the first place, I realized I’d been had.

Effing nature. 

Sometimes, I think the Universe gets a little lackadaisical when it comes to distributing bad luck. Remember our Bible story friend Job? That guy could not catch a break. Meanwhile, there were tons of folks getting off scot-free. It’s like all that power gets overwhelming and It (the Universe) resorts to selection processes common to the playground set.

Ink-a-bink
A bottle of ink
The cork fell out
And YOU stink

I’m no Job. But people, I’ve been stinking for some time now. I’m not complaining (you do that and folks jump ALL over you about hurricanes and cancer and shit. Definitely not going there); I am pretty amused at the number of mishaps I’ve had in the last month or two. See: minor car accident leading to a very brief visit to the ER where I picked up a staff infection IN MY FACE. See also: the trip down my front steps that carved up my heel like a cheese grater. And now this. The Cosmic Playground Bully must have clued into the fact that I’ve been off antibiotics for a couple weeks and found it unacceptable.

The short of it: Monday morning, I shaved my legs. Saturday morning I was in urgent care. The two, stupidly enough, are related.

I’ll be frank: except where swimming or sex is involved, I don’t tend to bother with hair removal above the knees. It’s just a whole lot of terrain to cover and I lack the time and motivation. But on Labor Day there was a fuchsia bikini involved, so I spent some quality time with the Venus Breeze before going to sweat it out poolside.  Tuesday, I woke up with pretty fierce razor burn on my inner left thigh, but thought eh, it happens. Only, it didn’t go away. I attributed its staying power to my newly (re)found love of jogging (I signed up to run in the relay at the Whiterock Marathon. Foolish or fantastic? The jury’s still out). But I’m a dedicated fan of Neopsorin and I applied twice daily, figuring it would do what it has always done – make me better! Four days faster than a bandage alone! Oh, silly me. That only works when the Universe is playing it straight.

After work on Friday evening, I napped, ran some errands, and then plopped down on the couch to snuggle with the beast. Sensing an opening, Sir Hal jumped up and began kneading my lap. In a hot second, the poor, surprised cat was flung to the ottoman and I was bent over in pain. Warning: I am about to use the word groin. Don’t worry, I’m as uncomfortable about this as you will be. I pressed my hand to the glands in my… groin; it felt like I was smuggling Tootsie Roll Midgies under my skin. The hell! In the bathroom mirror I saw (to my complete mouth-sweating horror) that a red line was snaking up my thigh to my groin. I hit panic mode. Blood poisoning and death! It was certain!

No lie, I actually made a mental reference of the Little House on the Prairie episode where Ma gets an infection in her leg while Pa is away and all is almost lost, but because Caroline Ingalls is super tough pioneer stock, she saves herself with a knife and some boiling water.

I digress. I also have run long in the story of my travail, so here’s the gist of what I learned from the elderly physician who treated me the next morning. My predicament was not uncommon or surprising. Folliculitis (duh) and an infection in my lymph system. From shaving my legs. Mind you, I am a perfectly hygienic person. I shower. I even use soap!

“It happens,” he said, shrugging. “You’ve got bacteria living on your skin all the time, and it only needs an opportunity – a nick, a cut – to get in.”

“So, I shaved. I got sick.”

“Yes.”

Again, the hell! I took his antibiotic and went home, baffled. When my sister called later that morning, I told her all about my woes. She did not share the good doctor’s nonchalance.

“Heather, people shave their legs EVERY DAY and don’t have to go to the hospital.”

“I know.”

“Wow. You’re really… special.”

“I prefer chosen.”

Lately, I’ve been feeling like the human equivalent of mom jeans. The three or four people I’ve shared this with have laughed. But I am telling you right now that there is nothing (nothing!) funny about mom jeans. Awkward and frumpy, yes. Funny, no.

Things like haircuts and new shoes usually make me feel better when I get stuck in the blahs, so it was delightfully handy that Tuesday night was my 8-week hair check-up. She washed, trimmed, round-brushed, complimented me on the smooth shiny brilliance of my hair and… nothing. I still felt like mom jeans – beyond the help of a coif or even a shiny new pair of peep toes. I went home and ate a lot of cheese. Mostly smoked gouda.

Clearly, I should have stopped at the gouda, but I went for broke and turned on the new 90210. Man, and I thought I was in an awkward phase. No stranger to bad TV, I still had to turn that monstrosity off once or twice – like I do in the middle of (usually twenty-two minutes in) most I Love Lucy episodes because the characters have become such a harm to themselves it’s either intervene (not practical/possible) or cut them off. I always go back, though. I need closure.

I also need someone to explain Shannen Doherty’s teeth. That gap – is it new? Intentional? It’s certainly unsettling. I’ve never been a big believer in the racket that is adult braces, but in this case, I think I’d make an exception.