Poop Snoop

I have this thing about poo. In that I am simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by it. It’s interesting to ponder poop and appreciate its evacuatory properties. It is a waste by-product, after all, and the fact that it represents your body cleaning itself out is exciting (to me, but I also like pus, for the same reason). But I also am disgusted by gross human residue if it is in my vicinity. That includes hair strands, dead skin flakes, poo balls (and I come across them more than you’d think), toe jam (ditto) and boogers (also ditto…or is that ditto ditto ditto? I never know). This is relevant because my almost 4-year-old daughter (that would be a girl, not a boy from whom you’ve come to expect this kind of behavior) is doing two things I am currently coming to grips with: 1) picking her nose and putting it on things in my vicinity 2) taking all her clothes off and sitting on the couch and other things in my vicinity I’m imaginative. It’s a blessing. And a curse. Lately, all I envision is butt juice smeared on my furniture, and goobers of the booger kind, entangled in my hair or worse, accidentally stuck on my finger after I pick up something of my daughters and transfer it to my person. I get a little OCD about this. Which is weird, because I used to pick my nose and put it under my mom’s pillow when I would sleep in her bed during my dad’s sales trips. Talk about getting boogers entangled in your hair.

And Goodwill To All

I have to show you something.

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Ain’t it grand? Trust me. In person, this purse is life-changing. Maybe it looks too patent-leathery here. Too shiny. Too black? Not enough white? Not so in real life. It’s perfection. And here’s the kicker: it was $9.99! I love Goodwill (is it Good Will? It should be.) I’ve wanted to talk about this for some time on my other blog — the one that shall go unnamed — but never have, because I haven’t wanted to let the secret out. Because then, I’ll have to share my spoils. But it’s Christmas. So, here goes: the Goodwill in Point Loma, California has changed my life. I now am able to buy the camel-colored short corduroy jacket I thought was too frivolous at full retail price. Black Nine West stilettos? In the bag. So too the Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. At $1.29, I trust they are fakes, but the DG insignia on the frames won’t tarnish for a good month, which is way longer than I’ve managed to hold onto sunglasses anyway. Soon, I will post a photo montage of my greatest Goodwill hits, but for now, my hands are too busy caressing the supple pursey goodness of my new handbag. I feel renewed and refreshed. Anything is possible with this bag. Seriously, I feel my vigor restored, my digestion aided, my headache gone. Time to find my husband. I love Goodwill!

Identity Crisis

OK, I’d like to back up and explain the hair more clearly.

I turned 39 on Thanksgiving.

And I’ve got this thing happening. I’m feeling 27. So when I look in the mirror and see the opposite of 27, I get confused.
My face is not 27. But my brain tells me I am. It’s awfully befuddling.

So I’m trying to get my face to agree with my brain. I’ve slathered on more L’Oreal Revitalift than I care to disclose, bought long dangly earrings to distract from the wrinkles, and begun face exercises.

I even briefly flirted with the idea of using industrial-strength tape to pull the sides of my face back to the position of 27-year-old me.

Of course, I could eat right, take supplements and do yoga, but that’s so not 27 years old.

So I cut my hair (all of them). I guess I figured if I changed my hair style, I’d break rank with the 27-year-old phantom Debbie and become an assured 39-year-old Debbie.

But it backfired. The dang hair’s so short, now everyone’s gonna see my tape.