Friday, January 20, 2012

A man and his eyebrows. (A true story)

Once upon a time there was a man who grew more and more handsome the closer he came to his fortieth birthday.

The dusting of gray amidst his dark brown hair made him look distinguished, and the faint wrinkle lines around his eyes showed a life filled with joy and laughter--a good look for any man. The one minor problem though...his eyebrows.

Thought it hardly seemed to bother the man, his wife was deeply troubled. For when she looked at her beloved husband, she no longer saw this:



But something that bore a striking resemblance to this:



Not all the brow hairs were bad, mind you. In fact there was just one. One evil, despicable thing that would appear on his right eyebrow approximately every six weeks. With the immeasurable powers of a super hero, this rogue hair would sprout out of virtual nothingness and into a length of 7/8" overnight.

For days the wild hair would go unnoticed, until one evening at the dinner table, the husband, in a benign gesture, would drag his arm across his forehead in an attempt to drown out the incessant chatter of the nine-year-old girl at the table. Unbeknownst to the husband he'd awakened a beast. A course, thick, deep rooted beast that stood at full attention nearly an inch above the rest of the eyebrow.

Shrieking at the sight, the wife begged her husband to let her tweeze it. "It is ugly and dastardly and makes you look unkempt," she begged him. "Please let me rid you of this hideous hair or people will think I don't love you."

The husband scoffed at her request, claiming that the pain associated with a needle-nosed tweezers extraction was too great for any man to endure.

The woman, a survivor of two Cesarean sections, rolled her eyes. Though disappointed with the surprising wussiness of her husband, the former marine, she stayed steady on her course to rid the man of the atrocity that grew upon his beautiful face.

For days she pleaded for submission to the tweezers. She begged him to dismiss the notion that an eyebrow comb over was sexy.

Finally, upon the threat of abstinence, the man relented.


It was a cold, Thursday night in January when she sat him down on the bathroom counter and approached him with the silver Revlon tweezers (available at Target for $6.99, less 5% with the red card). The man gripped the tile, bracing himself for the pain he'd experienced only twice before in his life. With the steady hand of a neurosurgeon she gripped the angry hair between the tips of the tweezers, clamped down and pulled.

A high-pitched shriek was heard throughout the land,

"HOLY CRAP! Look at the size of this root ball!"

While the husband whimpered in shock on the counter, the wife held her victim to the light for a better view. At 7/8" she knew that little bastard would win records if she were into that kind of thing. But she wasn't. She didn't need an award to prove she'd done something wonderful. She had a well-groomed husband for that.


Saturday, January 7, 2012

Don't Give Up On HOPE

Every now then I veer off of the freeway of sarcasm and inappropriate humor I drive most days, and take a much needed detour down emotional lane. This post, my inaugural for the new year, is my first pit stop on the sentimental side street. I hope you enjoy...

It was almost exactly a year ago that a good portion of my prayer life was dedicated to asking the BIG GUY for someone (AN AGENT!) to take me seriously. You know...just give me and my peculiar book a chance. Six months later...I got an agent. WAHOO! Thanks, God!

This morning I was feeling much the way I did a year ago except that the request to the you know who had changed. This morning I prayed that someone (AN EDITOR!) would take me AND my agent seriously. (Calm down, Kitten--no news to report). On days like this, when I feel like the last author in the world an editor would be willing to take a leap of faith with, I'm reminded of one very important four-letter word: HOPE!

You see, the beauty of HOPE is that it strikes you when you're at your lowest point and quite often through unconventional means. Here's how the HOPE bug big me today:

On December 24th (Yeah, the DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS) my darling 9 year-old decided to write Santa a letter. (Apparently I wasn't supposed to read it, though she left it out on the hutch in the living room--um, FREE GAME, TOOTS!) Anyway, I got the Aww...lump in my throat as we moms do, and then I read the inside:
(I cannot tell you how many times we've told my daughter that she cannot get a trampoline, but I assure you it's well into the double-digits.)

My husband and I chuckled about this card, both enjoying what could very well be her last Christmas believing in the white bearded man from up North, and then we actually discussed her request. After surprisingly short deliberation, we decided this actually could be a good investment for us and that both our kids would get a lot of use out of it. (Not Christmas of 2011, obviously, but perhaps an Easter gift purchased off of Craig's List)

At any rate, my kiddo never lost HOPE. She was the dog under the dining table just waiting for a scrap. And you know what...she got it! A piece of macaroni fell on the floor. (Or in this case, a used trampoline that will probably need new springs).

She never gave up--she just kept hoping. After finding this letter in my dresser drawer, right next to her letter demanding more money from the Tooth Fairy, I realized that I cannot give up on HOPE. It's all I've got left.


(Side note: I had a trampoline as a kid. Our hesitation in buying one was not because we are wicked, evil parents who like to stifle our children of exercise and a good time, but because we didn't think she would use it. If we are guilty of anything--it's practicality.)