Don’t worry, I’m still a moron.

In case any of you got the mistaken impression from my last post that I’ve actually started to get my shit together and grow as a person, just know that I’ve been missing 1/4 of an eyebrow for the better part of two weeks. Because I’m a moron.

Following my wild success with Doctor Google’s recommendation of Brazil nuts to help babysit my temperamental thyroid hormones, I paid the good doc a return visit to address the issue of my skin and some concerning topography thereof.

Namely, a metric crapload of tiny, annoying bumps on my thighs and upper arms.

No, I’m not going to subject you guys to any gross skin pics. You get frozen molehills, because I’m nice.

I’ve had these things on my legs for ages. They were originally confined solely to my inner thighs and knees, so I always just assumed my skin was irritated from years of wearing skinny jeans. The things we do for fashion, right?

But recently they started to show up on my arms too. And I definitely haven’t been wearing skinny jeans on those. At least, that I know of. I suppose it’s technically possible that someone’s been sneaking in at night and clothing my upper extremities in tight denim just to fuck with me, but if that’s the case then I have bigger problems than a few patches of bumpy skin.

Anyway, after some creative keywording and a string of “yikes, thank fucking god I don’t have that” Google image searches, I finally discovered the culprit behind my disgruntled dermis: keratosis pilaris.

The good news is it’s harmless. It’s just a simple keratin build-up that blocks the hair follicles and makes a nuisance of itself.

The bad news is, no one really knows why it happens, and so there’s no way to prevent it from rearing its ugly head. And all you can really do when it does is throw acid on it until it whimpers and runs away.

I’m not kidding. The recommended treatment is acid; albeit of the alpha-hydroxy, lactic, or salicylic varieties and not something like drastic like hydrochloric or sulfuric, but at the end of the day you’re still basically burning your skin off for the sake of vanity.

…okay, so I’m vain enough that I figured it was worth a shot.

I made the rounds of a few forum discussions on the subject, and people seemed to have the most success with the lactic acid, so I went to the drugstore and picked up a bottle of that.

Y’all, this is making it really hard for me not to start taking all my medical advice from strangers on the internet. Because within a week my legs were as smooth as a baby’s behind. Hell, I’m not even sure my skin was this supple when I was a baby. Seriously, acid is AWESOME.*

*Statement applies to lotion only. Don’t do drugs, kids.

But while my legs were celebrating their long overdue facelift in almost no time at all, my arms remained as stubbornly bumpy as ever, even after two weeks of treatment. This made no sense to me. My upper arm skin couldn’t be more resistant to chemical exfoliants than the scaly, battle-scarred surface of my long-suffering knees, could it? There had to be some variable I hadn’t taken into account.

And then it dawned on me: the humble razor.

Before every slathering of acid-laced lotion, I had showered and shaved my legs, presumably fucking up the tough surface of my little keratinoid molehills and thereby allowing the acid to better penetrate and do its work.

Couldn’t hurt to try, right? So fuck it, I guess I’m someone who shaves their arms now.

And I’ll be goddamned if I wasn’t right on the money about that being the difference, because my arms AND my legs are now silky smooth 24/7 and there’s a good chance that if I don’t stop constantly feeling them up they’re gonna start playing the Divinyls every time I walk into a room.

 

So by now you’ve probably figured out what happened to my eyebrow.

Don’t judge me. Face shaving has been a beauty trend all over the internet for the last two years. I’m not the only sucker who’s tried it.

Granted, most of those other suckers probably managed to exit the experience with about 114% more eyebrows than I did, but still.

Guys, I was SO careful. I planted myself in front of the mirror and I looked into my eyes and said firmly, “Nutty, you are coming out of this with two intact eyebrows. Period.”  And then I went to work. Slowly. Methodically. And I did a damn good job, if I do say so myself.

So perfect a job that as I completed my last stroke, I instinctively flicked my wrist in a triumphant flourish.

Pro tip, people, wait to do your flourishing until you put the razor DOWN.

The eyebrow will grow back, but the jury’s still out on my dignity.

 

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

I have your boobs.

I feel it necessary to inform you all that I just nearly sprained my neck in my haste to go back and reread a Facebook comment that I was 99% positive said, “I have your boobs.”

Well well. This day just got a couple of cup sizes more interesting, now didn’t it?

Me being me, by the halfway point of my double-take I was already doing what I do best: logic-ing up my own explanation for what could possibly have been meant by the statement without any regard whatsoever for context or common sense.

Four little words, so many potential interpretations. See if you can spot the correct one below.

(a) Commenter is holding the OP’s boobs for ransom but lacked any magazines or newspapers with which to construct a proper non-social-media ransom note, because really who has magazines or newspapers lying around the house these days when you can just access them all online?

(b) Commenter borrowed the OP’s boobs for the weekend and wants to return them but OP hasn’t been answering her texts, so commenter resorted to contacting her publicly on Facebook instead.

(c) Commenter is OP’s daughter. She’s always thought her mom had an awesome rack, is super stoked that genetics favored her with a matching set, and figured it was high time she let the world know it.

(d) OP was announcing an author Q&A and what the commenter actually said was, “I have your books,” and I’m just an idiot.

If you were around for my A to Z Challenge post where I mentioned my habit of cutting corners when I read and the hilariously baffling literary misunderstandings that ensue, then you’ll know the correct answer is (d).

You’d also think I’d be wise to my own shenanigans by now and jump to the conclusion of (d) myself in the first place, but you there you would be wrong.

So very wrong.

NanoPoblano, Day 1: Fall back fail.

The end of daylight saving time is upon us once again.

As much as I think the whole daylight saving thing is a crock, I do look forward to “falling back” every year. However outdated and pointless I may feel something to be, if it lets me sleep another hour longer then it still gets my hypocritical stamp of approval.

“Springing forward” in March can, of course, go fuck itself.

I’ve never attempted an empirical study on whether or not the extra “fall back” hour actually does me any measurable good. But as far as my perpetually exhausted brain is concerned, our annual re-do of the hour preceding 2am (whose bright idea was the 2am thing anyway?) is the closest thing to heaven I might ever reach.

I pine for that hour each autumn. I stalk it on my calendar like an insomniac lion would stalk a gazelle made of Ambien.

I…completely miss out that hour because Fall Back 2015 just so happens to take place while I’m on vacation in Asia, and Japan don’t do DST.

D’oh.

But hey, we’re still on holiday, right? What should we do to relax instead of turning the clocks back?

I know! How about a date with Tokyo Disneyland…in costume?
Disneyland? Costumes? AWESOME!
It’s going to be packed, though. If we’re going to get into the park we’ll need to get there by 7am. Which means we need to be up before 5am to catch the right trains…
Okay, less awesome.
…after a late night of Hallowe’en partying in the streets of Shibuya.
Uh…

NAILED IT.

7 Things I Hate About You

You.

YOU.

You don’t know me, but I hate you.

Don’t look at me like that. You know what you did.

You did it deliberately, too. You did all of it on purpose. And I bet you’re not even sorry.

How do you sleep at night?

Probably better than me, that’s for sure. You made this bed, but I’m the one that has to lie in it.

I just want to know why. Can you at least give me that? Were you drugged? Were you drunk? Were you blind?

WHAT DID OUR APARTMENT EVER DO TO YOU?!?
Continue reading