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So Faire season has started in earnest for me. Don’t get me wrong, I work on it in my copious spare time all year long, but now’s when I get to add the 2 hour round trip commute each weekend and it’s a wee bit more encompassing.
Plus, it’s the beginning of my farmer’s tan. No matter what I do, no matter what combination of sunscreens or fashion tactics, I will wind up with browned forearms and pasty white upper arms. The last time my upper arms were tan as when I was a lifeguard. I’ve tried being vigilant about putting sunscreen on my forearms whenever wearing a t-shirt, wearing tank tops when at home gardening, carefully applying minimal sunscreen on my upper arms, serious sunscreen on my lower, desperately trying to even them up…but to no avail. And when you have….consequential…upper arms, pasty white is not a good look. Unless some guy is dogging you in a bar and you’re wearing a tank top underneath a jacket and you slip off the jacket to reveal those pasty white cow-punching biceps (carefully doing the 16 ounce curl) and suddenly, your evening is much more peaceful. I do miss the Picker’s Tan, that I used to get when I was younger. That was pasty white legs (which no one noticed, because when you ride horses any minute you’re not at work picking vegetables to afford said horse, you don’t really get a whole lot of time in shorts) and heavily tanned forearms, back of neck and the picker’s half moon, which would be where your t-shirt would inevitably ride up from the back of your jeans, and you’d wind up with this halfmoon on its back tan patch. I’d say an early version of the tramp-stamp, except that didn’t tend to apply to pickers, as high maintenance and sweating in dusty fields all day picking beans and corn and tomatoes really didn’t tend to go together. Now, I suppose, with low-rise jeans and thongs, you could even get a Picker’s Whale Tail…oof. I just thought about trying to pick veg all day while wearing a thong. That would be a really long day…or a really short day.
Not a lot of time this weekend to throw against nascent LJ posts – shocker, my time allotment plans didn’t really work out. Tupperware and Time: I always overestimate what will fit in it. But I did pull together a lot of my notes…and some clearly aren’t going to amount to much:
I get chest pains from time to time and have a little panic. And then I realize they’re on the non-heart side of my body and I worry that when I DO have a heart attack, I’ll totally blow it off, having sort of forgotten which is actually the go-to side. (Note: that’s a sign more for guys, chest pains. Women are more likely to experience heart attack symptoms thusly: anxiety, indigestion, extreme fatigue, nausea. Wait. What? How the hell is your average working woman going to notice THAT? Isn’t that every couple of days?)
Fetch was over one morning and wound up watching me put on make-up. Which must have been, to her, like watching a monkey get into art supplies. I had great fun watching her face twitch as she tried not to say anything. For people who don’t know her…or me…she puts on makeup in the morning, using this fabulous array of….stuff and tools and things. And looks fabulous all day. I have my four things, plus q-tips for when my hand twitches and I get mascara down the side of my nose. And right after I put it on, I look way too heavily made up and then my Danish pores start to eat it all and about an hour later I look great for about 15 minutes, until the combination of oily skin and gravity well pores, make it vanish. Unless I try to reapply it during the day, at which point, my pores shrink to nothing and my wrinkles step up to grab all of the make-up and pack it down so that it emphasizes the wrinkly dried out parts, and I get that cake-y look that your grandmother used to have.
Another reason why I could never be a professional comedian – I’m at my most clever when I screw something serious up and then turn the screw up into a comedy bit. Which is how I’ve come to be known as the Vengeance Coordinator…. So, I think adding that to the Scoldfinger, I think my superhero persona's coming along nicely. An interesting fatal flaw or weakness and of course, my story of origin...next on the development list.
Peugeot has come up mood paint for your car. Yes, there are sensors on the steering wheel that will alter the color of your car to fit your “mood”. If I were a cop, that would be awesome – because seriously, when your CAR is telling me that you’re feeling nervous or homicidal, that’s a big help. And the designers say that they even have a sensor/color for “aroused”. Eeeeuuwwww. Look, thanks to social media, I already know WAY too much about a lot of people. And it’s making my inner hermit cringe. It’s bad enough that half of you think that being in a car gives you license to pick your nose…I’m watching. I’m always watching. Either you people are nosepicking with abandon, or there’s something about my presence that makes you unable to use a tissue or save the cavity mining for when you’re home and can at least wash your HANDS afterwards. Do I REALLY want to know the arousal state of that guy pulled up next to me in traffic? NO. A thousand burning hells, NO.
Plus, it’s the beginning of my farmer’s tan. No matter what I do, no matter what combination of sunscreens or fashion tactics, I will wind up with browned forearms and pasty white upper arms. The last time my upper arms were tan as when I was a lifeguard. I’ve tried being vigilant about putting sunscreen on my forearms whenever wearing a t-shirt, wearing tank tops when at home gardening, carefully applying minimal sunscreen on my upper arms, serious sunscreen on my lower, desperately trying to even them up…but to no avail. And when you have….consequential…upper arms, pasty white is not a good look. Unless some guy is dogging you in a bar and you’re wearing a tank top underneath a jacket and you slip off the jacket to reveal those pasty white cow-punching biceps (carefully doing the 16 ounce curl) and suddenly, your evening is much more peaceful. I do miss the Picker’s Tan, that I used to get when I was younger. That was pasty white legs (which no one noticed, because when you ride horses any minute you’re not at work picking vegetables to afford said horse, you don’t really get a whole lot of time in shorts) and heavily tanned forearms, back of neck and the picker’s half moon, which would be where your t-shirt would inevitably ride up from the back of your jeans, and you’d wind up with this halfmoon on its back tan patch. I’d say an early version of the tramp-stamp, except that didn’t tend to apply to pickers, as high maintenance and sweating in dusty fields all day picking beans and corn and tomatoes really didn’t tend to go together. Now, I suppose, with low-rise jeans and thongs, you could even get a Picker’s Whale Tail…oof. I just thought about trying to pick veg all day while wearing a thong. That would be a really long day…or a really short day.
Not a lot of time this weekend to throw against nascent LJ posts – shocker, my time allotment plans didn’t really work out. Tupperware and Time: I always overestimate what will fit in it. But I did pull together a lot of my notes…and some clearly aren’t going to amount to much:
I get chest pains from time to time and have a little panic. And then I realize they’re on the non-heart side of my body and I worry that when I DO have a heart attack, I’ll totally blow it off, having sort of forgotten which is actually the go-to side. (Note: that’s a sign more for guys, chest pains. Women are more likely to experience heart attack symptoms thusly: anxiety, indigestion, extreme fatigue, nausea. Wait. What? How the hell is your average working woman going to notice THAT? Isn’t that every couple of days?)
Fetch was over one morning and wound up watching me put on make-up. Which must have been, to her, like watching a monkey get into art supplies. I had great fun watching her face twitch as she tried not to say anything. For people who don’t know her…or me…she puts on makeup in the morning, using this fabulous array of….stuff and tools and things. And looks fabulous all day. I have my four things, plus q-tips for when my hand twitches and I get mascara down the side of my nose. And right after I put it on, I look way too heavily made up and then my Danish pores start to eat it all and about an hour later I look great for about 15 minutes, until the combination of oily skin and gravity well pores, make it vanish. Unless I try to reapply it during the day, at which point, my pores shrink to nothing and my wrinkles step up to grab all of the make-up and pack it down so that it emphasizes the wrinkly dried out parts, and I get that cake-y look that your grandmother used to have.
Another reason why I could never be a professional comedian – I’m at my most clever when I screw something serious up and then turn the screw up into a comedy bit. Which is how I’ve come to be known as the Vengeance Coordinator…. So, I think adding that to the Scoldfinger, I think my superhero persona's coming along nicely. An interesting fatal flaw or weakness and of course, my story of origin...next on the development list.
Peugeot has come up mood paint for your car. Yes, there are sensors on the steering wheel that will alter the color of your car to fit your “mood”. If I were a cop, that would be awesome – because seriously, when your CAR is telling me that you’re feeling nervous or homicidal, that’s a big help. And the designers say that they even have a sensor/color for “aroused”. Eeeeuuwwww. Look, thanks to social media, I already know WAY too much about a lot of people. And it’s making my inner hermit cringe. It’s bad enough that half of you think that being in a car gives you license to pick your nose…I’m watching. I’m always watching. Either you people are nosepicking with abandon, or there’s something about my presence that makes you unable to use a tissue or save the cavity mining for when you’re home and can at least wash your HANDS afterwards. Do I REALLY want to know the arousal state of that guy pulled up next to me in traffic? NO. A thousand burning hells, NO.
