I got a call from an old friend and former co-worker of mine that she’s leaving San Francisco and moving to LA. She’s looking for her replacement and thought of me. I’m not looking for a new job, but whenever opportunity knocks, I swing that door wide open without looking through the peep hole. Sometimes I get punched in the face, but most of the time I’m greeted with goodness. I’m just lucky that way.
So they flew me down, this San Fran agency, and it was great. Change is good. And sometimes, scary.
So now comes the waiting. I feel like a one-night stand. Do I call him? Does he like me?
So my old man and I have decided that if we don’t move to San Fran, we’re getting a French Bulldog. That way, I’m happy either way.
Husband (while hugging me after our morning coffee) (via snackgirl)
You should marry him!
Spring! Baby lambs frolicking in fields of emerald! Yellow daffodils waving hello! And gals everywhere look down and realize their pale gams are covered in a wintery layer of mammalian down.
I skip through the swoon-worthy aisles of Target (Liberty of London, you had me at tiny floral print gardening tools) and decide it’s time. Time to start preparing for warmer weather and invest in a new razor. Maybe even some shaving cream (aka leg soap).
And it’s then, at that very moment, while perusing the selection of disposable razor heads, that I realize marketing is insane.
I remember using my dad’s orange disposable Bic razors and scraping up my knees and ankles. And then they came up with razors just for us gals in pastel colors. And then they had two blades. Sweet! And then they had three blades because two is for babies. Ok. And then some jackass on the fifth floor went crazy and now they have FIVE GODDAM BLADES.
I feel bad for people from like, oh, Tajikistan, who move to the great US of A, make their first dollar and head on over to some giant warehouse with a red bullseye on it to grab a few essentials only to be bombarded with a gazillion choices that leave one jaw-dropped and doe-eyed just staring…staring…missing the homeland where, if a gal wants to shave, she uses a machete and her own goddam spit.
It’s baffling! How do you expect me to choose which razor to use! What if I regret it?! And for the love of God, don’t try this stoned, kids! You’ll walk in to Target for some toilet paper and a sponge and walk out four hours later with a pair of floral rainboots, a sun hat, one of those oil-and-bamboo-stick room fresheners and a five-bladed razor!