I Hate Movember

I've always cracked jokes about Movember, but it's always been to hide my true feelings. I'm finally gonna come out and say it. I hate No Shave November. There's never a period that I feel more like a pre-pubescent child than when everybody's out wagging around the freshly-grown Chia pets above their lips.

Why does it get to me so much? Well, here's the best that I can do after a full month of growing the 'stache out:

Am I naked? Probably. 'stache is still grosser.

Annie was gone for almost the full month of March, so all I had to tend to were math and Zumba classes in KY. It was my first chance to actually give facial hair a shot (since she'll shave it in my sleep when it starts to look anything like this). As I look at this pic, I think, why didn't they fire me for being a dirty creeper? The truth:  it's so little facial hair that you can only see it when you're as close to me as this phone was. Close enough to see how buck my teeth are. Yet, you'll never, ever be that close to me. Ever. Unless I'm drunk. Then all bets are off.

That one pic not good enough for you? Check out all of this glory:

I shaved it all off in steps, so you could see me with just the creeper 'stache. However, I apparently grow a wiry goatee that couldn't actually be more goat-like. I'm very proud that my face is generally acne free. I have no complaints there, but trying to grow that bird's nest outta my face kept causing big breakouts. Keep in mind that there was NO SHAVING here. That's the splotchy hair problem that plagues my face (aside from it's lack of growth).

Want more info (but less pictures)? I don't really grow hair anywhere. I have armpit hair. I have... ummm... cabbage patch hair? More like kiwi patch. Amirite? Other than that, not much. I have literally 3 hairs on my chest, which make the vertices of an almost perfect right triangle. If I was positive that I was never going to grow any more chest hair, I'd probably get a tattoo connecting them. I have a little peach fuzz around my belly button, but my arms look shaved, and my legs have sporadic, short wiry hair in splotches, not unlike my face (especially my milky-white upper thighs). It also feels like I have three or four hairs sprouting from my butthole, but that's only been confirmed by touch.

Now that you've seen my personal reasons for hating the celebration of body hair this month, we can go on to the more universal problem. Why does facial (or body) hair have to be some sort of symbol for manliness? I can get you pregnant just as easily as some Billy Gibbons impersonator. I can lift things. I like meat.

I'd like to believe that it's just in the name of prostate cancer awareness. If that were the truth, then I'd be happy to confirm with everybody that I'll be getting my butthole diddled by a professional once I get into my upper-30s. However, if you think that everyone is growing it out just for awareness, then you are lying to yourself. That'd be like saying chicks only grow big ol' titties for breast cancer awareness. Nope. It's to show off. The next big 'stache you see this month, ask them how much money they raised for the PCF. If they say they did donate, ask them if it was just so they could wear their disgusting lip caterpillar to work.

The other option:  apparently it's cool to either draw a mustache on your finger and hold it up beneath your finger, get the previous drawing actually tattoo'd on your finger to be 'ironic', or to crochet some facial hair or create it out of some other crafty items. You're right, that'd totally make me feel like my pride is intact.

Can't we all just wear ribbons and jerseys for another month?
~RoB

P.S. I do feel like my lack of facial hair is the reason I still get asked for my ID quite regularly. Even with my license, a bartender at a swim-up bar probably wouldn't serve me. Young looking. I'm ok with that.

P.S.S. I do grow an enormous amount of nose hair. I've talked about letting it go, and maybe having some kind of Movember comb-over starting from my nostrils. If I could do it without gagging just thinking about it, then I might attempt it just to prove a point.

Car Commercials

Never watched it...

Seriously, am I the only person who doesn't want a car that fishtails anytime shit gets serious?  It seems like that's every car commercial these days:  a car Tokyo Drifting (or power sliding, whatever the hell that means) through random-ass scenes.  Give me a stable car that's not going to slide or flip, and we've got a deal.

Why can't car ads be geared more toward the ones that convinced me to get my car:  the 2007 Dodge Caliber.  Go America!

Just like my car, I'm anything but cute,
~RoB

Men are Even Better at Being Housewives

Thanks to my Sugar Momma, I'm still jobless, stuck at home all day.  So, I'm a housewife.  Except I can fix things.  Men win again.

Our shower faucet was weird immediately.  Apparently, rust was coming through the pipes and blocking our low-flow shower head.  I found a plumber's wrench, pulled it off, cleaned it out, soaked it in CLR, and reattached it in pristine condition (not forgetting the fancy latex tape).  It worked for a few days, but then it got all funky again.

So, I ran to Holmes Depot.  I found a screen that you can put in your hose before placing it on your outside spigot to stop whatever the hell might be living inside from clogging up your hose.  I brought it home, trimmed it down with my Cutco knife (yeah, I interviewed with 'em, too), and shoved that shit in the shower head.  Now it works perfectly.  You see any housewives with vaginas performing plumbing feats?

Then we came home to a leak one evening.  A new section of a pipe had been recently added above this section of the ceiling, and it wasn't quite tight enough.  It was fixed with a torque wrench, but it left some very noticeable damage.  So, my pimpmones started raging.

 Patched it.  Sanded it.  Even added that weird popcorn shit for the acoustic ceiling.

 

And painted it FTW!

If you're reading this blog, and you're a lady, and you can patch drywall and fix plumbing and Drano a drain (like I had to do yesterday), then you're a man.  Congrats.  Go eat a Cinnabon.

And seriously, Cinnabon tastes like trash every time, no matter how amazing it smells,
~RoB

Bridesmaids & Batteries

I told Annie that I was interested in seeing Bridesmaids when we first saw the poster a month ago.  I knew that it had something to do with a bakery (my cupcake blogs were abuzz), and I love the girls from SNL.  Well, the movie was a hit, but we didn't get to see it until last night.  It was truly hilarious and a highly recommended movie.  Hell, you've heard that all week.  However, I woke up this morning frustrated by unanswered questions that apparently haunted my sleep.  (IMDB this shit if you don't remember character names from 3 days ago anymore!)

1) Why can't they make anybody from the Midwest in movies sound like they're from the Midwest?  They had crazy accents flying around the whole movie, and not one sounded Milwaukeen.  I know people study accents.  Come on!
2) What was the pill/drink combo that Helen gave Annie, and why wasn't she ever caught purposefully giving her a concoction that would fuck her up?
3) Does Annie ever get back into baking professionally?
4) What was it that Helen said that convinced Rhodes to come reunite with Annie after the funeral?  And where, exactly, did he change from his uniform to the hipster suit?
5) How long can a butterfly survive enclosed in an envelope?

I guess I can't expect things to come full circle if the script is written entirely by women.  (Considering how popular yesterday's post was, I guess I have to keep things controversial.)  [I'm clearly joking.  Women are smarter than men.]  {I'm out of parenthetical enveloping symbols after this.}  <Except these, I guess.>

I figure that some of these questions were left unanswered to leave room for Bridesmaids 2 (where Annie and Rhodes get married) and Bridesmaids 3 (where Megan marries Air Marshall Jon) and, assuming Hollywood continues as it has, Bridesmaids 4 (where talking puppies get married) and Bridesmaids 5 (where one of Rita's 'sticky' boys grows up to marry Helen's step-daughter) and Bridesmaids 6 that I can't even pull out of my ass right now.

Moving on...

I stayed home yesterday to fix my car.  It was just the battery, though it was hard to diagnose.  The most physically intense part came where I had to try and jump start the car so I could drive to a store and replace the battery.  My car was parked in the car port under our apartment building, so the hood was inaccessible.  I turned the key (it didn't start if you've been keeping up), but I was able to put it in neutral and let it roll down the driveway.  However, I'd have to turn the car uphill in order for me to park it downhill (everything in the bay area is at some sort of angle).  There was some pretty crazy leg pressing going on as I pushed my car slightly uphill, jumped in, pulled the steering wheel with everything, and managed to depress the manual brakes before ramming Annie's gas-guzzling SUV.

I have no real tools at my apartment, but I managed to do it all by myself.  It required using a random-ass assortment of tools available at the local auto parts store.  While struggling to get the battery out in the parking lot, there were some great moments.  One African American guy walked by (and into the store) shirtless, openly smoking a joint.  He didn't seem to give a f*ck.  Also, two Hispanic guys climbed out the back of a semi trailer and asked me what the price of some tires sitting outside were, as if I gave a f*ck.  I'm out $100, but that's way better than I thought it would be in the middle of my freakout.  I then went home and made chili in a crock pot, and I took the rest of the day off work for some macho time watching Bill Burr's first HBO Special.  Once again, I had one of those days where my pimpmones were flowin'!

Can I even talk about bridesmaids and pimpmones in the same post?
~RoB