Thread.

I got my eyebrows threaded yesterday, something I like to do from time to time. It's more of a shaping exercise than a plucking one. And man alive, does it hurt. But the process is fascinating enough that maybe that allays the pain a bit.

You have to admit, my eyebrow game is fierce.

What do you think of my braids? I can't remember my hair ever being long enough to pull this off. And by the way, that shirt was $4 at the Gap. My shopping game is also quite fierce these days.

Threading photo is from here.

You could be a farmer in those clothes.

Bonus points to anyone who knows where the quote in the title comes from.

I am rocking a serious farmer's tan from walking every day. (Also: how square are my ankles?) It's very tragic and noticeable in this season of sandals. What's more tragic is that I haven't had legs tan enough to create a contrast like this in years. Except...

Except for last year's beach debacle at South Padre Island. That umbrella is the color of pure evil. It's also the color of the second-degree burn I received on both legs.

My legs were either completely under the shade of the umbrella or in the water the entire day. They were never directly exposed to the sun. I guess there's some kind of reflective property to the sand that I never knew about. Beach-going in Texas is very different from beach-going in California.

California: lay down on a towel; 32-oz Diet Coke, preferably in styrofoam; maybe a magazine to read

Texas: never lay on the sand--always a chair; picnic tent for shade; bring a coolerful of snacks/drinks

Maybe because I never grew up sitting in a chair at the beach, with my legs at 90-degree angles to the sand, I never imagined that I would end up with the worst leg sunburn of my life at age 32, when I am much wiser and more careful about the sun.

Despite all this, I do love a little color on my arms and legs.

Way to ruin a moment.

The other day I was walking into Target to do my weekly grocery shopping. It was a hot day, and there was an old man sitting on one of the cement pile-ons in front of the store. He was wearing a tweed blazer and long pants, and it looked like he was waiting for someone to pick him up. I felt instantly bad for him; it was just so hot. So I smiled at him, and he asked me how I was doing. When I asked him back, he said, "It's a great day when I see such a beautiful woman."

Aw, shucks.

And then he had to go one step too far. He swiveled around on the pile-on toward the entrance of the store and said: "If you don't mind, I'm going to watch you walk into the store."

You old pervert. You ruined a perfectly lovely moment.

And yes, I was flattered.

"Free" facial.

I went for a "free" facial, chair massage, and makeover at Origins today. And since I am weak and an easy sell, I walked out with $60 in eye creams. Not so free after all. Could have been worse--I'm pretty sure she used at least $350 worth of products on me, and my face is so soft right now I would have bought all of them.

I'm especially in love with this GinZing. Totally covers the dark circles under my eyes. I was pretty pleased, since I regularly look like I haven't slept a wink, even on nights where I've slept more hours than a baby kitten (read: a lot).


*I know bloggers have to legally disclose when they've been paid to review something, and I'm not sure that applies to regular non-famous, bearly-read non-bloggers like me, but at any rate, I was not paid in any way.

Oh, fudge.

Here's my lame attempt at a food blog, inspired by the Pioneer Woman lemon bars Steph mentioned on her blog. It's WW fudge, pretty much idiot-proof, and no double-boiler needed.

1. Put on your cute Anthro apron from your dear friend. Be sure to have a weird smile on your face.

3

2. Gather your ingredients: fat-free evaporated milk, light butter, sugar, semi-sweet chocolate chips, and large marshmallows.

3. The milk, sugar, and butter go into a sauce pan till boiling.

4. It's boiling! Turn down it to medium-low and stir for 3 minutes.

 5. Add add the chocolate chips and the marshmallows.

6. Get ready to stir for a while--those large marshmallows take a long time to melt down.

 7. Chill for a couple hours in a greased pan, and then cut them into 36 bite-size pieces. Very rich, but way less fat than regular fudge.

8. Take these, along with those aforementioned lemon squares, to work for a baby shower and prepare to be adored. More than usual, even.

Ghost of a chance.

While discussing with my mom potential bedroom assignments (i.e., which rooms are haunted) and where everyone is going to sleep at the cabin vacation this summer, this question was raised: do we want the place to be haunted, or don’t we?

Interesting. My best answer is: yes while I’m not there, but no while I am.

And let’s be honest: how am I going to recognize a ghostly encounter from my usual nightly tomfoolery? For Pete’s sake, last night I yelled “Get out of here!” to the people I thought had set up a table and chairs in our bedroom. So.

Snob.

I recently filled out a survey about the literature/journal/modern languages dept. at Point Loma. They wanted to know how PLNC (now PLNU, of course) helped prepare me for grad school, employment, and teaching. Truth time: not very well. I went to Point Loma for the atmosphere, stayed for the people, but was never under any illusions about the academic rigor. I found most of my classes--save two: linguists and literary theory--to be quite easy. Not to say I didn't have some great classes and engaging professors; I just don't think people pick Point Loma because of the academics. I didn't. If I were picking now, I would totally pick differently. But it was the perfect fit for me at the time.

Anyway, the survey asked what book I was reading. If I were telling the truth, I would have said Away, by Amy Bloom, which I picked up off the clearance rack at Half Price Books. But I didn't feel that book had enough gravitas. So I reached back into the recent past for a book I thought would be lit-major worthy. World's End, by T.C. Boyle, sounded the better choice. I almost put Lolita, but I didn't want anyone to think that I was just now getting around to reading it; this was a second read. I felt as though I had a rep to protect.

Chris and I talk often about how book lovers often put on airs about the books they read, and how dumb that is. He can't believe that anyone would find Dickens wordy or archaic; I can't believe anyone would read any Victorian literature at all these days. I think he dislikes the amount of contemporary literature on our shelves, and I'm no fan of all the Stephen King books we have. Yet the first thing I would tell someone about reading is to read what you like and not worry about what's hip or popular.

I am a riddle wrapped in a enigma wrapped in puzzle, or whatever that expression is. Or I'm just a lousy hypocrite. Either way, at least it's over something that doesn't matter very much.