A Pluck Pluck Here. . . A Pluck Pluck There

I have long hated my eyebrows. They are thick and bushy and not very lady-like, I'm convinced.

I've been known to examine them in the rear-view mirror when driving long distances, and when best pal Jodi is along for those rides, she has to listen as I contemplate my plans to reshape them and subsequently better my life.

"They are fine," she says. Over and over.

But last weekend when I took the tweezers into my own hands and plucked out globs of eyebrow hair in an attempt to thin them out, her response was different.

"Is it just me or did I create a bald spot on each eyebrow when I plucked today?" I asked.

"Yeah," she chuckled heartily. "I can totally see them." And then, she was gone. Buckled over with laughter.

"It's not funny!" I shouted.

"Trust me," she could hardly get the words out. "It's hilarious."

I learned two things from her that day: 1) I'm going to shut up about the eyebrows, and 2) I'm going to get myself an eyebrow pencil.

There's No Fun In Fungi

For weeks, maybe months, I've been meaning to remove the dark spots from the outside of the Nalgene bottle that hydrates me daily. I figured I had gotten some marker on it and that it just needed a good scrubbing -- something I'd get to eventually. As I attempted once again to rub the spots with my finger tonight, I had an epiphany. It's not marker. It's mold. Growing on the inside. Many, many spots of it.

Promptly, I threw the whole thing away. And at almost the same instant I began to feel my throat close from the fungus that is surely growing there as well. Soon it will likely make its way into my lungs and stomach. I never thought it would all end this way, but if it has to, someone, please, nominate me for the Darwin award.

Dating in the 21st Century

Despite my many attempts, I cannot get the guy I'm dating to read the blog.

"It's private," he says.

"Um. No. It's public," I respond.

"Yeah, but it's like reading your diary," he continues.

"No. It's like reading my blog," I counter.

"I'd rather read writing of yours that's more crafted and polished," he states matter-of-factly.

I pause.

He doesn't realize this is grounds for a break up, but I remain calm and point out that he cannot know how crafted and polished the blog is if he isn't reading it. And in that moment, I decide it's best that he doesn't read the blog so that I might rally the blogging troops who will wonder with me, WTF?

Perhaps. . .

I will finally get the raking under control.

Today, I am 31.

I don't really have a feeling about that number. Doesn't feel like much of a turning point.

Deciding it would be a good idea to take on a new challenge for the new year anyway, I talked best GF, Jodi, into taking a swimming lesson with me. Together, we could swim away the winter woes and all would be swell.

We met at the pool yesterday in matching blue suits (not planned) and instructor Margaret had us plop into the shallow end. "What would you like to learn?" she asked. "Front crawl," I replied confidently. "We want to be able to swim laps."

It didn't take long for me to remember why I can't already do the front crawl: I panic underwater.

Coordinating the breathing and the strokes and the kicking and the keeping of a straight line -- how does anyone do this? Actually, I could have asked Jodi for the answer to this question because she was moving along like a torpedo while I coughed and spittled after every second stroke. And even though my panic made me forget them all the instant my face went under, Margaret kept giving pointers. "Breathe in and out slowly. Count your strokes. Keep your ear in the water," she said. But even louder, my body told me, "THIS IS NOT NATURAL."

After taking in my fifth gallon of water, I did it. I gave up. Just like that. I looked at Margaret and said calmly, "I can't swim. I can't do this." She knew I meant it and didn't ask me to try again. More importantly, she didn't say a real coachy thing like, "You can if you put your mind to it!" She had seen my sorry attempts, after all.

So, I didn't learn to swim yesterday. Perhaps it's a bad omen for my 31st year, but I prefer to look at it this way:

Every now and then, it feels really GOOD to give up. For once, under all the stress of teaching, writing a thesis, and owning a home, I could admit, with certainty, I can't. Someday, maybe, I'll try again, but for now, I don't have to, I don't want to learn one. more. thing. I can't.

And I know that I will still move forward as a 31-year-old woman -- I'll just be doing it on dry land.

I Think I Can

Meeting with advisor yesterday was a success. She thinks I'm doing okay on the Big-Ass Paper, but must keep plugging along. Writing is slow. Writing is hard. She confirmed these things for me.

The good news is that she thinks I can finish in December . . . the bad news is that she thinks I can finish in December.

So. Goodbye November. I won't have time to enjoy you, but I'll think fondly of you now and then.

Getting Old Is Gross

The Big 3-1 is just days away.

I'd like to glide into this new year of my life in a state of grace and tranquility, but the fact that I had to Google "really bad gas" first thing this morning makes me think it's going to be a turbulent and noisy transition.

The Big Adjustment

Lil sis spent big bucks on photography school this past summer. Understandably, papadoc turns to her when he has any photo-related question.

"Cass, what's wrong with my camera. Why is it all black in this corner?" he inquired after snapping a photo of his daughters.

"Let me see," the expert responded. "Ah. Yes."

We awaited the diagnosis.

"That's your thumb."

Now that she's moved to Connecticut to become a nanny, how will he get by?