Thursday, July 7, 2011

I Mustache You A Question..What Is That?

Morning Readers,

     Sometimes I can't help myself. When I see a wall, the urge to run over to it and start slamming my forehead, repeatedly, is far too strong.The neighborhood kids have started calling me "Mrs. Denty Heads McGee", and I'm this close to being able to eat Fruit Loops out of the sweet, little divot above by eyebrows. Occasionally, the absurdities of life have this effect. For instance, why is it I'm required to shave every, last hair off my legs, shining them to a glow Mr. Clean would write me hate mail for, when Husband's allowed to aid the the Rainforest by growing a preserve on his upper lip? Twelve years of grammar, four years of college, and one English degree later, and all I can say is....It is furry... wombat.

    The obsession started several years ago. When we first started dating, the mustache hadn't been a major player in the relationship. It couldn't be. At that point, Chia pets had better chances of flourishing on Husband's face, but that didn't stop him from coaxing it, quietly encouraging it behind my back (Please Note: I've since found large tomes underneath the bed entitled "Growing Hair: Three Steps to Sacrificing Rodents to Get What You Want", "So You Want a Mustache: How To Make Growth Serum Without Accidentally Making Meth", and "Hair Today, Wife Gone Tomorrow: Making the Fair Trade"). Wedding vows were exchanged on the basis that a "stache" had no chance of ever occupying a prominent spot in our new life. But then.....

"It looks good, doesn't it?"

"So good." I peaked over my book and smiled.

"C'mon, you know you like it." Eyebrows wiggled seductively over what had recently become a full-fledged-write-yo-mamma-cause-Houston-we've-got-a-soup-strainer-on-our-hands...mustache.


"Mmm, yes. I've always wanted to know what it'd be like to share a bed with the love-child of Burt Reynolds and the Walrus from Alice in Wonderland. Like I good."

     A cruel turn of fate decided, where, once I had children, I received stretch marks as my consolation prize, Husband would be awarded an honorable mention in the form of being able to grow a mustache bikers would be jealous of. I now lay awake at night, tallying up all the ways I can possibly thank Mother Nature. "You Mam..", I whisper. "Are a delight....what can I get you? Chocolate? Roses?..A punch in the face?"
     Now Readers, don't get me wrong. I'm not implying Husband is unattractive while sporting said mustache. On the contrary, it's frustrating how easily he can pull-off seducing me with a Brillo pad stuck to his face, and I can't even get help sacking my groceries without shaving my ankles, first.
     Last night, I turned over and tried to go to sleep. Before I knew it, the back of my neck was being "swept", and arms wrapped around me seemed to say, "Don't worry, I've got an army of Wizard Chin Warmers ready to keep you safe from your nightmares.

I dreamed about being chased by giant, killer mustaches....

     Ahh well. I'll try not to get too upset about it. If it makes him happy, I'm happy. And just for fun, I'll kick off the weekend by letting my mustache grow. I hear men like a little competition...
Also, I'd like to mention that the picture of the late, great Clark Gable isn't an accurate portrayal of Husband or his mustache. As Husband is much better looking, I apologize for any resulting confusion.
Until Next Time, Readers!