11:43 P.M.—Microwaving.
11:44 P.M.—Microwaving.
11:45 P.M.—Microwaving.
11:46 P.M.—Microwaving.
11:47 P.M.—I think my microwave may be broken.
11:48 P.M.—Ah, there we go.
11:49 P.M.—I don’t have a stick, so I’ll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.
11:50 P.M.—“Well, what do you expect? I just seared off my own fingerprint!”
11:51 P.M.—Blow and cool. Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.
11:52 P.M.—Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.
11:53 P.M.—Is not hardening.
11:54 P.M.—Is not hardening.
11:55 P.M.—Is not hardening. Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.
11:56 P.M.—Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter. (Hate metric system.)
11:57 P.M.—Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.
11:57 P.M.—Hurty.
11:58 P.M.—Hurty.
11:59 P.M.—So very hurty.
12:00 A.M.—Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits.
12:01 A.M.—Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours and paying a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.
12:02 A.M.—The good news is the hair is coming off.
12:03 A.M.—The bad news is, so is my skin.
12:04 A.M.—How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?
12:05 A.M.—On second thought, he’d be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime. Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.
12:06 A.M.—… And it’s finally off!
12:07 A.M.—Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.
12:08 A.M.—I know, I’ll use baby oil. That gets rid of sticky stuff.
12:09 A.M.—Hmm, I don’t have baby oil. Instead opt for canola oil. (Is heart-healthy.)
12:10 A.M.—Wax is off, now to remove oil. Need toner.
12:11 A.M.—But tossed out toner after that whole “who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?” incident.
12:12 A.M.—Will use Fletch’s toner. Quietly.
12:13 A.M.—!!!
12:14 A.M.—“WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN ‘GLYCOLIC ACID’ IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!”
12:15 A.M.—Probably should plan to make an “I’m sorry I got shouty after midnight” mousse tomorrow.
12:16 A.M.—Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb. Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpsons character.
12:17 A.M.—So this is what I’d look like if I had the ability to grow a big, red Fu Manchu mustache. Noted.
12:18 A.M.—In retrospect, perhaps “learn to twirl it” wasn’t such a bad idea.
12:19 A.M.—Is really late. Must get ready for bed.
12:20 A.M.—I wonder if anyone else on the Internet is wrong?
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Philosophy makes a moisturizer that states on the label that you won’t find so many imperfections if you don’t go looking for them. The manufacturers of Philosophy products are a bunch of baby-booming hippies.
My philosophy is you won’t find so many imperfections if you simply have that shit lasered.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·H·R·E·E
Flipping the Script
“What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Ignoring it.”
“Ha. Right.”
When I don’t respond, Stacey cuts her eyes away from the road to glance over at me. “No, seriously, what are your plans?” [A shorter “fictionalized” version of this story is available in Stacey’s fabulous book Off the Menu, in stores July 2012. Even though Jeneration X comes out first, Stacey wrote hers before I did. I felt that should be noted.]
I reply, “I’m being serious. We plan on pretending that Thanksgiving isn’t happening.”
Stacey and I are on our weekly pilgrimage to the Kingsbury Street Whole Foods Market. Stacey was out of the country when the place opened this May, so it was me who took her here for the first time when she returned in June. And now? It’s our special place; it’s kind of like our church, if churches specialized in locally sourced, grass-fed beef.
I’ve always loved going to the grocery store, long before I learned to cook. There’s something about the cool, crisp, refrigerated air, the pyramids of glossy, precisely stacked fruits and vegetables, and aisle after aisle of neatly faced cans and boxes that deeply appeals to my inner need for order. [Or my inner need to “control things” as per Fletch.] My favorite time to shop is early afternoon, before the after-work rush, because that’s when everything is at its calmest and tidiest. (Before you ask, of course I’m the shopper who rearranges the jars of tomato sauce after I select one to keep the shelf pristine and symmetrical.)
So if grocery shopping in an orderly, well-stocked store is good, then imagine doing so in the third-largest WFM in the world. Situated on the river, the Kingsbury store boasts an entire promenade where shoppers can stroll and dine and watch boats pass. In fact, the best view of the Chicago skyline can be seen from the top of the three-story parking garage. And that’s just the outside!
The inside of the store is nothing short of monolithic. The fresh produce area alone is the size of a football field and it’s bordered by a coffee bar. The fact that they’re all about being “organic” and I can’t get a damn Splenda for my latte is an annoyingly first-world problem for sure, but that’s why I always carry extras in my purse. [You never know when you’ll have to sweeten on the go.]
Did I mention the coffee bar serves beer and wine, too, and always has sports on the flat screen? For me, this isn’t as much of a selling point as you’d think because certain members of the WFM customer base are cluelessly aggravating enough without adding public intoxication to the mix. [Although to the person who always parks his Range Rover in the ALTERNATIVE FUELS ONLY parking spot? I like your style.]
Beyond the produce section is the fresh seafood area where the mongers wear those big rubber boots-pants you see on the fish-tossers at Pike’s Market in Seattle. Even though I’m pretty sure the staff members just got off the El and not a Bering Sea crabbing vessel, I appreciate the nod to authenticity.
There are places to sit and have a cocktail or meal throughout the store. Between the dairy and wine sections is a big wine-and-cheese bar, and past that you’ll find
