Mrs. The King
Jiggler Owner
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2008
- Messages
- 913
We have been rearranging PS’s room. It got painted and the toys weeded through. The set up now is so sweet, I just keep walking in there to look around. She has yellow and purple walls, a loft bed and finally, her name spelled out in ceramic letters.
It should get me motivated to organize the rest of the house. Butt instead, I am writing this chapter.
Yesterday morning, I got to see one of the fun tricks being 34 plays on you. I spied that apparently overnight, four longish chin hairs had decided to make an appearance. So, I started my hunt. For my good tweezers.
After years of plucking stray eyebrow hairs with a poorly designed pair, I had bought expensive tweezers. By expensive I mean over $3, but under $5.
The old pair of pluckers was the worst design ever. They had the rounded edges. The design team of crappy tweezers must have sat around trying to replicate the sensation of using two newborn baby’s tiny fists to grab a hair. Slippery, inaccurate, and frustrating.
After cursing a blue streak at them one day, I realized there must be a better design. And made a mental note to grab a nice pair next time I was at the store.
Two years after that, I remembered to buy them. My mental notes are like throwing a message in a bottle at the seashore. You have no idea when they will find you.
So I purchased the high-class pluckers, for high class random hairs. They were like two razor blades sodered onto a sleek pincer. I came home and waged war on my facial hair. Anything that glinted in my harsh bathroom light was whipped away. I went overboard. Who knew that some of the hair on your face denotes personality and expression?
I stepped away from my overzealous pluck mania. I was surprised. My face was as smooth as a newly painted wall. I stopped feeling surprised, but my face refused to calm down.
Too much, I had plucked too much of my eyebrows.
For about the next two weeks, I spent much of my time explaining to the other humans I encountered that I was ok. I was not just back from witnessing a ghost. I was not carrying a pile of tacks in my underwear.
By the time the eyebrows had resumed their shape, I had lost my new tweezers/razors. Maybe it was divine intervention.
I went back to the trusty newborn baby fist pluckers.
Because I was now too stubborn to go out and replace the expensive tweezers.
When the errant, offensive 34 year old chin hairs alarmed me in the mirror, I began the hunt. For the tweezers. Preferably, the ones that meant business. I could recall the smoothness that they had inflicted on me. While searching, I could not help but keep on stroking the new hairs like Col. Sanders thinking about fried chicken.
The hairs were so corse. I kept peeking in the mirror while ransacking my bathroom cabinet.
Oh My Dog! One of the four hairs is black! Black! I feel like my chin is giving me the finger. What kind of crazy hormone is turning one chin hair black?
I give up on finding the fabulous, lethal razor tweezers, the Angelina Jolie of pluckers, if you will. I start searching for the baby fist tweezers.
Anything will do!
I feel like there is a spotlight on my chin now. If I don’t get them plucked soon, they will turn into a full-fledged goatee. Baby fists are missing too.
Mrs. The King is ready to loose her plucking mind.
I spy out of my panicked eye, the toenail clippers. I seize them and run into my bedroom so I can get real close to the mirror.
Plucking chin hairs with a toenail clipper is tricky business. I wish I could say I have no experience with using toenail clippers for unconventional things, but you know and I know, I can’t.
Sometimes, I use them for scissors. Little, tiny inaccurate scissors.
So I line up the clippers and the hair. I bite my bottom lip and stick my chin out like Jay Leno.
I close one eye.
Mr. The King walks in and sees me.
Mr. The King wisely walks right out again without saying anything.
I focus back on the hair. I try and pluck just before I clip. Because if I cut them, well, then I will just be trimming them back some. And that does not teach the hairs a lesson at all. Actually, trimming them makes them feel special and loved.
Turns out trying to judge the exact thickness of a chin hair is kind of hard. I wound up trimming them. Like a hedge. Or a Christmas tree.
Somebody remind me to buy expensive clippers again before the hair grows back.
Well, maybe I should talk about Disney.
Mrs. The King and PS were waiting for our boys to return from their trip on Soarin’. I had apologized to PS for being very unPrincess like to her. One of the things I love about Mr. The King is that he insured that PC had a great ride despite his mother and sister having to leave. When we were all reunited, we knew it was time to leave. The party was over. Our Van was packed with all our things. We had checked out of POP Century hours before.
We still had an obscene amount of credit left on the various dining plans available to us. We headed into the Electric Umbrella (Zzub, please note the proper placement of the restaurant.) As we walked in, we were informed that they were closing. My very unDisney response was “Of course you are!” complete with the throwing of hands in the air.
The ending was turning into a bookend of the beginning of our trip.
Remember as we arrived in Disney we had the glitter in the jellybag incident?
Well, here at the end, we seemed to be running into the kicking you in the Jiggler on your way out incident.
First Soarin’ turning into a fiasco for some of us, and now we seemed to be flushing the rest of our dinning credits down a super flushing Disney toilet.
Deep, cleansing breaths. We are leaving Epcot. Our backs turned to the World Showcase, headed towards the big ball. I am looking down at the glowing bits of magical sidewalk, remembering the kids playing at night with their imagination and these very slabs of concrete.
No one likes leaving Disney. I like leaving Disney with a sour taste in my mouth even less.
And all of a sudden the sky lights up like Santa combusting with the dawn. The Kings turn around to realize that they happened to be the perfect distance from the fireworks. Plenty close to see the little flecks of sparkle from each stream of light, but not close enough that the crack from the detention makes you pee a little.
All the people around us stop and turn as well.
Fireworks. Pretty explosions. I love that we are all simple enough to turn around for a moment, and be delighted. Did you ever notice you don’t think a lot during fireworks? Just a few words maybe.
Kids.
Happy.
Together.
Just a few words are enough to put a tear in your eye, and then you turn your face towards the smoky sky and wait. Wait for what is next to see.
So we huddled together and watched Disney’s goodbye.
We walked out of the park. Head back to the overstuffed van, buckle everyone in.
We are ready to go when it happens.
Mrs. The King gets an idea.
She turns to Mr. The King.
Me~ “Hey, POP Century’s food court is open until 12:00 a.m.”
Mr. The King raises an eyebrow.
Me~ “Maybe they will let us in to use up our credits there?”
Now, we had checked out.
We had said our goodbyes.
What would retracing the walk of shame be like?
Well, it turns out it is like burying your beloved pet hamster. And then digging that poor sucker up and popping his carcass in his exercise ball for one more quick trip down the stairs.
Up Next: What does it feel like to rip the bandage off the wound too soon? Will the Kings even get back in to POP?
Chapter 34 Ode to One Ply Toilet Paper and Plunged Fish
It should get me motivated to organize the rest of the house. Butt instead, I am writing this chapter.
Yesterday morning, I got to see one of the fun tricks being 34 plays on you. I spied that apparently overnight, four longish chin hairs had decided to make an appearance. So, I started my hunt. For my good tweezers.
After years of plucking stray eyebrow hairs with a poorly designed pair, I had bought expensive tweezers. By expensive I mean over $3, but under $5.
The old pair of pluckers was the worst design ever. They had the rounded edges. The design team of crappy tweezers must have sat around trying to replicate the sensation of using two newborn baby’s tiny fists to grab a hair. Slippery, inaccurate, and frustrating.
After cursing a blue streak at them one day, I realized there must be a better design. And made a mental note to grab a nice pair next time I was at the store.
Two years after that, I remembered to buy them. My mental notes are like throwing a message in a bottle at the seashore. You have no idea when they will find you.
So I purchased the high-class pluckers, for high class random hairs. They were like two razor blades sodered onto a sleek pincer. I came home and waged war on my facial hair. Anything that glinted in my harsh bathroom light was whipped away. I went overboard. Who knew that some of the hair on your face denotes personality and expression?
I stepped away from my overzealous pluck mania. I was surprised. My face was as smooth as a newly painted wall. I stopped feeling surprised, but my face refused to calm down.
Too much, I had plucked too much of my eyebrows.
For about the next two weeks, I spent much of my time explaining to the other humans I encountered that I was ok. I was not just back from witnessing a ghost. I was not carrying a pile of tacks in my underwear.
By the time the eyebrows had resumed their shape, I had lost my new tweezers/razors. Maybe it was divine intervention.
I went back to the trusty newborn baby fist pluckers.
Because I was now too stubborn to go out and replace the expensive tweezers.
When the errant, offensive 34 year old chin hairs alarmed me in the mirror, I began the hunt. For the tweezers. Preferably, the ones that meant business. I could recall the smoothness that they had inflicted on me. While searching, I could not help but keep on stroking the new hairs like Col. Sanders thinking about fried chicken.
The hairs were so corse. I kept peeking in the mirror while ransacking my bathroom cabinet.
Oh My Dog! One of the four hairs is black! Black! I feel like my chin is giving me the finger. What kind of crazy hormone is turning one chin hair black?
I give up on finding the fabulous, lethal razor tweezers, the Angelina Jolie of pluckers, if you will. I start searching for the baby fist tweezers.
Anything will do!
I feel like there is a spotlight on my chin now. If I don’t get them plucked soon, they will turn into a full-fledged goatee. Baby fists are missing too.
Mrs. The King is ready to loose her plucking mind.
I spy out of my panicked eye, the toenail clippers. I seize them and run into my bedroom so I can get real close to the mirror.
Plucking chin hairs with a toenail clipper is tricky business. I wish I could say I have no experience with using toenail clippers for unconventional things, but you know and I know, I can’t.
Sometimes, I use them for scissors. Little, tiny inaccurate scissors.
So I line up the clippers and the hair. I bite my bottom lip and stick my chin out like Jay Leno.
I close one eye.Mr. The King walks in and sees me.
Mr. The King wisely walks right out again without saying anything.
I focus back on the hair. I try and pluck just before I clip. Because if I cut them, well, then I will just be trimming them back some. And that does not teach the hairs a lesson at all. Actually, trimming them makes them feel special and loved.
Turns out trying to judge the exact thickness of a chin hair is kind of hard. I wound up trimming them. Like a hedge. Or a Christmas tree.
Somebody remind me to buy expensive clippers again before the hair grows back.
Well, maybe I should talk about Disney.
Mrs. The King and PS were waiting for our boys to return from their trip on Soarin’. I had apologized to PS for being very unPrincess like to her. One of the things I love about Mr. The King is that he insured that PC had a great ride despite his mother and sister having to leave. When we were all reunited, we knew it was time to leave. The party was over. Our Van was packed with all our things. We had checked out of POP Century hours before.
We still had an obscene amount of credit left on the various dining plans available to us. We headed into the Electric Umbrella (Zzub, please note the proper placement of the restaurant.) As we walked in, we were informed that they were closing. My very unDisney response was “Of course you are!” complete with the throwing of hands in the air.
The ending was turning into a bookend of the beginning of our trip.
Remember as we arrived in Disney we had the glitter in the jellybag incident?
Well, here at the end, we seemed to be running into the kicking you in the Jiggler on your way out incident.
First Soarin’ turning into a fiasco for some of us, and now we seemed to be flushing the rest of our dinning credits down a super flushing Disney toilet.
Deep, cleansing breaths. We are leaving Epcot. Our backs turned to the World Showcase, headed towards the big ball. I am looking down at the glowing bits of magical sidewalk, remembering the kids playing at night with their imagination and these very slabs of concrete.
No one likes leaving Disney. I like leaving Disney with a sour taste in my mouth even less.
And all of a sudden the sky lights up like Santa combusting with the dawn. The Kings turn around to realize that they happened to be the perfect distance from the fireworks. Plenty close to see the little flecks of sparkle from each stream of light, but not close enough that the crack from the detention makes you pee a little.
All the people around us stop and turn as well.
Fireworks. Pretty explosions. I love that we are all simple enough to turn around for a moment, and be delighted. Did you ever notice you don’t think a lot during fireworks? Just a few words maybe.
Kids.
Happy.
Together.
Just a few words are enough to put a tear in your eye, and then you turn your face towards the smoky sky and wait. Wait for what is next to see.
So we huddled together and watched Disney’s goodbye.
We walked out of the park. Head back to the overstuffed van, buckle everyone in.
We are ready to go when it happens.
Mrs. The King gets an idea.
She turns to Mr. The King.Me~ “Hey, POP Century’s food court is open until 12:00 a.m.”
Mr. The King raises an eyebrow.
Me~ “Maybe they will let us in to use up our credits there?”
Now, we had checked out.
We had said our goodbyes.
What would retracing the walk of shame be like?
Well, it turns out it is like burying your beloved pet hamster. And then digging that poor sucker up and popping his carcass in his exercise ball for one more quick trip down the stairs.
Up Next: What does it feel like to rip the bandage off the wound too soon? Will the Kings even get back in to POP?
Chapter 34 Ode to One Ply Toilet Paper and Plunged Fish
Thank you 
I am so glad you LOLed!!! How did I know you would like the dead hamster part the best!
The tweezer thing...the chin hairs....Laughed out loud, and i mean really loud, like a crack of thunder.
And then funny. 
here, burly, are some flowers. for your holey moley thing.
