Tricky Whisker

I have a whisker on my cheek.

A WHISKER.

Not a chin whisker, I've been sprouting those for years now. Not a boob whisker, I've been plucking those for almost a decade. 

(Sorry to kill any hair-free boob fantasies you may have held.)

A cheek whisker. Like the ones my husband and my son grow and shave off when the mood strikes them. Except, unlike the whiskers Bruce and Nash grow, this whisker is not blonde.

No. It's long and black. A thick wirey whisker. Pointing out of my cheek like it's an old fashioned radio antenna looking for a signal. 

You know who grows cheek whiskers? Men and old women. I'm too young to be old so the only logical conclusion is I'm turning into a man.

To add insult to hairy injury, my whisker moves. I can never catch it to pluck it. Oh sure, I'll crane my head, use two mirrors, the brightest lights and the sharpest tweezers, but I can never find it. I'll think to myself, "oh, it was a false alarm, that long hair I was just fondling, it doesn't really exist." And I'll put the tweezers and the mirrors down and turn off the bright lights and walk away.

My tricky whisker? It is still there. I'm walking around with a whisker. It's similar to walking around with toilet paper stuck to one's shoe. You don't notice it until someone points it out and then you die of mortification.

"Um, Tanis? There is something on your cheek. It looks like a smudge."

I rub my cheek, and ask "Is it gone?" and that's when they'll furrow their brows and then look closer and I can tell the moment they realize what it is that caught their eye.

"Oh! It's not a smudge! It's a WHISKER! Holy, it's kinda long!" And then they'll proceed to try and yank it out of my face except they will only succeed in pinching my skin and shaming me. My tricky whisker will live on to see another day.

Rinse and repeat. Day after day.

I know the day is coming that soon my tricky whisker will have company. I'll soon sprout a field full of cheek whiskers. There is no such thing as a sole whisker. They get lonely. Ask my chin. Or my chest.

My immediate future.

I turned 37 and it all went to crap. My fine lines are actual wrinkles, I've old lady acne and now, man hair. On top of all of this, there is no way anyone could ever use the word 'perky' to describe me unless they're talking about my sparkling personality.

Don't get me wrong. I'm healthy and I'm happy. I'm just also kinda hairy now. In ways I never was before. I look at my beautiful daughter, morphing into a woman, more so every day, and I marvel. I once looked like that.

Smooth. Whiskerless. Youthful.

She's an unlined blank canvass, ready to take on womanhood.

I can't wait for her whiskers to come in.

Misery loves company after all.

Next up: neck whiskers and a full beard! 

***Postscript***

Bruce has since informed me that I already have neck whiskers. He said he didn't want to point them out to me because I get all weird and hysterical about stuff like that but he insists they are cute. And by cute, he means, turn to the left and lean a bit because if I stand in the right spot while he's playing games online, he's convinced all my whiskers will help channel faster Internet signal into his Xbox.

I've since scheduled to have everything between my forehead and my belly button waxed.

I'm also looking into traveling circuses. Anyone need a bearded lady?

Daddies and Daughters

I was 20 years old when I bought my first car. I had only had my license for a few months and I would have happily borrowed one of my parents vehicles forever, had my parents agreed to it.

But my boss kept telling me if I wanted to move up on the corporate ladder I needed to ditch the bus pass and get some wheels and my boyfriend kept telling me he was poor and couldn't afford to drive in from the countryside every night to come and see me. 

It was time for me to embrace my independence. My job and my love life depended on it.

The search for car to call my own had begun.

I remember I found more than a few lemons along the way. I also remember being propositioned, belittled and just once, proposed to by a pathetic balding forty-ish man who lived at home with his mother. 

That was the last time I looked at the classified ads for used cars.

Then, one afternoon, my dad took me to a used car dealership. We looked at one shiny car after another; I'd stroke the dashboard and remark how pretty it looked, as he'd pop the hood and ask about engine combustion and such. He helped me pick out a vehicle and take it for a test drive and when the car passed his inspection and held up my standards for looking pretty, he held my hand as I signed my very first car loan agreement.

I wasn't just signing my life away to a dealership for eight grand; I was signing the papers of my independence.

He handed me my very first set of car keys and stood silent as he watched me drive away, all tail lights and freedom and he's been watching me drive away ever since. 

Daddies and daughters.

Today, Ken gets her very first set of wheels to call her own. 

Today, Bruce is holding his daughter's hand as she insures and registers her very first car and once again, life has gone full circle.

Today, Bruce will hand Ken her very first set of car keys and he'll watch her taillights disappear down our lane, as she drives towards the freedom just waiting for her.

And just like my dad, he'll never stop watching for those taillights, even as she keeps driving away.

Daddies and daughters. 

Me? I'm just going to sit here and quietly clutch my kleenex and marvel at how quickly it all goes.

And then I'm going to call my dad.

***

It's been a good week. Even if the week included dentists, broken hearing aides and thousand dollar car seats for Knox.

Thank god for boxed macaroni and cheese. Because that's about all I can now afford.

37 and still with the zit paste. I blame this on my children. Their puberty is rubbing off on me.

Knox wasn't the only one with dental woes this week.

Guess who sat up ON HIS OWN and discovered he has a bedroom window with a view?  

Happiness in a hospital. It is possible.

Have a great weekend. May there be many squeals of delight for each of you.

Freaky Friday

Before my husband left for work this week, he asked if I wanted to join him as he ran some last minute errands. We like to squeeze in as much time together as possible because we never know how long he is going to be absent.

Traditionally our dates include dinner and a movie to be followed up with a rousing argument about why one of us has the worst taste in movies, ever. It's our 'been together almost 22 years' version of foreplay. 

However, if my husband wanted to get romantic at the local farm equipment supply store, I wasn't going to argue. The farm equipment supply store is my crack. I don't know why. I'm a city girl. But there is something about troughs and tractor parts that get me hot and bothered. 

So much so, that upon leaving that store, when my husband asked, "When was the last time you were lubed?" I answered him.

Only to notice he didn't respond in the manner in which I had thought he would.

Because he was too busy staring at me, mouth agape, with a horrified look on his face.

"What is the matter with you, woman? I meant, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD YOUR VEHICLE'S OIL CHANGED?"

Oh.

In my defense, you married me dude. The fault is clearly yours.

So my oil was changed, in the most literal sense and my husband wouldn't look me in the eyes. Every time I started to speak to him, he'd just shake his head and mutter under his breath.

Some oil changes are more fun than others.

Luckily, I had the video of the yelling goats to amuse me. 

(Also, if you thread the sound into your vehicle's stereo system like I did, you can entertain the entire lube shop. Much to your husband's chagrin.)

I'm now good for another 5000 kilometers before I need any sort of lubing. 

Oh, the bad jokes just keep writing themselves.

***

Earlier this week I stumbled on some forgotten videos I had posted, (basically my entire YouTube channel) and as I watched them, I was stunned to notice just two years ago I was taller than Nash. Who is currently 6 foot one inch. Or at least he was the last time he was measured.

The difference two years makes. And still, he hasn't learned to smile for his mother.

I had forgotten there was a time when I didn't have to look up while talking to my kid. Weird.

Upon this epiphany, I've decided to try something new over here on the B-side. Every Friday, or until I forget or get bored, I'm going to highlight some of the best moments I've captured over on Instagram. (I am not a good photographer and I am worse at Instagram. THIS IS SUCH A TREAT FOR Y'ALL!)

Mostly because my kids are 15 and 16 and my daughter will only be with us for one more year before she leaves for college. Nash has two years before I drop him off at some random dorm room.

This parenting gig? It's fleeting.

Also, puppies don't stay puppies for long.

LOOK AT ALL THE WISDOM I AM POURING FORTH. 

God. I'm a mommy blogger with out a mom blog. I CANT QUIT.

I need an intervention.

In the meantime, look at these photos.

STOP JUDGING ME.

***

This boy? Looks EXACTLY like the boy I was dating at 16. It's totally weird.

Abbott. I swear he's still a puppy.

The size of a 16 week old paw. STILL A PUPPY.

He knows his mother is a dork. And he loves her for it.

Knox's first photobomb. I'm so proud he's inherited my dorkiness.

Have a great weekend everyone. May your inner dork shine through.