I might have to go out and kill something. With a knife. And maybe eat it raw. I don't want to, but I don't see any other way out. I'm hoping I wonâ€™t have to paint my chest blue and howl at the full moon.
But if I do, I'm gonna go ahead and blame my daughters.
I have two daughters, and they're good people, but when they're around they tend to influence our TV watching habits. Personally, if football season is over and "Lethal Weapon" isn't on, I don't really care which channel we watch. I usually sit in my recliner with my laptop, pretending to work. In fact, most of the time, I have no idea what's on.
At least that's what I thought.
There's this show, called...I dunno, I can't remember what it's called. It has two snappily dressed people who ambush some woman who hasn't cut her hair in 12 years and gets all her clothes from a Salvation Army dumpster. They humiliate her on national TV, then take her to New York, buy her all new clothes, and put her in the hands of hair and makeup experts until she doesn't look at all the way she used to.
And that makes her happy -- which seems a little odd, now that I think about it.
It's a favorite at our place when the girls are home. They'll occasionally call to give us an update when they're not.
Anyway, Friday night I was on the couch and glanced up right at the moment when the lady was at maximum frumpiness and I said to myself, "Huh. If they use some rouge on her cheeks it'll really accentuate her bone structure, which is actually quite elegant."
Yeah, I know. Lord, take me now.
In my defense, I've been sick -- fighting a cold so nasty that I lack the strength to change the channel. Hard to tell what sort of information I've absorbed as I drowsed, coughed and shivered my time away in my recliner.
Hey, I'm a manly guy. I have scars, a limp and a crooked nose. Plus, I think that anyone who's seen me dressed on days when I pick out my own clothes will agree that I know nothing about fashion. Truthfully, I've never really aspired to it either. But after living with three women for a quarter of a century, I've apparently absorbed some fashion sense.
I didn't really see it coming. I mean, if I were going to acquire some sort of new midlife skill, the ability to give makeup tips is way, way down on my list. Hanging drywall? That would have been useful. Cabinetmaking and the ability to control my truck's gas mileage with my mind -- two more handy skills. Somehow, absorbing the knowledge to know the difference between rouge and blush just isn't so useful, at least not in my current line of work.
It's a little like having the ability to grow hair in my ears. Sure, I probably should be grateful for any hair growth, but the gratitude is a little tempered.
I left the room after I made my cheekbone observation, and didn't come wandering back in until the woman was in the makeup chair. The first thing the makeup lady did was smear a little rouge on her victim's cheekbones.