an exercise in self-indulgence

» Tuesday, August 30, 2005

It's not true, what I said about bagels in my last post. I don't have the inside scoop. I apologize. Like Phil Hartman and thousands before him, I am just an unfrozen caveman lawyer; I know not what I do.

Whatever.

This week, Lupschada packs up her books and records, bundles them in a red-checked kerchief on a stick and slouches toward New York City to be born. This week, I will reconcile my split lives – I will have a simple answer when asked where I hang my hat. (Note to self: buy hat. And hat-rack.) Next week, I will brave the throng of the rush-hour metropolis with my elbows out, fearlessly.

I bid a gelid farewell to the squalor of Greyhounds! I bid you adieu, ill-tempered bus drivers! May I see you again, someday, in Hell.

» Thursday, August 04, 2005

People, seriously. You're sick of all the lies. You need someone to come clean. I'm here to come clean about depilatory cream.

I wasn't fooled by the ads. The two-pound girl in boyshort underpants and a beater is unusually ebullient for a girl having her body hair chemically burned off at the follicle. Did I say unusual? Nay, unbelievable. I'm half-inclined to think some "director" put her up to it. In any case, though I was certain that using a specific brand-name depilatory would make me two pounds and adorable, I suffered no illusions that I would have the time of my life in the process. I'm no rube.

I bought it on a whim. It was some sunny morning - I walked out of the house in a skirt and a daze, vaguely assured of smooth legs, as assured as one can be without bothering to look down. When I was properly awake, I saw I had been mistaken. I purchased a specific brand-name depilatory at the drugstore on the way to work.

There's something special about sitting perfectly still in the office bathroom, legs covered in a thick paste, tingling uncomfortably. It smelled strange, but not really unpleasant - half floral, half medicinal, half poisonous. It was 150% out of place. I sat on the toilet for three minutes watching my leg hair curl up and die. It was reasonably tidy and got the job done, but the stubble grew in ten minutes later and the smell held on all day.

I wasn't sold. And I hadn't gotten more adorable either.

This morning, I woke up late. The only clean clothes I had were dresses and my yetti legs were a mess. I spied my specific brand-name depilatory on the shelf and thought, "How perfect! I will shower, slather on my chemicals and let them burn off my legs while I collect my clothes and fix my hair!"

It sounds great, of course. And I'll tell you that from a distance of two feet or more, my legs look smooth. What you can't see is the layer of cream smudged against every surface in my apartment. You can't know the time it took to clean up the mess. You can't smell the synthetic, botanic vapor settling over my things. The scent that seemed amusingly quirky in the office was positively noxious amidst the native satsuma and Garnier of my bathroom.

People, please listen. I'm not two pounds, I'm no cuter than when I started, my legs feel kind of bumpy and a little raw, it's possible I'm breaking out in a rash and I got into the office ten minutes late anyway. Forget the specific brand-name depilatory and go back to scraping your legs with the hunting knife, like I do.

Next week: the truth about BAGELS!