Raisins

I made an appointment yesterday for my first facial. I’ve never had one before, thinking they were a luxury that I didn’t need to waste my money on. However, lately my face seems to be transforming into a character out of the California Raisin’s commercials, only pastier. Wrinkles, dark circles, sags, sun spots and laugh lines galore. I’ll take the laugh lines, as it marks a badge of honor for me. It says I have lived a good life filled with many laughs. I will not, however, laugh at the dark circles. They look like a pair of halved Michelin’s implanted under my wrinkly eyes. Where are you when I need you, white walls?
The idea was brought up to me by a new guy I work with (no, not the Michelin idea). His wife is in aesthetician school and can do all kinds of things on the cheap. I am splurging an entire $18 to have my facial. I figure I may have that much in quarters under the front seat of my car, so what the heck. It’s a great price, unless I become addicted. Will I turn into Joan Rivers over the next few months, tucking, sandblasting and downright removing most of the skin from my face? Not a chance. But I may just need to go see this girl when my face threatens needing tucked into the top of my shirts. I hope she can work miracles – for 72 quarters, she better be able to.
All things on the Hattie front are terrific. We FINALLY got some gates up for her. No more shoving the ottoman between the couches to lock her in. I hate having to put them up; they seem like they should only be used for little yapper dogs or rabbits or something, but there are so many damn sets of stairs in our house we had to. I hope we won’t need to keep them up for long. Maybe we can have stair training sessions in the afternoons. And up, two, three, four, down, two, three, four. Alright maybe not. We are finding that she is becoming more and more girly. Lately, she is enjoying taking things out and putting them back exactly where she got them (I do LOVE this!). I was setting up blocks for her to knock down yesterday. She knocked them over once or twice (with a small ‘ugh’ I might add – they are made of cloth after all) and after that she only wanted to pick up the block off the top and hand it to me. We would carefully disassemble one tower and create another. She played in the room for hours after having stacked a tower taller than her and left it standing when she went to bed. I know of no boys who would allow this kind of blatant tower disregard. She’s a girl, she is. My girl.