Hello! (Also, A Mustache Story.)

I honestly didn't realize it had been over a month since I last posted here. I wish I had some exciting news to share, or some compelling reason to explain this away, but it's truly just the thrilling trifecta of work, life, and the time it takes to get from work to home, and vice versa. And really, do you consider "an endless series of horrific commutes home via bus," something you want to hear more about? Unless Keanu Reeves figures prominently therein, I assume you do not, for hearing about someone else's commute stories is like hearing about someone else's dreams.

And lo, the rest of the summer has happened. We're settled into the house, I went for (and got!) a promotion to a new position, which I absolutely love, the kids went to camp, we went to the Poconos and came back, and yeah, great, life is a glorious orb of pure and fleeting wonder, but really, where we are is that my legacy here for over a goddamn month has been a nude man doing jumping jacks down Wall Street.

I miss writing here; it's time to dive back in, and so, we're going to talk about the elephant in the room, which is my husband's mustache problem. Obviously.

As I've mentioned before, J is MOS DEF the saner, more rational one, out of of the pair of us, which is what makes this tale -- like the Scarlet J one -- so curious. Prior to leaving for vacation, J stopped shaving, and a nice scruffy beard came in. The man looks good with a nice scruffy beard, and not at all homeless or patchy (really!), so I didn't give it a second thought. Tra la la, off we went to enjoy the Poconos; its beautiful weather, its amazing farm stands, and its preponderance of skateboarding carnies gathered in a parking lot, which is exactly what I deserve for going to a 24-hour Walmart at 11:30 PM to buy a cake for literally no reason, but I digress.

Anyway, one night, we were headed out to the movies, and I hear him shaving. "Guess he decided he was done with the beard!" I think to myself. What I SHOULD have been thinking to myself was, "Chris Hansen is probably readying his camera team in the creepy clearing behind this house right the hell now, because oh my god."

I CANNOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THIS PICTURE. IT IS LIKE THE SUN. IF THE SUN LOOKED AS THOUGH IT WOULD LURE YOU INTO A WINDOWLESS VAN WITH SOME CANDY.

I tried everything. I told him he looked like a cop, a baseball player from 1987, and Super Mario, and frankly, it all backfired, because he thought all of those things were awesome. Then he started PREENING with it, and I wanted to die. Everyone else, obviously, found the entire situation --  including my response -- to be hilarious, but they are not married to the mustache man, who was, at that very moment, insisting we all head out, lest we be late to the movie. If you think he did not insist upon talking to literally everyone who crossed our path that evening, then truly, you do not get the scope of the horror.

A FULL DAY LATER, he finally relented, very reluctantly, and I happily shared the good news. Our (my) long (24-hour) national (just me, again) nightmare (nightmare) was over!

Then came Monday. He picked me up wearing this.

 

I'm pretty sure this means war. By all means, please feel free to weigh in with your ideas. IDEAS THAT DO NOT INVOLVE LADY 'STACHES.