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And now, for this week's post:
DivaRecently, I was driving home from my best friend’s house after a much-needed visit. She lives about 3 ½ hours away from me, and about an hour into my return trip, I had a sudden thought:
Holy shit, did I remember to grab my makeup bag from the bathroom sink?
I almost had a panic attack at the wheel of my car. It wasn’t about the eyeshadow or the powder or the concealer—or even the expensive Proactiv that I keep safely zipped in my makeup bag. Sure, this horseface is made a lot less offensive by that stuff, but that shit’s all replaceable.
What I was worried about having left behind was my favorite pair of whisker-plucking tweezers, which would be a DISASTER for this face.
I groped blindly in the backseat of my car for my makeup bag, all the while feeling my heart flutter in my chest. The thing is, there’s never been another pair of tweezers that can compete with this set for keeping my beard at bay. I love them almost as much as I love my husband—and we all know that what I just said is a complete lie. Because I love them much more than I love my husband.
As my stubby little sausage fingers felt all around for the bag, my mind wandered to another time that I had misplaced the same pair of tweezers. The hubs and preschooler (back then only a toddler) and I had taken a trip to Atlanta to see some friends, and we’d taken the opportunity to knock out several birds with one stone by stopping in Illinois and Kentucky to see other sorely missed friends and family.
I realized somewhere along the way—in some dingy bathroom as I tried to pluck my chinny-chin-chin—that I had left my beloved tweezies behind. And they could be anywhere along Interstate 24. I had some calls to make.
The first was to my mother-in-law. She’s a tough cookie, and I knew she wouldn’t have any sympathy if I acted like a pussy, so as I dialed, I put on my strongest face and steeled myself to keep it together. But as soon as she answered the phone, I burst into tears and sobbed so hard about my tweezers that I had to repeat myself at least 3 times.
“Let me get this straight,” she said gruffly. “You’re missing a pair of tweezers?”
“Y-yes,” I hiccupped.
“And you want me to do what about it?”
“Can you ch-check and s-see if I left them in the bathroom?” I asked hopefully.
She was silent for a few moments on the other end of the line, as if she couldn’t believe I was this upset over a pair of damned tweezers. I could hear the slot machine that she’d gotten for Christmas going off in the background, and I knew she was cursing my name as she sighed deeply, put out her ciggie, and set her coffee cup down to get up from her barstool at the counter and head to the bathroom to check for my tweezies. But she just couldn’t help herself: I heard her mutter diva—just loud enough that she could be sure I heard, of course—before setting the phone down.
I mean, it’s not like I was asking her to put all of the green M&M’s into a separate bowl or remove all of the slightly-oblongish pieces of rice from my sushi roll. I wasn’t even asking for bottled water to be stocked in the refrigerator for my upcoming visit, for eff’s sake.
I was asking her to help me find my beard-thinning tweezers. I could hardly imagine Jennifer Lopez making the same phone call to one of her several mothers-in-law.
But it didn’t matter, anyway. She came back to the phone to inform me (a little too gleefully, I couldn’t help but notice) that no, my sweet, sweet tweezers were nowhere to be found.
That time, they happened to be in Kentucky next to our friend’s computer keyboard, as if I had been plucking in preparation for checking Facebook. My friend, also a bit on the hairy side, understood the urgency of the situation and got them safely into the mail that very day.
And this time—oh, sweet relief, sweet, sweet relief, thank you Jesus—the tip of my index finger felt the smooth, plastic case of my makeup bag resting securely in the backseat of my shaggin’ wagon. And I didn’t even care that the car next to me caught me sobbing with relief, making the sign of the cross over my zebra-printed bag.
This diva had her tweezers back.