Thanks the acquisition of a number of ointments, unguents and perfumed soaps at the local Bath & BodyWorks during their half-year sale, at bedtime I now smell like that staple of church lady brunches, the overripe miscellaneous fruit salad. At least the odor neither gives me a headache (musks tend to, or clog my sinuses) nor inspires a case of the munchies--it's cruel of lotion developers to make apple pie and chocolate smells, because visions of dessert start dancing in my head, and instead of dozing off I find myself toddling toward the kitchen in search of sweets. Even my hair smells fruity right now, because I'm out of shampoo and used body wash on it. I keep forgetting to buy shampoo. I buy toothbrushes and paste and toilet paper in bulk, so I don't have to worry about shopping more than once every six months, but since B&BW didn't have shampoo (the only kind they had was for men, which I would have gotten for myself, but none of that was on sale--there's something immoral about paying $12 for a small bottle of shampoo), I haven't stocked up.
I like being thoroughly clean, but I hate the niceties of shaving extremities and getting manicures and such (my sister used to harass me about not having a skincare regimen--when I get up, I just wash my face with whatever's handy, an absence of strategic planning she declared anathema). Some women go so far as to chemically scald the hair from their arms; I'm happy my arm hair is blond so that I can remain comfortably fuzzy. One of the reasons I wear long pants winter and summer is to avoid daily leg shaving (hey, singleness has its perks!) and yet recently I've noticed the proliferation of spikey little whiskers on my chin. OH NO! OH CRAP! Surely, I have lived a pure life in vain. As much as I pretend to stroke an imaginary goatee when thinking, I really don't want to grow a real one. So, short of wearing a veil, I either have to painfully pluck these with tweezers, or resort to shaving. No, I'm not going to use depilatory creams--I'd manage to burn myself bald, blind, or both. .Shaving it is, then. So if one day you drop by and happen upon a hairy-legged woman smelling of fruity women's bodywash and cheap men's shampoo, irritably wielding a razor on her lathered chin, it's not a transgender interloper, but yours truly.
I've got silicone sealant in the ridges of my class ring, but my stepdad hasn't said anything negative about the ugly job I did on his shower, bless him.
I applied for four jobs today, wired a lamp, and assembled a bunch of magnets. If none of the former yield anything, maybe the latter will.