I'm sorry.

I want to keep repeating I'm sorry like Kevin Kline did in A Fish Called Wanda. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But why the hell did you ROB YOUR OWN HOUSE?"

Anyhow, off topic.

I am sorry for not blogging more often. I am NOT going to be one of those who drops blogging for Twitter and FaceSpace and all that, I am keeping on keepin' on with the blog because it is the perfect form of expression for me.

Except...the self censorship. Oh the fucking self (and husband) censoring. People, it's getting a bit out of hand.

Things I don't write about:

• His work
• My work
• Last names
• Town names ('cept Austin, who can censor Austin?)
  
• Family names
• Did I mention, his work?

So we have some big shit going down with regards to stuff, but I am obliged to not mention any of it. AND, as it is all that I think about (and stress about) these past few weeks, the blog is distinctly neglected as all I wanna do is RANT and RAVE. And the husband is very big on NOT TALKING about it and people, I need to talk. I am a talker. My whole family, we talk out our problems. If we don't? We explode into messy bits of problematic angst. WE TALK. Once the talkin's done, we're fine, but we must talk it out. MUST. TALK.

The husband, not so much a talker, so I am obliged to not talk as it is his shit I wanna talk about. So I am largely shutting up and drinking alot of rosé, which is not good for me or my ass.

So lately there is more I can't talk about than I can talk about, so I just don't talk at all. And get rather explody with the angst.

So, instead, I bang my head on bathtubs, get the much needed facial (more on that in a mo') and make Drunk Chicken Tacos after yet another night at the pub hashing out scarily adult issues with other stressed out people.

So, facial. Got a facial yesterday and apparently I have guzzled from the Fountain of Youth because the facialist could not BELIEVE that I am 40. I felt like that character on Saturday Night Live, "I'm 50! 50 Years Old!", except I'm, you know, 40. She thought I was 32. I almost had to show her my driver's license to prove it. She kept saying "But you have no wrinkles! None around your eyes!" She was very impressed. (I think that she also got a customer for life in me, it was a good facial, and she squeezed the BEJESUS out of my black heads, saying, "Your pores are too small!" How can I NOT love her?)

Here's what I don't get, however. So here I am, with this 'perfect skin' and this non wrinkled (and now black and whitehead free, thank you very much) face, and what does she do? She proceeds to cover it with about 10lbs of mineral makeup. I go from glowing youthful complexion to matte, flat, orangey 'what you hiding under there?' old lady face. WTF? WHY do they do that? I couldn't keep my glasses on my nose, they slipped off from all the foundation and goo!

I came home and washed if off, and replaced it with my usual 30 spf sheer sunscreen and smoky eyes. Ah...there I am. Look 32....feel 85.