Friday, June 13, 2008

rash decision

I’m not much of a girly-girl. I love killin’ zombies, Jackass, and belching as loudly as I can. I have the diet of a 12-year-old boy.

The only remotely feminine thing about me---well, aside from my big ol’ jugs and my Hello Kitty tattoo---is that I’m a slave to perfume. Some women won’t leave the house without a full face of makeup; I refuse to step a single toe outside of my door without a spritz of perfume. I have at least 20 full-size bottles and countless samples, and I wear a different one every day. I don’t get many unsolicited comments on my perfume, but when I do, I’m thrilled. I got one of my favorite compliments of all time when I was standing in the new release aisle of the library. A young man with Down Syndrome came up to me, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “You smell like happy feels!”

Anyway, this morning I was in the bathroom at work, washing my hands, when a woman next to me said, “Wow, you smell great! What perfume are you wearing?”

“Bonjour l’Amour by Anna Sui.”

“That’s really nice. It’s spicy…I like it!”

“Uh, thank you,” I said. I was confused because the perfume in question is most definitely not spicy, but a compliment is a compliment.

“It’s kind of weird, though,” she continued. “For some reason, and this isn’t a bad thing at all, it reminds me of my grandfather.”

Oh no.


As soon as she said that, I immediately realized what she was smelling…

…Gold Bond medicated powder.

[TMI paragraph begins here]

See, about two weeks ago, I noticed that my thighs were really red and splotchy. At first, I thought I was having an allergic reaction to laundry detergent or my shower gel, but I hadn’t changed either one recently. Besides, if it was one of those, it would be all over my body, not just my thighs, right?

The rash doesn’t actually hurt, but it feels really warm and tingly. It’s worst just when I’ve gotten out of the shower; I swear it looks like Simon Legree took a whack at my legs. I did some Googling, which was basically an express ticket to Hypochondria Land. I think it might be prickly heat, but since I’m not sure and it’s not getting any better, I made an appointment with a dermatologist. I hate going to the doctor, but I hate having pepperoni thighs even more.

In the meantime, I’ll be rocking my Gold Bond. When I get home from work, I’m going to slap on some Gold Bond, change into my woobs, grab a Smirnoff Ice, and crash on the couch to watch the Denise Richards show. Envy my exotic single girl existence!

…okay, I hear you booing. Yes, I watch the stupid ass Denise Richards show. She comes across as a superficial bitch, but she lives near me (well, obviously not in the same neighborhood; I doubt she has three head shops and a Mexican grocery store down the street like I do), and I kind of get a kick out of seeing places I recognize.

By the way, I’m neither Team Denise (because of the aforementioned superficial bitchiness) nor Team Charlie (because of the e-mails he allegedly sent telling her that he hopes she and her dad get cancer and die like her mom); like someone on Defamer said, I’m Team Please Go Away, Both of You.

And yes, the last thing I need to be doing when I feel about as sexy as a dried-out dog turd is watching a former Bond Girl and Playboy centerfold frolicking about in skimpy outfits.

On a more cheerful note, I got to attend my fifth John Connolly book signing the other day, and he was just as charming and funny as ever. K came along, and she was kind enough to snap this picture of us together. I’m not even going to bother blurring my face this time, because whatever. I’m shiny but happy!