(Post Featured on Freshly Pressed!)
There is a single word in the English language that has the power to ruin my whole day. That word is Ma’am.
I could be having a perfectly fine day – a great day even – the kind of day where my car starts on the first try, my kids get off to school without a ton of screaming and, when I check myself in the mirror I actually think, “Hey, I don’t look half bad.”
Then I stop by the local coffee place and the hipster barista dude, the one who wears the gross earring gauges, hands me my non-fat latte and says, “Here you go, Ma’am.”
Ah, come on. Really? Did you have to?
Of course I politely say “Thank you,” back to the little whippersnapper, but in my head I’ve added a very irritated, “Don’t call me Ma’am, d#$%khead.” Continue reading
I’ve often made light of people who get too much cosmetic surgery, so the idea of putting my own dog under the knife seemed completely out of the question. But two years into owning Buddy, our German Shepherd/hound rescue dog, I noticed that his appearance had changed somehow. He wasn’t the cute, curious looking dog he once was. No, age had not been his friend. Continue reading
I’ve never understood how otherwise sensible people let themselves get carried away with cosmetic procedures. Can’t they see there’s a point where they start to look worse instead of better?
I suppose they begin by wanting a minor fix and then, pleased with the results, opt for another . . . and another . . . and another, until they run out of money or end up on one of those plastic surgery victim websites.
It’s the addictive nature of it that’s kept me away from plastic surgeons and dermatologists alike.
Until now. Continue reading