This spring has been terribly rainy here in San Francisco, consequently, the pollen has soared to almost unbearable levels, consequently, mrpeenee's sinuses have been flowing like Victoria Falls set on high, consequently, mrpeenee has been wiping and dabbing his nose (always with my handkerchief, I am a lady, I do lady things) like crazy mad, consequently, the side of said nose is chafed raw.
Not attractive, I know, but consider the scene set.
Super Agent Fred and I found the most ravishing mirror for my newly painted front hall last month in a joint called, charmingly, "Stuff." It was love at first sight. Baroque gilded extravagance, it calls out to my inner fussy old lady and runs completely contrary to my faltering policy of decorating my contemporary house with contemporary touches. It's also much too big for the space. Of course I had to have it.
We went back to the store today and were both struck once again by its beauty, as well as that of the salestwink working there. Why is flaxen hair, limpid blue eyes and a skinny ass such a darned fetching combination, anyway? I was so thrilled to find the mirror marked down 30 per cent (YAY) I absentmindedly rubbed the side of my nose, which promptly burst into a torrent of blood. Blood, blood, blood, lots of blood.
Of course the cute little sales guy was standing right there, managing to look both blank and horrified. He was obviously thinking "Queen. Do not bleed on my Good Stuff." All he said was "Do you need a paper towel?" I said yes, muffled through my handkerchief, and that I would take the mirror. He was impressed enough to bring me three paper towels. My plan to so electrify him with my big spending ways that he would be interested in putting out did not seem to overcome his horror of the hematoma, however.
Anyway, now I have the most gorgeous mirror in captivity. And a bandaid on the side of my nose. So very attractive.
Our salesbitch did not look this humpalicious, but then who does? Nevertheless, since Blogger feels compelled to label my blog as "adult," I feel the need to include attractive, scantily clad young men. I may be doing this for a while. Let me know if you get tired of it.
I expect you'll be adding antimacassars to your chairs and sofa next.
ReplyDeleteWhen I get tired of looking at hot men, I will be in my funereal urn.....
ReplyDeleteI demand a picture of the mirror.
ReplyDeleteAlso maybe some miniature Barbie furniture might take care of the modern purists when you take them on a tour of the linen closet.
Don't worry, piquantly baroque mirrors give me nosebleeds too, especially if they are thirty percent off!
ReplyDeleteAh, Fred told me about the mirror but not about the medical emergency. Hooray for the first and boo for the second. Moisturize.
ReplyDeleteYes, pictures of the mirror, please! And of naked men! But not of your nose.
ReplyDeleteEven us straight suburbanites like your pictures. Oh wait, my husband likes them too much! (We like the site).
ReplyDeletewhy do people continue to feel
ReplyDeletethe need to write on themselves?
How about a picture of a naked man reflected in your mirror? Jx
ReplyDelete