Running Red Momma

Last year, as 39 crept into the door, I purchased an internet deal on facials. No big deal. I was feeling the quiet tickle of old-age on my face. Chemical peels seemed to be the answer. One year later and I had finally got around to redeeming the specials. I hate wasting money more than age spots. Having done this before, I was looking forward to a dark room and pleasant smelling stuff on my face. At the time, it did not concern me that I had a different esthetician. Sure, it burned a little more. It was probably working. During the weekend my face went from red like a sunburn to "who drug your face behind a skateboard?" I hunkered at home like a pimply thirteen-year-old. That Sunday, I was in charge of getting the children to sing loudly for Father's Day. No sweat, they always sing so cheerfully for me. In addition, I knew my local gathering of church goers was going to realize I was pregnant. (Yeah, did I mention I was pregnant?) This perfect storm of s

Driving along the road, an older American car pulled up along side of our car.  There sat a younger man delighting in his cigar.  Smoke tendrils curled around his contented face while he sat waiting for the light to change.  Looking through the haze, I noticed a long twirly-ish mustache which seemed to match his cigar but not his decade.   As he stretched back in his solitary delight, one could observe the decorations of his castle.   There on the rearview mirror were two peach fuzzy balls.  What on odd color and shape for an ornament one at first thinks.  However, as one kept looking, the deeper pink centers and general atmosphere of the car give the obvious a-ha! He's got ta-tas! Nothing says personal style like boobie balls.  This folks is why I love cars, people and America.