It started innocently enough.
I recently uploaded my pictures from my husband's birthday outing to the Harlem Globetrotters game to our local drug store's website for 1-hour processing. By the time I was able to schlep across town to get them, it was about 3 days later. Don't judge me, you know you do that too. I digress. The pictures would be really cute for frames and scrapbooking, or so I thought. When I finally remembered to take them out of the car that night (I forgot about them AGAIN! What a horrible historian I am!) I was pumped to finally see them. I "oohed" and "ahhed" at the ones of my over-tired son refusing to smile, and the ones of my grinning husband brought a grin to my face as well. And then I saw it.
Me: *Gasp* Oh no!
Husband (from the kitchen): What?
Me: Honnnnnneeeeyyyyyy... It looks like I have a mustache in this picture!
Husband (walking into the living room from the kitchen): What? Oh, I'm sure it's not rea--(arrives at the scene of the crime, er, mustache picture). Um, well? Uh...
Me (looking up at husband with a look of sheer terror)(In a whiny voice): Do I need to have it waxed?
Husband (in most diplomatic, even politically correct way possible): takes wife by the shoulders, gazes deeply into her eyes, NOT at her mustache Honey, here me well. I am not saying this in the way you THINK I'm saying it. But.... I think you would WANT to have it waxed. Soon. Do you understand that I'm not saying you NEED to have it waxed?
Me (look of sheer terror continues): Yes. Oh my goodness. How could I not have noticed?! Goes into the bathroom for her first long, hard, look in the mirror since her son was born, comes back out of the bathroom to the scene of the crime, er, mustache picure. Well, it sure is there.
So it started out as a nice evening looking at pictures and ended with an appointment to get my mustache waxed. And my eyebrows too. In time for Blissdom.