Two unrelated, random mysteries in my life

~Run away eyebrow~

Now e'rybody, this is a sensitive subject. But I'm willing to disclose it here, because this is the circle of trust as we've mentioned before. All public blogs are. Here's the thing: I have a run-away eyebrow. Never comin' back. Wrong way on a one way track. Really. I don't have any time for plucking. And while I'd like to believe I make it in to get my brows waxed on a regular basis, I'd say it's more like every 3 months on average. However, what I do do, is look in the mirror on at least a semi-regular basis. I try to give at least a glance in the mirror's direction every time I'm to be seen by human beings who aren't legally bound to me. What makes this mystery that I'm divulging so fascinating, is the fact that I've never been able to spot this run-away eyebrow in the mirror. It's never had the courage to face me. Example:

This is not a great quality picture. And the mystery of it all has nothing to do with my hair here. This hair is what happens when you don't wash your hair for several days and your sister twirls her fingers in it. I enjoyed every second of it Bethany.

Now let's have a closer look at the real mystery:

That brow is on the fritz people. Don't even try to tell me it's not. Let's see if I can find a better example.

Okay okay, here's a good one. This photo was taken around the time I discovered this brow-gone-awry. Summer of 2010, in Idaho with my sissies: (Wow, you don't even have to zoom in to see the fritz in this one).

Let's still have a closer look:

(Gasps and screams of horror permitted. You're excused if you need to vomit. Or soil your drawers.)

It's like nothing I've ever seen before. And I'll grab the camera after a photo's been shot, look at the pic, zoom in a little and scream. And if I'm with one of these two ladies shown above, they'll say, What?! And I'll grab them and pull them in and say, Look at my eyebrow!! And they'll scream and gasp along with me. Except Vanessa. She will laugh cruelly and menacingly. And then I'll whip out my little compact mirror, and much to my dismay, everything will be completely harmonious upon my face. Nothing astray. Nothing awry. This has happened several times people. Not kidding. And I CANNOT. FIND. THE. BUSHY. SONOFFABEECH. TUFT. IN. THE. MIRROR. Last time I got waxed, I even disclosed this mystery to my waxer, and she laughed and said she couldn't see anything. But this top photo was taken since then. So that means the next time I go in to see her, I'm gonna just have to ask her to wax both eyebrows off completely. And have her grab her eyeliner and color me in some nice brows like these.

Onto my next mystery.

~Peaches~

Actually, the title of this mystery is a bit misleading. Because peaches themselves don't puzzle me in the slightest. Though I do wonder how they can be so tender and juicy and how it can be when holding one I contain all my hopes and dream with my very mitts. The mystery is about my husband. Jason doesn't. like. peaches. He abhors them in fact. And it nearly drives me to a loony bin. I mean I know I've talked about this before. But it's such an issue in the well-being of our union and consequent family that it's worth mentioning again. I've oft times tried to slip him a slice when he's not looking, because I'm in simple denial. Especially this time of year, when I've purchased my big box of locally grown Utah peaches and love them so much that I could mush them up and roll around in them for a while, laughing maniacally the whole time. I guess it's just that all my life as a little girl I had visions of my prince-to-be one day and I walking through a peach orchard... picking the ripest sweetest and juiciest peaches right off the trees and sharing them together... you know, the way Lady and the Tramp share spaghetti... meeting in the middle. Something like this... but peach trees I repeat. PEACH TREES. And that'd be peach juice in his hand! And a bowl full of sliced peaches! Peaches I say!

I had grand visions of finishing up Sunday night dinners and my sweet rugged husband would look over at me and say something like, "What's for dessert, mama?" and I'd smile sweetly, gently shaking my head as if to say What on earth am I going to do with you?! I just love you so much! and then I'd put my apron back on and casually throwing together some exquisite peach cobbler and serve it with home-made vanilla ice-cream. I always had visions of sitting at a park bench on summer trips to the lake and ordering a large peach-raspberry milkshake at the local diner with not one, but two straws and sipping on it together while we ogled over each other.

You see how he's ruined my life and dashed all my dreams to the ground.

I guess I just keep expecting him to see the error of his ways. I mean, who doesn't like a ripe juicy peach?? Remember that song peaches and cream? Or that other song that was like, "Millions of peaches... peaches for me". Or how about the fact that you can call someone a peach because they're just splendid and pleasant? I don't like mushrooms. I don't like the texture, I'm sorry. And he does. But at the same time, I don't know of anyone writing a song about mushrooms, unless they're talking about drugs. Or if someone really thinks someone is the cat's meow, saying, "She is just such a mushroom!" So you see the logic of my thinking. He's wrong and I'm right about peaches. He has no right to dislike them when the rest of the world feels the way they do about them. It's just that simple.

I think I'm gonna start a club. A Peach Lover's Club. Because I can't even enjoy a peach with anyone. And to have the person you love sitting next to you while you're eating one, juice running all over your hands and face, and they don't share the same affection for the blessed fruit, it sucks the wind outta your sails. And I'm sick of it. SO, my club. The PLC. Maybe we can eat peaches and peach cobbler and peach smoothies together. And we can talk about how as children we read James and the Giant Peach (not to be confused with the creepy movie) and that how the way James describes tasting that succulent peach just made our mouths water. And we could all go around the room sharing the quality about peaches we like most. Is it the flavor? The texture of the flesh? The juiciness? I mean there are just so many things we could talk about, so many places we could go together.

How can he just not like them? And not at least be willing to try them again for my sake? He hasn't even tried them since childhood. If I can just get one itty bitty piece into his mouth... even if I have to shove it in there while he's sleeping... muah ha ha ha.. maybe this mystery can be done away with. And it can stop keeping me up at night. And causing my husband and I to feel so much resentment towards each other.

Okay that's all. I'll let you know when other things crop up that seriously perplex me.