I am not a girl. I was never a girl. I don't mean in the I've-had-a-sex-change-operation like the opposite of Chaz. I mean I was never a girly girl. The universe is getting even with me on that score, though.
For instance, I have Daughter. She is 11. She loves pink. She loves cuddly Webkinz. (Webkinzes?) She's into American Girl dolls. She crushes after purported boys like Zac Efron and the like.
Also, we just had house guests for a bit. Pete's childhood friend stayed for a few days, bringing along his lovely wife and daughter. The wife is a girly-girl. The wife wears make-up. The wife chipped a nail and said to me, "I'm sure you'll just laugh because, really, you don't seem the type. But have you any nail varnish?" [Yeah, those Brits are funny with their "varnish" rather than "polish" or "plaster" rather than "bandage" or "butty" rather than "sandwich." Heh heh heh. I just wrote "butty." Remember, I have a 12-year-old boy in the house.]
Oh, Heloise, did you just say, "Cut to chase, rambling bitch!"? Okay, I do go on and on, which is kind of girl like. So Lorna took off her face one evening in one of my white towels. I didn't know it when I washed it. [In cold water, of course, because, hello, look out for my carbon footprint.] Thankfully, I noticed the stain before hanging it out to dry. [Yeah, no dryer because, hello, look out for my carbon footprint. Aren't my carbon feet sporty in their Reefs?]
Even after then bleaching the frickin' towel and killing God-knows-how-many tree frogs by washing it in hot water, the face of Lorna remains. So how, exactly, does one remove make-up? [I mean, besides the obvious ploy of removing it from your face by using a white towel.]
A Girls-Come-in-Many-Packages Girl