I remember a time when I could drink more than one beer without turning into Moe from the 3 Stooges.

What separates us from animals is our ability to make decisions (I'm sure there are others but work with me here). Animals usually act on instinct. But us? We question, we rationalize, we hem and haw until a beer takes that decision from our very hands. What does that mean? Well let me tell you.

It all started when I made a delightful dinner of Fettuccine Alfredo and baked chicken legs which I was going to eat ALONE (and we've established that I need to be supervised at all times) because my Andy was at brother Dan's house doing the magical thing he does with electricity.

I set my place setting for one, enjoying the solitude, when I made the decision to forgo my vanilla coke for a beer. Caution to the wind baby! After dinner, I was cleaning up the kitchen and my bangs kept getting in my eyes irritating the ever loving crap out of me! That's when the beer gave me the brilliant idea to trim them a little.

I went to my bathroom and rummaged through the drawers but I couldn't find any scissors. That's when the beer told me to go into the kitchen and grab my kitchen scissors. The ginourmous ones that can cut chicken legs with one snap. The ones I use to cut ninja stars and pennies and anything else that pisses me off!

So I took the scissors into the bathroom with me and as I was brushing my hair, I noticed my eyebrows were a little too bushy. That's when the beer suggested I look for my tiny eyebrow razor and clean them up a little. I removed my glasses, because they were in my way (who needs to see when shaving/cutting?), and I lightly went feep feep with the razor (I have never used) then brushed my hair down and took the SERRATED heavy duty scissors and *trimmed* my bangs.

::sigh::

When I put my glasses back on, OH HOLY BABY SPINACH! One eyebrow looked like I was questioning my sanity (which, hello! I think I should) and my bangs looked like I had let Mocha and Tazz take turns at chewing them off!

That's when the beer told me to do the logical thing and even them both out. Listen, I don't need to tell you there is no happy ending to this story.

I now have crooked bangs the size of eyelashes and receding eyebrows. I'm thinking my only solution is to spike them both and pretend I did it on purpose.

Sadly, this is not the first time I've rocked the the choppy bangs.

Conversation Andy and I had when I told him about my bangs.

Andy: Oh, it can't be that bad.

Me: ...

Andy: Let me see-- ooch! Eets! Wow! Well, it could have been worse. I guess?

 

Oh boy.

P.S.

We are currently having creative differences with our scanner so that is why "Bee n' Andy" has been on hiatus. It refuses to communicate with my laptop and instead wants to be an expensive paperweight-slash-mail-holder. Hopefully, I'll be able to hit the right sequence of buttons and fix it soon.