Mr. Cold Sore, the wicked stepbrother of Honda's Mr. Opportunity, is paying a visit to the island of Ryan's face. He's early; he usually doesn't throw his bags at the foot of the stairs until October. And he's here at a bad time. We had family pictures this morning, and I have a meeting with a client tomorrow afternoon. Darn you, you evil, non-curable, starving for attention little virus!
As I said, family pictures were this morning. It's a family tradition to take our picture on Labor Day. We had been planning it for weeks. In early August Chanel, Pantone chips in hand, went searching for the perfect pink and brown shirts and pants for all of us. We were good to go. Until He Who's Name Cannot Be Uttered (aka Mr. Sourpants Cold Sore) showed up last night. It wasn't too bad at 10 p.m., so I dabbed some Vaseline on it and went to bed thinking it would disappear, would go back where it came from, would leave me alone for a season.
No such luck. I woke up to Mr. CS's alarm clock. He wakes up at 6 a.m., and his alarm clock is always set to some contemporary light rock station. I knew I was in trouble when I was asked the rhetorical yet poignant question, "How can we make love when we can't make amends?" I'm not sure Mr. Bolton. I'm not sure.
I was pretty upset that we'd have to postpone our photo until Cold Cut Sore left the building. However, Chanel, ever the optimist, said, "Oh, no worries. We'll just use make-up."
Huh?
Make-up?
Dude, I'm a dude. 100% male. I make Fonzie looks like Boy George. I'm a man's man. I'm the guy Colt Seavers calls when he's having trouble with his lady friends. I'm so tough Hulk Hogan takes two vitamins and says three prayers before we play racquetball at 24 Hour Fitness every Tuesday at 5:30 a.m. I'm hard core. When I go through metal detectors my metal heart sets the alarms a blazin' every single time.
But it was our family picture, yo. You don't mess with our family picture. So I agreed on one condition: I got to pick out the mascara.
Chanel did a Glamour Shots meets Macy's make-up lady job on me. When she was done, the cold sore was gone. You'll have to see the family picture to believe it. Seriously, Chanel should send her portfolio to Wes Craven.
I'm debating whether or not I should enter the make-up trailer again tomorrow so I don't scare my client. Thoughts? You're free to leave a comment to cast your vote, or simply to make fun of the fact that I have yet another cold slaw sore.
Well, I have to go now. I arm wrestled the Cold Sore to see who'd have to do the dishes, and I lost.
Sporatic thoughts intertwined with photos and comments from truly excellent folks.
6 comments:
Hello Ryan,
This is David Bowie. There is nothing wrong with a man wearing make-up. I feel it fair to warn you about one possible and unfortunate side effect: waking up next to Mick Jagger.
Also, this. Yeah. You're welcome.
Sincerely,
David Bowie
No shame in a little touch-up. I hear that Roc Hudson, manliest of all men, wore eye shadow.
Alright, this made me laugh out loud. You know it takes a real man to admit and be proud of his make-up job. I'm excited to see the famed family pictures, even though I know their touched-up.
I don't think I managed to tell you that I think that this post is hilarious.
That is all.
Also, every time I check to see if you've updated your blog (which is to say, every day) I remember that time I pointed out your cold sore while you were conducting elder's quorum.
That was jerk-ish. Sorry about that.
It was also jerk-ish when I criticized you for wanting to see that Thomas thing.
Sory about that, too.
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