I can see clearly now.

Not necessarily because the rain is gone, but because my eye is no longer puffed out like I was on the losing side of a bar fight.

Lessons learned from this weekend:
1. I believe I am allergic to the wax in Sally Hanson's home wax package.
2. When waxing one's eyebrows, pull the skin VERY taut before pulling off the wax.
3. If one neglects to pull the skin taut *and* is allergic to said wax, one's eye may swell to the point of opening to a mere slit and raising the eyebrow so high, it looks as if one is permanently questioning the universe
4. One can, with a decent headshot, confidently audition for an opera company with puffed out eyes, since one can say, "Sorry. *That's* what I really look like."

Today is the first day I've left the house without shame. Although, I did wear a hat to cover my devil's horns (Know how they tell you to never remove hair from above the brow, but we do anyway? They're not joking about waxing. I look like the missing link between human and faun). These are all life lessons I (apparently) needed to know. So, I humbly thank the universe and resume plucking.


Before all this happened, though, T and M came to town and I toured them around the muddy slush that is Lakeview. I took them to a local blues joint and proceeded to get hit on by a wiry trumpet player that was old enough to be my father. Hitting on, I can handle...but, this man took it too far and I don't think I can ever go back.
"Don": You should come up on stage later.
Nora: I don't think so. Not really dressed for it.
D: C'mon. You look great!
N: *snorts* Riiiiight. With my Lesbo-rific boots? I don't think so. Now, if I had heels...
D: Mmmm...you have really high heels?
N: *enjoying it* The highest.
D: You know...*leans over to whisper*...I've always wanted a beautiful woman to walk on my back wearing high heels.
*leans back, looks significantly, and waits*
N:...
N:...


I mean, honestly...other than making a catty comment about puncture wounds, how else could I respond? We exchanged numbers, because it only seemed polite. He'd spent the entirety of his break trying to get my number...he needed a little something for his efforts, since I was neither going to let him buy me a drink, nor was I going to give him spiked heel acupuncture. All that to say...I don't think I can go back...I fear he'll look for me and I fear that if I wear heels, I'll break that little man. So, I think I'll start looking for new blues joints. And not wax my eyebrows. Ever. Again.