Bryan Gary Bryan (which is what I am calling this look, this husband of mine) is going to kill me for this post, but I do not care. He deserves it, this matrimonial Kenny Loggins of my very own. See, Bryan Gary Bryan sails competitively. And there is a regatta coming up (not soon enough) and all of the men on the boat decided to grow beards for the race. (Why, I don't know. Perhaps because they would be disqualified if they sailed with their ball sacks hanging out? This is not for me to know, the goings-on of testosteronic logic.) Anyway, Bryan Gary Bryan is a noon o'clock shadow kind of man and I am his wife with sensitive skin. So I started breaking out. Bad. Pizza face dry with an extra thick crust and I could not figure out why exactly until this morning, duh.
Orphaned baby hedgehogs clinging to a stiff bristle brush for comfort. We should totally adopt them and they can nestle under Bryan Gary Bryan's neck.
When he kissed me, it hurt. Stung, the prickly bristles of Bryan and the Gary and the Bryan. And so I must call a moratorium on kissing until September 13th after the regatta. Like a prostitute--no kissing on the mouth, my new skin care regimen more of a don't than a do. Which will be really very hard because please--check him out up there all thick-thighs and oh baby sighs. We are so totally going to make out on September 14th, Bryan without the Gary without the beard, but still Getting Down to Business all the same.