The Fountain of Youth Comes in a Little Tube

On a scale of 1 to 10, my house is currently sitting at a firm 3, which is not a good spot to be.

This may be due to the small fact that much of THE OUTSIDE is residing on my floors, in the form of dirt chunks, small rocks, twigs and dried leaves from last year’s glorious fall display.  I also have crushed Ramen noodles on my kitchen floor, because someone stepped on them.  (It’s a long story.)  On top of this, my bathroom sinks are on equal footing with sinks commonly found in truck stops, where you have to secure a key that’s attached to a full-sized, metal trashcan lid from the manager, and the laundry pile seems to indicate that the Duggars might live here.

Does this stop me from having coffee with friends at sassy little coffee shops, so that I can be at home to remedy the environmental debris by pulling the vacuum cleaner around my floors?  No. I simply bring home my empties and make pyramids out of old Starbucks cups.  I’m trying to fully create the frat house scene right here at the Jedi Manor.

No matter.

I have enormous news that I need to pass on to y’all this evening.


I refuse to type the words of what I’m about to share with you, because then my little blog will be hit by all kinds of pregnant women Googling the item in hopes of finding RELIEF AFTER LABOR AND PUSHING, when their times come, and I don’t want to be known around this great country as THE GIRL WHO USES THAT PRODUCT AND TALKS ABOUT IT ON HER BLOG!

So I’ll simply present you with a photo.

A photo which I plum stole from an online drugstore, and which is probably protected nineteen ways to Sunday by legitimate copyright laws, all of which I am violating.  I hate to infringe on copyrights and all, but if I don’t, then I’m going to have to get up out of the chair and haul my camera out, and get the lighting just-so in my bathroom, so that I can take a picture for you, and then I’ll have to put the memory card into that little stick-thing, which I can never remember the official name for, but which you plug into the back of your Mac when you want to download photos.  And really?  All of that sounds like an awful lot of work just to avoid a lengthy trial and prison time, when prison time would actually provide me some relief from having to clean my house.  Plus, I could just sit on my cot and read all day in prison and not have to think about what I’m going to make for dinner.

I’ll take my chances on breaking the law.

THAT, people, is what I currently have in my bathroom cabinet, but low!  It’s ABSOLUTELY NOT for the reasons that it was invented for!  I don’t feel like it’s over-sharing to tell you that I simply don’t have THAT little problem.

And if you don’t need this product for THAT little problem (or even if you do, probably), you can use it elsewhere, because this product is THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, PEOPLE!

Yes, you read that correctly.


Last summer, while I was having a mental break-down in the dressing room at Gap Kids, attempting to find jeans that fit the boy (the boy who LOATHES, HATES AND DESPISES trying clothes on and will fight doing so like a bull with rabies in the chute at the local rodeo), I realized two things.

1.  While I was arguing with the boy about trying denim on and contemplating selling him on a roadside somewhere and returning to an easy life that didn’t include small boys who feared the dressing room vs. bribing him with enormous purchases of new Legos, just to restore sanity to my life if he’d TRY THE STINKING JEANS ON, Cody and her daughter were in the changing room next to us, having a ball together and giggling like best friends, as little G tried on forty-two different outfits and was disappointed that there wasn’t simply MORE to try on.

2.  The fluorescent lighting and the placement of the full-sized mirror in the dressing room pointed out to me, for the first time in my entire life, that my face looked ABSOLUTELY BETTER if I put my fingers on either side of my face and gently pulled the skin backwards.

It’s when I came to a full understanding that I was no longer in college, and that Truvy from Steel Magnolias summed life up perfectly:  “Honey, time marches on, and eventually you realize that it’s marchin’ across your face.”

Oh, Dolly Parton.  You are a gem.

A couple of weeks ago, while Sister was sitting at my dining room table with me, having a cup of Coffee Mate laced with actual coffee, she made the comment that we had reached a point in our lives when our skin simply wasn’t what it had been.

Although I was shocked to understand that things had, indeed, come to this point, I raised my coffee mug in a toast to that comment, as Sister went on to announce, “I have more acne now than I had in all four years of high school, combined.”

I understood her pain; I had lived her pain out in the form of adult blemishes that completely surpassed the four obnoxious pimples that I had in high school — one bright-red blemish every year for class photos, and no more than that.  That was my high school relationship with acne.  My adult relationship with acne has invited far more than four blemishes to throw a party on my jawline.  It simply isn’t fair.

Eventually the small bit of caffeine that Sister and I had enhanced our Coffee Mate with caused us to bounce on to another topic, and we began discussing wrinkles, and how our friend, Elaine, was spot-on justified when she said a couple of years ago, “I used to think that Botox was a beauty nightmare that old women would regret trying, but now I think I can honestly say I’m at a point in my life where I’d simply raise my hand and participate in facial injections in the name of smooth skin.”

Here-here, Elaine! The Coffee Mate is raised high to you and your daring beauty wisdom.

And then, Sister spoke the words which have forever changed my life.

“Have you ever tried this little product?  Oh, not for THAT little problem!  But for wrinkles?”

And then I remembered, way back in college, when the elder George Bush sat on the throne and Wayne’s World was just hitting the big screen, that someone had mentioned that we’d all use this little product on our wrinkles someday, and I simply chalked it up to the Zima talking.

Because that was plum craziness!  Wrinkles! I had the skin of a toddler in the ’90s, and couldn’t imagine a life in which it was any different, and thinking about using this little product on my face was nothing but disgusting.  Why, the next thing I knew, this Zima-holding person was going to say, “Yeah, and one day we’ll also have tiny cell phones that are actually powerful COMPUTERS!”  Sheer madness!

Sister’s words this week, though, brought that conversation from the ’90s back to me, so last weekend I went to Wal-Mart, and I threw a tube of the ointment into my cart.

And then I promptly ran into Heather, who looked into my cart filled with a single, lone item and asked, “Oh, honey!  Are you buying that for your face?

This is why I love Heather so dearly.  It’s because she can look at a potentially embarrassing product and know that I WASN’T buying it for THAT little problem.

People, I brought this little product home, and I tried it.  I smeared it all around my eyes, and I am here to tell you that this is exactly what Ponce de Leon was searching for, when he went looking for the fountain of youth.

It just hadn’t been invented yet in the 1500s, because no one had any working knowledge of petroleum jelly back then, and the fourteen million different ways that it could be used.

Like how a fellow could add some SHRINKING COMPOUNDS to it to make this little product.

Honestly, this beauty secret is too good not to share it.  Just as it’s meant to suck things up and shrink things and tighten things associated with THAT little problem, if you put it under your eyes, the same reaction occurs!

It’s a chemistry thing, people.

And it has taken me back to 1991.

And I’m quite sure that our good friend, Sam the Eye Doctor, is reading this post and cringing and saying, “Let’s not get this little product IN the eyes, m’kay?  Because that could potentially lead to your irises being burned off exactly like they’d been hit by well-aimed lasers, and I wouldn’t want to see you for THAT little problem.  Because honestly, having your irises scorched off will completely surpass the pain and torture of THAT OTHER LITTLE PROBLEM, of which you do not have.”

Yes, Sam.  I’m keeping it PLUM OUT OF my eyeballs.

My eyeballs which are now surrounded by the skin of someone who is just twenty!

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