The Maid's Nose

Oddly, I have been living under the (obviously) misguided notion that upon reaching the second half of my life (assuming a nearly 100 year life span) that one of the things that I should no longer have to worry about are pimples. Pimples as in what appears on a hormone permeated 15 year old's face.

But noooooo. Today I am sporting not one, not two, not even three, but four real beauties. I practically have a small mountain range on my face. I am thinking of naming it. Something snappy like the foothills of the "Yuve Goda Be Shitten Mi."

For starters, I have enough crows feet surrounding my eyes to handily meet the requirements of your classic nursery rhyme black-bird pie. Four and twenty birds - - that means 24 total birds possessing 48 total feet. Okay, it is possible that I could sport two avian stuffed pies. One for each eye. In what scenario should pimples be emerging on this same multiple pie yielding face? I can think of not a one, and yet the damn things are there.

I was lamenting my malady at dinner, and "malady" is what I'm labeling this as surely I am not going through puberty again. There is no omnipotent being so spiteful, so damning that it would thrust puberty on a creature twice - - even if that creature were just a meager human being. So assuming a kinder, gentler omnipotent being, I'm lamenting this at dinner and whining about how I think I am going to have to actually go to a drugstore to get both Clearasil and cover-up.

The dinner conversation subject eventually changed to my questioning George-the-Younger as to whether he had fully completed gathering his science fair testing stuff. George said "yes", but in that way that a mother immediately knows that he has gotten his stuff together with about the same likelihood as he has recently graduated from medical school at the age of 12 by studying on the internet. Not. So, I said, "Do you think that I fell off the turnip truck yesterday?" And quick as you can say who's-your-momma, Henry pipes up with, "No, but it sure looks like you were hit by it!"

What speedy witty repartee comes from my little impudent child. And who knows if he even connected the earlier conversation regarding my spotted complexion or if he was just focused on the topic at hand. It doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter because I will log this little comment away the way that only a woman can. And I will dredge it up later. That's right, go ahead and tease me my little future pizza face. Those foothills of ""Yuve Goda Be Shitten Mi" have a tricky way of showing up on other continents.