To braid or to shave... that is the question

I have two things I would like to talk about in my rant to myself tonight. Ready? Let's ride!

1. Shaving. I hate to shave. I know. This must be quite a shock to anyone reading this. There is a woman in this world that hates to shave. Call Katie Couric and book an appearance on Oprah!! The problem is that I hate to shave so much that I don't shave for such a long time that really the options become shave that nonsense or braid it. I have always opted to shave, of course. BUT, if I ever do decide to braid my luscious leg hair, you can bet that I'll adorn those braids with beads. It just seems fitting. Now if there were anyone reading this but me, they might think this is gross and, in all honesty, if I were serious about the notion, I would think it kind of unsettling myself. But why? Dudes decide not to shave their facial hair all the time. Worse yet, they do icky things to their facial hair. Need an example? Two words: "soul patch". The thing is that there are people (both men and women) that find these looks cool, unique, edgy, artsy, etc. If I decided to Mohawk my leg hair and braid the hairs I left in place into corn rows, do you think there is one non-freak in the world who would think anything but, "oh, sweet Lord, what the hell is that??" No. There isn't. That's all there is to it. I wish I had the guts to test my "corn rowed, beaded, mowhawked leg hair" theory, but I don't. As much as I think it's bull-poop that we're told that leg hair, frizzy hair, big pores, bushy eyebrows, thin lips and spotty faces are unattractive, I still find myself giving into societal pressures by shaving semi-regularly and... well... I say to hell with that other crap, but they have sold me on the shaving... sort of.

2. Drinking. I was stone sober for the last two nights after what can only be described as a month of imbibing indulgence. Between the holiday season, work stuff, general social engagements and a wedding weekend to end all wedding weekends, the last month has seen alcohol and I paired up on most nights. If I were a celeb, Us Magazine would be all over this love connection. For better or worse, I have genes (and training) that allow me to take in quite a bit of, oh let's just say hypothetically, wine and not feel it the next day. Even so, like Elin Nordegren golf clubbed the crap out of Tiger's car, I took a 7 iron to my liver in a "I just found out you've been cheating on me with every ho-bag below the Mason-Dixon line" kind of way over the last month. As such, I thought for sure my liver would thank me for a couple days respite from the rigors I had put it through. Not the case. I didn't sleep well either night and if anything woke up feeling worse than I did after a night filled with even the poorest of choices. I am not giving up on my liver making it up to me just yet. Maybe it needs to be eased into this new life of not drinking nightly. Quitting anything, let alone drinking, is not in my liver's playbook and I love my little L-dawg (what I call my liver) for it. So tonight, I whet its appetite with a little wine. I'm a good mom to L-dawg... I felt what she needed and set out to help. Can't help these maternal instincts.

That's it. Tomorrow should be uninteresting, but the weekend should prove filled with tales: Norm MacDonald stand-up on Friday and Winter Wine Land on Saturday. L-dawg? You are welcome, little one.