Evil Chin Hairs and Other Signs of the Coming Apocolypse

It's been a while since I had a good rant about the ravages of age.

Don't pretend you hadn't noticed. You were secretly wondering why I've haven't been on my whiny soapbox for awhile. Your long wait is finally coming to an end. I need sympathy and attention, so I'm wound up for a good whine that will earn me an online pity-party.

My family is too preoccupied to give me the audience I crave. Between the London Olympics, the Presidential election, "Sherlock," college searches, violent blockbuster movies, summer school, budget concerns, and "the weather," no one at my house seems to have time for my semi-annual mid-life crisis. So I'm bringing my whinypants self to the blogosphere where people truly care about my issues.

Here, in no particular order, are some of my personal characteristic that are getting worse with age:

chin hairs - My chin hairs have developed subcategories and supercategories. In fact, the category has to be broadened to include hairs of all colors and textures that appear at random on almost any part of the face. I currently have to play "search and destroy" on practically every inch of the bottom two-thirds, from the brows to the neck folds. I guess this is nature's way of compensating for my lack of a mustache. Because of the fact that I have droopy, fleshy eyelids (see separate rant below), I often have to pluck stray brows from just above my lashes. I mistakenly thought long nosehairs were the province of the males of the species, but a new glasses prescription corrected that notion in short order (retroactive embarrassment). I also have one hair that randomly appears near my jawline, growing 3-4" overnight for no apparent reason; I pluck it and it doesn't come back for months or years. When it shows up again, it is as if it literally pops up full-grown. I keep expecting to grow some nice green warts to showcase these lovely chin-sprouts, which come in black and silver and feel as if they are connected at the bone. I've had to get a tug-of-war team to help yank them out. I'm not sure what the evolutionary purpose of sparse stubble on an otherwise smooth face is, but clearly, God wants me to grow a beard.

eyelids - Although I've never had deep-set eyes or a prominent brow bone, but for most of my life I liked my big blue eyes. Only nowadays they couldn't be described as big. My eyelids have "gained weight" in recent years, and seem to cover too much of my eyeball.  They droop so far down that they fold over themselves to make a little hood over my 12 transparent eyelashes. My worsening vision seems to be due (in part) to the obstructive effect of "double-eyelids," which are like double-chins, but may eventually qualify for me corrective surgery. A mini-facelift covered by insurance - what a concept! Except that I can't countenance the thought of someone, even a skilled surgeon, slicing at my eyelids. Looks like I'll have to live out my days with puffy, droopy, raccoon-ringed eyes. Try to control your sympathy.

short-term memory - I like calling my curmudgeonly husband "Al." This derisive nickname is short for the Alzheimer's which seems to strike whenever he is called upon to remember important facts about anyone but himself and Peyton Manning. But lately the girls have whispered "Allie" behind my back (bet you thought I didn't hear you, treasonous children). I seem to be forgetting things with greater frequency of late. The fact is, I forgot something extremely important the other day, something I really needed to tell someone else, and I've already forgotten what it was. The effect of age on my memory function appears to have changed from linear to exponential around the time the girls hit the teen years. The details and minutiae of their busy lives started to crowd out the few available brain cells that remained after I ushered them over the threshold of puberty. I've been warned by people in-the-know that this condition only gets worse. I could offer countless examples of this problem, in the form of embarrassing stories where I get lost on the way to the grocery store, or call an old friend by their sister's name, or asked for a restaurant check after I've already paid it, but I've conveniently forgotten most of them.

varicose veins - I didn't have this condition, at least as far as I knew. Then a friend started discussing her upcoming surgery, which led me to take a closer look, and I got a shock. With my new, improved reading glasses trained on my inner ankles, I discovered intricate roadmaps of red, blue and purple. Later, using a hand mirror, I inspected the back of my thighs and calves. (I don't recommend this if you have a weak stomach or are prone to fits of uncontrolled hysteria.) Not many visible veins on my thighs, because they are protected by a thick layer of cellulite. But my calves - oh, dear - why didn't someone warn me? Delicately framed between shiny stretch marks there were several oddly-shaped purple bulges. I guess we'll have to add this indignity to the growing list.

Creaking/cracking joints - Before I can creep, sloth-like, out of bed each morning, I must first rotate one foot for several seconds until my ankle cracks. I've found that, if I don't,  the whole leg mysteriously gives out while I'm trying to get to the bathroom. I don't know why this is or what it portends, but it can't be good. A few minutes later, my first trip of the day down the stairs sounds like a bag of microwave popcorn just warming up - a noisy cadence of pressure-relieving pops. Friends who've heard me crack my neck know that I can produce a blood-curdling sound that could be dubbed into a horror movie where the killer breaks someone's neck bare-handed...it's pretty gruesome. I wasn't expecting to have such noisy joints at my age. It seems only fair that I should  be "officially beyond childbearing capability" before I have to sound this old.

Forgetting - Not to be confused with short-term memory problems, I'm talking about forgetting names, birthdays, directions - facts I've known all my life which now routinely escape my grasp. Sometimes there's someone on hand who can fill in the blank ("Mom, why don't you just get our phone number tattooed on your wrist?"), but often I've lost an entire afternoon researching some mundane factoid (July 4, 1776) that I would have thought impossible to forget. This may be the inevitable fallout of a lifetime of collecting and storing trivia in order to impress people with my Jeopardy skills. It would be nice to do some selective defragging and purging of overcrowded or malfunctioning areas of my brain. Does anyone know how to achieve this kind of de-cluttering? I read a self-help article about it once, but I guess I forgot what it said.

I had planned to "rave on" about this until I reached ten unpleasant aspects of age, but I'm already somewhat demoralized at the ones I've discussed here today. As I've often said, I'm very lucky to be healthy, well-fed and sheltered and surrounded by people I love, so I realized that these are rather minor concerns. Compared to most of the folks I share this planet with, I have nothing to whine about. But that never stopped me before.

So I'll stop with the rants above for the time being. Unless someone is desperate to hear about bladder issues, hearing difficulties, thick toenails, lactose intolerance and my new fascination with Lawrence Welk reruns, I think I'll stop and grab a nap or something.

Fifty Shades of Wasted

I frequently apologize and/or make excuses for my old-fashioned tastes, limited understanding of current trends and cluelessness as regards popular culture. I could never be mistaken for a person who knows what's new, what's hot, what's in. I'm pretty stagnant in my interests and don't usually explore "the latest" of anything. 


And I'm usually satisfied being out of the pop culture loop. I'm okay not knowing who is the latest favorite on American Idol, or what color is the new black, or the wedding plans of Brangelina.


The only niggling doubt I have is when it comes to books. Sometimes I just can't resist the urge to read the latest bestseller that everyone is talking about. I almost always regret that decision. I know what I like - why do I let myself get talked into reading something that doesn't interest me?


That's what happened this week. I finally broke down and bought Fifty Shades of Grey for my Kindle - at $9.99, the most expensive e-book I've bought - and began reading immediately.


Many of my friends have enjoyed this book, I assumed I was just being a stick-in-the-mud and missing out on a good story.


Note: What follows is purely my opinion. I am not trying to influence anyone. It's just a rant.


What a complete waste of my time! I'd give anything to be able to get back the hours I spent trudging through this juvenile, redundant, predictable excuse for a novel. I'd rather have a refund on the time than the money, and if you know how cheap I am, you know that's saying something.


The narrator and ingenue, Anastasia Steele, is only fractionally more likeable than Twilight's Bella Swann. She's a about to graduate from college with honors, is a dutiful daughter, a Brit Lit devotee', shy, gorgeous and a virgin. If she had ever 1) made one single intelligent decision during the course of the story or, 2) pulled the plug on her continuous stream-of-consciousness narration, I may have been able to find something about her to like or admire. But Ana quickly changes the very core of her character in order to be able to become sexually involved with Mr. Hottie Hot Hot Rich Gorgeous Stud. She's about as admirable a role model for women today as a certain aspiring Dallas Cowboy cheerleader named Debbie was to my generation. Completely unbelievable character development, in my opinion. 


The male love interest - I cannot call this character a hero with a straight face -  is Christian Grey, a 26-year old self-made telecommunications billionaire  who is frequently described by his physical beauty (redundantly and ad nauseum). He is also an accomplished pilot, classical pianist, has impeccable manners and speaks like he reads Lord Byron for breakfast. He's a bona fide sex god, whether indulging in his obsession with BDSM or just dabbling in "vanilla" carnality. In other words, he's off-the-chart implausible, which made it very difficult for me to give a rat's derriere what his emotional problems stem from.


I wish I'd listened to my own "inner goddess" and skipped this tripe. I'm doomed to remember this sub-par story and these annoying whiners for years, until the inevitable dementia sets in and I can hopefully forget this book. Meanwhile, I can't escape them in my head. I can't un-read the story or erase the memory of their kinky goings-on.


Let me be clear: I'm not opposed to the sexy aspects of the novel. It's just that the writing was so bad, the characterizations so infantile and the narrative so annoying that I can't see how anyone could enjoy any aspect of the story - sex, dialog, "inner goddess," what have you.  I was warned that it is poorly written, but I couldn't believe that something selling millions in hardback could be as bad as all that. I was mistaken.


Next time, if I think I don't want to read what everyone is reading, watch what everyone is watching or go where everyone is going, I hope I can remember this experience. I'm a boring, middle-aged woman, the perfect candidate for this mindless titillation, but I pray that next time a "can't-miss" opportunity comes along that truly doesn't appeal to me, I have the sense to save my limited time, money and brain space for finer, worthier things.


On the bright side, I'm feeling much more confident and ambitious about my own writing!

How Can Playing With Legos Make Me Tired? (and other burning questions)

Sometimes I get down on myself for not doing more with my life professionally, not using my intellect or talents in a way that would bring security and financial gain to me and my family. For reasons beyond my limited understanding, this has not been the path for me.

After years of staying home to raise kids and keep house, I've had a few part-time jobs, but none have turned into a mid-life career. I regularly apply for jobs, usually entry-level office positions, but so far nothing has panned out.

In my dreams, I have the makings of an impressive "Girl Friday"-type of administrative assistant. I don't know how build a website or run Outlook, but I'd bring my real-world experience and common sense to thorny inter-office relationships, remember my boss's anniversary several days in advance, and always have my Shout stain-removal pen handy. I think I have much to offer, if you like a slightly younger, slightly thinner Aunt Bea-type of secretary.

In my nightmares, I picture myself as a myopic, incontinent Lucille Ball trying to run new product development at Apple - total overwhelmance. I'd probably be a disaster in any workplace. (Exception: Dairy Queen - I'd give that a try.)

As long as there are 200 applicants to each job for which I apply, it's safe to assume I won't be working full-time in the near future. So I continue to make my halfhearted efforts at "working" part-time,during the  few hours that I am not needed for kid transport, meal preparation, dog feeding and coffee drinking with neighbors.

Right now, I have an interesting job taking care of a 5 year-old boy, just a couple of days per week. (Please don't forward this to any of your friends in the IRS, if you get my drift.) Since my youngest is 14, it's been a while since I've been required to conduct discussions with a preschooler for any purposes other than my own entertainment. I've always loved hanging out with kids this age, but all the occasional 30 minute visits over the last 10 years did not prepare me for the hours-long demands of a 5 year-old who wants to know everything about everything.

And I'm not complaining. It's a gas, and I spend most of my time with him either smiling or laughing. But after a few short hours, I'm exhausted!

This should be balm to the souls of you mothers with toddlers. In all honesty, as mothers we get swept so quickly into the next stage of our kids' lives, whatever it is, that we forget to notice that the annoying stuff from the previous stage is no longer annoying us. For example, when you are done changing diapers, you don't get to have a "whew moment" and just enjoy saving diaper money and burning the ugly diaper bag and turning the changing table into a toy shelf. No, you are too busy chasing around after a potty-trainer, which involves lightning-quick reflexes, expanded psychic powers and pockets discreetly stuffed with toilet paper, wet wipes, a change of bottoms and hand sanitizer at all times.

My point being, once you've moved on to the next stage of development, it is possible, in a matter of only weeks, to find yourself thinking back longingly to the previous stage. It's a sophisticated nuance of programming, designed by God for the continuation of the species. Without this special ability embedded in our brain folds, our foremothers would have headed back to the treetops at the first sight of green poop, leaving the scary baby wailing on the forest floor for lesser mammals to take care of.

As the mother of two teenage girls, I know of what I speak. Have faith, mothers of toddlers. Your days with the smug group of carefree moms at the bus stop, in workout clothes and steaming coffee in hand, are closer than you think. The years of preschool drudgery will be a dim, sweet memory long before you have mastered the stage that follows.

But I digress...and don't I always?

My friend, my charge, is a young man who goes to pre-k and will be in kindergarten in the fall. I make his breakfast, get him ready for school, drive him there, have 3 hours on my own, then pick him up, and stay with him until 3:30 or so. In all, we are together for about 5.5 hours. But we cover an huge amount of information in that short time. And we usually construct no less than three original Lego masterpieces each day.

In the interest of protecting his innocence, I will refer to him by the name of his favorite Ninjago (ninja Lego) hero, Kai. Here is a sampling of a few of the questions that Kai posed in a mere 40 minutes yesterday before school:

Why can I only watch that show at 8pm7Central?*

Why doesn't the syrup melt the peanut butter?

Did Mary sit in my booster seat?

Why doesn't everybody live in Florida?

Do you ever let your kids go to bed without brushing their teeth?

I'm relieved to report that, on most mornings, I am not required to furnish believable answers, due to time constraints. But by midday, Kai and I are both engaged and at our leisure, so I try to address his questions with the seriousness they deserve. Like this one:

Did Darth Vader know he was going to turn into a bad guy?

What an opportunity! Time to clear my throat and assume my lecture-hall persona. But wait: this is not Mary, who likes to talk about archetypes in mythology, or Camille, who enjoys analyzing ethical questions; this is Kai, who is 5, and Darth Vader is just a bad guy in movies and on toy shelves. Struggling mightily, I formed the shortest, simplest answer my normally long-winded mouth could construct:

Not at first, but I think he knew later.

This seemed to be all he needed to know. I was dying to say more, but I just pinched myself and held my breath. Years of putting my kids to sleep with explanations they didn't ask for about things they didn't care about had finally taught me something. Just answer the question, then stop. Wow, that was powerful.

And because Kai is 5, he had another, totally unrelated question, a few seconds later:

So when your grampa gets old does that make him the great-grampa?

Other interesting points of discussion in the last few days:

Why do you only have old goldfishes?

Why can't we use a fish net to catch butterflies?

What animal is salami? (If it's warthog it would taste bad.)

Could you really live in a house built of Legos if it had a bathroom?

Do you think it's weird that snakes can wrap around each other and not get hurt?

Why didn't you ever buy your kids Ninjagos?

Do you think a mulch monster could beat up a pine cone monster?

I know I'll always be older than Danielle, but will she ever be older than me?

And this is the most profound question I've been asked by anyone in quite a while:

Why do you need three dogs?

We talk quite a bit about sports, since he is a seasoned hockey, soccer and t-ball player. He pulls for IU and Notre Dame sports teams equally, and did not want to address the possibility of who to root for when these teams meet. He's just a fan of both, end of discussion. My lesson in sportsmanship. When I told him I graduated from IU, he asked,

Did you have to go to college to be a babysitter?

So it would seem, my little ninja, so it would seem.

*all one word

To your health!

Take this simple test to see if you are ignoring important symptoms of an unpleasant, inconvenient but essentially non-lethal condition:

If you suffer from:	Then you may be afflicted by:
Headaches	Metabolic syndrome
Fatigue	Compromised immune system
Trouble sleeping	Sleep apnea
Weak bladder control	Fibromyalgia
Thinning hair	Color blindness
Low sex drive	Heartbreak of psoriasis
Uncontrolled weeping	Reduced liver function
Sinus blockage	Chronic fatigue syndrome
Hairy back	Hormone imbalance
Bad posture	Seasonal allergy syndrome
Dry eyes	Food addiction
Seasonal allergies	Epstein-Barr syndrome
Weight gain	Low T
Upset stomach	Old age

All you do is match the normal imperfections of the human condition on the left, to the serious-sounding condition or syndrome on the right.  Warning:  some symptoms are linked to all the conditions, so it may look a little messy when you are done.

My theory is that if it's called a syndrome or condition, the name was invented by a drug company to sell a product.  Once something is isolated as a specific symptom or set of symptoms, Friendly Farma Inc. can name the "syndrome" and develop an expensive treatment plan.  Catchy names, unpredictable spelling and acronyms play a large role in selling these new ideas to a sickly, whiny public.

(NOTICE TO WHINY PUBLIC: Please hold your fire. I'm not talking about true diseases or chronic conditions here.  This is innocent humor commentary and at least I'm not calling you a hypochondriac to your face.)

I've always thought that we are much healthier than commercials, magazines and drugstore shelves would have us believe.  However, it really started to bother me when our prescription drug plan changed significantly this year (along with our regular health plan).  This meant the Eric brought home lots of reading material to acquaint us with the new guidelines for dealing with doctor visits, approved prescriptions, payments, coverage limits, and other engrossing information.  Normally I'd just skim it and hope Eric would forget to quiz me, but the approved medications list caught my attention.  For some reason, it was a pretty short list.

How could that be?  I can't watch one hour of news without being regaled with the miraculous powers of Cialis, Lunesta, Abilify, Lipitor, Rogaine, Pradaxa, Nexium, Crestor and Plavix.  Doesn't my insurance company want me to benefit from the improved quality of life made possible by extensive research and testing on the part of the altruistic drug companies?  Well, of course they do.  They just don't want to pay the drug company prices, particularly if I'm not willing to either.

It seems our insurance company has recently decided that they only want us to take cheap drugs that prevent life-threatening conditions or regulate chronic conditions.  My blood pressure medicine and Eric's blood thinner are on this list.  They must want us to take them, because they are free (as in $0) on our plan.

But what about all those other drugs the pharmaceutical firms spend so much time and money advertising to the decrepit, whiny populace?  Why do they go to such lengths to make me want them, convince me that I need them, if my insurance company won't pay for them?  This seems patently unfair.

The lady on tv with the horrible toenail fungus stays quietly at home with the shades drawn.  But after a 30-day course of Phlizzerak, she's seen strolling the streets in broad daylight, smiling broadly at no one and everyone, stiletto sandals showcasing her beautifully healed toenails.  Why should she get to be happy because of a drug, while I have to suffer without it?

What about the couple who bump heads while they are working on some home-improvement project?  Do they get in an argument about his clumsiness or her inability to tell a crescent wrench from jackhammer?  No!  They magically appear in his-and-hers porcelain tubs, sweetly holding hands across the short distance that separates them from conjugal bliss.  And is this beautiful moment the product of years of hard work to develop their sense of humor, a climate of forgiveness and an understanding of one another's unspoken love language?  Not hardly.  This moment is brought to you by Schtiffenhaut Laboratories, makers of Xerdella, or some other nonsensically-named product designed to make you feel that you, Mr. and Mrs. Humdrum, are not living life to the fullest because you don't take this drug.

I'm not calling out Big Pharma for their profits, or Big Insurance for their cost-cutting strategies, or Big Marketing for the ads that do their best to create a need.  No one entity has forced one individual to buy one pill.  But the cooperative system of those three, working in tandem, is expertly designed to target the individual psyche, which is perfectly capable of evaluating its own situation and judging its own needs.  But does my psyche act on facts, or does it just want the tubs and stilettos?


I love spicy, hot, dangerous food.  Thai and Indian foods are my favorites.  If I suddenly found they gave me stomach problems, say, acid reflux that keeps me up at night, would I stop eating curries?  Probably not.  Commercials have been telling me for years to pop a pill before I engage in dangerous eating, so that I can enjoy my meals without interruption by the obvious symptoms warning of the damage I'm doing to my stomach.  Take an OTC acid reducer so I don't have to change my behavior or make a personal sacrifice - no-brainer, right?

I just wonder about our ancestors who didn't have access to 20,000 square feet of cures for every ailment, real or imagined, in the form of the ubiquitous Walgreens, CVS and Rite-Aid stores that seem to be everywhere these days.  I know there were snake oil salesmen, bogus treatments, home remedies, hypochondriacs, faith healers and leeches in our medical history, but did our forbearers spend so much time worrying about their body and its complications?  Did metalsmiths stay home from the forge when sinus pain and pressure cost them a good night's sleep?  Did pioneer women neglect the milking when PMS struck?  Did the laborers who built the transcontinental railroad complain about a sensitivity to MSG in their gruel?

It doesn't seem possible that I can be just 4 or 5 generations removed from hardworking people who put in 16 hours of labor on an average day, only to lay down on a bug-infested straw mattress on the floor - yet I travel with a special pillow or I "can't get a good night's sleep."  Really?

I think we've been had.  I think we are all much healthier, stronger and more capable than the product peddlers would have us believe.  I think if we all just sent the dollar equivalent of one month's hair care or bowel regularity purchases to President Obama, he could use that fast cash to pay bills, instead of raising the debt ceiling.

In which I apologize to my body

I was packing up some periodicals at my mother-in-law's house this weekend, and was struck by the similarity and unchanging nature of women's magazines.  Although she subscribes to some more erudite publications like National Geographic and Arthritis Today,  many of the others fall into a category I think of as "indistinguishable from the next one."  From the cover format to the cover models, these piles I sorted look almost identical, except for the name across the top: Redbook and Ladies' Home Journal - indistinguishable! Martha Stewart Living and O - The Oprah Magazine - same size, same template, same high-end advertisers.  Family Circle and Women's Day - same 5 articles every month ("Walk Off 10 Pounds a Week While You Sleep!"; "Redecorate Your Whole House for $50 This Weekend!"; "Balanced, Delicious Four-Course Meals in 15 Minutes or Less!"; somehow the last two have slipped my mind - Ed.)

The funny thing about all these magazines is how they keep pushing one central theme:  I need to take better care of myself.  I need to put me first, I need to pamper my skin and take care of my one and only body.  I need to buy products that make me look younger, thinner and more "hip."  I need to relax my mind, I must strive to reduce my stress,  I need to indulge my passions, I should be sexy at any age, and I should never, ever forget that I'm the only me I have.  If I will just pamper myself, everything else will fall into place, these magazines assure me.

Poppycock.

Try not to run screaming for the authorities when I share this little-known fact with you:  these monthly magazines are usually nothing more than annual retreads of previous issues.  The articles benefit the advertisers by selling products, more than they help the reader solve real problems.  But I got to thinking...by their measure, this 50-year old body has suffered chronic neglect.  Is there anything to be done?

Well, since I'm unlikely to change my exercise or grooming habits at this stage, all I can do is say, "I'm sorry."  And because I've been guilty of a lifetime of neglect, I feel compelled to offer individual apologies to specific body parts that have suffered the most.

By no means is this list complete or exhaustive, but starting from the top, allow me to apologize to my:

Eyebrows:  According to an infomercial I saw once, the slightest effort on my part to accentuate you would cause me to instantly look 10 years younger.  And how can I doubt your importance, when faced with the picture of Anne Hathaway seen here? But I've been remiss. You haven't been plucked or shaped in months.  To be honest, I can't even see you very well anymore.  But I appreciate all you do to keep my forehead wrinkles firmly in place.

Biceps:  Short of adding webbing and feathers, I'm not sure what else I could do to make you look more wing-like.  But I've reversed my lifelong habit of hiding you under sleeves in all seasons and temperatures, so you should at least feel like you are getting some "exposure," if not "attention." Yes, I know the little dumbbells are just right there, under the desk, next to my feet at this very minute...so what's your point?

Cuticles:  You take the brunt of my nervousness, frustration and boredom.  I constantly peel, pick, nick, bite, chew and rip your ragged edges, usually without knowing it.  Once I quit smoking, picking on you gave me something to do with my hands. You were sacrificed so my lungs could have a better life.  I'm sorry, there's really no hope - you are destined to be sore, tattered and bloody.

Stomach:  My friends who work out (not really my "friends," but I tolerate them) refer to you as "abs," but in your sorry condition, I think "gut" or "belly" sounds more appropriate.  When I step on the treadmill and feel you bounce and jiggle, I smile inwardly, thinking that a little more exercise is all it will take to tighten you up.  But who am I kidding?  I could start doing crunches today and still have a droopy pouch 10 bazillion reps later. 

Thighs:  You shouldn't complain, since I actually was spending time on you as recently as...uh...was it September?  I mean, when I wear shorts, you aren't neglected.  But once the weather turned cool and you became sheathed in warmth-giving fabrics, you have begun to look and feel positively reptilian. Your rapid deterioration since the summertime pampering makes me wonder why I bother with the loofa and the lotion.  Right now there is a chalky residue clinging to the prickly surface that is covered equally by cellulite and stretch marks.  I'm very sorry, but both you thighs belong to the category of "out-of-sight, out-of-mind."  Get over yourself.

Toes:  After years of hearing me describe you as the ugliest toes in the free world, your resentful appearance is understandable.  However,  I've recently discovered the secret of beautiful toes.  Get a pedicure in December and wear socks every single moment from then on (except in the shower).  Yes, you are usually very neglected, but at this moment you have no reason to complain...well, other than the embedded sock fuzz.  You ten are good until the red polish wears off.

Heels:  Look - here's a sampling of the products and methods I've tried on you over the years:  Beeswax, lanolin, bag balm, honey, bacon grease, olive oil, mineral oil, petroleum jelly, sandpaper, cheese grater, vegetable peeler, acupuncture and meditation.  I can't help you if you don't want to be helped.  Your deeply etched lines and ridges remind me of those ancient sticks that archeologists say early humans used to keep track of the moon phases.  I haven't neglected you, you've just been unresponsive to my efforts.

Well, I feel better now.  My conscience is clear, my load lightened - a lifetime of thoughtless abuse and neglect is forgiven, just like that.

Incidentally, that is not my personal heel.