Tom Selleck In Rome

First, before we discuss adventures in facial hair, I realize that I've failed to tell you what's going on with The Blue Banana House. I haven't updated about it, because there are all kinds of calculations and meditations and perspirations going on over the subject, and Andrew recently reminded me that he moved me away from the South Florida rentals to relax and breathe for two seconds. Which is why it would be stupid to admit to a thought process of, Wait a minute, if we're considering The Absolutely Perfectly Ready To Move Into Blue Banana House, why not go beach side for a beater that has enough square footage to keep me stressed out until Obama gets out of office, beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach. And as fast as a roof can cave in, I'm up at three o'clock in the morning searching the market from the basement of a hotel giving dirty looks to anyone who comes within twenty feet of my precious Siberian internet connection.

THIS IS WHY I SHOULDN'T TALK ABOUT MY FEELINGS.

Anyway, that's what's going on with that, and now, moving on to Andrew's facial hair. This post is actually proof for posterity, that at one moment Andrew's decision skills rivaled those of Charlie Sheen on a winning day.



Andrew decided not to shave for our entire trip, partly because in real life he's got the kind of corporate mucky muck gig that doesn't really favor this sort of thing and partly just to eff with me. Probably more of the latter.

A little over a week into his experiment, when the beard started getting all Brillo pad-ish and I kept mistaking him for an Irish rabbi, I politely suggested a razor. (Suggested as in encouraged. Encouraged as in demanded. Demanded as in threatened with blunt force trauma.) When he was unfazed by my suggestions I told him that he looked just like a Carrot Top Hell's Angel, minus some leather chaps.

BOOM. There was shaving going on OH THE POWER OF SUGGESTION.

And then there was this. In public.




Even though I glared at him the entire two days it was like this, the unspoken victory was clearly his. WINNING, people.

W-I-N-N-I-N-G

But I still told him he looked like a child molester.