Jesus shaves

I stole that title from David Sedaris, but I don't think he'll mind, since he's a funny, funny, generous guy and I'd marry him if he weren't gay. Hell, I'd marry him gay if he'd have me. Anyone who can make me laugh every day has got potential. To hell with heterosexuality.

Anyway, back to shaving. Jesus really has nothing to do with this post. The damn legs, I tell you. The more you shave them, the more they need to be shaved, but in the summer it's not as though you can give them a few days off unless you want others to see you as the hairy beast you're sure to become. If it weren't one thousand degrees here, I'd just wear pants and save everybody the trouble--the trouble of shaving and the trouble of seeing the resultant stubble. But for this I am grateful: no hair above the lips to speak of.

One of the women who frequents the dog park with her black lab, Molly, is a retired speech therapist, so I gave her my CD copy of David's Me Talk Pretty One Day so she can listen to "Go Carolina." Revised title of this post: Jethuth Thaves.