Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin

Dr. Moo called last night at just the right time -- I was freaking out because MM and PP messed up their computer and I can't fix it, and my laptop wouldn't connect to the internet, and I needed it for the story I'm working on. So, thank God, Moo logged into my email and gave me the info I needed.

Then we commiserated about the fact that neither Babcia nor R is being laid to rest anytime soon. We both realized what we needed -- to be in our extended family and talk about the person. But nobody's around. And we're a three hour drive away from each other. So it sucks. She cried for about two minutes last night after reading my blog and then went looking for pictures of R and couldn't find any. Then she told me she's nervous about the man hairs growing under her chin. She can't pluck 'em all and her BF touches her face. "Well if he goes against the grain..." is how she described the horror of what might happen if he was hoping for soft lady skin and instead got whisker.

I myself have a man-hair problem. Which brings me to another memory of the Babcia...it is about six years ago. I am sitting across from her at the kitchen table. She says, with a twinkle in her eye, that she has something to show me. She tells me to get the Norelco electric razor that's sitting in a pink styrofoam container next to the sink.

I bring it to her and she tells me to sit down, so I do. Then she turns it on and starts shaving. Her face. And cackling. "This, McPolack, is what you have to look forward to," she tells me, as she finishes up and lays the Norelco down next to the calendar on which she marks in blue pen every day she has a bowel movement.

Good times, good times.