Whisker On My Chinny-Chin-Chin

    So, I last left you all with our latest addition to our little spinsterhood family (Hamlet the noble stray). Unfortunately, for him, we had to leave our apartment--but gratefully we walked into our new/old home nestled within the Tower District. But no need to fret! We quickly made friends with another stray. Stray he may not be, though. A few weeks back when we did a walk through of our now lovely little home, we spotted a cat on the wall in the backyard. We immediately swooned, and the previous owner (picking up on our amorous nature toward the cat) subtly remarked that if we wanted the cat, he was ours; she couldn't take him along. We thought she was kidding.  

    That Friday afternoon after we had moved all of our big furniture, I was perusing the back yard and heard an awful cry coming from the far end of the yard. Low and behold, here was that very same cat, hissing at me and staring me down with his yellow ominous eyes. His sibilating could not frighten this young bitty away, though. With a little help from my fellow bitty, we quickly de-jaundiced his eyes and heart. 

Meet our latest addition Edgar, who came a rap tapping on our door crying Nevermore--leave me hungry; we call him Poe for short:

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But our continual catnapping is not the heart of this blog. The main issue I wish to address is facial hair. Hi, I am Jessica. I am twenty-two years old and I have whiskers on my chin. 

I remember the days of old when my brother, sister and I used to go visit our great-grandma and ransack through her library, tip on her type writer, and climb her gnarly tree out in her front yard. We loved our stubborn old grandma. She had a stern voice, endearing blue eyes, and flailing whiskers. I remember them vividly, poking out from her chin, and my sister and I would try to stifle our giggling. Here I am now, twenty-two, and my chin mimics my dear old grandmothers. So what does one young bitty do? Buys herself a good pair of tweezers. 

Luckily, I am not alone in this plucking event. My roommate and I have made it into a game of sorts--a "hangout" session, if you will. We like to call this "Whisker Patrol." We enjoy sitting in the living room, soaked in sun, plucking our chin whiskers; it's become a favorite pass time, really. I am often reminded of my grandmother and her whiskers glistening in the light that peeked in through her blinds. We now have another commonality, the only difference is I put my tweezers to good use. I am lucky to have a fellow young bitty to share in my curmudgeon-ity. It's these minute things that perpetuate this spinster attitude--lifestyle I've acquired. Things as small as a whisker on the tip of my chin.