Two days. Two varieties of "ugly."
Day One (yesterday--Monday): spent hours getting receipts, etc. ready for a visit to our accountant for You-Know-What. Ugly. (We see him tomorrow.)
Day Two (today--Tuesday): semi-annual visit to my dermatologist, who greeted me with freeze-gun blazing. I now look as if I've been shot four times in the face by a Dick Cheney with a b-b gun. When I go to the coffee shop this afternoon, people will pretend there's nothing wrong--and that's sweet. And I'll set there, with four spots glowing red on my face, like warning lights on a dashboard.
Oh well.
The only good news: Maybe I'll give our accountant such a shock that he'll try to get us out of there in a hurry.
Meanwhile, I'll avoid mirrors for a few days and feel, for the nonce, how Victor Frankenstein's creature felt with he woke up and checked out a reflective surface.
And BTW: I love the name of this weapon--a cryogun. A gun to make me cry. (Yes, yes, I know: cryo- (from the Greek) means damn cold.)
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