CSSB: Mr Shandy Says So Again!

 

After the success of his first posting, which was the most viewed post for a while on CSSB, it would seem rude not to ask Mr Shandy to continue his awesome entries for the Mid Week Man’s View. So it’s time for Mr Shandy to say so. All over again.

Ok kids. Time for Mr Shandy to tell you a story. So is everyone sitting comfortably?

Marvellous.

So, in case you were wondering, I consider myself an incredibly lucky man. There are many reasons for this but one of the main reasons is that I managed to ensnare Mrs Shandy. I am not sure how I manage this, she insists that it’s because I’m essentially a good guy and because I know how to cook. I maintain that it must be that hypnotism class that I took.

Mrs Shandy is obviously a beautiful woman and I will defend that opinion against all comers but every so often, just occasionally, something will happen that will just drive that point home to me in a way that just knocks me senseless. Most of those circumstances aren’t really relevant in this particular arena, but there is one circumstance that is particularly important because of what I want to talk about today.

It was relatively early in our still growing relationship. It wasn’t the first night that we’d spent together but it was certainly one of the first few times that we had shared a double bed. So picture the scene, waking up the morning after the night before, blinking furiously at the sunlight coming in through the window and trying to track down the relevant memories that will tell you why you’re staring at a strange ceiling. You go through the various panicked responses of checking that you have all four limbs, your head (sometimes a negative in these circumstances depending on how much you drank the night before) and your genitalia (It’s a man thing). Deciding that all of these things are fine and in their correct positions (don’t ask), the next stage is to look for clues.

Please understand that this process normally happens fairly quickly in the panic of dawning consciousness.

Then I turned over and there was Mrs Shandy and it was like having an affectionate and loving hammer hit me between the eyes.

She wore no make-up, no fancy hair-do. She had some bed-clothes on but there was no designer label on them. No hand-bag or shoes. In fact she lay there asleep with her hair in disarray and her arms thrown akimbo in the sleep of someone who is used to sleeping alone.

She looked amazing.

Ok, for those of you that are female I will just wait a few minutes while you go off and make that noise that only women can make, normally when seeing small furry animals or someone else’s children.

Then few more moments for you to show these words to the man in your life and say something like “why can’t you be like that?”

The secret is that he is, he just doesn’t like saying it aloud.

But I’ll wait here while you do that.

Take your time.

.

.
Back?

Good.

So what was the point of that?

The point of that story was that a woman is already beautiful and to point out that you don’t need all that crap that so many people insist on smearing all over their faces or submitting their poor innocent skin to.

I’m talking about too much badly applied make-up and tanning in its variety of forms.

I’m going to talk about tanning first of all.

First of all sun beds.

I once worked with a lady who was obsessed with her tan. In fact I’ve worked with several ladies that have been obsessed with their tan, or rather obsessed with their utter lack of tan. But the lady that I’m thinking of took it to a completely different level.

She was a nice looking girl, pleasant to talk to. Good looking if not particularly attractive to me in the way that you can look at a wonderful painting, appreciate that it’s a wonderful painting but not want to hang it in your living room.

One day she came back from her lunch and was sat at her desk and she was fidgeting, obviously uncomfortable and I asked her what the problem was. It turned out that she had spent a little bit too long on the sunbed that lunch time and had accidentally burnt herself.

“But,” says I in my male ignorance. “Don’t those places have rules about how many times you’re allowed to visit each week and how long you’re allowed to spend on the bed at any one time?”

“Well, yeah,” she said looking embarrassed.

Sensing more to the story I moved in for the kill,

“So what’s going on?”

“Well, It’s not getting the job done fast enough, so I actually go to two different sunbed places so that I can ignore those rules and go six times a week rather than the three times a week that each will let me,”

I was horrified.

“Aren’t you worried about little things like, Oh I dunno, SKIN CANCER??”

I bellowed, somewhat embarrassingly,

“Nah, besides I need to get a tan so I look good.”

I swear that I didn’t make that up.

However sun-beds aren’t as bad as the other great evil perpetuated against a lady’s skin tone, that being spray on tan.

Just for the record. I’ve never not been able to tell when someone’s wearing fake tan. It looks disgusting, as though the lady in question is wearing gravy. For all I know they are. Cheap gravy at that.

It looks horrible, in no way attractive and is downright repulsive.

Taking things to their logical conclusion. You and I are getting hot and heavy in the club, we’re both hot and a little sweaty after all the kissy-face and snuggling and whatever else you kids are calling it nowadays. I go to the bathroom to relieve myself of all the beer and tequila that I’ve drunk, look in the mirror and realise that I’m now wearing your fake tan.

Let alone if I take you home and the stuff gets smeared all over me, my sheets and shower.

God, even the thought of it makes me want to puke.

Here’s the thing. Different women have different skin tones. Some times women can have pale, almost translucent skin, and that can be very attractive. Other women can have darker, olive skin tones and that can be just as attractive. Nature made you that way for a reason, enjoy it.

I can guess why women do this leading into summer as well though. Starting in spring, department stores, sun-bed shops. All kinds of places put up the shots for their spring and summer collections and every single one of them, without exception, show these bronzed, beautiful, airbrushed models showing off their fabulous skin tones, that for all I know are airbrushed as well. So clearly this is what you must look like to be beautiful and so you do your best to get into that kind of shape to reflect that.

It’s simply not the case. Your skin looks at it’s best at its natural shade.

Trust me on this.

I also want to take this opportunity to talk a little bit about make-up.

Now, I’ll be the first person to admit that I know Jack and Shit about make-up. As far as I’m aware these strange things emerge from women’s hand-bags, powders and creams and such-like and then for all I know, MAGIC happens and then the woman looks exactly the same while at the same time looking that little bit more beautiful than she did before. For some reason this takes an immense amount of time and the only way I can understand it is likening it to the way that knights would prepare themselves for battle, strapping each piece of armour to their bodies before carefully moving on to the next piece of armour and so on. This coupled with the fact that some women describe this as “putting their war-paint on” makes the comparison fitting.

I know nothing about make-up.

However, I do know what it looks like when it’s done badly.

I call it a toffee hammer face.

For those people not knowing what this means, a toffee hammer is a tiny little hammer, maybe the same size as a small kitchen knife used to break up the sheets of toffee in old-fashioned English toffee shops. You lightly tap the surface of the toffee and then it shatters into pieces.
These girls have so much make-up on that it looks like they’re wearing a mask of porcelain that if I walked up to it with my toffee hammer and tapped her on the cheek then the entire mask would just shatter.

This is not attractive.

I’m always worried that if I looked at the girl in question after she’s laughed then I will see the wrinkle marks where the make-up has rolled up in the corners.

Which is why they don’t change their expression.

Ever.

Who would want to date a girl who never laughs?

Not me,

Remember that list I talked about last week, the top list of sexy attributes and I mentioned confidence.

Remember what the other one was.

I thought so.

That’s enough for this talk/rant, but I understand that Mrs Shandy tags these posts, “because Mr Shandy says so,”

I can now only follow that up with.

“And that’s the bottom line.”

 

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