for once, it's not poop

Do you remember the part in Peter Pan where Tinkerbell drinks the poison to save Peter's life and then she dies and everyone has to clap their hands furiously to bring her back to life? Did you clap? I clapped. I still clap. I'm not sure if I actually do believe in fairies or if I do it for the same reason I purposefully avoid stepping on cracks. I don't want to be responsible for a dead fairy somewhere. Or for breaking my mother's back.

My husband, is not a clapper. At least, not any more. Fairies he could live without. All because of their dust. Also known as glitter. If you really want to tick him off, give him a card with glitter on it. Or anything with glitter on it in a sneaky little package hiding the glitter. Men don't like glitter. Liberace and Eddie Izzard. Okay. I can think of two.

Women who love glitter, on the other hand, come in an array of sorts. The list begins with strippers. Closely followed by fairies. And then little girls. After that there is only Mariah Carey. In my home, there are no strippers on most nights. Nor washed-up pop stars. But there is always at least one little girl and a whole dang handful of fairy dust.

It's really our go-to decoration for things like school projects and artsy-fartsy creative time. If you're unsure what time that is, it's about the time of day I uncork the shiraz and start a batch of chick'n nuggets in the oven {my go-to dinner}. Last minute homework always looks fancier when you douse it in glitter. It's a good way to say, {we really worked hard on this homework this morning before the bus came} I also allow glitter on the fingernails and faces during slumber parties or weekends. Because my little girl is at her quietest while applying makeup. It's just so.

Like plain old dust, the fairy sort ends up on the floor. And on tables, rugs, hair and nose-holes. Sometimes it gets in dinner. And on the pets. Let's be honest, it's an improvement on ol' dog's baldy foot look. She really can't complain about the glitter.

It especially ends up where you don't intend for it to be. i.e- on the men. So this morning, I was only a little shocked when my husband yelled- clearly outraged- about glitter on Sam. Yesterday I saw a little red piece on his chin, but to be fair, all sorts of things get stuck there because it's always slathered in drool. But this time it was not stuck in drool on his neck, chin, or fingers. It was lower.

No, lower. Still lower. Oh....higher. Right there. Actually, I think JG's exact words were:

{dammit, steph, there's glitter under my baby's balls}

I really only see this as a problem after puberty sets in. Glitter, is better than dog hair. Or the other sorts of things that get stuck to balls. Like lice.

You all agree. Except you, JG. You, dear husband, will never see eye to eye with me where sparkles are concerned. They may very well be the bane of your nerdy, yet manly existence. Tiny little specks of fabulous. Marring your masculine facade and forever ruining your chances of ever cheating on your spouse. {not that you could ever find anyone as interesting or perfect as I am} I'm sorry, but the magic sprinkles are here to stay. And to help you embrace the pizzaz, I bedazzled your wireless mouse and the entire contents of your underpants drawer.

God, I love saying underpants. But now you can call them fancies.