AURIA CORTES

I received an email from a guy friend who has a girlfriend. He started the email with, “to the sexiest girl I know…” 

Hmmm… 

I called another guy friend. 

Me: Do you think men and women can be friends?
Him: No.
Me: But we’re friends.
Him: Yes.
Me: You want to hook up with me?
Him: Yes.
Me: Oh.
Him: I know that we won’t, tho.
Me: So, it’s okay with you that we are just friends?
Him: Sure, as long as I know I got a shot.

If you have a big sister, you’ve surely experienced at least one “the night the lights went out in Georgia” moment. One of the most memorable for me was when Bobbi and I were in elementary school.

I’ve always been a big talker, and back then, no one could beat me in a race. I was the fastest runner in the 4^th grade and, I’d venture to guess, in all the grades combined.  I had this habit of daring my peers to race me so I could prove I was the best runner the school had ever seen. Yes, I know. I had issues. 

A new classmate, Herman, accepted my challenge. Throughout the day, we kept throwing one-liners at each other in an effort to psyche the other out before the big race. 

“I’m going to win.”  

“No, I’m going to win.”  

“I’m going to beat you.” 

“No, I’m going to beat you.” 

The momentum was high. Lots was at stake – pride.  To no one’s surprise, I won. Herman didn’t take it very well. He turned into a bully, pushing me. Though I probably could have run my way out of the situation, I didn’t. I pushed back. And so the shoving match began.  

A crowd began to form.

Out of nowhere came Bobbi. Her speech was limited to what a ten-year-old could muster. “Stop hitting her! Stop hitting her!” she said as she flung her fists across Herman’s head, face, and back.  

Everyone stood in silence as Herman cowardly sat in a fetal position. Visibly upset, Bobbi told the crowd, “No one messes with my sister!” 

Julia Sugarbaker, you’re a good big sister but you have nothing on my big sister Bobbi.   

I fear my quest to save the world from unnecessary facial hair
comes too late.
Beard caps are now on the market.
This insanity must end.

There is an ugly rumor circulating about the return of the 1970s mustache-wearing male finding his way to the 21st century. Is this a backlash to the metrosexual era? Is this a way for the “regular guy” to reclaim his masculinity? Is this a way of making food stuck to a man’s face acceptable?  

As a single woman, I strongly object to this horrific trend.  I’m not going to throw around careless accusations against facial hair. That just wouldn’t be right. Rather, my approach will be fair and balanced. You know, the reporting style made famous by Fox News.   

For starters, the mustache reminds me of 1970s porn. As a kid, I wasn’t always able to recognize the vital body parts through the scrambled Playboy Channel, but I could always tell if the man was wearing a mustache. Not a sexy scene, my friends. 

Sticking with the 1970s theme, my father sported a mustache back then, and I don’t want to date a man that resembles him. That’s taking the Father Complex theory way too far. 

Most importantly, I have very sensitive skin. In fact, so sensitive that I once went out on a date with a man that had facial hair and after three hours of lip smacking, my skin became so irritated that I developed a rash. Sure, you can make the argument that the rash was due to the marathon-long make-out session, not the mustache per se, but this isn’t a time to be logical. Let’s keep the focus of this post where it belongs, on the ill-conceived return of the mustache.  

I’m not prejudiced; I’m against all mustaches.   

Pencil mustache? No way. It reminds me of John Waters.   

The toothbrush? Um, no. Charlie Chaplin donned that one for a reason: it’s funny-looking.  

Horseshoe-style mustache? Nice try. Hulk Hogan can get away with it is because wrestlers are cartoon-like. 

Magnum, P. I. mustache? Oh, now you’re playing dirty (I like that), but chances are you don’t look like Tom Selleck. Psssssst. If you share his rugged good looks, e-mail me your digits.  

Guys, take it from me. I won’t steer you wrong. There is a reason the mustache trend died a slow death. Here’s a hint: men aren’t supposed to be walking buffets, able to select from an assortment of late-night snacks trapped in their hippielips.   

I’m just sayin’. 

I must admit I have nothing over Slim Shady. My so-called clever observations and storytelling skills take a back seat to Eminem’s alter ego. But I lay the blame for this solely on Linda. She’s kept me hidden in her subconscious all our lives—until now.  

I like Linda. Don’t get me wrong. But over the years, I’ve grown jealous of her. While she has been living her life, I’ve had to sit on the sidelines—at times applauding her accomplishments and at others, covering my face in horror when she was about to step in it.    

However, we all have a moment when we realize enough is enough. This epiphany came to me this past summer when Linda’s first nonfiction book was published. You see, I am an aspiring artist and novelist. Seeing Linda’s book on the bookshelves gave me the courage to try and break free of her so I can pursue my own dreams. 

I began working on an original series of paintings, Girls Who Wear Glasses, and writing my novel, The Devil’s Playground (working title). But Linda keeps stifling my growth. Whispering in my ear. Making me feel self-conscious. Most of the time, she wins and I retreat, just as I always have. 

No more. I’m done. It’s my turn now.  

Welcome to the Auria Cortes Blog where, as a payback, I will share Linda’s dirty little secrets, life observations, and the progress I’m making with my novel.