What on earth is happening to my face?

I'm in my mid-30s now.  And through the guidance of older friends, I have been prepared for some things.  I knew my boobs would sag a bit (I can't be the only person who looks in the mirror with my arms in the air and wonders if it would be possible to walk around like that forever), I knew I'd go grey (been happening since 16), and I knew I'd start to get a bit of a 'tache but..

Lately, I've developed a patch of thick, dark hairs sprouting from my chin.  Like whiskers.  I pluck them out and enjoy the smooth feeling of my face for about a day and then they're back again.  All dark and whiskery and old-ladyish.  What on earth?  The hair on my arms is blonde.  I don't really get too much of a moustache (nothing that a good session with Jolen won't fix), but this whiskery patch on my face, and a similar one on my neck confuses me.  Short of constantly waxing, plucking and bleaching, I don't know what else to do.  One look in the mirror and it's all clear.  5 minutes later, they're growing again.  Like some kind of ageing beanstalk.  At the top isn't a giant.  It's a rain-mate and those thick American Tan tights and orthopaedic shoes that old ladies wear.   And the goose doesn't lay golden eggs, it lays Tena Lady.

When this patch isn't sprouting whiskers, it's going to the other extreme and having spots.  At the grand old age of 34, I've had more spots in a single year than I did in my adolescence.  What's going on there?

No romance

I'll get this out there.  I'm not the kind of girl who inspires passion in men.  I'm just not.  I wish I was.  I'd love to be one of those women who has men panting after her.  Even though I'm married, and have been with Kline for over 5 years, I wish I had a band of lusty admirers, not to do anything with, you understand.  Just that after 5 years together, it's hard to remember the days when I was interesting to Kline.  Or indeed anyone really.

I mean, don't get me wrong.  I have been interesting to some men.  I have ex-boyfriends in a multitude of psychiatric units (and if they're not, some of them really should be).  I used to be really quite minxy.  But still, mentals aside, I've never inspired much more than a group of men who wanted to sleep with me, then be my friend afterwards.  I seem to be some kind of agony aunt, the type that men have sex with, then spend hours telling me about how their ex screwed them up.  I've never inspired great breast-beating passion, the type that great novels are made of.  I've never had a group of men fighting for my hand.

Here is a list of some other things that I have never inspired.

1. Nobody has ever written a song about me.
2. Nobody has ever written me poetry.
3. Nobody has ever written me love letters.  I've had dirty texts.  I've had filthy chat/msn/pm messages but nobody has ever declared their love for me on paper.  Unless you count Dylan (Duncan?) Stewart, who used to send me notes when we were 5.  He even gave me his pencil case, until my mean mum made me return it.  
4. Nobody has ever insisted I pose for some art, wearing just an expensive piece of jewellery.
5. Nobody has ever suggested we run away together.  Except perhaps the weirdo who suggested engagement ring shopping on our third date (Not Kline).

The most romantic thing that's ever happened to me was when Kline proposed to me and he did that in our living room.

Introduction

Hello.  I feel like I should introduce myself in some way.  You may call me Sasha.  I live in Scotland with my husband, who we'll call Kline and our rescue dog, Scamp.

I'll get it out there right away.  I'm not a good person.  I try to be good, I really do, but it always unravels and my bitchy side comes out or my laziness wins out or whatever.

Although this blog is called Life with Kline and Scamp, I suspect that posts about how Kline is annoying me or the dog has rolled in fox poo again will be a bit, well, limiting, so I'll be writing about other things too, because, well, I can.