I’m a waxing kind of girl. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dappled in the other methods of bush maintenance.
I’ve experienced the never-ending itch of stubble from shaving. I’ve gone through stealing my husband’s clippers. I’ve tweezed. The depilatories have left their mark upon my nether regions. But when it comes down to the nitty gritty, I’m all for making a phone call to the local Esthetician.
Yesterday, I had my first appointment with a new wax-lady. Who is, of course, a lady who waxes, not a lady made of wax. Because why would a Wax Lady require an appointment?
I’ve been through my fair share of wax-ladies over the last eight years, at many different salons. Some of them have been great, and I was in mourning when they moved/went on permanent maternity leave/generally got tired of looking at beavers all day. Others have not been so great – like the one who gave me a second degree burn during a brazilian wax and called me a big baby for saying it hurt.
So when I showed up at the new salon, I was a bit nervous. The wax-lady was nice, but the room was small and instead of a spa table, there was what looked like a barber’s chair. Which, if you think about the area of my body she was going to be waxing, poses a few questions as to my flexibility and comfort.
In addition, she’d only just graduated from waxing school. Nervousness turned into full blown anxiety.
It took a little longer than usual, but she did a pretty good job. Yesterday, my crotchal area was a bit swollen and red, (after all, hair had just been yanked out by the root with hot wax) but today? I am one happy customer.
All hail the bikini wax:
Slightly expensive? Yes.
Exposes cootch to stranger? Yes.
Hurts like hell? Yes. But just for a second.
Involves putting something very hot in a very sensitive area? Yes.
Feeling extra sexy for my husband: Totally worth it.
Author: Dre
Categories
Rock the Boat
I was the girl who got rocks thrown at her when she showed up at high school parties… because she just moved there and didn’t fit in. The girl who dressed in her own way, had her own style, and always spoke her mind, regardless of what others might think.
That girl got beat down, my friends. With piles and piles of rocks.
As I got older, I learned not to make waves as a form of self-preservation. I don’t handle confrontation well, and in fact it usually makes me physically ill. I’ve learned to pick my battles, and in the mean time – I don’t rock the boat unless I have to.
However, as I wade through the current flood of political chatter, I find myself amazed at the number of people who will not accept another person’s point of view as just that: another person’s point of view. The rocks are flying, and the young girl in me wants to step up for the “black sheep” who are receiving the brunt of the blows.
Attacking people for being different is just wrong. And telling them that they are wrong because they are different is sending a host of other messages, realized or not.
If someone has come to an educated decision about their political beliefs, and is not afraid to stand up for them, why must people try to break that person into submission? Would it be better for them to blindly follow the shepherd, not knowing if they are being led off the edge of a cliff?
Is it better to choose a candidate who resembles your own beliefs, or one that mirrors the beliefs of people who want to bully others into conforming? And as people throw those proverbial rocks, do they truly believe that they are representing the best side of their candidate?
I have gained much respect for both liberals and conservatives who are able to debate issues with the respectful understanding that other people are entitled to have a different opinion. That policies can be discussed without trying to force someone into changing their mind.
As for the rock slingers, you’ve caused me to stand up and willingly rock the boat.
I’ve been a little down lately, and sluggish in general. Well, it’s hard to say “lately” when it’s actually my general state of being, with a few energetic days thrown in here and there. But I’m working on it.
Anyway, I noticed I lost an email subscriber the other day and it made me wonder, Has my general attitude changed the feel of my blog? I think maybe. Erm, probably. I’m proud of the introspective posts I’ve written, but it’s time to lighten things up a bit.
So, here are a few of the things that have made me belly laugh lately. A bit of a warning: most of them have to do with poop or boobs. Apparently, I find them really funny. Who knew?
* We were leaving my mom’s house and she was buckling Alison into her car seat. Alison suddenly said, in a very sing-songy voice, “I just pooted in your fa-ace!” (obnoxious, I know). And my mom sung back, “My face wasn’t near your bu-utt!”. Something about a 58 year old woman singing that had me in stitches.
* Blythe is very interested in going on the potty like the rest of us. She’s actually gone pee a few times, but it’s very hit or miss. The other night I noticed she was making her “poop face” and got her on the potty lickety-split.
She wasn’t interested, and wandered off. I got distracted by running the bath and before I knew it, she came back with a big dingle berry hanging off of her rear end. Which was made even funnier by her doing a little booty-shake dance next to the tub.
As I was wiping her up, I heard Alison yell from the kitchen, “Ew, Mom! Someone pooped on the floor!” which I subsequently had to clean up, laughing all the while.
* I was having tummy troubles earlier this week, which were accompanied by some frequent bathroom visits. On the way home from picking Alison up from school, I suddenly had to GO. I got Alison out of the car and she stepped out of my way, saying, “You go ahead of me mom, I don’t want you to have an accident in your pants”. So thoughtful, that girl.
* Alison and Blythe discovered a Motown Love Songs CD and have fallen in love with it. Their favorite is “Stop in The Name of Love”, which they now dance to, nightly, after the bath – in the nude, most of the time. They spin and spin around until they collapse on the floor, in fits of giggles. And then they do it all over again.
* One morning Blythe woke up, crying, just as I was getting out of the shower. I rushed in there to get her, and as soon as she saw me she stopped crying and said, “BOOBIE!”. She hadn’t seen a breast since she stopped nursing in July, so I was kind of curious what she was going to do when I picked her up. She gently grabbed one nipple between her thumb and forefinger, made a face like she was straining and said, “OW-CH!”. Then she did it with the other one. Can you tell we have a history of her pinching and biting me while nursing?
* On the topic of boobs, she and my mom were playing the other day and my mom leaned over her to get a toy. And Blythe bit her – right on the boob. What can I say? She’s teething, and apparently a (clothed) boob near her face looked like a teething ring.
* And one more boob reference, alright? This post by Redneck Mommy – hilarious. But learn from my mistake – don’t scroll down while your 4-year-old is looking over your shoulder. There WILL be questions, and it’s hard to answer them appropriately while you’re laughing.
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What made you laugh this week?
Prior to Blythe’s diagnosis of being allergic to corn and egg, I was blissfully ignorant of the plight of the food allergic. Sure, I felt sympathy for all the label reading going on. But true empathy is only possible, I think, when you take on the responsibility of caring for a food allergic child.
To that end, I would love to share this article published in Family Magazine of Washington, and forwarded to me by the KFA Organization (KFA= Kids with Food Allergies). The article, titled Attack of the Killer Peanut Butter Sandwiches, focuses on peanuts in the lunchroom, but gives a great overall feel for what life is like for a food allergic child. Go read it – if you’re a parent, I promise you’ll be glad you did.
The more experience I gain having a child with food allergies, the more worried I get about her future. Right now, at 15 months, I control not only what Blythe eats but the environments in which she spends her time. I know for a fact that there are no allergens lurking around my home or that of my mother, where Blythe goes while I work.
But as she gets older, Blythe will be exposed to more people, places and things. That is a fact of life. The preschool she will eventually attend is already well aware of her allergies, and has some great policies in force to help us cope with them. But again, that is a very controlled environment, where I am confident she will be diligently watched every time food is present. I am also quite pleased with how meticulous they are about cleanliness – because we all know kids and crumbs go hand in hand.
However. The future holds elementary school, parties, play dates at other people’s homes and even airline travel and hotel stays, where I will have no idea what life-threatening allergens are hiding on the bed where she sleeps. After all, Blythe will only fit in the pack-n-play for so long.
It is with trepidation that I look forward, and it saddens me. Finally, I have a child who is happy to do things without my constant presence, and yet I cannot rest if she is not with me for fear of the phone call I might get.
No one wants that phone call – no mother deserves it.
Categories
Are Gymnasts Born or Created?
Over the summer I thought Alison might be interested in gymnastics, so I signed her up. You know, just to pass the time until she could start real ballet at age five. There was a waiting list, naturally, but the call finally came last week that a space had opened up.
This is a child who does not like new places, new people, or new things. I anticipated her sitting on my lap while the rest of the class participated, at least for the first few weeks. Especially since she is only just now, in the fourth week of school, not clinging to me at drop off and crying intermittently throughout the day.
*
Lo and behold, Alison jumped right in there, made friends with each kid in the class, and tackled every new obstacle with gusto. There is something about gymnastics that struck a chord with my girl. She balanced and jumped and flipped and pulled, smiling all the while. I have never been more proud of her, and that’s saying a lot.
As we left, Alison asked if she could come back to gymnastics every day. When I had to tell her no, we could only come on Mondays, she promised to go right to bed, forever, if she could come maybe twice a week, then.
Her attitude has improved so much after just the one class, that I’m beginning to think it would be worth the money to pay for several classes each week. If only so that I can spend more time with this sweet, happy child instead of the whiny, bossy kid that had, until recently, taken up residence in our home.
* Sorry for the major blur – it’s hard to get a good shot, with no flash, from across the room!