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I promise that coming soon I will be back to regular posting. This Spring Break has been astonishingly crazy....for me. Drama Queen spent the entirety sitting around talking of how bored she was. I, on the the other hand, had to schedule my potty breaks. But things are settling down and I will be back on the blogging bandwagon in a couple of days. I'll be sure to make up.....errr share some really great stories with you all.
Showing posts with label Life is Like a Box of Chocolates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life is Like a Box of Chocolates. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
God Has a Sense of Humor....
I've said it before and I'll keep saying it. God has a sense of humor. My life is proof of that. Don't believe me? Look at just a few examples:
That said, we bought her some shirts and jeans. Really cute stuff. Made for winter. Why? Because we live where there is a 6 month long winter during the best years. We live where you need snow pants to walk to your car. We live where sledding is considered a sport.
This was 3 weeks ago. 3 weeks.
That long hard winter hasn't hit us. No. Instead we have 70-80 degree days. It looks like the 50s is as low as we will get in the foreseeable future.
Drama Queen has no shorts. We donated them all this winter. No capris. No shorts. No A/C at school. 3 weeks later and I have to buy a new round of clothes. And I didn't have a big project this week. And she still has said boyfriend. And there may or may not be a vicious animal taking up residence in a tree that lies between my deck and my fire pit. AND I have to shave my own legs.
God is laughing.
- I had a financial crisis and I prayed for a miracle. 2 days later I was given a project at work that paid very very well. It, however, took 20 hours a day for 2 1/2 weeks to complete. The money was there, but everyone in this house had their life in danger for close to a month.
- Drama Queen went back into public school and I was very worried about this. I told her to 'go and make friends'. In 3 days she had a boyfriend. Within a month she had her first date to the dance. She also received her first kiss. This wasn't what I meant.
- I start planning to get what is needed to host a bonfire for Drama Queen and her school friends, preferably female ones, and the next morning a raccoon throws the squirrels out of the tree that sits 2 feet from my fire pit and moves into it.
- I fear said raccoon because of an 'incident' when Drama Queen was just a baby in which a raccoon attempted to kick Grumpy's ass and get inside my house while I was cooking dinner. It traumatized me so much that I have decided not to cook any longer.
That said, we bought her some shirts and jeans. Really cute stuff. Made for winter. Why? Because we live where there is a 6 month long winter during the best years. We live where you need snow pants to walk to your car. We live where sledding is considered a sport.
This was 3 weeks ago. 3 weeks.
That long hard winter hasn't hit us. No. Instead we have 70-80 degree days. It looks like the 50s is as low as we will get in the foreseeable future.
Drama Queen has no shorts. We donated them all this winter. No capris. No shorts. No A/C at school. 3 weeks later and I have to buy a new round of clothes. And I didn't have a big project this week. And she still has said boyfriend. And there may or may not be a vicious animal taking up residence in a tree that lies between my deck and my fire pit. AND I have to shave my own legs.
God is laughing.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
May the Doctor's Hands Be Large and Cold....
Any woman out there can easily agree that this is a curse they do not want to hear. This is a wish you would make to a person you really don't like. Scratch that, we are women. It's a wish you would make behind the back of someone that you don't like. Or, you could be like me. It could be a wish you make to a close friend. Particularly when you find out that she's the proud new owner of an iPhone. One of the few material things in life that you covet. Because she's a dirty little wench who happened to tell you that she was reading your blog for entertainment while at the gynecologist. She deserved it. I don't envy many material possessions. I reserve my lust for Tim McGraw, Shemar Moore, Captain Morgan's and chocolate. I think I'm entitled to a shot of bitterness.
Once I got past the jealousy I had to seriously consider whether it was a compliment or insult that she was reading the blog during her yearly inspection. In the words of a wise women, namely me, what the hell?? That could be a painful laugh if the story was too funny.
Anyways, the whole conversation made me think. About va-jay-jays and exams. Not my friend's. My own. Why I hate them. I mean obviously I hate them because I'm supposed to. No sober woman would dare say she enjoyed lying naked and being fondled by the person that tends to her medical needs or delivered her babies. Yet, for me there is so much more. I've never had very good luck with my inspections. In fact, I am pretty sure that those who performed them spent some time in the closet with a bottle of Jack Daniels first. Not that I can blame them. It has to be traumatic to be looking at a vagina. Unless you are a porn star. In which case it might be considered part of the benefits package.
Back to my doctors. A few years back I had a family doctor I loved. It was a female. I say that because women tend to have their preferences. Some prefer women because it seems wrong to have a man staring into the nether regions. Some prefer men because it seems even stranger to have a woman do it. Me, I would just like sober.
So this doctor was a great doctor. She's the one that put me on Xanax. That equates to instant love. She insisted that I have the exam and I grudgingly agreed. So I'm there, on the table, spread out for the world to see and she proceeds to discuss her hair and beautician with the nurse. I'm not talking a side conversation as she does her work. I mean a full conversation, taking all of her attention. That exam lasted forever. Afterwards, I lie there still exposed and she continues to talk. "Um, hello. Do you mind if I do something completely weird like maybe putting on some panties?"
That doctor moved and no longer took my insurance and I switched. I managed to swing by two whole years before anyone caught on to the fact I was avoiding my exam. At the time, I had another new doctor from the same practice. She insisted. I hesitated. She looked kind of manly so I thought I was safe with no beauty tips going on during the process. Then it happened. Just before I undressed she came to me and she leaned down and said with a smile, "I promise my hands are small and warm".
Way to add to that comforting feeling doc.
Let me be clear. The exam was quick and painless. Afterwards, however, things got a bit weird. She looked me directly in the eye and asked, "Did I keep my promise?"
Really? I just had my nether regions poked and prodded and you want me to confirm that you did a good job? You want me to reassure you that your size was accurate and that I was as comfortable as possible? You are looking for affirmation before I even put my pants back on?
Maybe she was more manly than I thought!
So tell me, am I alone? Is there some code in my chart that says get drunk before doing the exam? Is there something that makes you particularly hate that moment?
Once I got past the jealousy I had to seriously consider whether it was a compliment or insult that she was reading the blog during her yearly inspection. In the words of a wise women, namely me, what the hell?? That could be a painful laugh if the story was too funny.
Anyways, the whole conversation made me think. About va-jay-jays and exams. Not my friend's. My own. Why I hate them. I mean obviously I hate them because I'm supposed to. No sober woman would dare say she enjoyed lying naked and being fondled by the person that tends to her medical needs or delivered her babies. Yet, for me there is so much more. I've never had very good luck with my inspections. In fact, I am pretty sure that those who performed them spent some time in the closet with a bottle of Jack Daniels first. Not that I can blame them. It has to be traumatic to be looking at a vagina. Unless you are a porn star. In which case it might be considered part of the benefits package.
Back to my doctors. A few years back I had a family doctor I loved. It was a female. I say that because women tend to have their preferences. Some prefer women because it seems wrong to have a man staring into the nether regions. Some prefer men because it seems even stranger to have a woman do it. Me, I would just like sober.
So this doctor was a great doctor. She's the one that put me on Xanax. That equates to instant love. She insisted that I have the exam and I grudgingly agreed. So I'm there, on the table, spread out for the world to see and she proceeds to discuss her hair and beautician with the nurse. I'm not talking a side conversation as she does her work. I mean a full conversation, taking all of her attention. That exam lasted forever. Afterwards, I lie there still exposed and she continues to talk. "Um, hello. Do you mind if I do something completely weird like maybe putting on some panties?"
That doctor moved and no longer took my insurance and I switched. I managed to swing by two whole years before anyone caught on to the fact I was avoiding my exam. At the time, I had another new doctor from the same practice. She insisted. I hesitated. She looked kind of manly so I thought I was safe with no beauty tips going on during the process. Then it happened. Just before I undressed she came to me and she leaned down and said with a smile, "I promise my hands are small and warm".
Way to add to that comforting feeling doc.
Let me be clear. The exam was quick and painless. Afterwards, however, things got a bit weird. She looked me directly in the eye and asked, "Did I keep my promise?"
Really? I just had my nether regions poked and prodded and you want me to confirm that you did a good job? You want me to reassure you that your size was accurate and that I was as comfortable as possible? You are looking for affirmation before I even put my pants back on?
Maybe she was more manly than I thought!
So tell me, am I alone? Is there some code in my chart that says get drunk before doing the exam? Is there something that makes you particularly hate that moment?
Monday, March 12, 2012
Who Really Needs Skin Anyway?
Raising a teenage daughter is difficult, but I'd take three of them if it meant I didn't have to deal with body hair ever again. Shaving is the bane of my existence and I do everything in my power to avoid it. It's winter? Cool, those 14 layers of pants will hide the hairy stumps that could likely kill a man. Avoidance is the key. Well no, the key would be winning the lottery and investing in permanent hair removal. Avoidance is the key for poor people. I'm good at avoiding. I do it constantly. Avoiding housework. Avoiding my job. Avoiding the fact that I can't afford what I'm about to purchase. So it makes sense to avoid any unnecessary hair removal. For years it has been a system that I perfected and it has worked perfectly.
Then I got older. Suddenly hair was visible on more than my legs. Short of wearing a ski mask, my hair growth either had to be taken care of or I had to succumb to the idea that people would mistake me for the man of the house. Unless that title also comes with the ability to play video games, nap on demand and eat without gaining a damn pound I don't want it. So that leaves me with hair removal. The one thing I do not love. In fact, likely the one thing I hate worse than teenage lingo.
Now most good girly girls would visit the local salon, pay a few bucks and have the problem taken care of. I might too if I didn't wait until I resembled a furry creature to tend to the mess. But this time around I was so busy that I let the problem grow. It wasn't until Drama Queen pointed that I had the picture perfect girlstache that I thought it might be important to take care of it.
Fortunately, I was in possession of some amazing lotion that I bought a while back. It removes the hair perfectly and it doesn't irritate my sensitive skin. If I even mention lotions my skin will break out. So this works for me. Except that a while back translates into about 8 years. And apparently those lotions expire. Which means that I could rub it all over my face and not once will it do a damn thing. So that meant a trip to Walmart. Don't judge, if you looked like a hairy man-woman you would choose Walmart over the alternative as well. I figured I was wearing pants AND a top so I was automatically in a class above the other patrons.
I purchased a brand name hair remover for the face that I shall not name. CoughNairCough. After visiting the self-checkout so that no one commented on how I grew a better stache than Grumpy, I headed home ready to be a girl for a few minutes. I threw some hair dye on my hair to cover the (bigfoot sized) handful of grey hairs that I had and I slapped on some of this unnamed lotion. Might as well make a full night of this girl stuff right? This was going to be easy peasy. Wait 5 to 10 minutes and the face looked like a female again.
I ended up, after testing that shit, realizing I had to wait the full ten minutes. So I did. I removed it and was pleased to see that you could see the skin again. Went on to handle the hair dye and grab a quick shower. It was during this shower that I first realized something was wrong. The water hurt. As in I felt like a radioactive chemical was coming directly out of my shower head with a distinct mission of attacking my face. With a head full of hair dye I had no choice but to continue, but I prayed to the Gods that I would make it out alive. I just knew that someone was trying to do me in. It didn't dawn on me at the time that perhaps something was wrong.
It wasn't until Grumpy asked what I'd been drinking that I realized there might be an issue. I assumed the consistent burning was normal for this product and that it'd ease off by morning. His question made me wonder what might be going on. I ran to the nearest mirror and realized that he was right. Since that never happens, I had to acknowledge it. It actually did look as though I'd stuck half of my face into a vat of cherry kool-aid.
Now on a normal weekend I would have a couple of days to let it revert to normal. This particular weekend I had a couple of functions to attend. Functions that I didn't particularly want to attend looking like a man, but I didn't want to attend them looking like a messy 3 year old either. So I did the only thing I could do. I panicked. I worried. I swore that I was going to be humiliated the next day at our event. Grumpy told me to sleep and it would clear up.
Of course, he can't be right twice in a row. It violates the woman's handbook of man's conduct. So I woke up and went straight for the mirror. I will say that the red ring around my face was gone. It was, however, replaced by a burn and several sores. It appears that in an effort to eliminate the stache, and what might have been the start of a beard, from my face the lotion had also taken skin with it. Apparently the directions should more accurately read: Leave on for five minutes and you will still have hair. Leave on for ten minutes and the hair will be gone, but it will take three layers of skin with it.
So here I sit at the end of the weekend and I have a ring of sores around my mouth. I've spent the weekend socializing with people and I know that they notice. How do you not? My face looks like something that makes you want to wear plastic gloves and throw out any cups I drink from. I didn't mention it though. I figured starting off with 'Hi, I burned the shit out of myself trying to get rid of that freaky mustache' could make things a bit awkward. I'm sure they felt the same when they opted not to ask if I'd had all my vaccinations.
This is why my lottery winnings would first go to ensure that I had permanent hair removal. It is also why I will brave the salon and let the beautician yank that shit off with wax next time. At least if she removes skin along the way I will be able to sue. Then I can have the permanent removal I want. In the meantime, who really needs the skin on their face? Obviously I don't.
Then I got older. Suddenly hair was visible on more than my legs. Short of wearing a ski mask, my hair growth either had to be taken care of or I had to succumb to the idea that people would mistake me for the man of the house. Unless that title also comes with the ability to play video games, nap on demand and eat without gaining a damn pound I don't want it. So that leaves me with hair removal. The one thing I do not love. In fact, likely the one thing I hate worse than teenage lingo.
Now most good girly girls would visit the local salon, pay a few bucks and have the problem taken care of. I might too if I didn't wait until I resembled a furry creature to tend to the mess. But this time around I was so busy that I let the problem grow. It wasn't until Drama Queen pointed that I had the picture perfect girlstache that I thought it might be important to take care of it.
Fortunately, I was in possession of some amazing lotion that I bought a while back. It removes the hair perfectly and it doesn't irritate my sensitive skin. If I even mention lotions my skin will break out. So this works for me. Except that a while back translates into about 8 years. And apparently those lotions expire. Which means that I could rub it all over my face and not once will it do a damn thing. So that meant a trip to Walmart. Don't judge, if you looked like a hairy man-woman you would choose Walmart over the alternative as well. I figured I was wearing pants AND a top so I was automatically in a class above the other patrons.
I purchased a brand name hair remover for the face that I shall not name. CoughNairCough. After visiting the self-checkout so that no one commented on how I grew a better stache than Grumpy, I headed home ready to be a girl for a few minutes. I threw some hair dye on my hair to cover the (bigfoot sized) handful of grey hairs that I had and I slapped on some of this unnamed lotion. Might as well make a full night of this girl stuff right? This was going to be easy peasy. Wait 5 to 10 minutes and the face looked like a female again.
I ended up, after testing that shit, realizing I had to wait the full ten minutes. So I did. I removed it and was pleased to see that you could see the skin again. Went on to handle the hair dye and grab a quick shower. It was during this shower that I first realized something was wrong. The water hurt. As in I felt like a radioactive chemical was coming directly out of my shower head with a distinct mission of attacking my face. With a head full of hair dye I had no choice but to continue, but I prayed to the Gods that I would make it out alive. I just knew that someone was trying to do me in. It didn't dawn on me at the time that perhaps something was wrong.
It wasn't until Grumpy asked what I'd been drinking that I realized there might be an issue. I assumed the consistent burning was normal for this product and that it'd ease off by morning. His question made me wonder what might be going on. I ran to the nearest mirror and realized that he was right. Since that never happens, I had to acknowledge it. It actually did look as though I'd stuck half of my face into a vat of cherry kool-aid.
Now on a normal weekend I would have a couple of days to let it revert to normal. This particular weekend I had a couple of functions to attend. Functions that I didn't particularly want to attend looking like a man, but I didn't want to attend them looking like a messy 3 year old either. So I did the only thing I could do. I panicked. I worried. I swore that I was going to be humiliated the next day at our event. Grumpy told me to sleep and it would clear up.
Of course, he can't be right twice in a row. It violates the woman's handbook of man's conduct. So I woke up and went straight for the mirror. I will say that the red ring around my face was gone. It was, however, replaced by a burn and several sores. It appears that in an effort to eliminate the stache, and what might have been the start of a beard, from my face the lotion had also taken skin with it. Apparently the directions should more accurately read: Leave on for five minutes and you will still have hair. Leave on for ten minutes and the hair will be gone, but it will take three layers of skin with it.
So here I sit at the end of the weekend and I have a ring of sores around my mouth. I've spent the weekend socializing with people and I know that they notice. How do you not? My face looks like something that makes you want to wear plastic gloves and throw out any cups I drink from. I didn't mention it though. I figured starting off with 'Hi, I burned the shit out of myself trying to get rid of that freaky mustache' could make things a bit awkward. I'm sure they felt the same when they opted not to ask if I'd had all my vaccinations.
This is why my lottery winnings would first go to ensure that I had permanent hair removal. It is also why I will brave the salon and let the beautician yank that shit off with wax next time. At least if she removes skin along the way I will be able to sue. Then I can have the permanent removal I want. In the meantime, who really needs the skin on their face? Obviously I don't.
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