30 Seconds In The Bathroom

Me:  *blow drying my hair*

Me:  *having a brain storm*  "I think I should have bangs!"

Me:  *grabbing scissors*

Me:  *snip snip snip snip snip*

Me:  "Crap..."

Like this, only without the mullet.  Or a peener.  (I'm assuming there's a peener, anyway.)

Becoming a DUDE...

I just cut myself shaving.

On my chin.

True, sad, ohhhh so sad story.

The chin hairs are taking over and it's truly frightening.

It started with catching a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror while driving one day, with the sun hitting my face at just the right angle, revealing unto me the lovely, soft blonde fuzz of a baby goatee.

Have you seen my wiener?

I had the same reaction I have when a bee flies into my car:  I screamed and careened across four lanes of highway, completely oblivious to oncoming traffic or the lives of others, off to the shoulder of the road, where I flew out of the vehicle and danced in a circle, flapping my hands and beating myself about the head and shoulders.

Okay, maybe not... but in my head?  It was exactly like that.

The very next thing I did was buy wax strips and depilatory cream.

Which I used at the same time.

First I burned those little hair follicles within an inch of their lives.

Then I waxed, just for good measure.

Then I developed the narliest rash EVER in the shape of the most perfect goatee that's ever been seen, either before or since.

It was super hard coming up with an excuse for swollen, blistered mass across my lip, down the sides of my mouth, and covering my chin that didn't include the words "facial hair" and "I'm turning into a dude."

What mustache?  I have no idea what you're talking about.

Lesson.

Learned.

Okay, not so much.  Because I'm pretty sure that happened more than once.

Depilatory creams burned the shizzle out of my face every single time I used it.  (Remind me to tell you sometime about how I, knowing full well that my skin reacts to depilatory creams as if hot acid were applied directly to my body, decided it would be a fabulous idea before going on vacation in Vegas to use it on my "bikini area" and my arm pits.  Because, you know... nothing is sexier than a babe in a bathing suit with red, bubbling skin traveling down her inner thighs and out from her pits.)

That didn't stop me, though... I kept on like a little storm trooper, determined to beat facial hair at it's own game.

Not only did it literally scorch the skin off of my face, it left the hair behind.  

I finally waved a little white flag and bought myself a hot wax kit.

(Remind me to tell you about the time I decided to give myself a home Brazilian and wore that wax for a week.)

In case you didn't know, applying hot wax to your face requires a certain skill that most laymen (women) do not possess.  I got wax in my hair, up my nose, down my front, all over the furniture, the floor, the curtains, the dogs, the kids...

It was a fucking mess.

And the only hair that was removed came off the dog, when I cut the wax out of it's hair.

So then I decided to grow my hair out and let it hang in my face, so that the goatee would just kind of blend in.

My mustache is cleverly disguised by my pig tails, bangs, and ciggie.

Okay, not really.

I took up plucking.

I plucked that sucker like it was my job.

Then it became an obsession.

If I couldn't find my tweezers, I was like a junkie looking for a fix.  I would move all the furniture, look under the sofa cushions (because plucking your facial hair while watching tv is the ultimate in multi-tasking, yo), rip up the carpet, accuse the kids and the pets of stealing them...

It got ugly.

And the hair got darker, and thicker, and more abundant.

It became downright luxurious.

My eyebrows thinned, my armpit hair thinned, my leg hair thinned... and all the while, my goatee was developing a life of it's own.

All the energy of my other hair was suddenly focused on my upper lip and chin.

I feel pretty... oh so pretty...

I plucked giant holes in my face, digging those stubborn little hairs out beneath 200 layers of epidermis, creating craters in my chin where six or seven hairs would then sprout, rather than the one that had been growing there previously.

And then this morning, I snapped.

Not in the way that everyone's been expecting, where I smother Dan in his sleep and go off on a bloody rampage.

I snapped in another way.

I snapped in the way that Helen Gurley Brown, Cosmo, and Tyra warn women to never, ever, ever snap.  

I grabbed my razor and shaved my goatee.

I shaved that sucker clean off.

I took off sideburns, chin hair, neck hair, and mustache.

And I nicked the FUCK out of my chin.

And in doing so, took one giant leap closer to becoming a DUDE.

I'm sexy and I know it...

Shit.

Just... SHIT.

I have a sudden urge to hock a loogy and pee standing up.

And maybe adjust myself while carrying on a conversation with a perfect stranger.

And fart in public...

Pardon me while I celebrate my facial hair and intestinal gas...

Maybe being a dude won't be soooo bad...

*Theme From Jaws*

Let us all herald the arrival at long last of Shark Week.

In case you think Shark Week is an actual euphemism for, well, Sherk Week, you'd be wrong.  Shark Week is one more way to make the announcement that

1,  Miss Scarlett is comin' to Tara...

2.  A dishonorable discharge from the Unitern Navy...

3.  Saddling Old Rusty...

4.  Massacre at the Y...

5.  Taking Carrie to the Prom...

6.  Riding the Crimson Tide...

7.   Parting the Red Sea...

8.  Playing banjo in Sgt Zygotes Ragtime Band...

9.  Trolling for Vampires and of course

10.  Shark Week,

So in other words, at long last, I started my period.  

I was 10 days late this month.  You had NO idea what 10 days can do to a woman.  Even if she's NEVER HAD SEX she's staring at the calendar and holding a pregnancy test thinking, "OhmyGOD!!  What if I'm pregnant??!!"

It's that kind of panic.

Sometimes we stare off towards the East, looking for Yonder Star, awaiting the arrival of three wisemen and a bunch of gifts we can't possibly use and really have to place to put but must accept politely and send out thank you notes (for example, what the fuck is "myyrh"?).  You begin to count backwards in your head to when the last time was that you may or may not have engaged in coitus, or, for that matter, come into any sort of contact whatsoever with a penis...

We pee on those little preggo sticks five and six times a day, looking to see if we can faintly see that second little blue line... or if it's one of those that says clearly "Yes" or "No" we can't our friends, 

"Is that Nyes" or Yo"?  I can't make it out..."

We instantly bloat, crave ice cream and tortilla chips. develop morning sickness, name the baby, notice that our clothes no longer fit, eat for two, and resign ourselves to the fact that in 9-ish months we will, indeed, hear the pity patter of little feets.

And then...

finally...

it happens!!!

Do NOT go IN the WATER!!

I've been cramping, bitching, and snarfing chocolate for two weeks now.  TWO WEEKS.  I had my little red letter day marked on the calendar, knowing that would be the day that alllll the ugliness would come to a screeching half, and I could finally relax, after being such a raging bitch for such a long period of time.

It's exhausting, being that kind of bitchy.

Sidebar:  If you're one of those women who doesn't get PMS, I'm here to tell you that you're  hiding a penis somewhere and I hate you.  Go away.  No one invited you to my Bloody Party.

I cried a lot last week.  Like, a LOT.  I cried watching Dr. Phil, I cried watching Murder She Wrote, I cried watching America's Next Top Model, I cried watching Criminal Minds...

I cried watching a few commercials, too.

I cried because I love my doggies so much, I cried because my pants were tight, I cried because I missed a huge hairy patch on my legs and didn't notice until I was sitting outside.

Then there were the FUCK YOU moments.  I'm not even going to begin to list all the people I screamed FUCK YOU at... but suffice it to say, there were a few.

One specific instruction went like this:

"FUCK YOU, FUCKER!  FUCK YOU UP THE ASS!  FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS, YOU MOTHER FUCKER!  FUCKETY FUCK!  FUCK FACE!  FUCKER!  FUCK YOUUUUUU!"

I don't even remember what all that was about but I was kind of mad.

Exactly.  EXACTLY.

This may or may not have happened:

While I was waiting on the upcoming arrival of Shark Week, I ate an entire one pound box of See's Candy.

And when I dreammmm... I dream of youuuu....

What?  So, because I ate a pound of chocolate all by myself, that means I'm FAT?  Are you calling me FAT, Judgy McJudgerson?

So what, YOU'VE never eaten a pound of chocolate?

That's right... now bitch, make me a sandwhich.

Welcome to Shark Week, my loves....

Oh, darling... you put your socks in the hamper! I've never been so turned on!

Dear Media (I'm talking to YOU, Dr. Phil),

You've created a situation in which the male of the species believes that if they wash the dishes and vacuum once in a blue moon, they'll get laid.

Clearing the table = foreplay.

They have been led to believe that the by very act of taking off their shoes when they come into the house and putting their dirty skivvies into the hamper (instead of on the floor NEAR the hamper) their female partner will be so pleased that her happiness will go straight to her vagina and she will be ready to fall into bed, so overcome with desire at the vision of her man "helping" around the house.

WRONG.

Here's what REALLY would happen:

She doesn't expect him to do those things to begin with, so the fact that he IS doing it this one time is probably going to go unnoticed, because she isn't looking for it.

Or if she DOES notice it, she's thinking, "Well, whadda ya know.  I've only been asking you to do this for 5 years now."

If he picks up the vacuum and starts cleaning the carpet, she'll say, "What are you doing?  I vacuumed earlier.  I'm trying to watch tv."

If he decide to get up and load the dishwasher, she'll get frustrated rather than aroused because nine times out of ten?  HE'S LOADING IT WRONG.  Glasses go on the TOP.  JESUS.  WHO FREAKING RAISED YOU??

If he actually goes so far as to put clothes in the wash and start a load, what she'll be thinking, as he look so proud of himself and waits for his reward, will be, "I do laundry all the time and no one gives ME a fucking medal.  Get OVER yourself.  It's laundry, not brain surgery.  You didn't save a life, for God's sake."

(Seriously... why do men expect praise when they do basic household chores?  YOU LIVE HERE!!!)

  

I know this sounds harsh but I'm telling you these things for your own good.

That's great...keep doing the dishes.  But you still aren't getting laid.

To all the "There is nothing sexier than a man doing dishes" people, I'm about to rain alllll over your parade.

Yes, there is.  There are MANY things sexier than a man doing the dishes.

In my opinion, a man doing the dishes is called "helping."  It doesn't turn me on, it doesn't make my heart go pitty-pat, it makes me think, "About fucking time!" and want to go take a bubble bath and read a book while he finally does something he should have been doing all along. Not once does it occur to me to get naked and reward him for acting like he actually lives here, too, and contributes to the mess, by taking my clothes off and playing cowgirl.

Sexier Than A Man Doing Dishes:

Now that's HAWT.

That's right.... a man bringing me a pug.  I personally think there is nothing sexier than a man who loves animals and isn't afraid to show it.  Especially little dogs.  A man who loves little dogs with flat smooshy faces and wants to give me one is my idea of Sexiest Man Alive.  Move along, Brad Pitt... bring me a little foreign orphan and I'll send you packing.  Want to see me behave badly in the best possible way?

Give me a puppy.

I'll do the dishes while you help housebreak it and clean up it's poo.  

And you'll be thanked for it later.

*wink wink nudge nudge*

(Sorry... I just can't bring myself to be dirty in case my kids accidentally read this.  I just... can't.)

Sexier Than A Man Doing Laundry:

"I'll take a large pizza, with spinach and feta for my lady..."

A man ordering take out,  all by himself without needing the number looked up for him or the phone brought to him,  without being asked or having to be told, for the fifty billionth time, what you like on your pizza...   That's sexy.

I will happily fold and match your socks while you make that call and place that order.

Sexier Than A Man Putting Down The Toilet Seat:

Not tonight, baby... Tonight is just for YOU.

Imagine it... an entire evening with no farting.  Is it possible?  IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE?  I personally have never experienced this phenomena, but I've heard about it from friends.  

A night with no farting... 

You can leave the toilet seat up all you want if you can give me one night with no gas.  And dude, you would get LAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIDDDDD!!!  

Why, I can't imagine anything I'd like to do MORE than have sex with you!

Sexier Than A Man Sweeping:

That's right... Nigel Barker.

You want a sure fire way to get her into bed?

Bring home Nigel Barker.

Trust me when I say it will work.  Every time.

Of course, YOU have to leave... but your mission will have been accomlished.

She's turned on.

She's ready for sex.

And she's gettin' bizzy.

In your bed.

Nigel Barker for the WIN!!!

Now, THAT'S sexy!

The Nanny Blogs, Revisited

I took a hiatus from working as a behavioral therapist for the school district a few years back and became a Nanny.  Not the Fran Dresher kind, wearing mini skirts and high heels and parking my shapely ass on Mr. Sheffield's desk... I was more the jeans and t-shirt kind who taught the kids all kinds of bad habits and spent long hours styling baby Charles' luxious golden baby curls into up-do's, feathered hair, and french braiding it (because his sister, Venice, wouldn't let me touch her hair.)  I had spent a summer working with Kegan, my precious angel who had autism, and included in my duties were caring for his sister Venice, who was 2, and baby Charles, who emerged a month or so after I began working.

So I had 4 year old Kegan, with Autism, 2 year old Venice, with Attitude, and newborn baby Charles, with Lungs Of Steel (and amazing hair).

I loved it.

At the time that I began working for this family, I was empty nesting HARD.  Two of my boys had flown the coop; one to Arizona to attend art school and the other to the Marines, to potentially kick ass and take names.  I still had Brennan at home, but he was so unused to being an only child that he spent almost every waking minute at his friend's houses, because he was "lonely."  (Poor baby.  Poor, poor baby.  Also?  Mommy's fridge wasn't stocked with beer and as it turns out, his friend's houses fridge's WERE.)

I also knew that I only had one more year with Brennan home, because he was also joining the Marines after graduation.

It was an incredibly difficult year for me.

Or it would have been, if I hadn't been chronically entertained by the little miniature people with whom I spent my day.

I refer to my time as a nanny as The Venice Years.  

Venice was (and is) one of the most creative and interesting little girls  you could ever hope to meet.  She's precocious without being obnoxious, bossy without being bratty, silly without being annoying... I adore that child.

One of my favorite stories in The Venice Chronicles is the one I wrote called Grilled Cheese or Dog Poop? 

(No children or dogs were harmed in the events leading up to the writing of this blog.)

(Also?  Upon reading this, you're probably going to wonder at the sanity of her parents, who left me in charge of these children.  They're as bad as I am, so it all evened out.  Though I do take all the credit for how fabulously their kids turned out.  They may disagree, but the proof is in the pudding:  I have fabulous children, THEY have fabulous children.... What's the common denominator??  ME!!!  BOOO-YAHHHH, Wendy!!)

I miss you so much, Miss Sassy Pants!!

Grilled cheese or dog poop?  A Tale of Venice

Most discussions regarding meals with Venice involve frustration on my part 

and the repeated phrase "I don't want it" on HER part. Inevitably, she winds 

up with chocolate pudding and hot cocoa for lunch because quite frankly, I 

get tired before she does. 

Our conversations generally go something like this:

Me:  Venice, do you want peanut butter and jelly for lunch?

Venice:  I don't want it.

Me:  How about chicken nuggets?

Venice:  I don't want it.

Me:  Macaroni and cheese?

Venice:  I don't want it.

Ad nauseum.

Saturday, while Wendy was cutting my hair and making me beautiful, she 

revealed a very helpful "Manipulating Venice" tip:  She offers Venice TWO 

choices, as in, "Venice, do you want spaghetti or dog poop for dinner?"

Venice always chooses spaghetti.  After all, she IS only 3.  We should be 

smarter than she is, yes?

I filed this tidbit away for future reference, positive that I would be able to 

haul it out and use it to my advantage within the following week.

Sure enough, today was The Day.

Me:  Venice, what do you want for lunch?

Venice:  I want candy.

Me:  You can have candy after lunch.  Do you want peanut butter and jelly?

Venice:  I want candy.

Me:  Do you want chicken nuggets?

Venice:  No.

Me:  What do you want?

Venice:  I want candy.

A-HA!  Lightbulb moment!  I could use Wendy's trick.

Me:  Venice, do you want grilled cheese sandwhich or dog poop?

Venice (without batting an eye):  I want dog poop.

Alrighty then.  She turned her steely blue gaze on me and I gazed back, 

wondering which one of us would cave first.

It was me.

She discarded me with one blink and went back to watching her cartoon.

I pondered on what the hell to do. 

And then it hit me.

I reached up into the cupboard and grabbed the candy stash.  I stealthily 

unwrapped three mini tootsie rolls and placed them on a paper plate.

I placed them in the microwave and nuked them for a few seconds, then 

removed the plate and arranged the candy into very realistic looking 

chihuahua poop.

I put the plate on the table and said, "Venice, come eat your lunch.  Your 

dog poop is ready."

She looked at me for a second then got up and came to the table.  She sat 

down and stared at her plate.

I waited.

And waited.

And then...

Venice:  Dani?

Me:  Yes?

Venice:  I want gwilled cheese sammich.

Me:  Okay.  Want to help me make it?

I plopped her on the counter, dumped the "poop" into the trash, helped her 

make her sandwhich, let her help cook it, and after it was done she 

gobbled it down saying, "MMMM!  Yummy!  I WIKE gwilled cheese, Dani!  

It's GOOD!"

Uh huh.

Score:

Venice: 456758409

Nanny:  1

Woot!

I want dog poop.