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Brazilian Waxes Are A Form Of Torture

I’m going to share with you a post about one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. No really. Humiliating with a capital H. I hope you can appreciate what it takes for me to share this story with you. My friends and family still tease me. The beginning of every bikini season is marked by snickers and jokes at my expense. I can’t even blame them. I’d laugh at me too….assuming me was somebody else and that somebody else had this same experience.

 

I never had the inclination to have any part of myself, other than my eyebrows, waxed. For some unimaginable reason, having some woman pour molten hot wax on my girly bits and then ripping out the hair by the roots just did not appeal to me. I’m funny that way. Just call me Sasquatch. When I was very pregnant with Maia, I finally reached the point where I almost passed out in the shower trying to trim the hedges. Literally. Had to sit down on the shower floor because I was so dizzy and light headed. My sister, afraid that I might do some real damage to myself or others, purchased a gift certificate for me from a local salon for a Bikini Wax. If only I had known. Hindsight really is 20/20.
 
Armed with my gift certificate, I waddled on down to the salon one afternoon. I picked the wrong afternoon. There were only 2 chicks working that day and neither one of them spoke very clear English. I should have waddled my Sasquatch ass right back on out the door. Shoulda Woulda Coulda. But alas, I did not. Believe me, it was a decision that I would barely live to regret. The chick took my gift certificate and smiled so sweetly when I told her that I wanted a ‘Bikini Wax‘. She was smiling and nodding as she led back to her little chamber of horrors room. The smiling should have tipped me off to the horrors that were coming. I just thought she was nice. I didn’t realize that she was a sadist limited in her understanding of English.

 

She had me disrobe and climb up on the table, which was humiliating enough. If you’ve ever seen a hugely pregnant woman try to lever herself onto a table, you understand. She was doing her thing and all of a sudden…PAIN! White hot, blinding, send me into labor PAIN in an area that should not have been feeling pain. That particular area should not have been involved at all in this little escapade into S&M female hair removal. I thought for sure she had ripped my girly bits right off my body. You ladies who have been pregnant know how much more sensitive things can get down in that region while you are with child.

 

I shrieked at the top of my considerable lungs. There were words coming out of my mouth that would have scorched the ears of the devil himself. The sadist chick was holding up one small part of a strip covered with little bits of hair, smiling proudly as though it were a trophy. She had the nerve to give me a thumbs up. I was not feeling quite so optimistic. I was on the verge of punching her in the face telling her to stop when once again….PAIN. More white hot, blinding pain. I shot up off that table, and that’s no easy feat for a very pregnant woman. It was akin to Shamu climbing a mountain. I’ll leave you for a moment while you picture that….
 
So I jumped off that table, dropped the towel, grabbed my clothes and ran the hell out of that torture chamber little room. I thought I had run into the bathroom. I was wrong, my friends. So very very wrong. I had run straight into the lobby, naked and cursing. Not a pretty sight. I consider myself fortunate that nobody ran out of the salon covering their face, screaming ‘My eyes, my eyes.’ The sadist waxer chick had followed me out to the lobby, confused and obviously not at all proficient in English. She kept pointing at my nether regions and saying ‘Brazilian wax. Brazilian.’ I wanted to scream at her ‘For the love of all that is holy, learn English. There’s a world of hurt between bikini and brazilian.’ Unfortunately, all that came out of my mouth was ‘Aaahhhhh.’ The pain had apparently robbed me of my ability to speak and/or form coherent sentences.

 

Once the flabbergasted chick behind the counter pointed my scandalized ass towards the bathroom, I managed to get dressed and get the hell out of that little shop of horrors. I’m sure I wasn’t imagining all those eyes upon me as I waddled speed walked my pregnant self out to the car in disgrace, where I promptly discovered that sitting down flat was simply not an option. I had to drive home perched precariously on one ass cheek. Matt listened to my rambling story of shame, not once even daring to crack a smile. He’s such a smart man. So imagine my surprise later that night when I started to get ready for bed and Matt was suddenly overcome with the need to point and laugh at me. He was laughing so hard that tears were starting to form in his eyes and spill down his cheeks as he bent over double, holding his stomach. Remember when I said she ripped off one strip? That’s right, dear friends, the second one was still hot waxed to my girly bits. Do you know how hard it is to get that wax strip off once it’s dried and hardened?
 
I do.
 
Consider this my PSA for the day. Be sure the sadist wax chick speaks English before you allow access to the girly parts. You’re welcome.



A Little Old Lady, A Midget, & A Minivan

Dear Ass Clown from New Jersey,

I realize that driving up North is a totally different experience than driving down South. I get that. Truly I do. However, down here in the South, whipping your massively huge SUV into the other lane amid screeching tires and a honking horn is just bad manners. I’m terribly sorry that I had to apply the brakes in order to avoid rear ending the little old lady in front of me who was turning. I understand that she was turning at a rate of speed only rivaled by a turtle, however down here in the South we do not attempt to give little old ladies heart attacks by scaring them off the side of the road. We say ‘Bless her heart‘ and move on about our day. So when you decided that giving her the finger was an appropriate reaction to her slow navigation of her admittedly large car, well I just hope your mother is proud of the ass clown you have become.

I hope you can now see that taking out your frustrations on a sleep deprived, slightly unbalanced mother of four was a very bad idea. Very. Bad. Idea. It was shameful enough to toss the finger at a little old lady. But when you whipped your enormous SUV around me and then tried to cut back in front of me? Well sir, that was a bad choice, now wasn’t it? Didn’t quite know what you were getting yourself into, now did you?

Yes, that was my mini van that hit the back end of your enormous SUV. And by the way- you do know that driving a hugenormous SUV like that just makes us women think that you are overcompensating for your teensy weensy wiener, right? Just thought I’d throw that out there. You might want to think about it. Where was I? Oh yes, I did hit the back of your enormous SUV. And why yes, I sure did smile at you when you levered your 5 foot 4 self out of your enormous SUV and stomped back to my window with your panties all in a bunch. The first words out of your mouth should have been ‘I’m sorry ma’am for being such an ass clown‘. That would have been appropriate, given your childish behavior caused the entire incident. You know what was not appropriate? Calling me a bitch. All that did was make me want to release my inner diva, Buffy, on your midget ass. Don’t think for one hot minute just because I drive a minivan that I won’t jump out and beat your ass with my four inch high heel boots. Are we clear on that? Good. Your lack of manners was further evidenced when the police officer showed up. Calling her a broad was not the best idea. Although I did giggle a little while watching her treat you like a naughty Kindergartner who missed his little nap.

*knuckle knocks* to Officer Jenkins.

I truly did enjoy the show when she wrote you a ticket for a moving violation. I honestly did not realize that a man’s voice could go so high. Have you thought about auditioning for the Vienna Boys Choir? I hear they’re looking for sopranos. You might have to shave your one facial hair though, will that be a problem?

In conclusion, the next time you decide to act like a prick while driving down South, remember that not all women will be as friendly and restrained as I was today. Next time, you might get your ass beat down by a woman in the middle of the street while all the other women cheer and honk their horns in support. And don’t be thinking that a man will come to your aid. This is the South. They know better than to mess with the women.
 
So pull up your Big Girl Panties and grow a set. Ass Clown.

[Editor’s Note: Matt is having heart palpitations right now. This is my second traffic incident in a week. Neither were my fault. I can’t help it that I attract Ass Clown’s like a magnet.]



Can I Have Fries With That Attitude?

I need to bitch for a moment. Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times during this rant. Thank you. I picked Maia up from preschool today and in order to put a stop to the incessant whining and begging, I agreed to go to McD’s for lunch. Please no hate mail. I’m aware that giving into the whining is bad parenting. You weren’t in the car having your ears assaulted by the shrieking, so stuff it.

I get to McD’s and wait in the usual 30 minute line for the drive-thru because I’m lazy and don’t want to go inside, where the whining will start again when she sees the indoor germ breeding farm playground. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this particular McD’s. They are S-L-O-W like molasses! And rude. Don’t even get me started on the level of rudeness that these idiots display. Every time I bite my tongue to keep from screaming out at them: I understand that your job sucks. I understand that you go home at night smelling like old french fries. I understand that your paycheck barely covers the rent on your government subsidized housing and consequently there isn’t enough left over for toothpaste. I get that. But let’s not take it out on the world at large, m’kay? I just want my freaking double cheeseburger with a medium fries and hold the attitude. I want to scream this, but I refrain. I don’t want to come home and find some special sauce on my burger, if you know what I mean. It just chaps my ass that they can’t even acknowledge your presence at the window. Is it too much to ask for a “Hi. That will be $14.07 please.” Side note- $14 at McD’s, that’s madness. Things did not go smoothly today at good ole McD’s. First there was the whole wait-in-line-for-30-damn-minutes thing, then I finally make my way up to the little intercom to order. The screen that displays your order is broken. I know what this means. It means that my order is going to be wrong. I speak slowly and clearly, as though giving my order to a child. Then I wait. And wait.

Finally I hear “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” For Real? I repeat it. S-L-O-W-L-Y and C-L-E-A-R-L-Y. Then I wait. And wait.

And I hear “Did you say a large coffee?”. What the HELL?! No, you over-paid ass clown. I repeated that I wanted a small strawberry milkshake. Small. Strawberry. Milkshake. “We don’t have strawberry, only vanilla.”

God in Heaven, take me now. Just take me.

I finally finish my order, hear her repeat it back to me and know that it does not matter. It will be wrong when I receive it. I know this. I’ve accepted that this is a test of my ability to control my temper. God is testing me. I really wish he didn’t have so much faith in me. We wait another 20 minutes in between placing our order and the first window. Twenty minutes. 2-0. Insanity. Mase is screaming, Maia is screaming, and I’ve developed a tic in my left eye. Maybe it’s an aneurysm. I should only be so lucky. I finally make it up to pay and hand over my check card. The lady stares at it for a minute then looks back at me. What the HELL? It’s a check card. You swipe it through the little machine and it will pay for my food. Just like magic. Except…

Our credit card machine is broke. We can only take cash.”  I stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to laugh and say Just Kidding. She didn’t. The tic was getting worse. Maybe it’s a brain hemorrhage.

I had to ask. “How long has the credit card machine been broken?”.

“All day.” And with those two words, the tic migrated over to my right eye as well.

“Am I being punked? Where’s Ashton?” She looked confused. Apparently there’s no cable television in her government subsidized housing. Good.

“So, like, do you have cash or what?”.  She actually looked irritated.

“I’m confused as to why I waited 30 minutes to place my order, then it took another 10 minutes for you to get my order right. Then I had to wait another 20 minutes to get to this window. And not one time. NOT ONE DAMN TIME did anyone say anything about the credit card machine being broke. Why is that? WHY IS THAT?”.  I barely even took a breath while speaking, I was that pissed.

“I just told you.” She said it and then she smiled.  She smiled.

I had to take a deep breath and say a little prayer that her blood spatter wouldn’t stain my seats when I committed homicide. “Yes you did. Now let me tell you a little something. How hard would it be to march your over-paid ass out to the intercom and put up a little sign letting people know that your credit card machine is broken? Would that be hard? You could have somebody else spell the big words for you. I’d be happy to spell a few words for you right now. Wanna hear them?”

“‘Scuse me?” She really looked offended.

“Did I stutter? Did. I. Stutter? I understand that this is probably going to be your career, and that sucks for you. Don’t take it out on the rest of us.”

“You need to take your little screaming brats home and get out of my line.” Then she flicked one of her fingernails at me.

I didn’t yank her head through the window and separate her weave from her head. I wanted to. Boy did I want to. But in my county you can only take those Anger Management classes once per year to get out of a conviction for misdemeanor assault. And let’s face it- the year is young my friends, the year is young. So I settled for rolling up my window when her hand came out to give me back my check card. It wasn’t my fault that her 5 inch long fake fingernail got caught in the window. It certainly wasn’t my fault that she yanked her hand back and ripped the fake nail off. Not my fault at all. But it did make me smile.

She started it. Ass Clown.



It’s A Southern Thing

You know that old saying “You can take the girl out of the South but you can’t take the South out of the girl?” Well, it’s true my friends. And make no mistake about it- I am a Southern girl. And proud of it. I know what ya’ll are thinking. I might be a good Southern girl, but unfortunately my inner diva, Buffy, is not. As a good Southern girl I believe in turning the other cheek. Buffy, on the other hand, believes in a bitch slap for a bitch slap.

I got into a little bit of a tiff this weekend with a lady who lives down the street from us. They just moved into the neighborhood and they are obviously not from the South. They have a daughter about Maia’s age and I thought it would be nice to go and introduce them to each other. Being the Southern gal that my mama raised me to be, I took a housewarming gift. I chose a very pretty plant garden in a gorgeous bowl. We walked down the street and Maia rang the doorbell. She was so excited to meet the little girl. While waiting for someone to answer the door, I heard yelling from inside the house. Lots of yelling. With some naughty words thrown in. By this point, I’m looking around trying to decide if it’s too late to run away. A second later the door is thrown open and all that I could do was smile and say “Welcome to the neighborhood.” I introduced myself and Maia and handed her the plant garden. She took it with a most distasteful look on her face. Who doesn’t like a plant garden? Seriously.

“We don’t like plants in the house. They’re messy.”

Wow. I was shocked. Talk about no manners. I stared at her for a moment, not quite sure how to respond to that. Maia chose that moment to speak up and ask where the little girl was and if she could play with her. The mom actually stepped outside so she could close the door behind her. Oh. My. Word. Then she said,

“No offense, but I choose my daughter’s friends carefully. I don’t want her growing up to be a plastic Barbie doll, prom queen.”

What the hell? No offense? You’re calling my kid a plastic barbie doll and you don’t mean any offense? Oh, it’s on bitch. So I responded (well, really Buffy did but I’ll take credit) “That’s okay, really. I’m pretty choosy about my daughter’s playmates as well. Just based on meeting you, I don’t think they’ll be spending any time together.”  And the bitch came back with “I just don’t believe in that Southern girl crap. I want my kid to know that she can do anything she wants, be anything she wants. She doesn’t have to be this little cookie-cutter, Martha Stewart wanna-be homemaker.”

*blink*

She continued with “I mean, no offense or anything.”

To which I had to reply “Oh, of course, no offense taken. I don’t mind being called a cookie-cutter Martha Stewart wanna-be homemaker. No more than you should mind being called a Tasteless, Low Class, Misogynistic disgrace to the neighborhood….but no offense intended. So please, feel free to go back to screaming at your family at the top of your lungs. The rest of us will just pretend we don’t hear you and hope our children don’t repeat any of the words from your extensive four letter vocabulary. Classy!”

I retrieved my nice plant garden, grabbed Maia‘s hand and marched off that porch. Halfway down the driveway, Maia said: “Mama, I don’t think I want to play with that little girl. Her mommy is really rude.”

Out of the mouths of babes. At least my daughter is being raised properly- with manners and class. Plastic barbie doll, my ass.

Bitch.

Today I have a lovely plant garden on my dining room table and it’s serving to remind me that I am proud to be a Southern woman. It’s also reminding me that the next thing I leave on my new neighbor’s doorstep will be in a brown paper bag and quite possibly will also be on fire.



BRINGING SEXY BACK

Mase turning One this week has made me think. My kids are getting older. Theoretically so am I, but alas I’m still a toned and tanned 25 year old….at least in my alcohol induced magical mirror. This past 22 months of enforced sobriety for pregnancy and nursing has really sent my self esteem plummeting down to the realm of non-existence.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall…..who the hell is that fat lady???

Mama’s gotta get her sexy back this year. I just can’t be going around looking like this anymore, it’s not right. It’s not even that I have extra pounds to shed, cause I was careful when I was pregnant with Mase. See, with Maia, I took that whole “eating for two” thing a little too literally. I gained 45 pounds…and she came early. I was a size 2 before getting knocked up with Maia and gaining 45 pounds on a 5 foot 4 frame was majorly painful. It took me 2 years to lose all the weight and get back down to a size 4. Then I got knocked up again with Mase. But this time I bypassed the brownies and hot fudge cake…mmmmm….and watched my diet a little more carefully. I didn’t restrict essential calories, don’t want any hate mail from the granolas. I just used some self-restraint and said no to that 4th piece of pizza. I gained 21 pounds with Mase and lost almost all of it within the first 6 months. Unfortunately, losing the weight was the first battle. Today, I weigh exactly the same as I did before I got knocked up with Mase. But none of my old clothes fit. I have lumps, bumps and dimples in places that were not lumpy, bumpy or dimply before. I know what you’re thinking…She needs to exercise. Right???  There lies the problem. I hate to exercise. H-A-T-E it. I played competitive soccer for almost 18 years. I went to college on a soccer scholarship. I exercised and trained every. single. day. of my life for almost 18 years. Now I’m done. The only way you will see me running now is if someone is chasing me. And even then, I might just take my chances. Rest assured, if you see me running in one direction- pay attention because something very bad is happening in the other direction.

So what’s a pale, lumpy chick to do? Buy new clothes to hide the lumps? Liposuction? Yesterday I signed up for a 10 week pilates class. The perky little instructor talked me into it. After 10 weeks, I better look like her or I’m demanding a refund. The best part? Free childcare. Sweet! Of course, the Starbucks right next door might pose some willpower issues but they make light Frappaccinos so it’s all good, right?! That helps with the bumpy, lumpy and dimply part. What about the frumpy? I don’t know about you guys, but I spend 100% of my money on my kids. I don’t buy new clothes for myself. And when I do, it’s usually stuff that’s on sale. My closet looks like a clearance rack. I should nominate myself for What Not To Wear. Stacey and Clinton- if you ever read this, COME HELP ME. Matt gave me money for Christmas to buy myself some new clothes so I did get some new winter items. I went through my very small selection of spring/summer clothes yesterday and talk about depressing. Nothing fit, or didn’t fit right, or was just old and out of style. I considered just throwing it all out and just going Roper Style wearing moomoos and flip flops but I can’t bring myself to do something so drastic. I must turn this downward spiral back around again.
I’ve made some baby steps already. I got my hair cut and highlighted. I bought some new make-up. I bought a new purse.

I’m bringing sexy back this year.