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Really. Betty Beauty Color for the hair down there? Have we really reached the point where coloring and decorating the hedge is considered a good idea? Really?

I saw this in Redbook’s February issue. Actually, I didn’t see it. I skipped right over it until Matt made me skip back a few pages. He pointed it out with a smirk on his face, a twinkle in his eye and mischief in his…. heart. I read the description of this product with a mixture of disbelief and humor. Then, intrigued by this new trend in bush maintenance, I had to check out the website. Here is what Betty has to say:

Hot pink means play. Adventure down below! Celebrate! The first safe color for the hair down there. FUN betty is a hot pink party in a box! FUN betty color for the hair down there. Go girl, it’s your birthday! Or your anniversary or your wedding or his birthday! It’s the perfect gift! Follow the easy directions for safe color. Natural looking. No mess. No drip. Use it every time you candy! FUN is where you find it! Color kits include everything you’ll need to lighten and color…get your betty ready!

Matt was all for it. He thought it was a great new invention. Of course he did. It’s not his nether regions that would be exposed to chemical burns. I needed to investigate this a little further. I found that it comes in several different colors: Brown Betty, Blonde Betty, Auburn Betty, Black Betty, Fun Betty, Malibu Betty, Sexy Betty and the brand new Lilac Betty. Hmmmm, variety is the spice of life. They also sell Charmcils! In case you, like myself, are new to the world of pubic hair decoration, here is what Betty has to say about the Charmcils:

Unique charm-like stencils that will transform the hair down there into a variety of fun, sexy shapes! Hygienically-safe and easy to use at home with any hair removal cream/wax and for professional waxers to use too! Each charmcil pack includes one of each shape: lightning bolt, flower, star, bow tie, heart, peace sign, money sign & lips! These special stencil shapes are great to use with any of the betty colors!

Hmmmmmm? Charmcils– special stencil shapes to charm your Betty. What is the world coming to? The Charmcil are being advertised as “the new Brazilian for your Betty‘. Well, considering I wasn’t that happy with the ‘old’ Brazilian, that slogan is not making the sale. Although, I would really like that money sign on the ole Betty. Kind of lets a man know that he has to ‘pay to play‘. That’s not a bad idea. I do accept credit cards.

Matt really talked up this new product, determined to get me to try it even though that means I would have to actually grow the hedge back. I know, TMI but there was an incident while trimming the hedges that led to the removal of the entire hedge and then I decided to just go with it. So I’m hedgeless now and I’m not going back. I lobbed a volley back into his court and told him that I’d  first grow and then dye my hedge blue if he’d dye his pink. Point to Delia. I aced the serve when I told him that I thought the bow tie Charmcil would give his hedge the finishing touch.

Game. Set. Match.


I would everyone to take a moment of silence right now……

What are we mourning, you ask? The passing of Matt’s good sense. It has apparently flown the coop for good, as evidenced by this morning’s heated discussion. I should preface the story by admitting that I had not yet consumed my normal large quantities of coffee and therefore was a total bitch cranky. It’s understandable though when you take into account that Mase was up half the night with teething pain. Which means I was also up half the night with him. While Matt slept peacefully. Bastard. It all started with such an innocent comment. I merely mentioned that I had to go to Target today. Words that obviously strike fear into the very heart of Matt. I say I’m going to Target and his brain is flooded with images of poverty, foreclosure and standing in line for government cheese. You’re shaking your heads, aren’t you? I know, I don’t get it either. It’s not like I had the intentions to go on a shopping spree at the ole Tar-jay. If I’m going on a spree, rest assured I’m heading over to the swanky mall where I can hit up Nordie’s and Coach. I just need 3 things. THREE things, people. And 2 of them are necessary. Cam has a birthday party this afternoon at 4pm and I assume that he is expected to bring a gift…and who the hell schedules a birthday party on a Friday afternoon at 4pm? School doesn’t even get out until 3:30pm.

Anyhoo. Matt screwed the pooch big time. He said and I quote ‘I don’t have that in the budget right now.’ And I was all like ‘I’m sorry, what? Did you make the mistake of thinking that I was asking you for permission to go to Target?

The tone should have tipped him off. The tone was not good. It was the tone that wives use right before they rip your head off and shove it up your ass. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m not one to condone violence. Stop laughing. And if the tone didn’t clue him in, then ‘The Look‘ certainly should have. Now I might have mentioned that Matt is a bigwig in the financial industry. Fortunately, he does not work for one of the unstable, always in the news, banks. If he did, I would understand his panic and fear. But he is blessed to have relatively firm job security. Thank God because I won’t do poverty very well. But because he is in the financial world, he is anal about our finances. A-N-A-L. He has this entire spreadsheet budget thing saved on his computer that makes my eyes cross when he tries to show it to me. It’s ridiculously complicated and he loves it. I think he might love it more than me. Certainly more than the kids. He took over all the scheduling of bill paying long ago because I am more of a ‘They’ll get it when they get it and they’d better be damn happy that I’m paying it at all’ kind of a gal. Due date, schmue date. This drives Matt to the point of alcoholism. So in order to save our marriage and his sanity, I graciously allowed him to take over paying the bills and doing the budget. Now, not one time during the transition period did I, in any way, shape or form, give him even the slightest hint that I was abdicating my throne and allowing him dictatorship over our finances. This is not the 1950’s and obviously, I am not a 50’s housewife- as evidenced by the enormous bouncy house living in my playroom. I will not be reduced to asking for permission to go shopping. I will shoot him dead and hide the body first. I digress….

Back to the tone. You ladies will know the tone and ‘The Look‘ of which I speak. My male readers have probably already curled up into the fetal position and are knocking on the door of PTSD at the mere mention of ‘The Look‘. I understand. That is Matt’s normal reaction to ‘The Look‘ also. I think it’s in the Handbook. Today he must have been feeling brave. Perhaps he ate his Wheaties for breakfast. Whatever the reason, he had the gall to sigh at me. He Sighed At Me. The sigh was followed by the eye roll. He rolled his eyes at me. Oh yes, he did. So I had to jack it up a notch in order to get my point across. ‘The Look‘ became ‘The Death Glare‘ and the tone became the ‘Whisper of Satan‘. Now that got his attention. He knows when I go all Exorcist on his ass that it’s only a matter of time before blood is shed. His blood. All of a sudden, he had to dash off to work in a great hurry while tossing a credit card behind him on the way out the door. Obviously his body finally caught up the flashing warning signals that his brain was throwing out.

Smart Man.


I had a lot of pent up anger that had no direction last night. Otherwise known as PMS. I was a power keg, just waiting to blow. My kids were smart enough to become engaged in a quiet game of “put on a helmet and hide from the mother“. They should have clued in poor Matt.

Matt had the misfortune to ask me about a charge on the credit card from that super expensive super chic hair salon. Hello! Haircuts, highlights and lowlights are not cheap around here. It was the first time that I’ve gone to have my hair done at the super expensive super chic salon since I got pregnant with Mase. I am long overdue a couple of hours of pampering. I realize that the three hours spent in the salon was expensive. It was also necessary. I will not look like one of those unfortunate trailer park moms with the 3 different colored stripes through her hair. It’s not a good look. Okay so perhaps the 2 White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha’s that they served were probably unnecessary. Details. Matt knew he made a rookie mistake an error in judgment when my eyebrows shot up so far that they were partially hidden by my hair. That, my dear friends, is a bad sign. That is akin to the Grim Reaper knocking on your door and pointing at you. Bad. It was too late to take it back. There was no getting out of it. Until…
The doorbell ding-donged. Our neighbor had come to borrow something from Matt. Of course, Matt took this opportunity to run like his pants were on fire accompany our neighbor back home to hide from me assist him. Which left me with even more pent up anger. What to do, what to do…. First, I sat on the couch and plotted waited. When Matt didn’t return after an hour, I got tired of waiting. It was time to put some of that passive aggressivity that my mama taught me into play. Now I’m a passive aggressivity virgin. If I’m mad, rest assured that it will apparent. There’s no tip-toeing around here trying to figure out if mama is mad. If mama is mad, you know. A brilliant but borderline evil thought blossomed. I headed for Matt’s side of the master closet. I should mention that Matt is anally organized and fanatical about his closet. It’s borderline insane. Think Sleeping with the Enemy organized minus all the wife beating. For Real. He’s also red/green colorblind….I think he’s totally colorblind, honestly. So it takes him a long time to pair up and coordinate his dress clothes for work. He has all his dress shirts lined up in the order in which he will wear them, complete with the tie already picked out and hung over the shirt. His suits are hung paired up and in the order to match the shirts and ties. He spends at least an hour doing this every Sunday night while I
watch Desperate Housewives prepare for the next day. I spent 30 minutes rearranging his closet for him. Shirts are now out of order, the matching ties were swapped for ties that most definitely do not match. I also un-paired his suits and hung the jackets up with different mis-matching pants. I’m such a bitch. This is Matt’s one Saturday a month that he works. I went to bed early, secretly giggling inside. I could feel Matt’s relief when he came home and saw that I was already asleep and the fight was not going to happen. Insert evil giggle here. This morning, I made sure that I was awake and downstairs when Matt left for work. I had to witness my passive aggressivity in action. He grabbed his coffee, kissed us good-bye and headed off….

Wearing a chocolate brown pinstripe jacket, a white and navy striped dress shirt with a red, black and gray striped tie and charcoal gray pinstripe suit pants.

I feel better now. This passive aggressivity shit is fun.


For quite some time now I have been preparing Matt for the fact that one day he would be going under the knife. That’s right friends, I’m talkin about THE BIG V. It’s only fair. After all, I birthed two of his demon spawn hell monkey’s complete with complications and stitches. I have done my time. I fulfilled my end of the marriage deal. As it stands right now, we’re undecided about whether to have another birth child. Four is fun, but five might send me right on over the edge of sanity forever. Especially since my hell monkey’s seem completely opposed to sleeping through the night before they enter Kindergarten. 

So we’ve been debating back and forth for awhile now about if we’re going for number 5 or not. My opinion changes daily, depending on how many times I had to get up with my almost one year old hell monkey. Now, I should mention that I’ve gotten pregnant 3 times on birth control- the pill, the patch and the condom. I’m a genetic freak. So if there will be no more little hell monkey’s running loose, there needs to be some form of permanent birth control solution. Hence, The Big V discussion. Matt is really not on board with The Big V. He likes his parts all intact thankyouverymuch. Well, I liked my parts all intact too but that ship has long since sailed my friends. Being the reasonable sort, I made mention of The Big V and then let Matt stew on it for awhile before bringing it up again. He tried so hard to not panic. He failed. It’s something special to see a grown man in such a panic that all you see are the white’s of his eyes rolling around in his head. Mr. Ed on crack, that’s what it reminded me of. After he breathed into a paper bag for a few minutes to quell the hyperventilation, he was issued an ultimatum.

Either he chooses to have The Big V done in the doctor’s office with anesthesia and proper instruments or I will do it in the middle of the night with the gardening shears and a Tylenol. The Tylenol would be for me, I’m pretty sure all the screaming would give me a headache. The choice is totally his, I’m trusting that he’ll make the right one.

I bet $100 that one day soon he decides that it wouldn’t be so bad having 5 kids….


Lately I’ve been thinking I should recruit a Sister-Wife. This brilliant idea popped into my brain while I was cleaning melted crayon out from inside the dryer for the third time so maybe it’s a coincident. I must admit that the whole share-a-husband Polygamy thing has never really appealed to me. I like to be the center of attention so sharing that with another woman would take some getting used to. Plus it’s a little skeevy to share a husband, but whatever. On the other hand, someone to share the cooking, cleaning, kid-raising and other mundane daily tasks- now that makes it worth a moment of consideration. What would I want in a sister-wife? I’ve made a list. You know how much I love my lists.

#1- She can’t be younger, prettier, funnier or have better hair than me. Period.
#2- She must be willing to be the number two wife. Cause I won’t be abdicating my throne.
#3- Dirty diapers- all hers. Nuff said.
#4- She must be willing to answer the phone, deal with solicitors and pretty much anything else I don’t want to deal with.
#5- She must understand and respect my love of the shopping. It’s an unhealthy romance, but it is what it is.
#6- She must not touch the Girl Scout cookies. They are mine. I will fight for them. Ask Matt. He’ll show you his scars.
#7- She must accept my anal-retentive, obsessive compulsive way of doing laundry. I realize it’s abnormal. Deal with it.
#8- She must never drink the last soda. I am Mrs. Dr. Pepper. Although lately I’ve been whoring around with the new Mountain Dew Voltage.
#9- She must find her own closet in which to hide from the children. I have my closet hidey-hole set up just the way I like it and I won’t share it. Ever.

Now, I had to think of something to sweeten the deal so I can entice some sister-wives. What can I offer?

#1- The use of my huge spa tub once a week for no more than an hour. And she must clean it when she’s done. Plus she must provide her own bubble bath cause she’s not using my expensive shit.
#2- One hour a week of free babysitting. And by babysitting, I mean that I will lock her children in the playroom with mine while I hide in the closet until that hour is over. Preferably with alcohol.
#3- The use of my mac-daddy mini van. Of course, this will mean she will also need to drive my kids to all their activities, do the grocery shopping and be in charge of cleaning the van out cause Matt hates it when the kid’s shit overflows and falls out when he opens the doors.
#4- An invitation to my ultimate summer fun hot tub parties. They include great music, kick ass Mojitos with those super chic umbrellas, and the best appetizers that The SuperTarget sells. Matt cooks the meat on his big man grill and we all get drunk on alcohol and Shrimp Kabobs.

I ran my list by Matt and suggested Jenna as a possible Sister-Wife, although I’m not sure what to do with Mr. Jenna. Matt claimed that one hardheaded woman was enough and immediately opened a beer so I’m not sure he’s on board with the whole Sister-Wife idea.  Maybe I can talk him into a houseboy named Pablo?