Footballing

Well tomorrow marks the first official day of Autumn here in the northern hemisphere. You know, the Autumnal Equinox? When the length of the day is equal to the length of the night and the Earth has orbited around the sun to the point at which the northern hemisphere is beginning to tilt AWAY from the sun? Or something like that. Whatever. I learned that last part from my 4th grader last week, so who knows if it is true. Alls I knows is that Autumn means two things:

1. Only 95 days until Christmas.
2. And, I am officially a football widow from now until The Superbowl. 

Sorry to start your Monday with the Christmas countdown buzzkill. But really, I’m doing you a service. By my calculations, the stores will start blaring the carols and wrapping every surface in tinsel in less than one month. If you are mentally prepared for this impending assault on your senses, it will be less of a shock. You’re welcome. 

Now as for the whole Football Widow thing. I have mixed feelings. 

Sure, at first, it’s kinda nice. I suddenly have some free time. The Gatekeeper watches most of the major games on the big screen at his brother’s house. Eating his brother’s endless supply of queso dip. Filling his brother’s house with his startlingly emotional outbursts of joy and agony, (and ridiculously LOUD chewing sounds).

But as opposed to the Olympics, which is a nice mini-break for wives around the world, football season lasts for about one quarter of the whole year!  It’s not called football “season” for nothing. Sure, it’s not everyday. But every weekend…  for four months? Suddenly our entire lives revolve around game schedules. College games on Saturdays, pro games on Sundays and Mondays. 

For instance…

ME: “Rick and Nancy want to have us over for dinner on the 12th, hon.”

HIM: “The 12th? Lemme see. Oh, nope. That’s a really important Ohio State game. I need to be on the couch at my brother’s house by 8 PM. Can we be outta there by 7:30?”

ME: “Dude. That is so wrong. I’m not going to go over there for a nice dinner and be looking at our watches the whole time just so you can leave in time  for football.” 

HIM: “Then we can’t do it. Pick another day.”

Ack. Like we don’t have enough things to work around in our schedule… Cub Scout events and dance recitals and library book due dates and electrologist appointments… now I have to factor in televised football games too. Awesome. 

Seriously. Two of my three children were born during football season and you should have seen the terror in this man’s face when he thought I was going into labor with #2 during a playoff game. Thank the Lord it was a false alarm, or he probably would have plugged my birth canal with a can of Pringles until the game was over. He’s got priorities, you know. Alright, alright, make that two cans of Pringles. I cannot tell a lie. 

So there’s that. But the other thing is this… a woman has needs. I get kinda lonely after a while. And I get really damn tired of being a single mother (with none of the benefits like alimony or less laundry). So I’m practicing some footballish phrases that I’m hoping will entice him to stick around. I figure if I talk dirty enough, but with a football theme, he might not be so quick to high-tail it out of here every weekend. You know… the best of both worlds, minus Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus. 

Here’s a sampling of what I’ve come up with so far:

• Hey babe, wanna put it between the uprights? 
• Run the ball right up the middle? 
• Tackle my tight end? 
• Toss it into the end zone later? 
• Go deep? 
• Penetrate the backfield? 

Gosh, is it me, or is this game a little bit dirty? No wonder he loves it! And what’s with all the backdoor talk? Maybe I would feel a little better about this game if the end zone was lovingly referred to as a part of the female anatomy. As in: “AND. HE. COULD. GO. ALL. THE. WAY!!!! Into that vagina.” What? Too much? 

And, excuse me, but, ahem, is it me, or is this game in general, a little, um, homo-erotic? 

Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Just trying to understand the draw.

I was thinking about getting a cheerleader outfit, you know, just for fun. But on second thought, maybe I should get a football player’s uniform instead? Just a thought. And a whole butt load of queso dip. Pardon the pun.

Awwwwwkward

I’ve got two sick kids at home today sucking the life out of me, so I’ll keep this brief. 

If you go nowhere else on the Internet today, go see my new favorite thing: Awkward Family Photos.com, Sharing the Awkwardness. Hot damn, this is funny stuff. The concept is so simple… people send in, you guessed it, awkward family photos. The photos are priceless, but the real brilliance is in the captions and the comments. It is a hoot, ya’ll. Check it out and tell ‘em Iris sentcha. 

Specifically, you have to see this one, sent to me by one of my dearest friends who wrote in her email: “This hairy family made me think of you.” I’m sure it was because of the ginormous beave on the mom and not the creepy Electra Complex action. Thanks D! Love you too, Sugar! 

Here’s another gem not to be missed. That’s just not natural. Listen, I should know. One of my BFFs is a professional photographer and she tells me all the time about the crazy shit people want to have captured on film. No, nothing like that. Just stupid stuff like unflattering matching outfits and “silly poses” and crazy moms who shout things at their kids like “SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!”  Just curious, is there a school somewhere that trains budding Mall Photographers to make people pose in ridiculous ways or do you think there are just a lot of photographers out there with really sick senses of humor? Based on the shots I’m seeing at this site, I’ve got to believe that some of these photographers come home sometimes with a picture or two to share while they Pass the Dutchie with their buds saying, “Dude… check out how I made this family all put their fists under their chins. It was fuckin’ hilarious! I could barely take the shot, I was laughing so hard.” 

Something to think about next time you go to The Picture People, eh? Just sayin. 

Work it, you’re worth it!  And SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!  

-Iris

The Valentine Blues

Valentine’s Day is not my fave. 

If you love someone, you should tell them all the time… not just on one over-the-top day. Just sayin’. 

I told my husband this when we first started dating back in 1995 as part of my “I’m really low-maintenance… you hit the jackpot with me, pal” façade. Mistake. Big mistake. Now the man thinks he can just skirt through every holiday without giving me cards and flowers and candy and jewels. Dammit. I had no earthly idea that in less than a decade I would become an invisible vessel for grandkids and PTA sponsored fundraising. That changed everything. I am definitely no longer as low-maintenance as I was 10 years ago… and not just because of all the new hormone induced facial hair. I need some attention, fuckers. Is it me, or can you relate, ladies? 

Maybe I’m just bitter because I didn’t get a single Valentine this year. Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being a hypocrite. That whole “T’is better to give than to receive” thing is a load of crap, sorry Jesus. I want to receive. And by receive, I’m talking about more than just a bean burrito dinner followed by falling asleep farting in our Snuggies watching You Don’t Mess with the Zohan (note to self: must reorder my Netflix queue to coincide with holidays more appropriately.)  Mama needs some romance. And for the record, “Are we gonna do it later, or what?” doesn’t really get the juices flowin’, if you know what I mean. 

Unlike their bitter mama, my lovey-dovey kids really dig this Hallmark holiday. So, for them, I did my darndest to hide my “cupid-is-stupid” ire and rise to the occasion. Awwww. I helped them make their Valentine’s Boxes and cards and we even whipped up a fabulous and funky Valentine  Tree, which took near heroic measures since I absolutely abhor crafting with children. Don’t get me wrong, I love crafting. I’m crafty. I can make pretty much anything. Anything. Seriously. But bring a kid into the equation, and I’d rather donate a cornea or two. 

Isn’t that just fabulous? Klepto and I decoupaged tissue paper onto an old plastic flower pot we found in the garage. I cut the branches off a big old fallen tree limb that was cluttering up my yard. And Klepto made a majority of those ornaments herself with crap we had lying around the house. My friend Jennifer says I have no right to be making fun of “Über Moms” when I have a homemade Valentine Tree like this in my house. But Jennifer, I gotta tell you, not only was I probably drunk as a skunk when we made it, but I am pretty sure I made Klepto cry five minutes into the decoupage process when she got bored and started to decoupage her hands to the table with the glue. So no, drunk screaming lunatics and Über Moms are mutually exclusive groups, in my humble opinion. 

Speaking of being crafty… I am learning how to crochet. My BFF/neighbor Tammy (you remember her… the one who always one-ups me and tries to improve my recipes and then take credit for them?) gave me the most amazing birthday present last year. She cleaned out her overflowing craft closet and put together a lovingly recycled “Teach Yourself to Crochet” basket containing an instruction book, a bunch of crochet needles, some yarn, and a few handfuls of stale Easter candy that was calling her name a little too close to swimsuit season. Bitch. Anyhooo, the thought behind this gift was extraordinary. She knew that I had always wanted to learn to crochet and she gave me a gift to help me achieve that goal. That’s a good friend, ya’ll, stale candy or not. 

The only problem with trying to teach yourself to crochet from a book is that it is really hard. I tried and I tried, but I just wasn’t getting it. Oh, I’m left-handed too, which makes everything harder, except making obscene gestures out my window while I drive. I do that with excellent dexterity and enthusiasm. 

But you know what they say… when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About a month ago, a lovely muse named Lara appeared on my doorstep. She and her groovy husband are my kids’ music teachers. They come to my house once a week and fill my home with song and love and a variety of talents. Lara can crochet like nobody’s beeswax. She sat down with me and showed me how to do some stitches and instilled me with confidence that crochet is really not that hard. Reading crochet patterns is not for pussies though. I still can’t really do that. 

But Lara also taught me something phenomenal. She taught me that you can learn pretty much anything you ever wanted to know on YouTube. And the coolest thing about it is that you can start/stop/repeat lessons until you get it and not have to worry about annoying your teacher to death. 

Want to learn how to use a Neti Pot? How about Body Party Math?  Would you like to rewire a lamp? Learn to do the splits? Be prepared to deliver a baby in the backseat of a taxicab? (Check out the giant rubber teaching vajayjay!!!)  Learn Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” dance moves step by step? (OMG, “The Spank It” and “The Pump Walk”… these are must-have-moves for any dance repertoire!!!)  Or hey, aren’t you the least bit curious about what happens when a goat licks an electric fence?  You can learn all this and more on YouTube. 

Me? Well, after I mastered all that stuff, I taught myself how to crochet a heart for my sweet little girl. I even found a crochet heart tutorial for left-handed mamacitas like me! YouTube rocks, ya’ll. See? I did it!

 

Bet you didn’t know I was such a crafty beaver, did you?! Well I am. Get over it. Don’t worry, I can combine all my favorite things and still be the same slutty booze whore you’ve come to know and love.  Next, I want to learn how to make one of these:

No, it’s not a papoose in a canoe. It’s a hand-knitted vulva I found on the Internet. God bless you, Al Gore! Wouldn’t that be the most darling change purse?! Imagine the looks you’d get at church if you pulled that out when they pass the basket!  Or how about a set of vulva coasters or beer can coozies? See, with all this crafting to do, I won’t have time to feel sorry for myself that I didn’t get any Valentines. And for those of you who missed the boat this year, you have a whole year to shop. Buy me some yarn, would ya? I’ve got some vulvas to knit.

Sir Plucksalot

I go to church on Sundays. Well, most Sundays. OK… many Sundays. I’m a nice Catholic girl these days… have been for about 10 years, ever since I married into a big Italian Catholic family and officially converted. I know, I know, “nice Catholic girls” don’t publicly write about things like sex, drugs, and how much they vehemently do NOT love their neighbors, but I go to confession every now and then, so it’s cool. I was actually raised as a non-practicing PresbyJewian, but once my parents got divorced, it was a spiritual Free-for-All. That’s probably why I was so attracted to the majesty and ritual of the Catholic Church… I love the consistency and dependability of it. It makes me feel safe and loved. Awwww! Group hug!  

So listen, I want to give you a little heads-up, people. I am going to refer to and quote from the Bible in this post. If that is not your bag, baby, go ahead and leave now, I can take it. But, one thing you should know about Catholics – we don’t take the Bible literally. It is like the world’s oldest self-help book of fairy tales to us. We enjoy it, we respect it, but we don’t hang on every word. Combine that disclaimer with the fact that I personally am a little “off,” and you have the makings for some thought provoking and colorful blasphemy. Read on at your own risk. 

This past Sunday was a real hum-dinger at my church. First of all, I get a big kick out of the people watching element of attending a large Catholic church in an upper-middle class and increasingly hispanic but formerly rural area of the deep south. It is just a jambalaya of Glamour Magazine Fashion Don’ts, ya’ll. I don’t want to judge, because Lord knows I am no fashionista myself, but I do marvel at some of the choices women make on Sunday mornings. I believe that God is just happy when people show up and give him/her a little face-time; he/she does not care what you wear. But he/she probably doesn’t want to compete with you for the attention of the other parishioners! So ladies, save the hoochie jeans and low cut tank tops for date night. Seriously. I know I speak for others here… we can’t concentrate on our worship when we are ogling your fun parts. Personally, I’m a No-Denim-in-the-House-of-the-Lord kind of girl. But that is just me. I know I’m a little old fashioned on that one, but also, I don’t have a single pair of jeans that is appropriate for all that kneeling, unless I want to risk someone accidentally depositing their weekly donation envelope into the coin slot that peeks out of the back of my jeans every time I bend over. Not appropriate. 

Moving on. The first reading last Sunday was from the Book of Proverbs (31:9b-31). It went something like this: 

“A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value…
Blah, blah, blah. Blabbity, blah, blah. 
…She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks…
blah blah –  more about being a good wife…
…She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy…
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness….
…yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. I am lazy! Thank God I didn’t live in Biblical times!… 
AND THEN THE AHA MOMENT:
…Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear that day. I had been obsessing over my witch mole. I have one of those birth marks on my face that sticks out like someone glued half a skin-colored raisin to my cheek. When I was a little girl, it was just a dark “beauty mark” on my cheek like Cindy Crawford’s signature mole.  But now that I’m 38 and all hormonally out of whack from birthin’ so many millions of babies, my skin is changing. That once flat, dark, cute, quirky freckle is now a puffy pale witch mole. But wait, there’s more. There are actual hairs that grow out of it! No joke. Dark. Wiry. Hairs. Several hairs. Maybe even a bunch. It is disgusting. I pluck it daily. And I’m constantly touching it to see if a new hair has sprouted that needs to be immediately excised. STOP EVERYTHING! I have a mole hair. Be right back. My kids totally tease me for it too. Klepto says things like “Mommy? My teacher looks just like you! She is really pretty and has short brown hair just like you! Only, she doesn’t have pimples and moles, so she’s prettier.” Nice. I’m just waiting for someone to come at me like Austin Powers, totally mesmerized by it (in a bad way), and breaking into a fit of Tourette’s, shouting “MOLE! MOLE! MOLE-AY MOLE-AY MOLE-AY!” It keeps me up at night. 

I bet if I added up all the time I spend plucking my facial hair, I would have extra days every year to do noble works of charity, or read more to my kids, or watch Rock of Love II with Bret Michaels marathons on VH1.  

So yeah, clearly I’ve been obsessing about it. Thinking about getting it sliced off at the dermatologist. Why not? If Sarah Jessica Parker can part with her signature witch mole, why can’t I? Look, it might be a health issue! What if it is precancerous! I don’t think I should take any chances! I’m just wondering, if the mole goes bye-bye, will the hairs still grow out of the scar? Will it leave a scar? What is worse, a hairy witch mole or a scar? So much to ponder! 

But hearing that reading Sunday morning about how important it is to be a person of character, a good wife, and a hard working, caring member of the community snapped me back to reality and helped me to focus on what is really important. I want to be a good person. I want to be a good wife, and mother, and world citizen.  Who cares what I look like?! Beauty fades. What matters most is how pretty I am on the inside! Did people make fun of Mother Theresa’s moles and facial hair? Probably. But those people are burning in the fiery pits of Hell right now. If I am a good person, people will surely look beyond my outward appearance and judge me by my good works, right?! I have nothing to fear but The Lord.

So I went home from church and decided to tackle some piles of clutter, as I promised Oprah and Peter Walsh I would with my “Clean Up Your Messy House Pledge” last week. Then I loaded up some stuff that I wanted to donate to the needy and drove over to the local Goodwill store. I unloaded my boxes and bags and felt pretty good about my contribution to the greater good.  And then, it happened: 

“Would you like a receipt, sir?” the Goodwill volunteer asked me.

Mwah, mwah, mwah. 

Oh.
My.
God.
She just called me “sir.” 

So much for the greater good. So much for beauty being only skin deep. That one syllable shook me to the core. That myopic volunteer bitch. With one slip of the tongue, she totally transported me back to that time when I was ten, standing in line at the county fair with my little brother, when a sweet little old lady asked my mom: “How old are your boys?” Ugh.

Since I’m trying to be a good person, I have to ask myself, “What Would Jesus Do?” Maybe he was called “Ma’am” a time or two with his gorgeous flowing hair and long robes. Did he freak out? Probably not. But he was also the son of God and very forgiving. So instead, I’ll ask, “What Would Oprah Do?” I’m guessing she would not take that shit lying down. I’ve seen enough of her makeover shows to know that she truly believes “being as cute as you can be” is a key ingredient to feeling good… and when you FEEL good, you can do better work in all areas of your life. 

So, quick word of advice gals, don’t forget your lipstick when you are out there doing good works for the greater good, because there is nothing that can take the wind out of your sail like being mistaken for a man. 

And as for the hairy witch mole, well, maybe I’ll look into having it removed, purely for health reasons of course. If you would like to contribute to the cause, please send your donation in care of The Bearded Iris. I’ll deposit it in my coin slot for you, sir. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Cla-HAIR-rification

Well, hot damn, ya’ll! Thanks for all the great comments and responses about That Old Black Magic! It is so nice to know that so many of you have struggled with similar body and facial hair issues and have some great tips to share.  I sure do appreciate your generosity!

Special thanks to my friend “Suburban Slave” for suggesting that one should always pre-trim before any kind of wax or cream application. Her suggestion for The Remington Trim and Shape, sounds like a real winner. I also just love her practical tips for using this trimmer “in the shower or get this…straddling the toilet backwards!” Wow! Girl, you sound like more fun than Bristol Palin on junior prom night! Call me next time you go out Honkey Tonkin’…I’m in!  

I would also just like to clarify about something pertaining to my own hygiene preferences. Yes, there are some people who do prefer “The Hollywood”…which means that EVERY LAST HAIR is removed from the genital region.  I am not that kind of girl, honey. Personally, I think that is a teensy bit on the creepy side. And if my husband liked it totally hairless, I’d be worried that maybe he preferred his girls a bit younger than me.  And by younger, I mean prepubescent. In other words, ewwwwww. 

So, nooooo. When I wax or Magic Cream my goodie basket, I like to leave a little landing strip…like a visual guide for my husband. I do believe he appreciates the extra effort. But I’ll let him tell you himself if he chooses to comment. You might not believe this, but that sweet man is one of The Bearded Iris’s biggest fans!  Isn’t that something?!  You know he is one hell of a special man if he supports and even occasionally applauds his wife telling (and sometimes showing) all this raunchy smut to the whole wide world. Thanks, hon. Sorry about that time I called you a “butt-munch.” Oh and also that time I called you a “punk ass bitch” and threatened to chain you up in the garage and kill you with rat poisoning. You know I was just funnin’ with you, right?

So back to my bearded clam and exactly what I mean by “keeping my shiznit tidy and tiny.”  I will gladly illustrate it for you visual people.   

My goodie basket used to look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and now it looks more like this (minus the dancing dinner rolls on the forks…usually):

 

….well, actually, if you want to split hairs (mwah mwah!), it really looks more like this:

Got it?  Sorry about the confusion, ya’ll.  

So, in summary: not bald, just tiny.  Rhymes with shiny and hiney. Coincidence? I think not. 

But listen friends, your choices for bush hogging and muff styling are only limited by your imagination. Check out these fun ideas sent into me by one of my favorite Aussie readers: New Waxing Options for the Progressive Woman.  Wow – that shit is funny.  I’ve unintentionally sported a few of those looks over the years. Now I’m real careful to not tend to my feminine hygiene after too many drinks or without my glasses. Another good tip for you mothers out there: wait until your kids are asleep or at school before you do any kind of bush whacking.  As if my kids needed ONE MORE REASON for psychotherapy.  Poor things.  

A’ight. Keep it clean, girls.  Nobody (except maybe Dr. Oz) wants a big ol’ stanky bush for a hat.  Just remember what my least favorite Food Network star says: “Keep it simple. Keep it sweet. And always keep it semi-homemade.”  Although, I’m pretty sure she was talking about an elaborately themed table scape and not about her perky blonde childless va-jay-jay, but whatever.

That Old Black Magic

Some of you may recall my never-ending postpartum battle with body and facial hair. (See Hello world! and Shiny).  This is not my favorite topic. It’s a tad bit embarrassing. However, if I can make even one woman feel better about herself knowing that she is either not alone in the world or at least not as bad off as I am, then I’ve done my job. And to you, oh fellow hairy one, you are welcome.   

Let’s start at the top and work our way south, shall we?

The beard?  Well, I’ve tried myriad things to manage my facial hair. I’ve plucked it.  I’ve waxed it.  I’ve used creams that burn, and irritate, and cause temporary facial paralysis. I’ve even tried laser hair removal, but apparently I gave up on it too soon. I only went for 3 of the 5 recommended treatments, and gave up. I just lost the desire and energy to keep plunking down cash at the dermatologist for something that clearly wasn’t working (and at $150 a pop, who can blame me?).  So now I just pluck, when I remember, or when I stab one of my sweet children while I’m kissing them and they wince or cry.  I also tend to wear very low cut tops.  I find that people don’t really notice my beard when they are staring at my tits.  Try this.  It works.

Now, as for the bush, that is a different matter.  I put a helluva LOT more time and effort into keeping that kitty groomed.  I have to.  If I didn’t, it would be about the size of a dinner plate.  I’m talking belly button to knees, people.  Hairy.  My father’s ancestors are from Eastern Europe.  Body hair was an evolutionary gift designed to protect my people from freezing to death in the Russian tundra.  But I live in Georgia USA, not the Georgia that is between Russia and Turkey, so trapping body heat is less of an issue for this little ol’ Southern Belle.  And as for my Bountiful Bellorussian Beave, I’d wrap it in a babushka if I could, but that tends to look bulky under my designer denim.  So, I choose to keep my shiznit tidy and tiny instead.  

Now get this.  I saw Dr. Oz on the Oprah show recently and he was answering all kinds of embarrassing questions from the ladies in the audience. Well, one of the audience members was asking about the Brazilian Bikini Wax, and Oprah was riveted!  And I have to believe that if someone like ME has a fur-burger the size of a dinner plate, you just know that Oprah’s is like the size of the dining room table….with all the leaves in it.  Anyhooo, Dr. Oz said that the real evolutionary purpose of pubic hair is to absorb odor and that the pheromones that are held and disbursed by the pubes are meant to attract a mate so that procreation will occur.  Ehhh, gross, dude.  I’ll take a freshly washed goodie basket any day of the week. Dr. Oz also called the vagina a “self-cleaning oven.”  Um, excuse me, Dr. Oz….I don’t know what kind of fancy-ass-8-burner-Viking-style-stainless-steel-range-and-cooktop-combo you’ve got going on in your castle, but here in my backwoods trailer, the self-cleaning oven still needs a pretty regular spritz of EASY-OFF®, if you know what I mean.  But then again, maybe Dr. Oz just likes his beeotches furry and funky. In which case, Doc, pull on the scrubs, grab your stethoscope, and I’ll send one of my sisters over in 10 minutes.  

So yes, back to my undercarriage. I’ve tried just about everything down yonder.  I’ve shaved it.  Ouch.  I’ve waxed it myself. Not fun. I’ve plucked it. Tedious. I’ve spent the big bucks on a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Humiliating. I’ve done nothing. Not pretty. Since the laser treatments didn’t really work on my little chinny-chin-chin, I didn’t want to bother with it on my ten pound tuna taco.  So what is a hairy and harried mother of three, who is quickly approaching her sexual prime, to do? They say you attract more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.  So, I’m thinking if I keep the grass mowed, maybe my husband will be more likely to pull up a lawn chair and sit for a spell.  

Well, imagine my delight at finding a new hair removal product that I can use at home, by myself, that only takes about 10 minutes, for pennies on the dollar?  Brace yourself.  This is a beauty secret that you definitely won’t hear at the Curl Up and Dye hair salon.

I have recently started using “Magic Cream” shave depilatory. Made by SoftSheen-Carson, this razorless beard remover is “formulated exclusively for black men.” Don’t adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with your eyes. Yes, this is a cream made for the faces of black men, and yours truly is slathering it on my white, female, naughty parts. And since it is gentle enough for faces, you can put it EVERYWHERE down there and get results just like a Brazilian or Hollywood style wax job. (Mom, you and your Bible Study Group probably aren’t going to believe this, but lots of folks today like to remove all the hair from their vertical bacon sandwiches AND their bushy bum-holes. Just thought I’d explain, because I know you’re not hip to the lingo. And I sure do appreciate you taking the time to read my raunchy smut. Please apologize to Father Raphael for me.) 

How in the world did I discover this, you ask? Well, one of my very good friends (who would like to remain nameless) told me about it. She discovered this gem from a discussion board on one of the parenting web sites!  I swear.  I could not make this up if I tried, ya’ll.  And you thought we were exchanging organic carob chip cookie recipes and ideas for regimenting our children’s sleep schedules. Think again, honey. Women of the 21st century are swapping hygiene and grooming tips for their battered beavaroonies on babycenter.com.  Gawd, I love the Internet.   

So a 6 oz. tube of this fabulous stuff costs about $3-$4, but I just saw that you can bid on it by the lot on eBay. Wow, the secret must be out if people are auctioning this shit in bulk. Me? I’m not much of an Internet shopper. Besides, I really have a lot of fun buying this stuff at my local mega store in person. It is just some good clean fun to buy a product that looks like this: 

…in one of the most red-necky places on Earth.  Don’t you just love freaking out the white supremacists bagging your groceries and hygiene products at the Walmart? Oh Lordy. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

Here’s what you can expect if you try this product at home:

• It smells a little like a bad perm, but not nearly as bad as Nair®. 
• You need to keep it on for about 5-10 minutes…make sure you have a book or magazine to read while you wait for the Magic to happen. 
• The directions say to “gently remove with edge of a spatula.” I find that one of the extra Nylon Pan Scrapers that came with my stoneware baking pans from The Pampered Chef®  is just perfect for this task.  (Thanks Mary Louise! I’d be happy to host another cooking show soon…call me!)  

Nylon Pan Scrapers by The Pampered Chef®

Scrape off baked-on foods (and excess pubic hair) with little effort. 

One other thing to note: the magic only lasts for a few days, and the stubble is not pleasant. But like my anonymous friend says, “You don’t get the up-do three days before the prom. ‘Black-Man’ your crotch on a Friday morning and set the tone for the whole weekend.” That girl is somethin’, ya’ll. If you ever find a friend who will share a beauty tip like THIS, never let her go.

Good luck, and if you have any personal hygiene tips you’d like to share, I’d love to hear them! In fact…let’s just make this interesting, shall we?  I have a brand new, unopened tube of Magic Cream for the best muff story or genital-related hygiene tip shared below as a comment.  Get busy, ya’ll.  

Shiny

The Brazilian Bikini Wax.  Easily the single most humiliating experience of my life.  Way worse than walking home from high school one day with my private girl’s school uniform skirt accidently tucked into the back of my panties, thinking that all those honks and whistles meant that I was lookin’ SO cute that day. Ugh.  I guess if I knew then what I know now about what age and motherhood does to the bod, I would have showcased that package in public more often. Live and learn.  

But truly, in terms of unmitigated humiliation, nothing compares to letting someone wax your entire undercarriage.  Particularly if that someone is a perky college girl named Tiffany, wearing a sorority t-shirt and a Pebbles-esque ponytail on top of her head. The worst part was that I was about 8 months pregnant at the time, wanting to clean up the area before the big show.  But when you are that pregnant, and in your late thirties, and 50 pounds overweight, and bloated like a three-day-old floating corpse, the last thing you need to be doing is lying on your side naked from the waist down, pulling your top leg up to your chest, and letting a cheerful young college girl apply hot wax to your hairy asshole.  Dude, I am not kidding.  It didn’t even hurt that bad, it was just the utter embarrassment.  The complete and total knowledge that sweet young Tiffany was probably going to use that visual as birth control for many years to come.  

Now normally, I’m a big fan of the female anatomy and think that pregnant women are an especially lovely feast for the eyes.  However, the extreme close up and privileged angle afforded to the Brazilian Bikini Waxologist is not for the faint of heart, capisce?  There is a lot of stuff going on down there when you have 10 pounds of baby pressing down on your goody basket.  I’m talking veins.  I’m talking excessive moisture. I’m talking hemorrhoids.  Are you with me so far?  And oh, the debilitating fear that I would accidentally release a pregnant fart while she was down there with her hot wax.  I was just imagining my divine wind blowing her ponytail back and burning her eyelashes off.  Thankfully I was too stressed out and clenched up to let anything slip out. Thank you, Jesus! Note to self: the power of prayer is not to be underestimated.  

So I just want to say, “fuck you Gwyneth Paltrow,” for glamorizing the whole Brazilian bikini wax thing in that interview I read online.  I didn’t “glide” around my house afterward…I slumped.  And I scratched.  And I had nightmares for weeks about frightening my midwife with my angry red A-hole.  No, you can’t always believe what you read.  Particularly from a woman who named her first born after a piece of fruit.  So Gwyneth, when I see you on Oprah today, I’m not going to be able to think about anything but the fact that you have a bald, shiny, ripe apple under your dress.  Thanks a lot.  

 

Beauty and The Beast

or, what my vagina and Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina would look like side by side