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.

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.

But on the bright side…

One of the best things about having a blog, I’ve recently discovered, is that when awful/disgusting/frustrating/annoying things happen to me (almost daily), I have an appropriate outlet in which to express myself. Writing about these events is fantabulous therapy and so much less damaging than kicking the dog (or husband) or screaming at the babies. Blogs are good things. I don’t care what Sarah Palin says. If she spent less time fretting about blogs and more time reading things like newspapers and books, maybe she wouldn’t be such a laughingstock. But I digress. Back to me me me and why I blog…

Take yesterday for instance. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

This is the barely audible sound I heard as I was crouched on my office floor sorting through six months of medical records and bills that I had been avoiding. I had just gotten Bucket Head down for his nap and hoped I would have (kinehora) about two hours of uninterrupted time to knock off this dreaded task. I was halfway through writing out a check for a delinquent bill when my spider senses started to tingle. Thank God I didn’t have any music going or I never would have heard it. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself. Jesus. Is it any wonder I never get anything done? Isn’t the universe supposed to conspire to help people that are on the right path? Here I was, FINALLY hunkering down to do something important that I had been procrastinating about for months… and what do I get? A major interruption. Dripping water can’t be ignored. It’s not like a baby fussing, or a blaring smoke detector when I’m cooking, or a husband pawing. So I struggled to my feet and went off in search of the sound. It didn’t take me long.    

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I turned the corner into the kitchen and immediately noticed a small pool of water on the floor under the windows. But it was a sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky, and it hadn’t rained here for days. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I look up. The water was slowly trickling down from the top of the window casements. Huh. That’s odd, I thought. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Then it hit me. Those windows are right under the master bathroom. Right under our toilet, to be exact.

Noooooooooooooooooo! I took off running up the stairs, rounded the corner, burst into the bathroom, and set my eyes on the water pooling on the floor around the toilet. The lid was up. The seat was down. The water was all the way to the tippy-top, slowly streaming over the side, almost silently, and gently running downhill on our slightly warped linoleum floors toward the corner of the water closet’s exterior wall, where it was then leaking down through the floor to the window casements below it. 

My first thought was: “MOTHER FUCKER!” That damn husband. He pulled a “dump and run” this morning, the bastard! 

But once I got past the initial shock and anger, what else is there to do in a situation like this but jump into action. That, and start thinking about how I would blog about it later that night! 

I grabbed the bath towels and sopped up the water on the floor. The water in the loo was too high for me to start plunging, so I grabbed the hideous halloween bucket in which we store the plunger (which was conveniently located right next to the toilet for such an emergency) and started bailing out the dirty water and dumping it into the shower. Ewww. Great… more to clean. 

Don’t worry, I took all these photos after the fact. I did not stop to photograph this situation while I was ankle deep in poo-water. Speaking of which, I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that it was only two months ago that we replaced one of our other toilets due to similar issues while we had a house full of guests over Thanksgiving. We now have not one, but two TOTO toilets in our home. My husband and I have discussed this many times as it is not an uncommon occurrence for him to dump and run and unknowingly leave me to plunge his shit while he is at work. Now, in his defense, he always says that he watches it flush and that it always appears to go down just fine. Whatever. My point is that I have asked him, a number of times, to NOT poop in the one non-TOTO toilet as a preventative measure. Does he listen? No. No he does not. And so here I am, wiping poo-water off the kitchen windows and floor when I should be paying the backlogged bills that he is always harping on me about. Ironic? I think not. 

Which brings me to the next thing. My husband is the only human being I know who actually eats 5-7 full servings of fresh fruits and vegetables every day of his life. Needless to say, he is incredibly regular and lays pipe which resembles regulation size NFL footballs. I would like to now refer you to the Bristol Stool Chart, a very useful tool that we should all know and love: 

This fabulous visual aid was first introduced to me last summer by my very fun and clearly uninhibited friend JB who is a huge fan of adding bulk fiber to his diet in his quest for the ultimate pooping experience. According to the Wikipedia’s explanation of the Bristol Scale, “types 1 and 2 indicate constipation, with 3 and 4 being the “ideal stools,” especially the latter, as they are the easiest to pass, and 5–7 being further tending towards diarrhea or urgency.” Isn’t that fabulous?! Aren’t you so glad to know this? Listen, I’m telling you, print one of these per bathroom and post it on the bathroom wall so that people can rate their poop everyday. Then you can discuss it objectively with your family and friends. Next time someone asks, “How was your poop today?” You can intelligently say, “Thank you for asking! It was in between a 3 and 4 on the Bristol Stool Chart!” or “Well unfortunately, it was a little low on the Bristol Scale… I need to drink more water and add some fiber to my diet!” or “Holy guacamole! I just had a 7 on the Bristol Scale!” which sounds so much more refined than: “I just peed out of my ass! No more licking the subway hand rails for me!” 

I bring this up because my fresh fruit and veggie loving husband routinely deposits the most perfect 3s and 4s I’ve ever witnessed. I’m telling you – his shit is perfect. He practically doesn’t even need toilet paper because his poop is usually in one big curved piece and a “clean break” to boot. And the girth! Lordhavemercy. It makes my hindquarters quiver just thinking about it. His poop would make Dr. Oz sing an aria. The angels weep when he shits. I totally envy his poop. Not enough to replace my daily wine serving with real grapes like he does, but still. Yet, the one drawback with having such perfect poop is that it tends to clog all but the most powerful toilets. Which is why two thirds of the toilets in our house are TOTOs and why my husband and I have agreed (or so I thought) that until we can afford to redo our bathroom, it needs to be a poop-free zone. 

So anyhooooo… the bad news is that I never did get those medical bills sorted through and paid yesterday. I had a bunch of unexpected cleaning to do and tons of towels and rags to wash. But the good news is that I sat down and wrote all about it rather than call my husband at work and cuss him out for all the trouble he caused us with his “dump and run” in the wrong toilet. It was a very messy, disgusting, frustrating event that totally derailed my day, but on the bright side, it gave me an opportunity to share The Bristol Stool Chart in a (hopefully) entertaining way and publicly embarrass my husband enough that he’ll never repeat this mistake again.  Ah yes… the power of the blog. Therapy. Entertainment. Educational tool. Husband tamer.

Now, back to those bills…

Cuts Like a Wife

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the third (and final) of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

___________________________________________

We are stay-at-home mothers and wives, among other things. We’ve already come clean about our not-so-perfect attempts at housekeeping and child-rearing, and now it is time to spill the beans about our marriages. 

Marriage is hard. There are ups and downs. If it were easy, everyone would or could do it. But we all know what the divorce stats are these days. This is not something to be entered into or written about lightly. I knew I’d need some input for this post. 

I asked my husband, The Gatekeeper, for ideas on this topic and he just sniggered.  I prodded him: “Come on Honey, here’s your chance… I’m writing about what a shitty wife I am… let me have it! What should I say?” His response was, “Well, basically just write about what you do any given day.”  

Nice. 

“Very funny,” I chided. “Yes, your life is so awful, isn’t it?!”

“Did you say life or wife?”

“Dude. You are askin’ fer it.” 

“Yep. Am I gonna get it?” 

Cut to the Barry White music, dim the lights, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and 30 seconds later we were smoking cigarettes and checking our pulses. Kidding. We don’t smoke. 

My point is, I think we have a pretty good marriage. We like each other most of the time, we have a few laughs now and then, we love each other unconditionally, we support each other, and we both seem generally satisfied with the status quo… or so I thought. 

But last night we were both reading in bed and he started laughing out loud. I found this interesting because he had just started to read Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin. It was a Christmas gift to him from my parents all about the political genius of Abraham Lincoln. President Elect Obama said that if he could only take two books with him to the White House, one would be the Bible and the other would be this book. Now, I have a hard time imagining that this nearly 1000 page historical tome would be laugh-out-loud-funny, but whatever. I, on the other hand, was reading Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark. This ought to give you a clear understanding of how different we are. But you know what they say about opposites attracting.

Anyhooo, I was just dying to know what in that big ol’ boring book could possibly be so damn funny and asked him to share. He turned to me with a smirk and told me to listen to this journal entry written by Judge Edward Bates in the 1850s (Bates was one of Lincoln’s opponents in the race for the Presidency in 1860):

“How happy is my lot! Blessed with a wife & children who spontaneously do all they can to make me comfortable, anticipating my wishes, even in the little matter of personal convenience, as if their happiness wholly depended on mine. O! it is a pleasure to work for such a family, to enjoy with them the blessings that God so freely gives.” 

Yes. Well that is pretty damn funny, isn’t it.  And funny that it is from a book called Team of Rivals, because isn’t that what marriage feels like sometimes? 

But back to that quote… now, is it just me, or have times changed quite a bit? 

I mean, excusez-moi, but I don’t know a single woman or child who lives purely to provide comfort and joy to their husband or father. Am I wrong here? Or am I just associating with the wrong people? 

Not only do I NOT do ANYTHING to anticipate the wishes and needs of my husband, but it is not unusual for him to flat out tell me to my face what he wants and for me to still not do it. And yet, I think he has it pretty good. Sure, there is a shirt of his that has been buried under a pile on my ironing board for close to two months that I keep forgetting to iron for him. And yes, I sometimes forget to buy his favorite soap or deodorant at the store, to the extent that he has to remind me umpteen times and then often ends up going to the store himself for it. And of course, I have been known to secretly stalk ex-boyfriends on Facebook once in a while. So what. 

I had one of my Aunties visiting me a while back and she was watching the clock one day. It got close to 5 pm and she said, “Aren’t you going to go get cleaned up a little? Put on some makeup? Your husband will be home soon.” I laughed until I practically peed my pants. “WHAT?! Are you kidding me? Should I mix up a martini and meet him at the door with his slippers too? Hell no! It’s garbage night. He needs to take out the garbage when he gets home, walk the dog, and then take Nature Boy to scouts. In about an hour I will be busy wiping the food off the floor and walls that Bucket Head tosses all around the room while he eats. Why on Earth would I go get gussied up NOW?”  But again, it’s a different world today. The way I see it, marriage is an equal partnership. Serve and be served. Give and ye shall receive. The wife is not property. The wife has a lot more on her plate than merely anticipating and acting on every need and desire of her master husband. 

Remember how I recently said that my parenting sins aren’t so bad compared to others’ sins and how life is all about making comparisons and justifications?

Well, I figure, I may not be the most attentive wife on the planet, but my husband could have it so much worse.  

One of my best friends was telling me just the other day that her husband was nagging her about not getting the laundry done. Been there. When my husband gets on my back about me not meeting one or more of my homemaking obligations, it usually lights a fire under my ass and makes me want to show that bastard by getting it done faster/better/more whatever, so I can then say “SO THERE!” But not my friend. You know what she did? She secretly took her hubby’s dirty undies out of the hamper, folded them, and put them back in his drawer. That poor bastard is probably wearing dirty skivvies right this very minute! HA! 

I know another woman who once peed in her husband’s chicken soup because she couldn’t stand all his bellyachin’ when he was sick and he had been treating her like shit. No lie. 

And I can’t even count how many of my friends hate having sex with their husbands and joke about how they avoid it at all costs and can totally live without it. Or how about that poor woman on Oprah last week who has been faking orgasms for 24 years?! Lordhavemercy. See that… there are a lot of people out there with wives way worse than me. 

So you see, I think my husband has it pretty good. Yes, I’m not the best housekeeper or cook. No, I don’t knock myself out to look pretty for him at the end of the day… who has time for that shit?  I may e-flirt shamelessly with Facebook friends, and forget to pick up the dry cleaning, or buy the right snacks. But I make sure that my husband has clean undies most of the time. I cut his hair every few weeks. I call his parents just to say hi once in a while. I give him back scratches and bake him cookies now and then. And I love him… with my heart and with my body, and way more than the national average for married couples, thankyouverymuch. 

So husband, you go ahead and laugh about how absurd it is that over one hundred and fifty years ago there existed a man who wrote in a journal that his wife lived to please him. I agree. That is hilarious. I’d really like to read HER journal entry. Oh wait, she probably wasn’t allowed to learn to read and write. Yes… times have changed, haven’t they? And honey, would you care for some more chicken soup?

Micro-Mangering

We have a Nativity Scene on our entryway table. It is a beautiful Fontanini set that my husband bought for me as a gift early in our marriage. Over the years my mother and mother-in-law have added to the set with additional key players like wise men and animals. The whole family treasures it. 

The only problem is that nobody agrees on how to set it up each year. Every time I walk past it, the pieces have been moved. For a long time I thought this was the work of toddlers gone wild. But now I know differently. 

My husband is a control freak. 

He has a very specific idea of where each figure should go, the angle at which they should be facing, and the proximity of each figure to the others. He’s obsessed. We call it “micro-mangering.” The man knows his Nativity and likes it just so. 

It kinda pisses me off. I mean really, what a waste of energy. If you want to micro-manage something, how about the laundry? Or if only he had the same high expectations for the kitchen and would painstakingly care for and rearrange the pots and pans so carefully. Maybe if we had pots and pans with Baby Jesus painted on the side… 

So naturally, I find myself rearranging the Nativity pieces in crazy ways just to bait the poor guy. It is so easy and creates so much fun. It’s probably a tad sacrilegious… but I just blame it on the baby. Shhhh. Don’t tell him OK.  Besides, I figure any God who would create ME in his image clearly has a great sense of humor and won’t mind a little sheep-on-camel action in the name of a good joke.

 

"Um, excuse me, but your sheep is buggering my camel, dude."

 

"OH! Oh my goodness! Somebody... HELP! Don't just stand there Joseph! Help me for Chrissakes! This barn cat is trying to steal the breath of the new born King!"

 

The forgotten verse to the beloved classic carol: "Do you smell what I smell?"

©2008 The Bearded Iris

The Sound of Silence

Breathe in. Sniiiiiiiiiffffffff. Breathe out. Ahhhhhhh. 

Do you hear that? No? Me neither. YES! 

They are gone. Our four house guests all packed up and left this morning. And I am blissfully skipping through my house erasing all evidence of their 10 days here. Ten. Yes, do not check your eyes. I had 4 extra kin in my home for ten days. Ten. Seriously. But now they are gone and I am washing sheets and towels, and cleaning bathrooms, and putting things back into their rightful places (when possible), with a bounce in my step and a gleam in my eye. And it is bliss. I never would have thought cleaning would be so satisfying, but today, I am in heaven. 

I am somewhat shocked though because their departure was a little bittersweet. You see, I actually really like the two of my husband’s siblings who were staying with us, and the husband of my sister-in-law proved to be the most pleasant surprise of all! I never had the chance to get to know him before, but it turns out that he is nothing short of AWESOME. Seriously. Totally great guy. Renaissance man extraordinaire. Smart, funny, handy, crafty, helpful, and totally great with the kids. This guy can juggle, do origami without instructions, bake dark chocolate delicacies from scratch, install toilets, and do a Lightsaber impersonation second only to the digital sound effects produced by Lucasfilm. And his Yoda is not bad either. This guy is one of a kind. 

The five of us adults had a wonderful time together when we weren’t forcefully separating the toddlers from cannibalizing each other. We played cards until the wee hours, just like I did in college. We banded together to make a photo slideshow DVD of my Father-in-Law’s life for his 80th birthday party, reminiscing about things like classic Italian music and hideous 80s hairstyles. And we worked together like a well-oiled machine to make this Thanksgiving the best one yet.

My sister-in-law traced children’s hands, cut them out, glued on the mini-googly eyes, and supervised the kids decorating efforts to make the cutest little place cards you ever did see, and her AWESOME husband hand cut individual tiny intricate deciduous leaves of various tree species to make wine tags for all the adults (seriously… he’s practically an Idiot Savant: “This is a Black Walnut Leaf. This one is from the Banyan Tree.”) Mr. Awesome even stayed up very late all by himself Thanksgiving eve making the most amazing caramelized sweet potato, apple, maple syrup concoction that has ever passed my lips. Best of all, he was totally gracious when I ruined the gorgeous presentation of it by haphazardly double stacking two trays of it into one serving dish it to make room for the monstrous vat of Stove-Top Stuffing® one of my less sophisticated sisters-in-law had the audacity to bring. Jesus… don’t get me started on that. Ooops, too late. I’m already thinking about it. Dammit. Can you believe that shit? I purposefully assigned the critical job of The Stuffing to one of my sisters-in-law who I thought could handle it appropriately, and you know what happens? She shows up with two very small CorningWare casserole dishes of her stuffing because she couldn’t find a bigger container, one of my nieces shows up with a big bowl of her own version of the exact same stuffing minus a few critical ingredients because she doesn’t like onions and celery, Lordhavemercy, and yet another sister-in-law shows up with a fucking TROUGH of Stove Top in a casserole dish that looks like it came from the Goodwill, about 30 years ago.  So now I have FOUR, count them, one-two-three-FOUR, ugly casserole dishes of three different stuffings crowding my very modest counter top. Elitist? Me? Fine. So be it. I just work way too hard busting my ass to make a nice meal to have it aesthetically RUINED by a plate of sliced canned cranberry jelly and a choose-your-own-stuffing-bar. I mean really. If you don’t like the ONE stuffing (in two bowls) I am serving, don’t fucking eat it. But don’t bring your own. Please. I beg of you. You can wait two hours to get home and eat your own tacky shit. Don’t spoil my beautiful buffet. And for the Love of God people, when you go to dinner at somebody else’s house and you offer to bring a dish, it absolutely MUST BE “table ready.” Do not show up with a bunch of cans in a Piggly Wiggly bag and say “Where is your can opener, Aunt Iris? I need to put together the green bean casserole.” Oh no you di-int. I will kick you until you are dead if you pull that shit again, Noreen. 

OK. I feel better now. Thank you for listening. 

So anyway, back to the house guests. Yes. They left today. And even though I’m really glad to be able to just relax in my own home again, unhindered by the constant barrage of questions such as “Could you give me your wireless Internet access code again?” and  ”Where do you keep the plunger?” and “Can I borrow your toenail clippers?” (I swear to God, I couldn’t make it up if I tried, and ewww, I just threw up in my mouth a little by thinking of it.), I am actually going to miss the adult interaction. I really do not get enough of that on a daily basis and it was so nice to be able to talk to other grown ups about something other than one of my children’s eating or toileting habits. Life as a Suburban POW is very monotonous at times. 

But it is over now. They are gone and we can get back to our regular life. Bucket Head can move back into his crib, and out of the porta-crib in my room, which means my husband and I can get back to normal as well. Nothing adds extra tension to a home than a house full of guests with IBS and long toenails, and the inability to get busy with your spouse. Damn. It sure has been a long ten days. 

So anyway, I guess I better quit blogging, go switch the laundry, sweep up the nail clippings, and jump my poor deprived husband. Just another day in paradise.  

I hope you all had a joyous Thanksgiving filled with gratitude, delicious food, and an abundance of love and good wine. And I pray that the mayhem you had to tolerate this week, up to and including clogged toilets, public displays of grooming, pilfered medicine cabinets, biting toddlers, and stuffing-from-a-box will not outweigh all the good stuff that comes with holidays and family time… whatever that is. Kidding. I love my family. I do. Three-hundred-sixty-three more days until next Thanksgiving! Woooo-Hoooo!

Oh hey, speaking of which, here’s one recipe you can stick in your pocket for next year. Here it is, courtesy of my brother-in-law, Mr. Awesome, the recipe for Maple Glazed Sweet Potatoes and Apples. Enjoy it, ya’ll! I know we did!

Supersize THIS!

Don’t you just love a Gyno with a sense of humor?  I had my annual pap smear today, and it was surprisingly not unpleasant. And do you know why?  Because my new midwife Rachel is a hoot!  We spent the first five minutes joking about how totally ineffective super-plus tampons are for women who have cranked out a few kids and have cavernous holes where their vaginas used to be.  At one point, we were laughing so hard, my cheeks started to cramp up (face cheeks, not ass). You know you are damn comfortable with a healthcare provider if you can verbally contemplate the notion of inserting a full roll of paper towels as a tampon. Too bad I would probably still need a pad. Honestly, whoever invented the super-plus size clearly hasn’t had any kids. How ’bout Super-Sizing THAT? Good Lord, women don’t need any more french fries or an extra patty of meat on our burgers!  We need more absorption from our tampons!  And while you’re at it, Super-Sizing Gods, could you please make something larger than a Venti sized latte?  How ’bout a 32 ounce cup-holder shaped vat like the “Big Gulp” at 7-Eleven? Sleep deprived mothers of young children need caffeine and lots of it.  Throw us a bone, dammit.    

So back to me and my legs-in-the-stirrups-laugh-fest today.  While Rachel and I were ranting about our heavy periods, she asked: “Have you considered the NuvaRing?”  

“Huh?  Nuva-what?” 

“NuvaRing!  It’s the best!  It is a plastic ring that you just insert in your vagina once a month. It’s birth control, but it is also great for managing your periods.  You can keep it in for three weeks, take it out for one week, and have a normal period, or you can keep it in all month and skip your period.  That is what I do.” 

“GET OUT!  That sounds FABULOUS!  No period?!  I didn’t know you could do that! Is it like the pill? I can’t do the pill.  Last time I took that shit I gained 10 pounds, got acne, and went on a shooting spree at a playground.  Not good.”

“No, I can’t do the pill either…that’s why I like the NuvaRing.”  Rachel said.  

“But is it like that SNL skit about the birth control where you only get one period a year and have to ‘hold onto your fucking hat!’ because the one period is so bad that anyone who gets in your way dies a violent death?” I pushed.

“No, not at all!  It is wonderful. I have no complaints. But do the research and call me. If you want to try it, I can phone one into your pharmacy whenever you want.” 

“So it is birth control, AND period management medication? And it’s safe? And you like it? Oh snap. You mean my husband didn’t have to have that vasectomy after all?”  Ooops. Shhhh. Nobody tell him, k?  

Oh, one more thing Rachel told me about the NuvaRing before she got all up in my goodie basket for a look-see: she said you should probably notify your partner that it is in there because it can just pop right out during sex! OK, that might be a deal breaker. Or not. I don’t know…that might be kinda cool actually. Like the prize in the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Do a good job and you’ll be rewarded with a surprise! Not that a plastic ring flying out of your hoo-hoo like an alien spacecraft would be the kind of prize most men want. But maybe, if you play it just right, it could be fun, like a ring-toss game! Ooooh, I know… see if you can shoot the ring onto the pole! BONUS ROUND, anyone?!   

But I digress. So the appointment went well. My womanly parts are all functioning as they should. And I came home to research the NuvaRing®.

First I asked a couple of friends. One loved it. The other one said she had a hard time getting it in and keeping it in. And that woman watches Oprah, so I know she is familiar with the difference between a vulva, a vagina, and a very angry A-Hole.  I highly doubt she was putting it in the wrong place, and she’s only had C-Sections, so I would think she’d be able to keep a little plastic doohickey up there (lucky bitch).   

Then I turned to my other best friend… the Internet. Here’s what I found. First off, NuvaRings are pricey: about $45 each. That’s way more money than tampons. In this economy, definitely something to consider. But more importantly, there is a whole salad bar of potential side effects:   

• Vaginal infections and irritation
• Vaginal secretion
• Headache
• Weight gain
• Nausea
• Vomiting
• Change in appetite
• Abdominal cramps and bloating
• Breast tenderness or enlargement
• Irregular vaginal bleeding or spotting
• Changes in menstrual cycle
• Temporary infertility after treatment
• Fluid retention (edema)
• Spotty darkening of the skin, particularly on the face
• Rash
• Weight changes
• Depression
• Intolerance to contact lenses
• Nervousness
• Dizziness
• Loss of scalp hair

Excuse me? Loss of scalp hair? Intolerance to contact lenses? Rash? Vomiting? Weight gain? Headache? Oh…of course! I see. Brilliant. Nobody with any sense would want to ride a fat, bald, rashy, coke-bottle glasses wearing, depressed, nervous, spotty-skinned vomiter. Birth control? Check. (And no wonder I was the only virgin in my incoming college freshman class!…late bloomer.) 

Nope. No can do. I already HAVE depression, nervousness, and spots on my face from my last three pregnancies. I’ll just deal with periods for the next 15 years. Looks like that vasectomy was the right decision after all. Thanks hon! ‘Preciate it.

Tide…for when you’re feeling REALLY DIRTY.

Verbatim, from the back of my new “Tide To Go®” three pack of instant stain remover sticks:

1.) Remove excess residue from stain. 

2.) Press tip onto stain to release the desired amount of solution.  

3.) Rub tip gently across the stain to remove it.  When necessary, add more liquid and continue rubbing gently.  

Whoa. Is it me, or is that a little, ahem, INSANELY HOT? I mean, come on. Press tip?  Rub tip gently? Continue rubbing gently? Hellooooo? That is dirty. I mean really. I know we are talking about a portable stain remover and all, and that my mind is equal to that of a 12 year old hormonally charged boy, but still. That. Is. Dirty.  

Tide, you had me at “release the desired amount.” Dang. Perhaps I am ovulating. 

Is it possible that the marketing team at Tide is just a randy bunch of fun-loving dudes, hoping to get their tips rubbed by exciting stain-hating horny housewives everywhere? Can’t you just see them writing these instructions, laughing out loud about how dirty it sounds? It is true that sex sells. These guys are onto something.  

The only problem is that the Tide To Go sticks didn’t really work that well on the massive marinara stain on my husband’s shirt yesterday. So I suppose if your product doesn’t work, you have to compensate somehow. Maybe they hope that if they get their customers all horned up, they’ll forget all about the stains on the clothes that end up crumpled by the foot of the bed (or kitchen table).  After the romping, the rumpled clothes will get tossed in the hamper and eventually make their way into the washing machine for a proper go with real detergent. By the time you see the clothes again, they are good as new and you forget all about the fact that the stain remover didn’t work. And all that frolicking leads to… you guessed it… more stains. And more stains = more Tide To Go sticks. Hmmm….interesting strategy, Tide.  You evil geniuses.  

By the way, the instructions are also in Spanish. “Presione la punta” sounds even better than “press the tip,” doesn’t it?!  And that goes double for “frote suavemente la punta.” Yowza! I would pay cash money to hear someone with a real Spanish accent whisper that in my ear…damn. Seriously. Boy is my husband in trouble when he gets home tonight. 

Ooops. Would you look at that! I just spilled some Pinot Noir on my low cut white cotton blouse.  Oh dear! Now, where are those instructions? Oh…yeah… (cue the chicka chicka mwah mwah song).

Excuse me ya’ll… I’m gonna need both hands for this. What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m talkin’ ’bout stain removal. You cheeky monkeys.

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Crush

I can’t sleep tonight. Maybe it is the Mexican food. Maybe it is the booze and the prescription drugs. Maybe it is the general malaise that I can’t seem to shake this week, what with all the vomit scrubbing and all. So I’m channel surfing like a hairy man.  Is this what men feel?  Restless? Or do they work that remote like a lab rat vying for another pellet because their brains are too small to stay focused on one thing for very long? Somnambulant, inquiring minds want to know.    

I have 921 channels and I can’t find a single damn thing to watch. But wait, not so fast. I just found The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, and the clicking stops. That face. That devilish grin. That sexy salt and pepper hair, tousled just so. That suit…wow, this man can work a suit. That Scottish brogue. Oh for the love of GOD…that Scottish brogue. Stop everything. And what’s this? What is this feeling? Butterflies? Well, hello! I do believe I have a new crush. I might just be exhausted and depressed and in desperate need of attention from someone other than a potty training toddler with a turd in his hand, but I do believe Craig Ferguson is speaking directly to ME this evening!  Seriously…check out what he just said (in his ridiculously sexy accent): 

“Listen, I want to clear something up I said before the break…I said that, you know, boobies were the most important thing, and they’re not. The most sexy thing on a woman, seriously, honestly, is a sense of humor… If a woman has a sense of humor, an easy laugh, it denotes an enjoyment of life and a love of deviant sex!  If a woman has an easy laugh, she is good in bed! A woman should have an easy laugh!  Unless she just laughs when she sees your pee-pee and that is just never good.”  

Craig Ferguson, will you marry me? I promise I will not laugh at your pee-pee…unless you put googly eyes on it and make it talk or dance…I can’t make any promises if you do that. But seriously Craig, I really think you would get me.  I think we could make each other laugh and have lots of deviant sex. Craig, I realize we haven’t known each other for very long, but there is something about you that is stirring my heart, my soul, my loins. You look like you know how to treat a woman. Something about you tells me that when you get home from a hard day of work, and I make you dinner and kiss you longingly, and let you know that I’m in the mood for a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge, you won’t make comments in the kitchen like:

• “Wow, you just can’t walk on this floor in your barefeet…it is SO gross. I’m sticking to it.” or
• “Did the kids clean their rooms today?  They need to do a better job of keeping their rooms clean.”  or
• “Did you remember to [insert any mundane, non-sexy task here] today?” or
• “Hon, I have this weird rash on my ass…will you take a look at it?”  

No, Craig Ferguson, I don’t think you would say any of these things if you knew you were a shoe-in for a proper shagging with your funny, hot, deviant wife. Have your people call my people. 

To my loyal readers who may not know who Craig Ferguson is (we tend to pass out early in my family), here is a little clip.  I love this one because you get a good little taste of his delicious personality, and you can learn some new dance moves while you watch. Bon appétit! 

Seriously Craig. We were meant for each other. Let’s do the “Yes Dance” together. I don’t have a garbage disposal, but if I did, I would totally let you stick your fork in it. And by fork, I mean pee-pee. And by garbage disposal, I mean garbage disposal. Kidding. See? Funny. Call me. Seriously. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

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.