Pot Luck

 

Ooooh, these candies look delicious! Mind if I... wait... that looks familiar! Hmmm. I can't put my finger on it. What IS that? I know I've seen it somewhere before...

 

Ya’ll, check out what I’m bringing to my church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party this year! 

I originally signed up to bring a corn casserole, but then had a change of heart. Here is the email I recently sent out to the group:

“OK, I’m a little freaked out by all the starchy sides here, gals. Do we really need all these soup-based-carb-casseroles?  Geez m’knees! We’ll have to have a defibrillator at the ready! 

So even though I was one of the first to sign up and offer to bring my oh-so-popular corn casserole, I’m going to nix it and bring a dessert instead. Just in case Michelle and Alice can’t make it, I don’t want us to be stuck without a sweet treat! And besides, I just found a recipe for “vagina candies!” I swear to God. I could not make this up if I tried. It is a cookie/candy confection that looks like female anatomy. Actually, I believe the correct term should be “vulva,” not vagina. Yeah, that’s right. I watch Oprah and I’m embracing my vulva (although, not right this minute, because ewwww… hard to type.)  But I just wanted to prepare you all in advance because I am bringing AT LEAST one for everyone. Maybe two, so you can take one home and educate your husbands.

 

See you Wednesday! Oh, here’s the revised list for your convenience. I took the liberty of rearranging it by category. Looks like we’re good on the sides… but we don’t have any appetizers. 

Salad – Pauleen
Sweet Potato Souffle – Ginny
Onion Casserole – Caroline
Green Bean Casserole – Lucinda
Potato Casserole – Teresa
Meat Dish – Tammy
Raspberry Tarts – Alice
Cheese Cake w/Chocolate Ganache – Michelle
Vulva Candies – Iris

Well, imagine my surprise when only one person in the group replied to my email with an e-chuckle. Hmmm. Let me see. Church based Babysitting Co-Op, Christmas Party, and vaginas. Yes… one of these things just doesn’t belong. Kind of like me. 

But that is all part of my evil plan. You see, this is a group of twenty women who are incredibly conservative. I was invited to join purely by accident about 5 years ago because one of the founding members’ kids liked my kids. It was a great way to meet people when I was new in town and the free baby-sitting by very decent, caring, CPR certified mommies just rocks. So much better than opening my home to some meth-crazed teenager who is gonna neglect my kids, raid my prescription pill stash, and do it with her pimply teen beau in my bed. 

On the downside, however, is that fact that I simply don’t fit in with this group of women. There are 20 of us, and I am pretty sure that only two of us use the word “vagina.” Naturally I’m one of them. And the other one recently resigned from the co-op, unfortunately. Damn, she was great. One time we went to McDonalds together with our kids so they could run wild in the germ-infested indoor-climbing thingy while we hung out and talked about anything BUT our kids. She got a Filet O’ Fish sandwich and afterward she smelled her fingers and said, “Oh shit, my husband’s gonna think I was cheatin’ on him with you.” We belly-laughed until our Shamrock Shakes came out of our noses. Yeah, good times. But now she’s gone and it is just me and 18 women in “mom jeans” with holiday sweaters that you would expect to only see in a Dr. Seuss movie, talking about things like “I  just refuse to let my kids watch Nickelodeon! That Spongebob is an instrument of the Devil!” and “Don’t you just love the whole ‘Elf on the Shelf‘ thing! I wish we could keep him out all year!” ACK. I’m just there for the free babysitting. 

Can you blame me? Yes, I was feeling a little mischievous and bored; this is true. But I just could not sit idly by and watch the buffet table be overrun with soupy-casseroles! My goodness! Plus, I just had to do something to make this shindig a little more entertaining. Sorry gals, but the “Yankee Swap” ornament exchange just doesn’t cut it.  

So anyway, it’s tonight. Normally I just dread these things, but today I am just filled with anticipation!  This could either be *really* fun, or *really* bad. We’ll just have to see! Oooh, don’t you just love a good surprise?! In the meantime, I’m about to go whip up a tray of those vulva candies. I promised my husband I’d save him one. A big one. He’s pretty excited. 

Hopefully these women won’t greet me at the door with torches and pitchforks. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, won’t you?

And just in case you want to try making these for your next pot luck, the recipe is below. Give unto others, eh? 

Oven at 250° F    

Lay out waffle pretzels on cookie sheet.

Top each one with a Rolo.

Bake for 3 minutes.

Top each with a Pecan and smoosh it down.

Cool before serving.

Eat. Moan about how yummy it is. Eat. Giggle. Eat. Repeat!

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

 

 

 

At the end of the day…

I am not a structured woman and it irks my husband to no end. He constantly reminds me that if I would just create a few simple daily routines, and stick to them, my day-to-day life would be so much easier and my overall life quality would improve exponentially. I believe him. I do. But my baby-addled-brain just doesn’t work like that. Even with pharmacological support, I cannot seem to stick with most routines. 

A few years ago I was having trouble remembering to take my vitamins everyday. We were discussing this at the dinner table as a family when my then five year old son said, and I am not kidding, “Mommy, too bad they don’t make Oprah Vitamins… because you’d remember to take THAT everyday.” GULP. So much for trying to convince The Gatekeeper that I don’t lounge around watching TV all day.  

So in spite of the fact that I am clearly vitamin and mineral deficient, there is one routine I’ve developed as a busy housewife and mother of three: I always empty out my pants’ pockets at the end of the day. I learned this one the hard way. Must run in my family. My brother has a handmade sign taped above his washing machine that simply states: “Don’t wash your fucking phone!” The note didn’t work, so he added a more dramatic handcrafted visual aid: he nailed three of his waterlogged cell phones to the wall above the washing machine. I asked him to email me a picture of that… I’ll post it if he does. I’ve got five bucks that says there will be a fourth phone nailed to that wall before the end of the year. 

So last night, after an incredibly long day of house cleaning and nekkid toddler wrangling, I took a moment to empty out the two front pockets of my trusty old khakis. Here’s what I found:

Inventory:

• Two cell phones: one working, one broken one (yep, washed it) which is a now toy for the kids
• Two vintage Fisher Price Sesame Street Little People (Ernie and Bert…Bucket Head’s favorites)
• One aqua blue Sharpie marker
• One sharpened pencil
• One random Happy Meal Toy…have no idea what it is.
• One elastic hair band
• One plastic hair clip
• A single green, sour apple “Nerd” candy piece
• One empty candy wrapper (Twizzlers), in three pieces
• Two dirty tissues
• One roll of Scotch Tape
• Some lint

I am fascinated by the quantity and variety of treasures and trash in my pockets last night. “How did all that crap get in your pockets?” you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. A great deal of my day involves walking around the house, perpetually noticing things where they don’t belong, picking them up, and sometimes, returning them to their proper place. I have a great eye for detail – I can instantly notice something out of place. I just don’t always get to finish the cycle and put it where it actually goes. What’s more, many many things in my house don’t really have an official spot to where I can return them. Thus, the piles. The plethora of piles. Piles as far as the eye can see. 

Lest you think I don’t have enough trash receptacles in my house, let me assure you that this is not the case. However, due to the kleptomaniacal tendencies of 4 out of 6 of the occupants of my house, I cannot leave interesting object lying about in trash cans. The kleptos in my world take after their Mama and don’t miss a trick. They watch me like a hawk and as soon as I put something of interest into a trash bin, they pounce:

“MOM! I can’t believe you threw that out! That is my favorite Happy Meal Toy!” (Nature Boy)

“Mama, why did you throw out my school papers? I worked so hard on those worksheets.” (Klepto)

“Mommy. More.” (Bucket Head)

“chomp, chomp, slurp, lick, swallow.” (Devil Dog)

As a result, I often find myself walking around the house, hiding things in my pockets until I can either covertly dispose of them, or put them where they do belong (if such a place exists).  

Perhaps this is the wrong thing to do. Perhaps I am not teaching my children how to pick up after themselves or thoughtfully edit their possessions. I must think about this. I just know that if I do not pick up the things I find on the ground, their fate is sealed. 

Devil Dog likes to chew. And I am very protective of my vintage Little People collection. The bigger kids are getting better at putting their things away, especially when I threaten them.  But 20 month old Bucket Head is the worst offender of the “pick it up, carry it around, and drop it somewhere random” syndrome. It makes it really hard to get things done around here.

Just yesterday, in fact, as part of my Oprah show inspired pledge to “Clean Up My Messy House,” I had gathered a bunch of random piles, placed them on the kitchen table to sort through them, toss the junk, and put away the keepers, when look who I spotted getting all up in my bidness:

 

Nice hat, dude. Clearly he meant business. It didn’t take long for that blue bucket full of random crap to end up like this: 

 

Yes, there was a large container of safety pins in there, just waiting to be put away, that scattered to the four corners of the universe when that bucket fell. Ah, good times.

At least he’s forthcoming in his pursuit of THE STUFF. It is my 6 year old daughter, the one I affectionately refer to as “Klepto,” who worries me the most with this issue. She covets and she steals, and she is very sneaky about it. Yesterday, she noticed that I had confiscated a hideous plastic Barbie vanity set from the playroom… the one she NEVER plays with, the one that was handed down from an older cousin without my consent, the one who’s very existence in my home sends my girl child all the wrong messages about what really matters in this world. I have always hated that thing and thought there was no time like the present to get it OUT of our lives. It was in the garage as of yesterday morning, just one little car ride away from the Goodwill Store. Yes, I was so committed to ridding our home of this made-in-China-monstrosity that I was willing to be called “sir” again by that myopic Goodwill volunteer in order to do it. THAT is dedication. 

So when Klepto noticed the pink plastic vanity and matching stool in the garage, she freaked.

“Mommy! Why are you going to give my makeup desk away?! I love this thing!”

“Honey. You never play with it. It is not useful or beautiful to us and it is taking up valuable space in our home. We are going to donate it to charity so that we can share it with someone less fortunate who will enjoy it and take care of it.” 

“Oh, alright,” she begrudgingly moped. We’ve been talking a lot lately about clutter and the importance of letting go to free up our space and our minds. Clearly she was getting it.  

A little while later I stepped outside to check on the kids playing in the yard, and look what caught my eye: a flash of pink from behind the bushes.

I don’t think she could carry the vanity table/mirror combo by herself, but apparently the chair and detachable jewelry boxes were another story. I would have given anything to see her tiptoeing across the yard, eyes darting back and forth, carefully eluding witnesses as she pilfered those goods. That girl knows what she wants and is not afraid to do whatever it takes to get it. I’m partly horrified by this, and partly impressed. Perhaps a clutter-free home is just not in my cards.  

Oprah Vitamins. How about one of those famous Pomegranate Martinis instead?

© 2008, The Bearded Iris.  

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

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.

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.