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.

Gilding the Lily

Well, who knew this whole vulva candy thang would be such a crowd pleaser?

Kidding… of course it is! They are delicious, easy to make, and fun Fun FUN to talk about and share with all sorts of people!  I have a feeling we’ll all be eating these little salty/chocolaty/creamy-in-the-middle delicacies for years to come. Vulva candies… they’re not just for Christmas anymore. In fact, several of my friends and I have been brainstorming about other ways we could share the fun. One suggested bringing a tray of them to the gyno/midwife for their annual pap smear. They would also be a suitable snack for any bachelor/bachelorette party, don’t you think? Of course, a lovingly garnished plate of vulva candies would be the perfect salty-sweet treat for any menstruating woman on the verge of a shooting spree. Or for my hispanic readers, nothing says “Happy Quinceaños!” to a budding 15 year old Latina like a pretty tin full of delicious vulvas! Welcome to womanhood, chica! De nada. (Thanks L.L. – that one’s for you, sister!)

But wait. There’s more. 

My super fun and über competitive neighbor/BFF “Tammy” called me last night, giggling like a hyena and said, “Oh my GOD! I made the vulva candies to mail to my Aunt Catherine, the Nun! Only, I added my own twist!”

To which I lovingly replied: “Of course you did, you whore! You always have to one-up me, dammit! Remember when I gave you my recipe for broccoli salad? And then a few months later I asked you for a suggestion on what to bring to a pot-luck and you said, ‘I make a great broccoli salad!’ to which I said, ‘BEAVER! I am the one who gave you that recipe!’ and you then FYI’d me that you doctored it a bit and so now it is YOUR recipe. Then you showed up at my house with a vat of it for Nature Boy’s First Holy Communion party and it was indeed spectacular. Of course, adding a pound of cheddar cheese cubes would make my kitty litter spectacular, but whatever. I’m not bitter.”

And then I continued, “And how about that time I introduced you to the Internet Scrabble Club and you started playing it like a crack whore, got wicked-good at it, and ritualistically beat my hairy ass with Q-laden triple word score bingos every time we played? Yeah. I’m used to it. Your sole purpose for living is to be better than me at everything I do. Lay it on me. I can take it. How’d you improve the vulvas?… beeotch.” 

“Well… (she giggled)  I toasted the pecans. It added such a nice nutty flavor! Then, after I smooshed the nut into the melted Rolo, I rolled the whole thing in coconut! You know I love coconut!  Well get this, the coconut just sticks to the outer edges of the smooshed melted Rolo… and it looks like… a sparse (giggle)… white (chuckle)… geriatric (trouble breathing)… BUSH!” At this point she was literally cackling. I totally would have had no idea what she was saying if we weren’t capable of finishing each others’ sentences. 

“GET OUT! Geriatric bush?!” Oh man. She’s good. I never would have thought to do the coconutty senior-beave! Wow. I love/hate this woman. Damn her!… she’s fabulous. 

Then she had to rub it in a little: “You have to try it! It is SO GOOD! The toasted nuts are the perfect compliment to the pretzel/chocolate/caramel trio. And then the coconut on the edges… it is amazing.” 

Of course it is! She is a fucking VAGenius. I should have known she’d take this idea and run with it. That’s what I get for having a blog and telling everyone and their mother my secrets (Hi Mary!). Damn that Tammy… her kid is smarter than my kid. Her husband _______s more/better/faster/longer/smarter than my husband (pick a verb, any verb). Even her dog is better than my dog. There is not one thing I have ever done in my entire life that tops what this woman can do blindfolded, backwards, in her sleep, and with a coupon. So naturally, her vulva candies are going to be better than mine. Duh. Who wouldn’t want their nuts slightly toasted? And the coconut? Come on. That is just brilliant. Damn, I suck. Why do I even bother? What do I possibly have to contribute to the world that can’t be IMPROVED upon by people like Tammy? Oh look, it’s time for a cocktail. Be right back.  

Fast forward thirty minutes. 

OK, poured my “after-school special.” Made some geriatric vulvas, ate about half a dozen, and washed ‘em down with my fish bowl of Twisted Pig. And all while supervising the children doing homework, practicing musical instruments, and rescuing vintage Fisher-Price Little People from vacuum attachments. 

Well, what do you know? I am just a teensy bit excited to report that the geriatric vulvas WERE NOT all that and a bag of chips. Neener neener neeeeeeener! And, how symbolic! The bearded vulva was not as good as the plain and simple one. Wow… that is deep, dude. 

But I had to try it. Tammy is a flat out baking genius. I just couldn’t stand the idea of missing out on a new-and-improved vulva candy! So I did what she said. First, I toasted my nuts (heh heh heh). It makes them slightly darker than the raw pecans, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m all about multicultural vulvas. But it also makes them a little brittle. This is a problem. When you are smooshing your nuts into the ever-so-slightly-melted Rolos, you don’t want the nuts to break. Quelle horror! I don’t care how good they taste, nobody wants brittle nuts, thankyouverymuch. (Tammy says I over-toasted them… but she is also a poor sport and a sore loser.) 

So then, as I’m gently smooshing my ethnic, brittle nuts into the melted Rolos, they are totally cracking and the chocolate isn’t fanning out in the perfect labia majora formation. Instead, I’m getting fingertip indentations all over the chocolaty labia as the chocolate and caramel oozes up between the cracks of the dark, brittle, breaking pecan.  Now they look like war-torn post-partum vulvas… very messy. Don’t ask, don’t tell. 

Surely, rolling them in coconut will hide all the ugliness! Well, yes. Kind of. But the coconut also hides all the splendor. Kinda like pubes in general, eh? And again, just like the nut-toasting, the coconut rolling is yet another step, and more mess. Who needs that? The simple elegance of the pure untoasted pecan vulva is totally compromised by the messy, distracting coconut. Oh Lord, what have I done?! Why couldn’t I just leave well enough alone and appreciate a good thing when I had it. I’m so sorry, sweet simple vulva candy. I have forsaken thee. 

 

BEFORE TAMMY: simple, elegant, unsullied vulva candy.

 

AFTER TAMMY: messy, chaotic, "is-there-even-a-vulva-under-there?" candies.

Now, I would like to give my dear Tammy the benefit of the doubt. This woman bakes like I cuss – effortlessly and with panache. The coconut and the toasted pecan actually did taste delicious. No doubt. Although the sweetened coconut tips the scale a bit and makes the whole thing a little too sweet for my taste. I prefer the balance of salty and sweet in the original recipe. And frankly, the extra effort and lack of visual appeal make this recipe redux a royal reject in my book. Sorry Tammy. Stick to the pumpkin bread, honey, and leave the vulvas to me.  

Folks, I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I learned an important life lesson today. Believe in yourself. Stand up for what you know in your heart and don’t be a follower. When you have a good thing, recognize it and treasure it, even if your friends are doing something different. It’s perfectly fine to respect others’ ideas, but like my Mama always said, “If Tammy jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?” (Clearly, my answer is yes, Mama… thanks for the great self esteem.) To which I think my Mama would say,”let Tammy slather her vulva in coconut if that is what floats her boat… but don’t go copy-catting that red-headed-hussie if you know that your vulva is just fine the way it is. Now quit your bellyachin’ and fix your Mama another cocktail.”  

I guess another way to say it is: keep it simple and don’t gild the lily. The lily is gorgeous just the way God made it. And Lordhavemercy, when you stumble across a simple, delicious, fun little pleasure in life – just enjoy it. Don’t complicate it. Don’t try to make it better. Don’t mess with it. Don’t toast it and roll it in coconut. Just enjoy it. This little nugget of wisdom applies to candy and men. 

Unless of course you actually like your vulva candies messy, more fattening, and  labor intensive.  Then have at it, sugar. It’s your vulva. You can gild if you want to.

“Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa Claus.”

Well I’m happy to report that my vulva candies were a HUGE hit at the annual Church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party! Nobody greeted me at the door with torches and pitchforks and even some of the most conservative members of the group were eager to learn the recipe. There were a few women who were a little hesitant at first to embrace the vulvas, but once they saw the rest of us gobbling them down and raving about how good they were, they relented and joined in on the vulva-nibbling-fun. And I was totally shocked to hear one of them quoting that recent Oprah episode by saying “Hey, if you don’t love your vulva, nobody else will.” WOW! Wonders never cease. 

And what’s more… I had a wonderful time the other night. You know, I think a big old tray of vulvas was just what this group needed to loosen up a little. Of course the never ending supply of wine surely helped. But also, the vulvas. Definitely the vulvas. 

One of the most spiritual members of the group, who always leads us in a prayer before we eat, even included the tray of vulva candies in her blessing as we all held hands and formed a circle around the kitchen island/buffet table: “Let us pray… oh, let’s pray around the food, including the vulvas! Dear Lord, thank you for bringing us all together safely tonight. Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy Gifts, which we are about to receive. And Lord, please bless this food and all the people who prepared it.”  Rock on, sistah friends. I think I underestimated these broads. I’m going to guess that until I showed up with that tray of goodies, a majority of these women had never even uttered the word “vulva” before. In fact two of them confessed that they call their nether regions their “girl parts”… and these are mothers of girls. I do believe I performed a valuable service to my community by bringing those edible vulvas to the Christmas Party. 

So there we were, some of us in our Mom Jeans and holiday themed L.L. Bean turtlenecks, and some of us in our True Religion jeans and heels, but all of us sharing a lovingly created meal of condensed-soup-based-carb-casseroles, venison meatballs (surprisingly good!), and vulva candies.  We drank way too much wine and talked about things like plastic surgery and our kids’ school challenges and weight loss secrets. But for me, the best part was learning that even though most of these other moms seem so together and organized, that they too are really struggling with the insane amount of extra work that goes along with being a Mom in the month of December.

This is a pretty special group of women. I have never heard any of them gossip about another member of the group. Ever. They are smart, talented, and compassionate. Some work at full time jobs ranging from teaching to physical therapy to human resources. Several are stay-at-home moms. One of us is divorced. Several of us would like to be divorced. Many are on some kind of pharmacological support. Some of us are transplanted Yankees… and I just learned that TWO of us are Yinzers (a.k.a. from Pittsburgh…how did I miss that accent on Nina before?) But all of us are loving mothers, struggling to manage all the day-to-day drudgery and still get out of bed every day. We each have different hobbies and passions and it is wonderful to have a built in resource pool to go to for questions about anything from Autism to Zoo trips. And you know what, I think many of them actually enjoy my company as well… apparently I fill the role of comic relief. Of course, none of them take me very seriously, so I never have to worry about being recruited for the role of Co-Op President, thank you Jeeeeezus, but it is nice to feel appreciated for my own unique skill set. And apparently they respect my parenting (or just geographic proximity) as well because several of them use me regularly for babysitting. 

And now that I know they can handle the vulva candies, I’ll feel a little more comfortable just being myself. And that’s a good thing. 

Of course, the bar has been raised for the next Babysitting Co-Op event! Now I’m going to have to whip my pastry bag into submission and figure out how to make these.  Definitely not as easy to make as the pretzel/Rolo/pecan vulvas, but aren’t they pretty?! Or these. Everyone LOVES cupcakes! Or this. Although, on second thought… I don’t like the idea of a vagina cheese cake… reminds me of my last yeast infection. Oh well, I have a whole year to decide. And my next mission will be to teach them the difference between the labia majora and labia minora! Oh what fun!!! I just love a project, don’t you? 

So I guess the moral of the story is this… be yourself. If the people around you can’t handle it, then find new people. But always be yourself. And also, nothing loosens up a party like a tray of delicious vulva candies.

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

 

 

 

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.

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.  

Crafty Dog

 

This is my dog.  

As you may recall, he looks nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina.

This is my jar of Crayola Crayons.

Isn’t it pretty?

And this is what happened when the two got together for a little intestinal par-tay.  

Not my favorite way to start the day.  

At least this time we didn’t have to go to the vet.  My vet is on speed dial because of this dog and his dietary habits.  

Listen, this dog is trouble. He eats ANYTHING. Socks. Little People. Cat litter. He has a special affinity for dirty tissues….he’ll watch you blow your nose or wipe a kid’s nose and he’ll follow that dirty tissue with his chocolate brown eyes.  Then he’ll wait until you are distracted and he’ll snatch that booger-bundle right out of your hand.  He can wiggle his snout into the tightest or deepest of pockets for a tissue.  Then he’ll gobble it up and poop out a folded swan napkin the next day.  Not really sure how he does that, but it is a sight to behold.  

That reminds me of the time the kids and I were stringing popcorn garlands to hang on the Christmas tree. Oooh-weee, that makes me sound like such a good Mommy, doesn’t it?  Well don’t kid yourselves, I was probably drunk while we were doing it.  Anyhooo, we were using upholstery thread and real sewing needles and listening to The Chipmunks Christmas album (which is probably why I was drinking), and the next thing I knew, Klepto starts crying, “Mommy!  My popcorn is gone!”  That dog was stalking her…like a lion on the savannah, waiting patiently for her guard to be lowered, and then, the pounce and the dash.  That so’mbitch swallowed her whole garland: popcorn, thread, and needle, faster than you could say “Turn that God-awful music down and pour Mommy some more eggnog!”     

When I called the vet I learned that the needle wasn’t really the most dangerous part of this equation…it was the thread.  Apparently, if your pet doesn’t pass the thread all at once, it can cause the intestines to bunch up and lose blood flow.  If that happens, the animal will die.  So there are two choices, poop out the thread, or perform surgery.  Time is of the essence in a case like this.  It has to be passed within 24 hours, or the risk goes way up.  And intestinal surgery is risky at best due to the high likelihood of infection (poop = bacteria).  The vet advised that I “watch the dog closely for the next 24 hours and if part of the string comes out, no matter what, DO NOT PULL IT.”  Um, yeah.  Santa is practically on his way and Dr. Doolittle wants me to drop everything and study my dog’s ass?  I believe my reply was something like this:

“Hmmm, interesting idea.  Or, how ’bout this.  Why don’t I bring him to YOU and you all can watch him for the next 24 hours while I wrap presents and bake cookies.  It is five days before Christmas!  I have more important things to do than wait for this asshole, pardon the pun, to poop out my Martha Stewart Homemade Christmas Garland.  I’ll see you in five minutes.”  

Lord, I know that sounds very insensitive, but seriously, I didn’t ask that dog to eat the string and I shouldn’t have to be held hostage by his butt hole five days before Christmas while we wait to see if he is gonna live or die.  That is not the Norman Rockwell painting I envisioned when we adopted this dickwad from the Humane Society.  

Long story short, we got our Christmas Miracle that year.  The dog passed the garland: thread, needle, and all. He didn’t die.  And that was a “Good Thing.”

In summary:

Microwave Popcorn:  $2.49

Upholstery Thread: $0.99

Sewing Needles: $0.49

Vet Exam and Radiographs: $128

Not having to study my dogs ass or tell the kids that the bastard died 5 days before Christmas: Priceless.

ApocaLIPS

I apologize in advance, but it appears to be Vagina Week here at The Bearded Iris.  Maybe it is because I’ve gone off my meds and my libido is inching its way back up to sea level, or perhaps it is a result of watching Senator McCain be interviewed by those pussies on The View that has put va-jay-jays on my brain. (Joy Behar and Whoopie Goldberg…shame on you!  You were way too easy on that loose cannon.)  If you are just joining us and want to get caught up on all the shop talk, check out my recent vagi-centric posts:

Shiny (9/17/08) – all about my Brazilian Bikini Wax from hell

Show Me the Money (9/16/08) – a sexy money saving primer

Sweaty Bitch (9/14/08) – my adventure with Bikram Yoga, in spite of my frequently noisy hoo-hoo

Sticky Situation (9/8/08) – a detailed account of my five year old daughter’s riveting journey into the land of “I have gum stuck to my vagina” land. 

Are you up to speed then?  OK, good.  Moving on.  

Truly, I’m not obsessed with my va-jay-jay, all evidence to the contrary.  But just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about my anatomy, I discover that there is a whole (hole) ‘nother world of muffin maintenance that I know nothing about.  Ya’ll are never gonna believe this.  Did you know there is a new thing called the Wonder Woman Makeover™?  No kidding. It is not what you think, though.  If you go to a plastic surgeon and ask for a Wonder Woman, you will not walk out looking like Linda Carter. In fact, you probably won’t be able to walk at all for a while.  ’Cause get this: the Wonder Woman Makeover™ is a makeover for your goodie basket!  And by goodie basket, I mean ALL the fun parts immediately above and below where you hang your Lasso of Truth.  And by Makeover, I don’t mean makeup and a fashion update, although that is always nice.  No, we are talking Nip/Tuck, people. Apparently you can get your tuna noodle casserole tightened back up as if you never even popped out a puppy or two.  My good friend Cassie believes this disturbing trend is surely a sign of the apocalypse.  When women spend this much time, money, and energy on their vaginas, especially given the current state of the world, it is probably a good time for all of us to get right with God and prepare for the hereafter.  

So let’s talk specifics.  Here is the basic definition of the Wonder Woman Makeover™: multiple consecutive surgeries that include laser vaginal rejuvenation, laser reduction labioplasty, liposculpturing with Brazilian Butt Augmentation, and breast augmentation. “Huh,” you say?  Let me say it in American for ya, honey: this is a tuna-tightening, rear-raising, cellulite-sucking, boob-building smorgasbord.  Everything from your pits to your knees will be made “good as new” with this dealy.  Just don’t expect it to be covered by health insurance…this kind of thing is rarely deemed medically necessary.  Of course, if men requested this sort of work, doctors would be offering it at the drive thru window, with nary a co-pay, but that is a different story.    

Now, for my female readers who are either not mothers or who have had the benefit of a scheduled C-Section and are still as tight as a drum down there, you might be wondering, what’s all this emphasis on vaginal rejuvenation?  I can answer this best with a Haiku:

My babies were big,

and now so is my pussy.

Is it in yet, Hon? 

Sigh….so tragic.  Look, here is my point.  My husband is not complaining.  Even if sex with me is like tossing a baseball bat into the garage, The Mister is usually just grateful that he’s getting a chance to put the recreational equipment away once in a while, if you know what I mean.  But truth be told, sure, it could be better.  A study conducted by the famous Masters and Johnson research team revealed that sexual pleasure is heightened by an increase in friction.  Well, that can be a bit of a problem for us natural Wonder Women. Once you’ve pushed out three nearly-ten-pound babies the old fashioned way, sex feels more like a Teflon-coated Olympic luge event than squeezing a camel through the eye of a needle. (man, is it ever fun to quote from the Bible when I’m talking about sex!) 

According to the surgeons who specialize in it, Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation® (LVR®) enhances vaginal muscle tone, strength, and control.  It decreases the internal and external vaginal diameters as well as builds up and strengthens the perineal body (the area immediately outside the vagina and above the anus). Well, isn’t that nice.  So something like this could help me stop peeing when I laugh? Hmmm. Very interesting. Go on.  

Yes, vaginal rejuvenation can improve bodily functions.  But for some women, going this route is purely an aesthetic thing.  They simply want a pretty one.  Well, excuse me for saying, but that sounds a little oxymoronic to me.  Like Jumbo Shrimp. Nondairy Creamer. Holy War. Wireless Cable. The Patriot Act.  Since I’ve never spent a lot of time gazing longingly at this part of my body, I wasn’t quite sure what a “pretty one” looks like.  But yowza!  Look what I found!  Thank you Al Gore for inventing the Internet. 

Ladies, feel free to print this diagram out and use it as a teaching tool for those men in your life who don’t quite grasp the traffic patterns down there. Never pleasant. So anyhooo, THAT is a pretty one, eh?  Shoot. My poor husband!  He could SO do better than me.  What?  Don’t believe me? Here is what MY hot pocket looks like:

 

And in certain light:

 

And when I’m not shouting from the rooftops to remind the American public that
McCain was a member of the infamous Keating Five in the nefarious savings and loan scandal that cost taxpayers hundreds of billions of dollars, 
my pussy looks exactly like this:

 

 

Hey, don’t judge.  Remember, I’ve had three, count them THREE, very large babies.  My SMALLEST one was 8 lbs. 5 ounces and 22 inches long.  And I had an episiotomy with the first sack of potatoes that somewhat resembled the gutting of a fish.  Bygones.

OK, I get it.  This is a free country.  Whatever floats your boat, people.  Fine. Maybe you are all Loosey-Goosey and afraid your man is going to leave you for greener (tighter) pastures.  Fair enough.  But instead of going under the knife, I’m just suggesting you consider all the options.  How about asking HIM to get a penis enlargement instead?  Why not?  THAT is probably covered by insurance.  Or, if you are self conscious about the fact that your knockers hang to your knees and your stomach looks more like a Shar-Pei, then do what I do and simply turn off the lights…save your dignity AND electricity!   

My girlfriends and I joke around all the time about what stretched out old hags we are.  Good times.  I have one friend who swears she can tie a bow with her labia. Now that, I would like to see.  But if we all ran out and got vaginoplasty and tummy tucks and boob jobs and butt lifts, what in the world would we have to joke about?  

Oh, I suspect we’d find something….

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