A trip to Brazil

I have been a proponent of bikini waxing for sometime. I don't know what your preferences are, but looking like the Wild Woman of Borneo while wearing my swimming togs is not my idea of a fashion forward look. And since I don't really relish the whole "getting used to waxing all over again" experience, I wax year around. Because, frankly, it hurts. Which is why I wrote this post, specifically this:

Who in the hell developed the Brazilian Wax and how in the hell did he get women to go for it?

Really, think about it. I knew what was involved and so I couldn't fathom why someone would put themselves through this. The preponderance of patients who have obviously gone through this procedure notwithstanding. I also have many friends who have had this experience and the tales of position changes that require you to be a cross between a contortionist, a Cirque du Soliel performer and a pretzel increased my confusion. So, I decided to find out for myself what it was like. Why? Because I'm RETARDED!

I entered my usual waxing room already giggling in the way I do when I am nervous about something. It starts as giggling and escalates rapidly to hysterical laughter. I was also sweating like an expectant father with the clap. (Thank you Meatballs.) My dear aesthetician and I discussed the plan and she stepped out so I could disrobe and cover up. Unfortunately for me, the beds are heated which, in no way, helped with the sweating. Johnna came in and instructed me to frog my legs. "Assuming the position" as I call it in my line of work. The first part was really no big deal, as I was used to waxing anyway. Then she moved closer to *ahem* midline as it were. The first pull of the wax bowed my back like a electro-shock therapy patient. Yeowza! At this point I began breathing like I was in transition. It didn't help any better here than it did when I was in labor. My favorite word did NOT make an appearance, I didn't even think it. This may be because I'm sure I blacked out or had an out of body experience. Pretty sad I'm more professional when I'm being denuded faster than the Amazonian rain forest than when I'm in my place of business.

It was at this point that I decided being an aesthetician was a far weirder job than mine. And I deal with strange women and their girl parts all day long. Still not as weird.

The job got finished amid more laughing ( I was NERVOUS!) and discussions about other clients who got halfway through and decided they had had enough. I don't know if a Brazilian wax is a good time to go 40 Year Old Virgin and bail. Seems to me to be a bad look.

So, my unhealthy curiosity is assuaged and I can sleep easier knowing what exactly is entailed in a Brazilian wax. Now I just get to look forward to grow out. Sheesh.

As a Post Script: I got beat like a dog at work for the last few days, so when the phone rang at 0539 this am I didn't even say hello. All they got was "Uh-uh!" Click.

Crash

SoS has joined the ranks of young men who inadvertently jack up the price of auto insurance. Although, in this case, it did not involve an automobile. Lemme 'splain. My parents' neighbors own 40 acres. And being of "a certain age" (read: close to 80) they have a small tractor like vehicle called a Kawasaki Mule. The aged gentleman farmer is wont to allow children, specifically mine, to drive the Mule with him. On day last week, when I was engaged in the hell that is Epic Go-Live and stuck in super-loserdom, my parents picked up the boys and had them until I got off work. As I was tearing my hair out trying to figure out why cyberspace was eating everything the doctors were typing, SoS was driving around on the Mule with the dear neighbor. He decided to allow SoS to back the Mule up. SoS, in his excitement, stood up, trod on the gas pedal, and promply backed it over the embankment
Do not think the tracks in the gravel were caused when going over the embankment because that would imply someone, ANYONE, had employed the brakes. Instead SoS , the neighbor and the Mule tumbled over the embankment, rolled several times, popped out the windshield and came to rest about half way down.
See that cross way tree in the picture? Riiiiiiggghhhht there? That's where my offspring ended up wrapped up in neighbor and Mule. Here's a close up:
Way cool. Needless to say, we're not doing that again.

In other news: yet another sign that your private personality is sneaking into your professional life. I went in to work at 0300 today and got a patient that was later found out to be a face presentation (coming out face first instead of back of the head first for anyone who might land here by accident). After many hours of trying to position changes, pitocin, and aggravation it was decided that perhaps this kid wasn't coming out that way and we should deliver her surgically. The oncoming doc asked if her water had broken and if it was clear fluid. I said that she had meconium and the offgoing doc said, "But it was clear when she came in yesterday." My response: "Well, if you slammed my face into a wall for several hours I'd shit my pants too." Oh, jeez.

Internet ADD

For all my attempts to be technologically savvy, it seems I have been lacking in certain respects. It's not in my home network, with my wireless router and ability to surf, print, and blog from anywhere in the house. It's not in my desktop PC with it's speaker system better than my stereo and more memory than would be needed in the most involved World of Warcraft scenario. It's not in my fabulous laptop with the 18 inch screen. No, it seems I am lacking in my choice of internet browser. I was even on the receiving end of a scathing "You don't have Firefox?!?" from one who shall remain nameless. "What is this Firefox of which you speak?" So, I looked into it. What the hell? How is it that I am so undervalued by my friends that no one thought to tell me about this browser from Heaven? Has it been touched by the finger of God? It is the Ritalin to my Internet ADD. The methadone to my World Wide Web smack. The benedryl to my penicillin induced rash of stalled web page load. I have reached Nirvana and it's name is Firefox.

Carb heaven

I have no bread in the house and since I'm fundamentally lazy, not to mention I try not to buy stuff on Sundays, I had to make bread today. This is the same bread my mother made every week when we were growing up, mainly because she thought Wonderbread was of the devil (but what fun to squish) and we were on the lower end of the socio-economic ladder for many years. So the delightful warm smell of fresh baked bread is wafting through my house and all I want is to take one toasty loaf and a stick of butter and retire to my room. I'd be in a carb coma, but it would be a very happy coma!

I have never been accused of being Holly Homemaker, but I can fake Handy Mandy pretty dang well. I find myself with some time on my hands and a honey do list that is many years in the making. Just a few things that I've said "I should really....naaaahhhh!" To begin, both the shades in my room and in FB's room have been broken, mine for over a year, FB's more recently. The cords had been snapped, more than likely during a vertically challenged raising or lowering of said blinds. Needless to say, they look a tad...redneck is the kindest word I could use. I dreaded the thought of needing to buy new ones or sending them back to the manufacturer as they were quite expensive. So, I decided to take these suckers apart and see if I could fix them myself. I had purchased some drapery cord and began my most excellent adventure. My first little glitch arose when I realized I didn't remember how to get the blinds down. Tugging and pulling, twisting and turning was not helping, and it didn't work on the blinds either. I decided they must just be muscled out of the brackets and put all my strength behind it when...the bracket broke, the shade flew off and smacked me right in the cheekbone. Cue my favorite word. Luckily, the children were at school and I realized how not to get the shades down. Oh, look, if you press this part of the bracket down, the shade just slips out. Gee, how neat. Having now injured myself, I lost the lust for home repair until later that evening. I figured the best place to attempt this, perhaps abortive attempt at shade repair, would be downstairs. And the only place that came to mind was my dining room table that is so covered in craft and other projects that it can no longer be considered a surface for eating, but rather a surface to dump crap I have some vague idea of completing in the distant or not so distant future.
I removed both header and footer of the shade, not really knowing what I would find and whether it would be fixable.



Imagine my surprise and joy when I saw that there was a convenient little bracket for the cord to go through and all I needed was a way to get it through all the way to the bottom. Aha! I thought, as I often have such exclamation when talking to myself, I will pull the remaining cord tight and tie the shade together so I can effect my repair. Once again I only fake being Handy Manny, or Mannette in this case, and so I tied it not with zip ties....jeez, I actually had those, but they were in the frosty garage....but with nice. cozy, yarn.
I then completed my repair, released the shade and extended it so that I had plenty of length, and voila! Repaired shade. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. I did, however forget to accommodate the length of the drapery cord to the height of the window, so when it is retracted all the way up....I may need a chair to release the shade. But! Redneck no longer.

My project today consisted of replacing the towel bar in the kids bathroom. This towel bar was placed by my a-hole contractor who told me, "That will fall down; call me when it happens and I'll replace it." Yeah, you'll be the first one I call when you just told me you did a half-assed job putting it up in the first place. And really, it has hung on for almost 6 years.... .which coincides with how long SoS has been on the planet. So, now that he is old enough to shower and dry off all by himself and he wants to put the towel back like he's supposed to..........you get the picture. I had some nice, heavy duty toggle screws to replace the cheap ass plastic mollies the a-hole used but when I went to get my drill, I couldn't seem to find my screwdriver bits. I can attribute this to FB and SoS feeling the need to string my tools from one end of the garage to another, kick them under cabinets and all manner of mayhem. I needed to go to Home Depot to see if they had brackets to replace the one I obliterated with my brute mommy strength anyway, so I thought I could pick up a screwdriver bit for my drill while I was there. The drapery people at Home Depot acted like I was from another planet and suggested I call the manufacturer, even though I purchased the shades through them. Crapped out on the bracket. Then, I found I couldn't buy single bits, but I did find this:




Oh, my heck, I almost creamed my jeans, and I'm sure my nippies got hard! See, I'm easy. Give this chick a Home Depot gift card and a chance to run wild, and I am yours forever! I've got the guts of one more toilet to change out and a set of roman shades to make and then, nothing but painting. Woohoo. I friggin' hate painting.

In other news, SoS had a belt test for a belt that wasn't for Little Ninjas. It was, in fact, the first grade belt for kids who are continuing on in Tae Kwon Do. He did very well in his counting, skipping only 2 numbers and never slipping from Korean to Spanish. And he sat quietly and respectfully for the next hour while others tested. Take that kindergarten Nazis! Of course, he did spend his afternoon grounded on bed arrest, but I don't know if that had any bearing on anything.

Yeah, that's my little Ninja, starting his road to black belt. And here he is tonight after his shower awaiting a little root beer float action:

Yes, he did come up with ensemble himself. I call it " junior douchebag in training."

Carlos!

Last night was a near orgasmic experience, a night I have been waiting for since May when we first heard that Carlos was coming to Seattle and waited like heroin addicts at the methadone clinic to snap up some tickets the second they went on sale. And we were not disappointed. The only down side to the whole experience was since I purchased these tickets in May and immediately stuck them in the fireproof safe (and hadn't looked at them since), I had forgotten exactly how many tickets I actually had. I thought I had only purchased one extra in case, by some extreme chance, SHSO'C and I actually decided to spend some time together, he might want to go. As it happened, he was needed in NYC for a wedding. And at the last minute the friend who was going to take the ticket was called away on a family emergency. Oh, well, it's just one ticket. Except that on the way to pick up the girls, I counted not one, not two, but three (3) extra tickets. I am a complete water head. It was at this point that I remembered I bought 3 extra in case a) SHSO'C and I did hit it off and he wanted to go and maybe bring a friend b) we hit it off briefly and then nothing else happened but he was already coming and needed a friend as a buffer c) I can't exactly remember c, but I'm sure I had a damn good reason. Because I am never illogical or irrational. Ask anyone. Although I am, on occasion, hysterical.

We got a little souvenir from Carlos:

25 dolla for what amounts to a Polaroid in a card frame. Not that I'm complaining, because really, how often is this going to happen? It's like going on vacation to Disneyworld. Celluloid memories don't come cheap, but you're so hopped up on endorphins you don't realize you've hemorrhaged money all week until you get home. Totally worth it.

Carlos was extremely funny, as were his opening acts. You really can't image the sight of a 110 lb dwarf pantomiming having sex with a 310 lb woman. "I looked like one of those yard art ducks with the wings that spin in the wind." I laughed so hard my face was sore. I think the reason Carlos Mencia appeals to so many is because he gives no one a break. He believes that there is hope for us, we aren't as bad as the rest of the world and a lot of Americans think we are, and everyone gets ripped on, crackers or not.

Reasons Carlos rocks out loud:

"No, not everyone should register to vote. Because when stupid people vote we get stupid people in office."

"The economy is horrible, we have a war in Afghanistan, a war in Iraq, political parties slinging mud about one another....a president getting a blow job doesn't sound so band now, does it?"

"I was told not to come on tour because the economy was so bad and I said "why wouldn't I go out and make people laugh when they need a reason to laugh more than ever?'"

"You know how I know that America isn't racist? Because we a have a document that says not all white men, not all black men, not all yellow, brown or what ever, but all MEN are created equal and that means MANKIND, not just men."

"See, all you smart people got the joke and laughed, all the stupid people should have been swallowed at conception."

Carlos kept us entertained and laughing nonstop for 2 1/2 hours. That does not count the opening acts or the round table jokes at the end. And that may be the greatest reason Carlos rocks.

Here is a Carlos skit from about 2001. NSFW probably and defintely not for the easily o-ffended!

Go Get Your Curds and Whey dammit!

I was tidying up before going to bed, putting grocery bags into my handy dandy grocery bag holder when I saw this:

Now, I am not a girly girl, frightened by spiders and other creepy crawlies requiring rescue by some brave, strapping man. Good thing, as I am fresh out at 12:15 am. I'm not one to even react to such sights other than a mild "My, what a large arachnid." But when you are going about your own business, way early in the morning after being droned into a stupor by a presidential "town hall" and the ensuing critiques, your reaction is more along the lines of a loud and prolonged "F*******ck!" accompanied by your rendition of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. See if you don't.

After I regained my composure, I found two empty Play-doh containers, jostled Charlotte into them and chucked her outside. I know, it ensured her death just as if I had gotten a paper towel and crushed her body into dust, but this way I avoided the sickening crunch that would occur. Besides, it's a well known fact that hypothermia (after the initial freezing your keister off part) is a much gentler death than being squished. Call me a humanitarian.

Weekend Update

What a joyously full weekend! And glad is the heart that got to enjoy it in such typical, lovely Northwest weather. Our Saturday started as it usually does in full Tae Kwon Do regalia. We showed up to SoS's class 20 minutes late, which was distressing only to us. Master L. I'm sure was nearly comatose with joy not having a force of nature in class for once. During the class Master had SoS firmly by both shoulders after making him do push-ups and queried "Are we having fun yet?" To which SoS roundly responded "NO!" Honest to a fault. All the adults then chorused "No, SIR." After sparring we went home and met up with the Super Hot Slice O' Cuteness. We all trekked out to the fairgrounds to enjoy Oktoberfest. Being of extremely watered down, semi-Germanic, mixed with mutt heritage and the boys being only 3rd generation Bavarian/German Americans on their father's side, we were happy to enjoy some Oktoberfestivities. We enjoyed some brats and 'kraut, fondue, root beer and SHSO'C got to have some fabulous German beer. We also enjoyed polka music including "The Beer Barrel Polka" and the "Too Fat Polka" made infamous in my family by my great grandfather singing it to my mother every time he saw her. (Body image disturbance? I don't know where she would have gotten that from.) There were also some interesting drinking games involving nails, quarter rounds, and the backside of a hammer. As an extra bonus the Scandinavian Days was going on at the same time AT THE SAME PLACE! I nearly wet myself with excitement in anticipation of Finnish delights. I ran through the hall, dragging the boys, sounding like some NYC derelict muttering, "Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Norwegian, Swedish, what is this the everything but Finland festival?" Finally, nirvana is reached! I picked up some of my favorite chocolates and my most adored candy from hell.

Ah, Turkish Peppers... glad is my heart. These little gems taste like salty black licorice with a dash of battery acid. They are filled with a powdered form of the salty black licorice/battery acid concoction. Definitely an acquired taste. The graphic in the bottom corner accurately represents my reaction to my first Turkinpippuri. My dear friends who introduced me to these wonders encouraged me to chew them. That is akin attaching jumper cables to your tongue and turning the key while someone pours a conducting agent into your mouth. Invigorating. I told the boys they were not allowed to have these candies as they would not enjoy them. I cautioned SHSO'C against trying them, even going to far as to state "they are the absolute worst thing you will ever try." Being the brave man he is, he popped one in his mouth. His stoic reaction was to tell SoS and FB "Yeah, you guys wouldn't like these." We then went back to Oktoberfest and SHSO'C went in search of more beer. I'm sure it was to wash away the nightmare after effects. (SHSO'C is quite the fingerful to type. Perhaps I should shorten his alias. To say, Cougar Bait....)

SHSO'C and I then went to see Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, which was a cute little flick that reminded me of some of my drunkard babysitting days. I love movies with smart asses. Which is why I'm looking forward to seeing Sexdrive. Not only does it have James Mardsen (yum) who can be freakin' hilarious

but it also has Seth Green as a smart ass Amish.
Comic genius that boy! Family Guy, Robot Chicken, his portrayal of a disgusted and frustrated Scott Evil...not to mention his Chris Crocker spoof.

Sunday found me actually making an effort at responsible home ownership. I figured now that it was October it was time to put the Slip 'N' Slide away. But first I had to de-poo the lawn. This was quite the project and brought home to me that perhaps I should not have left it quite so long, or I should have put my indentured servants..er...children to work. I then pulled the Slip 'N' Slide off the big toy, where it resides to be safe from Knucklehead McSpazatron from chewing it into confetti, and was promptly stung by the last living hornet/wasp/whatever the hell in the Northwest. I stood there, trying to maintain my composure as my favorite word bounced around my head like a game of Brickbreaker, glorying in the fact that at least that little rat bastard would now die faster! Cruel I know, but damn, that hurt. I was saved from weeding by a return the torrential downpour, so I retired inside and curled up with a cheesy '80s movie from Netflix on my laptop.

My insomnia being what it is, coupled with the fact that I had to keep a fish eye on my dishwasher to make sure it wasn't trying to go tits up on me, found me in bed at my usual late hour. I had found my mouth guard again, so I was sleeping fairly well, chewing on that instead of my tongue or the inside of my mouth. My eyes popped open at 0230 to the sight of FB standing at the bedside. His modus operandi when trying to wake me up is not to say my name or touch my shoulder, but to shake and jiggle the mattress until I wake up. This pisses me off for no known reason. So my reaction is to screech "What?!?' like a demented fishwife trying to sell her wares to the deaf. Poor FB says "My ear hurts." Change of weather plays havoc with his allergies and has a tendency to plug his eustachian tubes. I keep a handy supply of Auralgan for just such occasions. I fill his ear canal with lidocaine goodness and tuck him into bed. This morning I dope him up with more Auralgan, ibuprofen and some Claritin to try and open things up. I made it through work without a phone call from the school which had me pleasantly surprised as FB has more of his father's wimpy constitution, (prone to howling over every hurt real or imagined) rather than my more stoic one. (Hey! Natural childbirth dammit! And getting back into a saddle on a broken ankle, thereby dislocating it to a mere breadth of a compound fracture!) When I picked him up from daycare he was a little peaked looking and acting kind of punk. We got home and he said his ear still hurt. I put more Auralgan in and then decided, critical thinking in action here, that maybe I should look at his ear as he has a history of perforating his eardrum. (While I was at ACLS, thankyouverymuch!) I use my little otoscope and da-yum! We should probably take a trip to Urgent Care. When the doc in the box says "Oh, yeah, that's a good one!" you know that sucker is bad. I told the doc, who was the same one from our visit in May with the perfed eardrum, about the Motrin and Auralgan and he said, "Well, you have the pain control portion covered, we just need the antibiotics." Dude, did you forget I'm a nurse? Better living through pharmacology. And if those didn't work I could always let him nibble on a Perc or a Vike I have left over from my surgery.......I kid.

My day started innocently enough, I took my BFF to an appointment for an MRI at the crack of dawn. I was there not only for moral support, but also for transportation because they were going to have to trank her like a bear slated for relocation to get her into the MRI in the first place. After I dropped her little stoned self off at her house, I came home to tackle one of the many projects I've procrastinated on for pretty much all of the years I have lived in this house. One of my first projects was to take an arse load of stuff to Goodwill. This included my great-grandmother's bed frame and dresser set that had been mine from the time I was 12. Now, most might think I would keep this for sentimental value, but I'm pretty much over it. It's taking up space, collecting dust and I have other plans for that room. So, time to 86 the stuff I no longer use. The dressing table was the only piece I was concerned about getting downstairs. As I chivvied my offspring to hurry up this morning, I gently eased the dressing table down the stairs. ka-THUNK! ka-THUNK! ka-THUNK! I winced with each step thinking a) it was a good thing the kids were already up and b) this sucker may be kindling by the time I get finished with it. After my ferrying duties, I went to my parents house to steal my dad's truck and trailer. On the way there I decided that all this stuff could actually fit into the bed of his truck, which was fortunate, because I wasn't completely sure I knew how to hook up the lights for the trailer, which might pose a problem. I pull into their driveway and am immediately struck by the lack of truck. My father is on the umpteenth restoration of his '56 Chevy not too mention that the '65 Corvette hasn't even been started yet and the chassis and parts are strewn about like the aftermath of Hurricane Pops. What's the matter with these people? Don't they know they should have taken the gas guzzling, air polluting SUV on their trip, thereby allowing me free, illicit reign with the truck? I don't even have a hitch on my Tahoe, so I couldn't jack the trailer either. Never one to be despondent for too long, I put my superbly twisted mind to work and figured I could take the seats out of the Tahoe and just make several trips. I arrived back at my own house and took the third row seating out. Now, one of the "selling points" at the dealership was how easily these seats were removed. They fold down, you grab the handle, and voila! The look like a suitcase and are carried just as easily. Except for the fact that the bumper for the Tahoe hits me about mid-pelvis, these seats when I grab the handle are at chest level and I have to lift them up to my head to get them out of the back. Easy? Did I mention they each weigh about 70 pounds? During this weight training exercise I found myself engaged in, I noticed that the rear of the car could use some vacuuming. Then I flipped the second row seats forward. The foulness found therein is not to be described. Crackers, unknown substances, toys....unbelievable! But what can you expect with two young boys and a double coated dog who sheds like a chemo patient?

I loaded the dressing table, stool, bed frame, and several other items into the back of the vehicle for my first trip to Goodwill. This is what the back of the Tahoe looked like:

Not too bad really. Although my usual 4th turn at Daytona style of driving was impacted because of the side rails just inches from my head. I was afraid I would take a turn to fast or something and this sucker would end up embedded in my skull:

And really, if I end up on Ripley's Believe it or Not, I want it to be for something really exciting and not for having a 6 foot piece of wood hanging out of my head like a parasitic twin.

Off I go to Goodwill, to say sayanora to some of my worldly possessions. Everything went along swimmingly until we got to the bed frame. It seems that Goodwill's goodwill does not extend to 50 year old wooden bed frames. Plan B: Pierce County Solid Waste Transfer Station. Otherwise known as the dump. That works for me too, just get this crap outta my house! The dump was pleasingly dry. I have been know to have to visit when it was soggy and slimy with a primordial soup of Zeus knows what, which does nothing for the ambiance, let me tell ya. I dumped off the bed frame as I was getting into the car felt some dump detritus slide into my Keens. Motherfucker! Had I known that I would be visiting the dump I would have worn closed toe shoes, preferably thigh high, but as it was I wore my Keens and now had to soak my foot in bleach to guard against whatever multi drug resistant organism to which I had now been exposed. Yecch.

Back to to house for another load. This load consisted of two drill press boxes full of Norman Rockwell figurines that the hubster had purchased many moons before he met me. They had never once, in all these years, been out of their original boxes. This is indication enough for me that they need to bless someone else's home.

I got home and then tackled the wonderful job of de-gunking the car and replacing the third row seats. That was only marginally more difficult than removing them, like to the 10th power, since I now had to avoid banging up my paint job.

I spent a greater part of the rest of the afternoon cruising ebay like a sweaty Chihuahua who had eaten it's owner's meth stash. The boyz are getting a Wii for Christmas. And that's all they are getting, you practically need a home equity loan for one of these suckers.

In other news: FB usually listens to country music as he falls asleep. Last night as I put him to bed, I thought, "What sounds like Metallica?" Apparently, the boy is being influenced by his mother's car tunes.