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.