The pelt between my legs…

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The pelt growers

…has been growing for several weeks in anticipation of the infamous Brazilian wax.  My con-artist, er, I mean lovely daughter talked me into enduring this procedure with her under the guise of “bonding.”  When a mother works 40+ hours a week, “bonding” is one of those trigger words.  Ya’know the kind of word that will get the results that the user desires. In fact, all of my lovelies have picked up on the effectiveness of this lingo.

My youngest will often approach me with his best impression of a basset hound and say,

“I want to spend quality time with you.”

HOW can a living, breathing, Mom (because sometimes I am a Zombie) refuse these words?  Often this quality time ends with a purchase from the iEmpire via it’s hedonistic app store.  We have joined the cult with our iPhones, iPads and iMac but I digress…that’s for another day.

Back to my daughter and her need for bonding which, I knew would involve doe, rae, me but never expected the activity I would be spending it on.  I think the conversation went something like this:

“Mom, I haven’t seen you all week so let’s spend some girl time bonding”

“Um, yeah, ok sure.  Sounds good.” [thinking along the lines of shopping, movie, lunch, maaybe a massage or mani/pedi]

“Awesome! So I was thinking we’d get a Brazilian wax.”

chirp, chirp…crickets.

“Mom?”

“ANNNDD you know what that involves right?”

[rolling her eyes] “Of coooourrrrse!”

Now, I have been waxed and sugared downtown before but I have never indulged in the Brazilian style.  I figured I’d leave the hairless cat impression to the porn stars.  I’m a 40+ yr old mother of 3 who can still wear a bikini.  As long as that bikini line doesn’t look like Chewbacca is trying to escape….Kudos to me!

But you see, we hard-working, guilt driven parents do things for our kids that normally, if we were home, we wouldn’t do.  Take this scenario back a few years when I was with these lovelies 24/7 making food from scratch (HA, joking for literary drama – I loathe the kitchen).  My response to having course hair, that is more rooted and intrusive than dandelions, yanked out from my sensitive Netherlands would quickly be a,

“HEEELLLL NOOOO!”

But fast forward 4yrs and I found myself laying on a table exposing all of my seed planting ground with my legs sprawled open in the “Frog” position.  I’ll spare you the gory details of how the technician applied hot wax in areas that I’m convinced have never seen the light of day…not even at the Gyno’s office.  Of how once hardened on my sensitive inner folds, this wax (referred to as hard wax) was ripped off piece by piece at speeds that resembled those of a turtle while I panted, twitched, squirmed, sweated profusely, foamed at the mouth, and finally heard myself asking for a “Break.”

A break that I never received because the technician smiled politely and kept going saying something about needing to get the wax off.  I think I passed out at about this point because desperation set in as I thought…wait, no seriously, wipe that polite smile off your professional technician face….I wasn’t kidding….I need a freakin’ break!!!

Me, needing a BREAK from painful stimuli?  What is this unfamiliar madness? I have a mutant sky high pain tolerance and am often referred to as a tank.  Childbirth, tattoos, weird piercings, self injections, invasive medical procedures, joint manipulations (the list goes on and on) were mere blips on the pain scale of tank Beth.  But this….this…hard wax Brazilian broke me?

When I finally came to I found myself laying on my side while she expertly kneaded my buttocks like a mound of dough trying to get the wax to “set” in the eye of the black hole.  When she stopped the kneading to position a hand held fan between my cheeks for “optimal setting,” I decided passed out was a good state of existence.

A short time later my daughter and I tramautically hobbled out of the spa looking like we rode one horse too many.  It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that all future bonding time would be free of wax and spread eagle nudeness.

We decided to leave the extreme pelt removal to the taxidermists and porn stars.

 

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The nose knows….

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So much to say and so little time.  In fact, I’ve neglected this part of my world lately and hope to return for more than a quickie (although I do love quickies).

Like many of you who live in the North, we are experiencing extreme cold with temps in the negatives and I hate it.  Every cell in my body (that has not been frozen) is revolting. Yes, I know everyone hates this weather so you may be asking what makes me special, different or gives me any more complaining rights?  I’m glad your raised the question.  You see I have a built in thermometer, barometer, and if I push it even a weathervane.

I can thank my father for passing down this special mutant power.  It is none other than the Italian Schnoz or Schnozolla.  It’s special powers can be seen in the above photo where it is lit up that “it’s too freaking cold” kinda Rudolph red.  Like a thermometer, it has built in degrees and bystanders can accurately gauge temps based on the color and dripping (yes, dripping because flaming discoloration wouldn’t be entirely accurate so our ancestors had to breed in nasal discharge) of the Schnoz.  The color change in arctic weather is unavoidable somewhat like Pinocchio and his lie growing Schnoz.  Nothing can prevent the transformation.  Not make-up, not scarves and sadly not even the salvation of all…Starbucks (I was on my second cup).

We inheritors of the Schnoz have an unspoken understanding, a language if you will.  As I pass another flaming red Schnoz soon on the verge of open faucet, I nod and smile.  I look the other way as the coat covered wrist swipes across the nostril catching the drip just in time.  Now the awkward part arises and that is what to do with the snot smear?  If it’s cold enough the snot smear usually freezes solid and can be chipped off.  If not, a quick wipe with the other hand or across the jeans usually does the trick.  Again, I look the other way providing privacy during this sensitive time.  Told you.  It’s the whole unspoken language/understanding thing.  Sometimes I offer a tissue although I often find the stash living in my deep coat pockets (because deep pockets are a must for people of the Schnoz) have become crumpled and disgusting looking.   I try to avert my eyes from all the facial Rudolph going on but like a guy trying to pry his eyes off of big boobies (something I’ve never encountered) it is challenging.  So I get it guys, I get it.

Notice my daughter who is sitting beside me suffering exposure to the exact same temperatures.  Her nose is perfectly unchanged and non-dripping.  She can thank Mr. Pavlov for giving her that cute little button nose.  And I can thank my dad for being a walking thermometer as my kids gauge their need for a coat on the color of my nose.   I pretend not to hear them when they can say,

“Yep, it’s cold enough for a coat, Mom’s nose is red.”

The nose knows.  And those of us with the all knowing Schnoz know that winter is not easy, for Italians.

Zombie Dolly

Ok, so how many of you were skeptical at the last post where I excitedly announced that I would be a working 9-5 Dolly (my chest wishes) ?

Well, you guys were right.  My hours are no where near those of Dolly’s. After working in the medical field for as many years as I have, I knew that sadly my hours would be like my bra size….not even close to Miss 9-5 DDD Dolly.

The hours are often long and I use way more brain cells than I was allotted at creation.  After these long hours, I enter the door to my home dehydrated and exhibiting signs of low blood sugar.  I am mauled by my children (wait, are these wild creatures my children?) tackle style as I attempt to drag them and my pathetic body up the stairs where I guzzle water (or whatever beverage I find lingering on the counter) a little too quickly and either choke or get abdominal spasms. Then I sit with a glazed over look as drool threatens to escape and utter random “um-mmms, uh-huhs, ohs, huhs” as they competitively machine gun chatter about their day.  Eventually, these ferrel beings get fed by the flat chested Dolly zombie, unless Mr. Pavlov fed them first.  On the days that Mr. Pavlov beats me home, a spark of life returns to my corpse as I realize that I don’t have to spend another dreaded second in the kitchen ruining food and calling it a meal.

So blogging has become a fuzzy recollection.  Maybe even a figment of my imagination.  I mean, I think I blogged.  Or did I?

Workin’ 9 to 5 just like Dolly

Literally, I work 9 to 5!  How sweet is that? 

Yep, that’s right.  I went back to work, real work that is.  My previous gig for the past 3 years was a frightening combination of Third Reich Nazi Germany meets Children of the Corn. 

Originally we placed the kids in this particular private Christian school with the hope of receiving both a stellar academic curriculum as well as grounded values.  I, therefore, agreed to manage the health room (for just enough pay per day to buy a Grande Latte) and the school agreed to knock off a small portion of the tuition for our three kids.

Three years later, survival mode fully functional, we were found running and screaming (and maybe blowing a shofar) from the institution.  We nearly escaped with our sanity intact and our souls were surely damned to hell (if it wasn’t the frayed jeans my kids wore then surely my nasal piercing sealed our fate).  We have not looked back once (I learned this valuable lesson from Lot’s wife).

As I was licking my wounds and detoxing from the poisoned environment that tried to kill us all, a wonderful opportunity knocked at my door ( I also learned that when someone stands at the door and knocks, you should let them in).  I swung the door wide open and the blessings began to pour in.  The three years of hell are now a disturbing memory of the past.  Although I must admit I twitch a little when I hear the name Malachi mentioned.   

I am loving every minute of this new position that I work in as a Nurse Practitioner with a cardiac Electrophysiologist.  I had some experience in this field previously prior to the toxic, cult-like school position.  I continue to build upon the previous foundation with an awesome Physician mentor. 

So, my friends, I may be scarce in the postings but please continue to visit.  I promise I will continue to write. 

Workin’ 9 to 5 what a way to make a livin’

Yes, it sure is!

 

Winter, we are never, ever, ever getting back together

I’m out of denial.  Summer is gone.  Even though we are STILL playing baseball (some horrid thing called “fall” ball a fanatic dad probably created to continue living his missed opportunity through his son – yeah Baseball is awesome) my beloved summer has passed away.

I ignored the colder weather.  I pretended like the shortening of daylight wasn’t really happening.  I refused to look at the changing of the leaves screaming at me in all of their colored glory.  Until one crisp morning I almost did a pajama-wearing-butt plant (because PJs are what all of the real Mom’s wear) right in our driveway in perfect view of all of the neighborhood parents on bus patrol (and their children who would surely howl and ridicule my dear son for years to come).

Yep.  The culprit was several of the huge, wet, majestic, red colored leaves that came into contact with my rebellious flip-flop wearing feet.

As I flapped my arms around like ineffective wings and bent back and forth trying to stabilize the potential crash and likely fracture of some important bone, I finally screamed,

OKAY, IT IS FALL…YOU HAVE ARRIVED.  I ACKNOWLEDGE YOU!!!

And, almost immediately, I regained control.  Bam, just like that (which is a miracle for anyone aware of my level of coordination and control).

Don’t get me wrong.  I actually like fall.  I was married in the fall.  The fall is beautiful.  BUT it signifies the end of summer and eminent evil.  It is what comes after fall that I abhor….hate…dispise…detest…

Old man Winter needs taken off of life support where he can die a quick, painless or painful (I prefer painful) death.  Because each winter a small chunk (yes, chunk – I have more chunks in the winter) of me dies.  Dead.

Don’t believe me?  Have you tried pumping gas in the dead of winter?  I guarantee you my fingers had frost bite (I’m sure on the edge of gangrenous).  It’s torture!  You clench your teeth, groan a little, tap dance and giggle while trying not to draw unnecessary attention or trip over the gas pump spilling gas all over yourself (told you coordination wasn’t my gift but in my defense it was a very windy day).

Wait, what about cuddling by the fire-place with your honey navel gazing? Ha-ha. In what world? Harlequin Romance? Sorry, we are real world here.  By the time you make the fire, that is, if you can do so without smoking out your house, the desire to spend one more second by the smoke pit has long evaporated along with your intracellular fluid and you spend the rest of your evening in the kitchen guzzling water and getting stomach cramps.

Now, a gas fire-place does add a nice touch to a freezing house but don’t you dare try to cuddle beside me.  I like my space and two adults trying to cram onto a couch is not only uncomfortable but is also an unwanted chiropractic adjustment waiting to happen.  Blanket on the floor?  Ouch, no.  There is nothing romantic or cozy about winter.

Beautiful snow?  Give it a few hours and this “beautiful snow” becomes a nasty, sloppy, brown (or yellow depending if you have dogs) sludge that is dirty and messy and melts all over your faux hard wood floors creating a dreadful warped appearance.

I could go on forever so just trust me, winter is evil.  Granted I didn’t always feel this way.  As a gullible kid I thought I loved winter because my brother, cousins and I were brain washed to play outside in sub-zero temps for hours.  This time of extreme cold exposure (I KNOW I had frostbite as a kid) was created to give our housewife mothers a brief glimpse of sanity sans kids.

We found ourselves bundled up and shown the door.  And when we complained that our cheeks hurt or our lips bled each time we talked or smiled, we were slathered with vaseline and informed that cold weather was good for us and killed germs.

Just in case you weren’t aware, we were the first humans to develop extreme sled riding.  Our version of extreme sled riding was slightly different from most and involved a 100% grade hill…located in a functional cow pasture with barbed wire at the bottom.  FYI, frozen cow patties add quite a vertical lift and ample air time to any sled riding experience.  But if you accidentally hit your head or limb off of a patty be prepared for a concussion or fracture at best.

The barbed wire in our extreme sledding is a different story.  After a near decapitation incident, I decided that maybe extreme sled riding wasn’t the best sport for my non-coordinated body to partake in.  My brother offered to ride with me and promised to stop long before the decapitating barbed wire.  However, it only took me one ride (one ride too many) to discover that his idea of stopping actually meant hurling me off until I formed my own moving snowball avalanche.

Wait, what?!? Some of you guys actually enjoy Old Man Winter?  Seriously?  What do you like about the old dude who seems to find a way into each and every anatomical crevice regardless of the layers of wool or goose down?

Ok, well you can have him.   ’cause as Talyor Swift sings so well (no doubt, I’m convinced about old man winter)

We are Never, Ever, Ever Ever getting back together…like ever!!

Boys and their balls consume my life

Ya’know…Baseball, Basketball, Football….

….Balls.  Boys love them and we parents get to experience the joy of ushering the man children around to all of their ball activities.

Which is where I’ve been these last two plus months.  On ball duty.  I think I have breathed and bathed in enough dirt and line chalk to make an asthmatic kill themselves.  More nights than not, going home seemed pointless and if I didn’t have to wash a stupid WHITE Baseball uniform Every. Single. Day.  I would’ve camped right on the grounds thus beginning the first occupy Ball field.

But we (ball sports involve the entire family and my youngest began to manifest demons at the mere mention of ball, field or game) survived and the team made history in their undefeated win of 4 straight championships and runner-up in the Pony East Zone tournament.

My teenage baller is an animal and managed to break 7 (I stopped counting after the 7th hit to my bank account) bats this season.  He had a great year and almost made it worth the monetary and kronos investment.

Take a look at the consuming, cheesy posed ball life taken by my convenient cell phone.  I’m not one of those “good mothers” who not only washes but iron starches her son’s uniform with pure joy, brings home-baked snacks for all of the exhausted boys and parents, has her Nikon ready (complete with telescopic lens to capture each bead of sweat), bounces across the field like Tigger amped on the now regulated cough meds, offers to car pool endlessly, dresses her entire family in coordinated team spirit wear, and screams non-stop without suffering any damage to her vocal cords.  Okay, so maybe this exact woman doesn’t exist but I’ve met some that come pretty sickening close.

I hatefully throw the uniform in the machine and pray it comes out partially clean (secretly envisioning the day when it will blaze on my bon fire).  Iron?  My youngest didn’t even recognize one in the store.  I barely bake for my own children and certainly do not plan to torture myself for offspring that are not my own.  My cell phone captures the moment with enough grainy haze that if you felt the need to see a drop of sweat then one could certainly be imagined.  I have to down coffee laced with regulated cough syrup just to function so field bouncing isn’t in my routine.  I can barely get my own DNA to where they need to be and adding others into the mix would be a suicide mission on wheels.  Coordinated team spirit wear?! My family considers themselves fortunate to have daily clean wear and matching socks is a huge bonus (the only coordination they know).  The last time I tried to scream for my son, I choked on my spit and bronchospasmed.

Enjoy!

One of many this season

Yes, I’m a dirtball and we are bringing some of the field home with us but I am too exhausted to care.

Proud Papa poses for yet another championship win.

Score, another one!  They could be twins.

It takes two to hold this so I better help him – Proud Papa  Hey Proud Papa, wanna help me wash that uniform?!?

Aww, she does love him even if we had to bribe and drag her to the game

Proud of their bro even if Tres’ motivation is trophy lust

Oh look, his dedication paid off and he scored one of his own. It pays to be a loyal bat boy a.k.a. little brother

My baller throws a fast 65 and beat the 17yr olds even though he was holding back for the upcoming game.

New bat #7…I think. Sadly I don’t predict a long life span for this guy.

As if we have not experienced enough ball! Seeing how the pros do business.

It was a sadistically fun ride.  Now we are getting ready for the start of school and more ball activities ahead.

Boys and their balls.  The infatuation never ends.

Team OJ vs. Team Marcia: A day in my parenting life.

I’ve heard the stories.  I’ve been told.  Yes, it seems that as we parents age we tend to lose our mad – I smell a child skunk – radar skills (along with our eye sight, smelling, which is why we can’t smell the overbearing skunk, hearing, bladder control and all other useful functions).

Never! ( I thought).  Not me! (I proclaimed).  Not even possible (I proudly boasted).  Doesn’t the Bible say something about pride and boasting?  Um, hmm. And it isn’t good.

Well this aging parental proud boaster learned a lesson.  You think I would’ve learned to be a little more cautious after my darlin’ baby pulled this stunt a couple of years ago.  However, in defense of my previous state of ignorance, we parents want to believe our children.  We are TOLD by the media to believe our kids (and the sneaky little offspring know this!)

So when my youngest came home with a bus tale from hell (involving forced gum consumption in spite of his existing expander) I rose to his defense.  Ok, so to be fair, I was kinda set up.  Why?  Well, he has had multiple issues on this bus even involving physical assault (the little guy took a breath sucking punch to the gut).

I believe in tough love and find myself quoting Mr. Pavlov’s “suck it up” (whatever it may be) a little too often.  Although, without a doubt, I become my children’s OJ Simpson legal defense team when warranted.  I have their back and they rest securely in this knowledge.

This warranted Mama Bear roared and demanded that the school employ serious intervention (because somehow intervention alone seemed lacking) in this bus situation.  The school rose to the challenge and began to implement change.

Then my previously constipated maternal radar took an Exlax and began to flow freely.  Beeps and alarms were going off all over the place.  Something just didn’t fit and this team OJ was not about to acquit.  Could it be?  Could my youngest, my baby, be deceiving me?

I asked him…several times.  It was not until his grandmother’s profession of his truthfulness that he broke and actually told the truth.   She spoke into existence his character, the character we have in and through Christ and that alone drove away all deception.

As he told the truth it became obvious that he wove two separate events together with such creativity and detailed precision that I sat and marveled at his intelligence.

Then I felt nauseous because I remembered my team OJ demand for serious intervention.   I knew, without a doubt, that the serious intervention would be coming from my son and myself and I wanted to hide (I was really feeling the whole fig leaf and animal skin thing).  I knew we had to correct the situation and bring forth the truth but part of me really didn’t want to.

Have you wrestled with feeling like these before?  I knew what had to be done but sooo wanted NOT to have to do it!   I guess I was concerned with how his deception reflected on not only him, but on myself as his parent.

I felt for sure they would be thinking he was a bad kid who lied easily.  I thought they would treat him differently and view him with suspicion.  Plus they were sure to ask: What kind of parent was I?  How foolish was I to believe his story?  The fear of man is a very motivating force behind our bad decisions!  It would be soooo much easier to let the entire incident blow over and have the school staff still hold us in a positive light.  However, this tempting apple was not an option (I’ve learned that bad things happen when you eat the sin apple).

I uncomfortably became prosecuting attorney, Marcia Clark and marched his little toosh into the school office and had him tell the truth (while I held my breath).

They listened.  Then they handed him a kleenex for his tears and snotty nose and as he wiped and blew they thanked him for coming forward and telling the truth.  They called him a “man” because, as one staff member put it, any boy can lie but it takes a man to tell the truth.  They handled him with such tenderness, mercy and grace that I couldn’t help but think of our heavenly Father and how he lovingly deals with us in our tearful, mucus loaded states.

My little man finally smiled and so did team Marcia, rather comfortably.