My Intimate Relationship with Lee the Nail Technician

You know how there are some things that one just doesn’t talk about in casual conversation? 

Me neither.

Let me tell you about my latest bikini wax . . .

If you are a faithful (add-clicking, friend-telling, facebook-stalking) follower of this blog, then you know I am no stranger to the wax misadventure.  In case you missed the first installment, you can read all about it here and here. 

The problem is, the last time I wrote about the 7^th level of Hell where Satan’s minions apply hot wax to your body in the name of fashion/vanity/self-loathing was my most recent waxing. 

Here’s a tip.  Do not wait July, August, September, October, November, December, January, February EIGHT MONTHS between waxes.  I had every intention of keeping up with my waxes, but it takes time and privacy, neither of which I have.  If I have an hour of freedom, I usually go get my toes done because people other than my husband and my gynecologist actually SEE those.  (BTW, my husband is most certainly making snide under-his-breath comments about the cost-effectiveness of getting a bikini wax that he sees about as often as my gynecologist – you know, the annual visit.  Haha.)

"yowwww, Kelly Clarkson!
Gosh, I'm sorry.
I don't usually curse."

Hubby knew that I have been needing a break lately, so he suggested I take off for a little bit and perhaps go get a pedicure.  I backed out of the driveway with the force of a Nascar driver leaving the pole.  (That’s right!  I made a Nascar reference!  Remember?  I’m the lil bit o’ trailer park at the country club?)

I walked into the nail salon and announced that I need “a pedicure and a bikini wax.”  The nail technician replied with “okay honey.  Pick color,” and yelled, “eyebrow wax!” to one of the technicians in the back. 

Because it wasn’t embarrassing enough to say it once, I was forced to repeat my request, “no, no, I need a bikini wax.  There’s a difference.”   I was already blushing because you know how I get about any topic regarding nether-regions.  And do my eyebrows look SO fluffy that she naturally assumed I meant eyebrow wax? 

I was really hoping that Lee the Nail Technician would be performing the duties as she is the Satan’s Minion who did it last time.  I feel really close to her now, even though she didn’t call me afterwards. After our previous intimate experience, you’d think she would have called.  Sigh.

No such luck.  So now there is yet another woman in my little town who has seen more of my hoo-ha than the doctor who delivered my last child.  And now I feel like I should take the morning-after pill, just to be safe.

She was not as talky or as gentle as Lee the Nail Technician.  

The few things she said to me, in between audible sighs of frustration:

1. Oh honey.  You wait too long.  It gonna hurt.
2. Put hand right here.  Hold dis.  (You know what "dis" was?  My gut.  That’s right.  She was asking me to hold my gut so that it was not interfering with her workspace.)
3. You sweating.  “I’m anxious,” I replied.  I know honey.  You hands all sweaty.

When she was finished, an excruciating half hour later, my face was beet red, as were other, um, areas, and I was so hot I asked her for a bottle of water.

Oh honey, you sweating so much you dehydrated.  Hahaha.

Thanks for that.

Please, ladies, let my experience be a lesson.  Maintenance is key, and I’ve decided that it may be worth it to fork out the big bucks to go to a real salon; one not located in a strip mall next to the Dollar Store. 

I'm Judgy McJudgerson. Nice to Meet You.

You know how I’m always preaching advising that mothers should not criticize other mothers because we’re all struggling in our own way, even if the persona we present publicly is a mixture of Mary Poppins and June Cleaver?   (Not Roseanne, like I portray.) 

Don't make me judge you . . . 

Well fasten your seatbelts, readers; I’m about to get all Judgy McJudgerson on you’re a$$es. 

On Wednesday, February 8 an article entitled “School Tardiness Sends Waterford Parents to Court” appeared in our local paper, the Loudoun Times-Mirror.  (I know that was a week ago. Pipe down.  I've got a family to raise.) 

Hmmmm, I thought.  I am a former educator and currently a parent.  I am going to read this article.  Then I’m going to extrapolate my unsolicited opinion for my unsuspecting readers to enjoy.  

You’re welcome.

You can read the article in its entirety here.

My favorite parts of the article read as follows:

Mark Denicore leaves early for work each morning from his home in Waterford.  His wife, Amy, is in charge of getting their three children ready and out the door for school.  With three children, all under age 10, it can be challenging to get them ready all at once and make it to school on time.  

What is every parent’s early-morning routine challenge has now turned into a legal battle and a potential life-changing event for the family.

 

On January 31, the Denicores were served with a summons to appear in court on a Class 3 misdemeanor for their daughter Sophie’s excessive tardiness.

The Denicores admit they’re not perfect parents.  Their three children have been late to school 85 times since September, but the majority of the time they missed the opening bell by only a few minutes.

 [Just for the sake of clarification, two children have been late 29 times and one has been late 27 times.]

"The three children have only missed less than three hours each of school since September," Mark Denicore said.

 

Amy Denicore is a stay-at-home mom and either drives their children to school or allows them to walk the few blocks to Waterford Elementary."

 

Although he and his wife had been warned of the constant tardies, they didn’t feel the school system would take it to this extreme.

So.  Much.  Judging.  To Do. 

1. I, too, have three children under the age of 10.  I have been known to miss the bus once or twice.  I have been on the receiving end of the bus driver's smug look and forced smile as I apologized for making her wait.  In fact, you can read all about one of my parenting misadventures here!  I completely understand being late every once in a while.  Kids can’t find their shoes.  They won’t get out of bed on time.  They forget to wear underwear.  (No?  Just in my household?)  Sh*t happens; I get it.  But 29 times? 
2. This family lives within walking distance of the school.  Here’s a tip: leave the house earlier.  Yes.  It really is that simple.
3. What lesson are you teaching your children when you treat their chronic tardiness as if it is perfectly acceptable?  That when you have a real job and you’re expected to show up on time, the rules don’t apply to you?  Those rules are for other people?  Mark Denicore is a lawyer.  What happens when he is late to court, I wonder.
4. For those who are critical of the school system for spending the time and money on taking the Denicores to court . . . the Denicores forced their hand.  After numerous warnings and lengthy correspondence from Loudoun County schools, the children were still late.  The school system was left with no alternative but to enforce their guidelines.
5. As a former teacher, I can attest to the fact that it is disruptive to the entire class to have students show up late.  It is disrespectful to the teacher and to the other 20-some students who made the effort to be punctual.  Further, I guarantee that teachers and administrators have spent an excessive amount of time on paperwork documenting the Denicores' breach of the rules.  That’s right, folks.  Teaching is more than just making photo-copies and sharpening pencils.  Surprise!
6. Granted, I got all my information from the newspaper, but as far as I can tell, there are NO extenuating circumstances that prevent the Denicores from getting their children to school on time.  Mom’s not sick.   Dad’s not overseas.  It's called laziness.  That's right!  I said it!
7. Yes, getting kids out of the house in the morning can be a lot like nailing jello to the wall, but millions of parents get it done every day.  So can you. 

Dear Denicores, no one is saying you’re bad parents.  I’m sure you love them, feed them, and provide them shelter and other basic needs.  There are children all over the world who would gladly trade their fly-ridden, dehydrated, naked lot in life for the "only less than three hours" of the free education we are fortunate enough to have in this country.  Please give your children’s education the respect it deserves and stop making light of it.  Teach your children to be respectful of time, structure, and basic societal expectations, because eventually they’re going to grow into adults who believe that rules don’t apply to them.  Be forewarned: when one of your offspring parks in the handicapped spot when it is not a necessity simply because rules do not apply to him, I will key his car.  

Thank you for your time,

(hehe.  Get it?!)

Judgy McJudgerson

Wading through Wegmans

First, check out my new BoyMommy button over there to the right.  I'm gettin' all techy and whatnot.  You can also follow a link to the BoyMommy Facebook page, in case you need more of a fix.

Now, down to business.

I have made a shopping list to beat all shopping lists.  It is designed for our neighborhood Wegmans, but my guess is that most of them are set up similarly.  For those of you not versed in the joy of Wegmans, it is a giant grocery store based out of Rochester, New York, but it has made its way down the east coast to my little town in Virginny.  The first time I discovered Wegmans, I called Hubby at work and told him to eat a light lunch because we would be dining at Wegmans that night, to which he responded, "we're going to eat dinner at the grocery store?"

Yes.  Yes, we are.

They have everything you could ever want in a grocery store.  Some of them even have child-care centers where you can check your kid in while you do your shopping.  Can you imagine?  Kid-free grocery shopping?  Ours, however, does not have a child care center, so I have to navigate that giant grocery cart with the car on the front like it's a Greyhound Bus in aisle 7.

Anyhoo, since I often have at least one child with me while I shop, I can't afford to linger.  I need to get in and out with minimal dilly-dallying, so it annoys me when I forget something at one end of the store and have to go allllll the way back to where I began.

Generally, my shopping list hangs on the fridge and ends up looking like this:

Well, the diaper pail refills are nowhere near the bananas, which are nowhere near the spaghetti, which is nowhere near the yogurt.

Necessity if the mother of all invention, SO . . . I have devised a shopping list specific to Wegmans that is broken down by location.  Hopefully this will prevent me from backtracking, but we'll see.

You can use it too!  It's a free service I am offering to you out of the goodness of my heart.  (And also, if YOU get in and out of there, the likelihood of ME being able to snag one of those car carts increases substantially.)



What's that you say?  You have a child whose metabolism does not rival that of a gazelle fleeing from a predator and who does not need to bulk up on Pediasure?  You make homemade meals every day and don't need to feed your offspring Lunchables or Hamburger Helper?  You're a dude and don't need tampons except when it's Cotton and Cardboard Arts and Crafts Day at your place of employment?  Feel free to print it out and modify.  (You'll notice there is a dearth of fresh vegetables on my list.  You can add them to your list if you're all healthy and stuff.)

Happy shopping, yo.

Why Do I Have to Do Everything Around Here?

In the past week, two of my children have announced, “I have to do EVERYTHING around here!”  I won’t tell you which two, but suffice it to say it was not the child whose only complete sentence is “I wan git out.”

I had asked someone to pick up legos and I had asked someone else to take his shoes upstairs to his room.  Both requests were enough to send my exhausted, overworked children into meltdown mode.  Obviously I’m running some sort of child labor camp out here in the ‘burbs. 

Just for the sake of argument, some of MY responsibilities around here:

• Make lunches (pb for one, jelly for the other.  Because heaven forbid they want the same thing.)
• Laundry – carrying it downstairs, separating it, folding it, putting it away, repeat.
• Oversee homework – this includes actively monitoring the process as I am forced to be a hoverer lest it not get completed . . . which ultimately leads to a very tense Thursday evening.
• Load/unload the dishwasher.
• Wipe the yellow from around the toilet bowl.
• Steam clean the carpet where the dog peed.  Again.
• Wait for the plumber.
• Go Grocery shopping.
• Make sure each bathroom is appropriately stocked with toothpaste, toilet paper, and soap
• Drop off and pick up the dry-cleaning.
• Change light bulbs.  (oops, I forgot: the Lighbulb Fairy does that.)
• Take the dog to the vet.
• Transport patients to various dentist/doctor/allergist appointments.
• Prepare delightful meals that my children won’t eat.
• Keep the family calendar.
• Taxi children to Cub Scouts and various sports practices.
• Attend parent-teacher conferences and field phone calls from the principal.
• Vacuum, since I’m still finding random Christmas ornament hangers embedded in the carpet.
• Make sure we always have an epipen, ibuprofin, children's cough medicine, neosporin, bandaids, and pepto.
• Make sure the Cub Scout uniforms are ready for Wednesday and Friday, the basketball uniform is ready for Monday and Saturday, and the baseball uniform is ready for Sunday.
• Plan spectacular birthday parties that rival the festivities surrounding the Royal Wedding.

And that’s just the BIG stuff.  There are lots of mundane little tasks that I also take care of:

• Turning the Wii on
• Pouring milk
• Reaching the top shelf of the pantry
• Turning the shower on
• Reaching the top drawer
• Cutting the top off the yogurt
• Twisting the top off the Gatorade
• Putting batteries in the remote
• Tying shoes
• Wiping snotty/boogery/crusty noses
• Wiping, um, other things

AND I do all this while trying to maintain a modicum of my former intelligence, any youthful good looks I may have once had, and an enthusiastic parenting attitude, while trying not to hit the sauce until after 5pm.

So yes, children – clearly I owe you an apology for asking you to pitch in a bit.  I’ll do that right after I finish sitting on my @ss while watching my stories.

Again with the Beer Baby . . .

I’m fat.

I get it.

It happened again.  We were at a cocktail party Friday night when someone asked me, “so which number is this for you?” and glanced down at my abs-of-steel region.

Ugh. 

“We have three, and we’re done,” I replied.  

“Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I added, which prompted her to say, “oh, you’re not fat!”

Well then why’d you just insinuate that I was pregnant?  Nobody sees Kate Moss at a cocktail party, (holding a wine glass, by the way,) and comments on her pregnancy.  Poor Hubby hates when this happens, mostly because he has to clean up the emotional mess that accompanies my death spiral of self-esteem. 

I get it.  I am fluffy.  Generally, I’m okay with it.  

An acquaintance (who happens to by gay, so I totally trust him,) told me I just need to own my plus-sizeness.  He’s right.  No one is fooled by what I wear if I try to hide my plumpness.  So I try to dress appropriately; I try to look nice and wear clothes that fit.  I don’t look frumpy (except when I’m wearing my bus-stop sweatpants and my puffy coat.  On a side note, puffy coats are NOT flattering, especially on big girls.  But damn if that coat is not warm.)  Since I carry a lot of weight in the front, I can’t rock a tight dress – I need something with an empire waist, which is more flattering, but which apparently looks like I own stock in Motherhood Maternity.

I carry my weight in my front.  (And hips.  And cheeks, and upper arms, and boobs.  But NOT in the rear.  My badonkadonk is more like just a badonk.)  Just to clarify, again:

Me pregnant:

The back side is F-L-A-T.
The front?
Not so much.

Me, pregnant and bloated with a beer baby:

My point is that I am making efforts to be more healthy.  I’m doing Weight Watchers . . . AGAIN . . . and I go to the gym.  But it’s going to take some time. I am never going to be a size 10, and I am okay with that.  I am fluffy because I prefer beer and pizza to salad and a glass of ice water.  I do not have a thyroid problem nor do I have a genetic propensity for obesity.  My body has borne three children and endured various other emotional/hormonal events, and it has not bounced back.  I OWN it.   

But for the love o’ pete, it hurts my feelings when grown-ups insinuate that I am pregnant.  I struggle with it every day and I don’t blame anyone else but myself.  I try to be a kind person, a good friend, an understanding wife, a loving mother.  I wake up every day and try to be all these things, and I know, intellectually, that these qualities are what matter most.  So when you meet me at a party, let’s talk about religion and politics, but NOT my weight, because that, my friend, is a sensitive topic.

Household Organization

I feel that it's important to have an organized home, and I love it when things are labeled.

I present to you, Ice Tea:

Or perhaps you'd like some Orange Juice:

Prefer ice cubes in your beverage?  No problem; we gotcha covered:

What you have here is a firm example of why Hubby says no one else finds me funny except for ME, and that I'm the only one who laughs at my jokes.  And honestly, I have gotten quite a giggle out of my little project.  Clearly I need to make better use of my time.