To Pee or Not To Pee, That Is the Question

MjAxMi0zM2ViZDU4MzEwZjlkYTc3I love reading the local news stories.  Especially about stupid arrests that have been made.   A house was raided recently in a neighboring town.  What do you think they found?  Not cocaine.  Not marijuana.  Human urine.  300 gallons of it.  Huh.  I wonder if these containers were found by the bed.  Or the couch.  If so, I totally can relate. I have the same “Too Lazy To Get Up and Go To The Bathroom” disease.

If I had a dollar for every time I just walked right on by the bathroom when I had to pee because I was too lazy to actually go, I’d be able to self-fund my own lobotomy.  You know, take out the “lazy”?  It just doesn’t make any sense.  Why would I go and get all comfy on the couch to only have to get up sooner or later anyway.  Inevitably the urge gets too strong to wait any longer when I had the opportunity literally at my fingertips minutes ago.  That right there is piss-poor planning at its finest.  (Don’t pardon the pun.  I meant to say that.)  Sometimes I convince myself that if I wait long enough, I will empty TWO bladder-fulls so that I don’t have to get up TWICE.

Same thing is true when you wake up at 5 in the morning and you have to go so bad you are at risk of embarrassing yourself, seeing visions of the future dance through your head.   But you don’t get up.  You lay awake thinking that you really ought to get up.  Wasting precious moments of blissful sleep.  I have even layed there imagining myself walking to the bathroom.  Levitation may work for David Blaine but it sure doesn’t work for me.  I know this because I have tried.

My parting words to you:  just pee man.  Now as for taking my own advice?  I’ll try.  And the guy/woman with the bottles of urine?  What’s the big deal? In fact, thanks for the idea.

Medieval Torture?

Inflict torture on our bodies.  That’s what we women do.  All in the name of Beauty.  Yesterday, as I was sitting in The Threader’s chair, with tears running down my face, little hairs itching my nose and a strong urge to punch the threading broad in the face and take her stupid floss and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I started wondering why we do these things to ourselves.  After I was finished tormenting myself, I walked around looking like I tried to set fire to my face:

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(There I go looking like Droopy again.  It’s uncanny, isn’t it?)

Then I got to thinking of all the other things we do for beauty.

Bikini Wax.  I did that.  Once.  About 16 years ago.  On the floor of the living room of my best friend’s apartment.  With 2 towels.  One in my mouth to prevent someone from calling the cops.  And one underneath me so when I bled to death, at least her carpet would be saved.  In retrospect, I probably should have gone to a professional.  It was likely equivalent to asking a butcher to cut my hair (sorry P, I know you tried).  And you women who go full-out and do that brazilian wax number?  If I wore a hat, I’d tip it to you.  You are some brave chicks.  There isn’t enough Holy Water in Jerusalem to get me to do that EVER.

Hair Coloring.  All those chemicals that get rubbed into our scalps.  I won’t highlight my hair but once or twice a year because I’m afraid of developing a brain tumor.  My stylist thinks I’m nuts.  But I remember when Jackie O died.  Everyone kept saying it was because she colored her hair too many times.  That totally freaked me out.  I’d rather walk around looking like Lillian Munster.

Fake Nails.  We ingest more chemicals during that process.  That shit seems so toxic to me.  Yes, I used to go get fake nails put on back before I was married.  But now I’m scared to death of all that.  I’m good with my nubs.  Besides, I can’t really hurt anyone, particularly The Threader, with what I have rockin’ at the end of my phalanges.

Botox, boob jobs, nips, tucks.  It’s endless.  All for what?  So we can look good, of course.  People don’t want to look at our hairy faces, sagging foreheads or breasts that wobble to and fro’.  What’s wrong with embracing our natural beauty?  Apparently, this chick doesn’t agree.  She looks much better now, don’t you think?

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Her “before” picture is to the right, believe it or not.  She sure was ugly once.

Picasso Is In the House

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I love DH’s hair. I always wanted a man with a ‘fro.

I have saved enough of the kids’ art and school work to paper every wall and ceiling in our house, with enough left over for the neighbor.  I have a large Rubbermaid bin for every single year from pre-school through 5th grade.  Why only through 5th grade?  I’ll get to that.

I just have to preface what I am about to say with this:  I absolutely adore her stick figure people with a head, arms and legs.  Even if they don’t have a body.  I love them even more in spite of it.  And her elephant with the trunk coming out of its eye.  Priceless.  I will cherish them forever.

I was completely obsessed about making sure her homework, teachers notes, report cards and art was filed away in the correct bin.  Everything.  If something wasn’t dated, I would break out in a major sweat and have to down a fifth of scotch to calm my nerves.

But all that changed a few years ago when my mother gave me a small cardboard box.  What it contained was some artwork and odds and ends from my childhood.  She was smart enough to pick and choose the best of my work and toss the rest.  If she had showed up on my doorstep with 15 plastic bins, I would have had her arrested for trespassing.

That is why the kid’s middle school bin is light.  Bin.  Singular.  Because when DH and I go into retirement and move to some little place down south or travel the world, where will I house it all?  I won’t.  I’ll most likely give it to her as my mother gave mine to me.  At the rate I was going, I would have had to rent a U-Haul to get it all to her house.  I’m sure that would go over as well as a monk farting in church.

So, if you are going to take my advice and downsize, hear this: while tossing some of your children’s artwork, make sure you remove it from the house.  Like into the next town.  While she/he is away at summer camp.  Because I got caught.  She melted down so badly I needed a mop.  Then she claimed I didn’t love her any more.  Trying to do damage control with an 8 year old is not fun.  And the disposed artwork?  You will find it in bin #6.   Dial 1-800-UHAUL for a good time.

In the Bush

I have bushy eyebrows. Bushy to the point where a weed wacker is in order.  They are thick and dark. Even though I am naturally blonde.

My mother was kind enough to hand these furry beasts down to me.  Here is her senior class picture:

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I know.  They don’t look bad.  That’s because she shaved them completely off and this is the regrowth.  If you look closely, you can see the bald, uneven spots.  She was also blind in one eye that day.  She says that was the start of a lifetime of migraines.  Or she slipped with the razor.

Here I am at my bushiest:

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My hair looks dark because I am 8 months pregnant.  I also had pin straight hair before her conception. So now in addition to straightening, I have to dye to achieve the ‘before” look.

Not too bad from this vantage point.  But on closer inspection you would have noticed that they are growing up, down and all around.  My mother pointed that out to me about 14 years ago.  She should talk.

So, I started tweezing.  I plucked the freaking hell out of those bush balls.   I didn’t pluck them all the way off, but I may as well have.   They were baldy, sparse and they didn’t match.

My plucking turned to waxing which turned to threading.  No, threading does not entail people threading fake eyebrows on, which is what I thought it was when I first heard the word.  It involves 2 pieces of floss-like string.  This string is twisted and used to pluck out a line of hair.  The pain ranks right up there with scrubbing your face with an acid wash.  I choose to thread because believe it or not, it’s less abrasive than waxing.  I don’t walk around looking like I have diaper rash on my face for 5 days with threading, like I did when I waxed.

Anyway, I went too far those years ago.  I see women in Hollywood with beautifully shaped eyebrows and know I will never have them.  Because I plucked my hair follicles to the point of murder. I am green with eyebrow envy.

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I would just about sell my first born for these babies. Just about.

You know where my brow follicles seem to have appeared?  Anywhere between my neck and nose.  If I catch myself in the sunlight looking in the mirror, I am praying for some tweezers.  Isn’t it funny how as we age the hair on our head thins, but the hair on our face, chin and neck thickens?  Yes.  And I’m laughing all the way to the electrolysis.

Drive With Care

My next car.  You can't fix what's already broken.
My next car.

DH and I have different views on how you should care for a car.  For me, it’s 4 wheels with a roof that gets me from point A to point B.  I don’t mind if it dents, scratches or buckles.  I will wedge myself into a parking spot with barely room to exit (I proved so here) if it means taking less steps to get to my destination.

My husband believes in caring for your car as if it were a new baby.  Gently parking it in what I refer to as “the nosebleed section” of the parking lot.  If I wanted to walk that far, I would have left the car at home.  I know he’s doing the correct thing.  For resale value, treating your car with kid gloves is the way to go.  But I intend to drive my car into the ground.  So I’m cool with it.

Did I mention that I am married to the Car Whisperer?  His dent radar goes off every time I have a mishap.  And I have a mishap often.  I have hit those stupid cement pillars in underground parking lots (who puts those things there anyway?), I have run over mailboxes, deer heads and nails.  I’ve backed up into bushes and down embankments (that only happened once and my driveway was icy so don’t judge me).

Once I completely didn’t see a large carcass of I-don’t-know-what in the middle of the road.  It literally scraped against the undercarriage of my car.  That stench stayed with us until we traded her in.  Anyone who has had the pleasure of coming into my driveway knows that there is a huge rock to the left of it.  I have even hit that and blown out a tire.  I think my husband has given up.  My next car will most likely be a leftover from the demolition derby, I’m afraid.

But don’t be frightened to drive with me.  I have less accidents and traffic tickets than most.  In fact, I really am an excellent driver.  Just ask the deer I hit.

Frugal and Proud

Yes, I do this too.
Yes, I do this too.

I am frugal.  No, let me rephrase.  I am cheap.  I am the type of person who cringes when DH takes more than 1 paper towel to dry his hands.  I sit there and watch him while he grabs at the roll and just keeps pulling on it while 3, 4 and 5 sheets go by.  He could be talking to me, but I don’t hear him because I am dying inside.  Staring at the diminishing roll.  Biting my nails.  Wondering when he’s going to stop.  I could say it’s because I’m worried about the environment.  But that would be a lie.  It’s because with every sheet, I see money being thrown out the window.

When I reach the end of a shampoo or lotion bottle, I will set it upside down and use every loving drop of it. I will stick my finger in there and swipe at whatever is left.  Bang the bottle on the countertop to get every last drip to come out.  And I mean EVERY.LAST.DRIP.  My favorite game is to guess how many more uses I can get out of a container before I have to open a new one.

We know a woman who has been a friend of the family for forever.  She is an older version of me in more ways than one.  She cuts her shampoo bottles in half so that she can use every bit.  Everyone thinks it’s funny.  Me?  I think it’s the best idea since, like…ever.  I got four more shampoos out of my last bottle because of her.  I’ll have to thank her next time I see her.

I refuse to buy anything that isn’t on sale.  Even though the sign says “4 for a dollar”, I will buy one because that’s all I need at the moment.  I would prefer to buy store brand, but DH seems to know the difference so I can’t.  It kills me.

Yet, somehow I manage to spend every penny I have in my wallet.  I could start the week with $100 and in two days, it’s gone.  Don’t ask me.  I guess I am what you would call an oxymoron.  Oh well.  So, who wants to go out for lunch?  You buying?

I Love You, I Love You Not.

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Remember when we were kids and we had to do a “research” paper on George Washington?  You ran to the living room shelf in hopes that your mom bought enough groceries that week to score the W-Z of the Funk & Wagnall Encyclopedia set so you could read up on the old goat.  It took her a year to acquire the entire set.  Only for it to be obsolete by the end of 7th grade.  We had to eat a lot of spaghetti and sloppy joe’s to stay updated.

Basically everyone in your class turned in the same paper.  Plagiarism wasn’t allowed back then either, so we took the most important facts from the 5 paragraphs we had available to us, flipped the words around and wrote something down.  If we were lucky, either mom drove us or we rode our bikes over to the library for a little more in-depth research.  Those lucky kids received an automatic “A.”

Technology today definitely has its pros and cons.  One pro is that our kids have the world at their fingertips when it comes to research.  We get to save on gas by not having to drive them across town to the library.  If I didn’t have our weekly jaunt to the library when the kid was little, I’m not sure she would even know how the place works.  Remember the Dewey Decimal System?  I believe that is as defunct as the free grocery store encyclopedia.

Unknown-3Another pro about technology is when we are able to settle a bet.   I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a disagreement with DH about who that special guest star is on a rerun of “Charlie’s Angels.”  And putting an end to the argument in a matter of seconds with the flick of some fingers.  It’s awesome.

What I absolutely do not like about today’s technology is our lack of privacy.  News about one person can travel faster than Road Runner on speed.  It’s also not so good if you are trying to self-diagnose yourself.  Once I was sure I had Barrett’s Esophagus when really I just had too many jalapenos in my tacos.  Just stick to a real doctor.  Chances are you are going to live.

That’s basically how I feel about it all in a nutshell.  Okay, I gotta go.  I have to go Tweet about what I’m doing right now.  Oh, and Facebook some photos of myself.

The Death of a Habit?

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I was on Facebook today and I saw that a friend posted this article about the dangers of drinking. Here is the headline:

Even Moderate Drinking Linked to Increased Cancer Risk

Oh dear God.  If this is true, then I am a dead woman.  Basically, the article talks some shit about how even having a glass of wine a day can increase your risk of getting cancer by, well, a lot.

I am one of those people who has a glass of wine every night.  Ok, maybe not EVERY night.  Let’s say the average month consists of 30 days.  I drink wine about 28 days a month.  And about 22 of those days I have more than just one glass.  The odds are not in my favor.

So here I was using the excuse to drink red wine because it was really good for your heart and since I have high cholesterol I thought it was great because I would just have a glass of wine with my steak (total run-on sentence — sorry).  Except now the cancer risk outweighs the heart healthy part.

It’s funny because my mom has been telling me for years about this cancer/alcohol link.  I pretty much just roll my eyes and open a bottle of my favorite Cabernet.  You have to understand something about my mom.  She reads everything and watches CNN like it’s the only show on TV. So, every “new” development that comes up, which is pretty much every day, I’m sure to know about it.  The most ridiculous thing like breathing can cause lung cancer.  Ok, I’m kidding.  But shit, everything gives us cancer these days.

If I listened to everything my mom told me, here are the things I would have to give up:

  • Cooked meat  – Have you ever had an uncooked hamburger?  Yum.  Watch out for those tape worms though.
  • Sun  – An oldie but a goodie.  Slather on that lotion.  Or be pale and cold.  Your choice.
  • Mouthwash – In lieu of the recent study, this one should be a no brainer.
  • Vitamins  – Yup.  This is a new one.  Those antioxidants are serious bad boys.
  • Body lotion – Yes, even body lotion.  It can cause breast cancer believe it or not.  So, do we slather on lotion to avoid skin cancer, or go out in the sun without it to avoid breast cancer?
  • Alcoholic beverages – I have nothing to say except it just sucks.

So anyway, now that I’ve actually seen it in words, I’m suddenly freaked out.  Like, really freaked out.  I even went out to lunch with the family today and didn’t order a glass of wine.  That’s unheard of.  For some reason, I think any time I sit in a restaurant there is this rule that I have to drink wine.  So, I ordered water and I didn’t actually die.

Ok, so I can give up body lotion and mouthwash.  But wine?  There are no words.  I think I’m in mourning.  I’ll start my mourning on Monday, with my New Year’s Resolutions.

Scrub a Dub Dub

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Yes, I use a washcloth.  In fact, I’m a washcloth scrubber.  (Be careful where you scrub though, apparently you can scrub natural bacteria right off your vajayjay and cause an infection.  I read that somewhere.  I know it’s tempting but refrain.)  Anyway, doesn’t everyone scrub with a washcloth?   Apparently…not.

I recently had a conversation with some friends about washing with a washcloth (yes, I know…very compelling) and I was completely shocked to find that, according to them, it’s rare to wash with one.  Well, in my circle anyway.  Dirty, dirty circle.

Just a bar of soap and their hands work fine for them.  Huh.  What about all those crevices?  Those certain unmentionables that I don’t think I want my hands touching on a good day?

Well, “that’s what the soap is for,” they tell me.  Ok, so I gave it a try.  The only problem is, I got the overwhelming need to wash my soap…with a washcloth.  Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m a pretty clean person.  I mean, it’s not like I go out and sling mud or anything.  It’s just that, well, we have….crevices.  I mean, they call them wash cloths for a reason, right?  It’s a cloth to WASH with, correct?  Maybe I’m missing something.

I have to admit that I like my washcloth.  I have a bit of a love affair with my washcloth (get your head out of the gutter).  My washcloth as seen more…oh.  Never mind.  How about those Mets?

McDeaf

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“Welcome to McDonalds.  Can I take your order?”  Said the guy behind the speaker.

“Yes, I’ll take a #2 meal with a sprite.  A 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken honey mustard wrap with a coke.  That’s it.  Thank you.”  Said me.

“Would you like fries with the crispy chicken wrap?”

“No thanks.”

“So, you would like a #3 meal…”

“Um, no.  Not a #3.  A #2.”

“Oh.  So you want a chicken wrap meal…”

“No, not a meal.  Just the wrap and a coke, no fries.”

“Oh, sorry.  So you want a 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken meal with a coke.  Will that be all?”

“No, I also would like the #2 meal.  With a sprite.”

(Am I being Punk’d?  I looked around for Ashton Kutcher.)

“Oh ok.  Your order comes to $15.74.  Please drive up to window #1.”

Seriously, considering the ordering process didn’t go so well, we were only missing a coke.  Like my New Year’s eve experience with bad ice, I should have known and just drove out of the parking lot.  Why do I do this to myself?  The signs were once again as strong as Popeye on 50 pounds of spinach.

I’m supposed to be on a diet anyway, right?  It looks like that just got bumped back to March.  Darn.