Archives
-Go a day without writing a blog entry
-Weigh over 200 lb.
-Steal a gallon of milk
-Have a disability
-Own a St. Bernard
-Wear Granny Undies
-Have a moustache
-Drink too much
-Install a chain link gate single-handedly
-Install a dishwasher single-handedly
-Listen to country music
-Read journals (blogs) of over 50 people daily
-Be desperate enough for a blog post that I would make a list of things I never thought I'd do, but did.
How 'bout you?
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What do they have in common? Neither wants anything to do with me .
This entry is going to be a bit of a downer, because well, I'm a loser. I can't deal with money if my life depends on it. And it DOES depend on it, friends.
The Mr. was gone for a couple of days, as is usual for early in the week. He has a job, you know! While he was gone, I took care of family business. Groceries, dog food, windex and toilet paper. I got gas, had the 13 year old's hair cut and picked up my step daughter who lives about an hour away. I also (with a HUGE amount of help, THANKS SHONDA!!) cleaned out the shed in back, the storage in front and finally got rid of the last couch of the three that we threw back there 2 years ago. Commence with the white trash jokes if you will. I deserve them.
Unfortunately, I didn't bother to check if we had money to cover these expenses, I simply spent the money. Why? I have no idea. Really. I guess I just thought, "Hey, we have savings, and it pulls from there if we run out in checking". What seems reasonable to me is apparently blind stupidity to anyone who handles their money correctly.
This isn't a new development. I've always been this way. My whole life, I could never understand why money went so fast, and how I consistently was overdrawn once I got a bank account. That running total in my head thing isn't as effective as I thought.
Once, a woman from my church offered to help. She came over every week and helped me write down a budget. We had great plans, but eventually, she grew frustrated with my aversion to using that register thingy in your checkbook. You mean that's not for writing notes when you're on the run? Unamused, she spent a good hour letting me know what was wrong with my life, my marriage, my relationship with God and my mental health. Yep, it was the most fun you can have in an hour. Unless you count a root canal. Or a colonoscopy.
So, here I sit, completely defeated and convicted in my own mind of being the worst wife and mother in exsitence. Because if I really cared, I would do it right. If I really loved the Mr., I would not jeopardize all the work he put into developing a little savings cushion. I would understand the difference between needs and wants, and control my spending. If I was any kind of successful person at all, I would understand plus and minus, because it really is that friggin' simple.
I can't even go sell my body to earn some extra dough. They don't buy women by the pound in Portland.
And what's worse? My Mr. just says "ok." No yelling, no scolding, no arguments. He'll just get quiet and fix it. And I get to stay awake all night stewing in my inadequacy. Yay me.
In conclusion if you would like to counteract all the negativity I've subjected you to, I suggest you go watch Hilly's fabulous video post .
And have a laugh for me, will ya? I picked the wrong day to give up drinking.
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I thank Sandra, the Sunshine Scribe , for proposing an interview for my faithful
1.What character (from a movie) would you most want to be?
Oooooo that's a tough one! I'd be very temped to be Lara Croft , because she's hot and kicks total hiney, or maybe (as of late) Queen Gorgo, wife of Gerard Butler's Leonidas, but if we're truly looking at things from every angle here, I'd have to go with Dolly . Except that "Hello, Tracy" doesn't have the same ring.
2. Who has had the most influence on your life?
I would love to say my mother, and truth be told she has had a great deal of influence on my life, but only because she pushed me so hard to be independent and never rely on a man, and when I didn't meet her expectations (and when I rebelled) she eventually withdrew, leaving me to figure out motherhood and being an adult woman without her. She built a lovely new lakeside house about, oh, five or so years ago. I've never been there. Thankfully, God placed in my life a woman who would be a wonderful mother figure, and everything I hope I can someday be. She's married to my father.
3. What is something about yourself that most people would never guess on first meeting you?
That I'm a raging alcoholic? Oh wait..not that's not it...I'm sadly transparent, and most things are obvious when you meet me. But if I had to guess, I'd say probably my weight. I hide it well.
4. Sunrises or sunsets?
Sunsets, totally. The night is about to begin, and my wild side is clawing at me to get out. Plus, it gives me something to look forward to throughout the day. And I can't remember the last time I saw a sunrise.
5. What is the worst nightmare you've ever had?
I was driving along the countryside with my husband and children on a road with a very steep cliff to one side. We drove up and up and it was almost like driving along a road with the grand canyon as the drop-off. Something happened and we went off the cliff. I was suddenly filled with a complete peace and prepared to die. We hit the ground, and as I felt the blood fill my head, a deep and evil voice called out "Unclean Diva!!!!" And I was filled with fear, robbed of my peace about dying right when it was happening. I think I woke up screaming.
Well, that's a lovely end to a fabulous interview! Thank you, Sandra, and if any readers would like to participate, drop me an email at tracymort at hotmail.com and I will ask you some deep, thought-provoking questions that do not inlude your bra size and favorite fattening food. Maybe.
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Picture the scene:
My sister and I, scouring the racks at Goodwill (because I don't have a problem with other people's old clothes). We head over to the plus size department, thinking we might find what she's looking for. Each time I said "OH LOOK!" and pulled a blouse out of the rack, it was a ladies medium or worse, a ladies small that had been put there mistakenly.
"Lovely," I said, "it's so encouraging when I'm looking for a size (insert double digit size here) to find the shirt I really like is a junior size small."
"Really!" she replied, sharing my righteous indignation.
"Well, I suppose if I really start feeling bad about being a size (insert double digit size here), there's a McDonalds in the parking lot, and I can just go grab a Big Mac and fries."
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Hope everyone had a fantastical weekend, and that we're all feeling at least partially ready to face the seven-day-horror-fest that is Spring Break.
I don't know who decided that, during the time of year when I have the most to do in my yard and the least amount of sleep (spring forward baby!) and patience to cancel school for an entire week. Clearly, someone without children. Dufus.
Our home was invaded this weekend by my older sister and her brood. Last year about this time, my
(cue the music for Matchmaker, Matchmaker via Fiddler on the Roof)
This is not the first match I've made, either. In fact, as they enter into wedded bliss, this will be the second pairing I've masterfully crafted in the last two decades. The last was an ex boyfriend and my best friend from my tweens (and on!), who still remain joined at the hip today after over 12 years of marriage. Like I said, I'm good.
This weekend was a bit of a whirlwind. Lots of activity, dinner parties, wild partying and more 300. Oh, Gerard Butler, what an amazing King Leonidas you make!.
At some point, I looked up my statistics for the first time since starting this blog. The various ways you find me are fascinating, and I just had to share the best ones with you, because if Lara did it, then so can I. Nyah .
My Favorite Search Phrases:
Sleazy animal -What the...!?!?
Is my son depressed -I don't know what to say about this. I really hope your son isn't depressed, because well, it sucks.
A secret nonsense -because the best nonsense is really the secret kind.
...and we return to the fan favorite:
TSM Lindsay -This would be about my post regarding a stunt double for Lindsay Lohan. I still have to read that twice. Proposterous. I wonder if someone recommended that post to a friend (much like I am still recommending the granola post at Finslippy ) and they searched? I can only hope people like me that much.
Finally, it is that time again. Yes, time that I have shopped and shopped and cannot find clothing that makes me resemble an apple any less. As well documented in "Ode to my Stomach" (by the way, more odes will be coming soon!), I find my backside and belly competing for position of most-despised appendage (if they're big enough to have their own gravitational pull, they are appendages!). I'm approaching defcon yellow and am going to blow. I can't take it anymore! It's time to once again spend quality time with (modified) Dr. Atkins.
Who knows? Maybe I'll discover the secret link between carbs and Fibromylgia, cure the disorder, write a book and become disgustingly famous! Then I can sit in my 1000 square foot home theatre with the remote, replaying over and over and over and over, "THIS...IS... SPARTA !!!!"
Oh YEAH .
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These are open letters,Lara style.
To the twenty-something jogger on Hwy 99 every afternoon: Honey, I see that you're really working hard. It's admirable. And yeah, you're much smaller than me. But a word of advice: you've got to strap your GIRLS down! I mean they're this close to giving you a shiner! Don't go jogging without having them properly contained. Besides, I'm tired of getting behind the letcherous toad that is gawking at your flopping bosom.
To the letcherous toad that cut me off in traffic to look at the twenty-something jogger : Dude...you're like fifty. Ewww!
To the crazy man that shouts at me as I drive by : At first I thought it was because I looked at you. But then I didn't, and you still yelled at me. Sir, I don't know what you want, but please don't yell at me as I drive by. I'm very sensitive.
To the drivers on 2nd street : I've said it before, and I will say it again. B-I-K-E does not spell PASSING! If I slow down to turn left, using the bike lane to pass me on the right is really not ok with me. And if you're the sorry sucker that injures my daughter because you didn't want to wait that extra millisecond for a car to turn, I have no problem going back to prison. Seriously.
Also to drivers on 2nd street : If you tailgate me when I'm going 23 in a 20, I will drop down to 18. Yes, I'm a bitch.
To the disgruntled worker at that fast-food-chicken place : If you are SO unhappy working there, please quit. I could totally do without the chicken bowl if it meant no more attitude from you. I don't want to hear about why you had to suffer a miscarriage while you were working because your manager wouldn't let you take the day off. I have enough drama in my life, thankyouverymuch. If your life is that dramatic, you should write a book.
To the girls at the pub who wear hardly anything and then try to pick up on my husband : Give it up. If I can stand naked in front of him offering everything a man could want and have him say "just one sec, hon...lemme finish this battle" then you don't stand a chance. Besides, he's had me. He'll never go back.
To the parent who likes to "help" the soccer coach during games by screaming at the girls : Sir, I'm going to stuff a banana in your mouth the next time you decide to yell at my daughter (or your own for that matter!). Your girl made a goal. I don't think it's necessary to yell at her for using the wrong foot to kick the ball in. Really.
to the weight-loss industry : Can't you just make a magic pill already?
To fibromyalgia : You SUCK.
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This conversation was had between the 15 year old and I:
Me: GO to your ROOM!
Him: What did *I* do? Jeez you've told me that like five times today!
Me: And yet, here you stand, NOT in your room!
Him: It's just that...I think there's something going on here!
...blink...blink...
Yathink?
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I was so nervous. Nervous and excited.
We had booked that beautiful church in downtown Grants Pass with the huge steeple that I had always passed and said "I want to be married THERE!". This, of course, meant putting up with that wierd woman-pastor and being married in a Methodist church, but I was ok with that because, truthfully, I didn't (and still don't) know what a Methodist is.
My mother told me I had the best lips in the family. My aunt had all the kids eating out of her hands. Everything was perfect.
We had recorded ourselves singing the songs we had chosen and I could hear them playing the first one. I watched as Kimberly lit the candles. I can still remember how it felt when I heard that first part of " Standing Right Next to Me" and I stepped out of the doorway. All I could see was you. SO handsome. So perfect. Loving me that much.
Charles, that whole day was perfection. I have few regrets for that particular day. Only that I had been thinner, and bought a big foofy dress. But still, it was perfect.
I cannot believe it has been NINE years today. Our invitations said on this day I would marry my best friend. And I did. And you're still my best friend. We laugh when others say we're so "cute" or that we obviously love each other a great deal. But it's true! You smile at me with that little smile only the two of us understand, and I am reduced to a quivering pile of jello. Even little things like the way we make sure we can see each other when we sing a song at karaoke. It's our thing. Like tacos (and Muchos!) and computer games!
I see the new lines on your face, the grey in your hair and I ask myself "How is it possible that his man gets sexier every day?". You laugh and say you feel old. I don't notice 'old'. I've watched you grow in so many ways, but old? Never. Perhaps we can't do the things we used to do, but there are some things we can still do.
And I'm really hoping we'll do some of them tonight .
Happy Anniversary, Charles!
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Thus far, I have managed to avoid embarassing my husband horribly by revealing far more information than he is comfortable sharing. Sadly, that time has come to an end, because today we're talkin' 'bout SEX bay-bee!
With my anniversary fast-approaching (it's actually this Wednesday, but we celebrated last weekend when there were no work responsibilities to damper da mood ) I felt the need . To lose 50 lb? You bet. To get a complete makeover and grow my hair six inches overnight? Absolutely. Those are all perfectly VALID needs. This one, however, was deeper... SEEDIER ...I felt the need-
-to SHOP.
Not just any kind of shopping, friends, but shopping for some, ahem, intimate accessories to highlight the celebration of nine years of wedded bliss.
SO I hired a professional.
NOT that kind!
I brought in my friend Jen from Slumber Parties by Jen and had, what else? A Slumber Parties party! If you've never heard of or been to one, check the site, or here for the Today show (you know how we LOVE them!) story on these fast-growing home parties. Not just for tupperware anymore!
I don't want you to misunderstand and think that Mr. TSM and I have no more Bow Chicka (to quote Oh, the Joys !). Because TRUST ME, there's LOTS Of Bow Chicka. Amazing Bow Chicka. Hot and...yeah, you get the point.
Unless you frequent adult stores (and which of us doesn't ?) you probably aren't familiar with the various products on the market for romance enhancement. Until my first party, neither was I. Boy, oh boy, do I have an idea now. And adult products have come a long way, baby!
The consultant comes into your home with her products (like pampered chef or party lite candles...only, NOT) and, as ladies arrive, hands them cotton swabs with a product on them to be applied in the restroom. Use your imagination . Then, as we have a few drinks, she goes over the products and why we need them so badly. There are products to toss at your partner when he swears he cannot sleep without it, products for you when YOU cannot sleep without it, products to eliminate razor burn and even soften skin. There are edible products and inedible products, lingerie and even books and games. There is NOT, however, any videos. It's not that type of business. Strictly high class, they are.
Jen (our consultant) really connected with us on this level that we're all too embarassed to talk about. Strange how we lose our inhibitions when our undies are tingly and we're holding something phallic. Probably the reason her stories and examples were so flippin' funny is because we could all relate! Just like a Pampered Chef party, some of the women there wanted to get more out of their bedroom, some wanted to do less in there, some didn't know what they wanted and some just wanted to add to their collection. It was informative, funny and we all bought something .
So now I totally want to become a consultant. Yeah, we'll discuss that later.
For now, I'm curious about YOUR experience. No kinky stories, please! Well, unless you really want to share. I want to know if you've been to one of these parties, what you thought, and if your pastor would approve of you selling the stuff. How bout mine? Would mine?
Let the comments FLOW! Feed my self esteem! FEED ME!!!
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Mr. TSM and I are celebrating 9 years of blissful matrimony this week, and we went out Saturday evening, hitting the town in celebratory fashion.
The high-end french restaurant where we dined was wonderful, made all the better by the spectacular conversation and a thirty-dollar bottle of wine. I haven't enjoyed talking with someone this much in a long time. I thought briefy about taking him home and having my way with him, but then realized that HEY...he's mine! I get to take him home anyway! YAY! SO, I reigned in my red-hot passion, and accompanied his hotness to a movie.
The movie, internets, is the main reason for this entry. As amazing as the Mr. is, I want to share the glory that is " 300 " with you all. We'll bond. And then we'll need a cold shower.
I'm as much a sucker for the blood-spattered action flick as the next girl. I love the tense battle scenes, the against-all-odds spectacle and rooting for the underdog. 300 Spartans against thousands of Persians? That's a great battle. Historic. And completely movie-worthy.
Sadly, my focus is not so much on the worthi-ness of this battle (and story) as on the eye-candy visual spectacle as displayed below:
Ok. So, I expected blood and glory, with plenty of testosterone to fill in the gaps. What I *didn't* expect was spectacular cinematography, amazing acting and an endless parade of well-oiled men that captured my attention for over two hours. And truthfully, I'm not all that distracted by half-naked men. Except mine, of course.
There is a scene- an amazing scene -after the Spartan army has killed hundreds of enemies and is bombarded with arrows. Enough arrows to block the sun (it's quite impressive, I assure you). As they take cover under their shields, I found myself tensing a bit. Then, like terminator from the flaming wreckage, king Leonidas stands up with his shield, looks down at the thirty-something arrows imbedded in his shield, and non-chalantly breaks them off with a powerful stroke of his spear.
Oh. The. HOTNESS.
The king is beautiful and witty, and I could listen to him talk for days. Days I tell you. Check this out:
Ladies, see this movie. Seriously. Hotness doesn't begin to describe that moment, and the many other lucious moments that follow. Not to mention the fantastic story line that makes me actually give a rip about these people that lived so long ago. It gives new meaning to the words 'chick flick'.
Tomorrow-intimate accessories and the women who buy them. Don't miss it!
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At a simply ungodly hour this morning, this night owl was shuffling around, eyes half-open, massaging her husband's aching shoulders. I know. I'm a catch. Once he headed off to work (I don't know how he works with a migraine like that!), I sat down to see if I could muster enough intelligence to "get" the blogs I frequent. Because y'all are too smart for me at 8 a.m.
I couldn't. I had to stop until I could get some caffeine in me.
I decided to check my email, which includes my fabulous Freecycle . I flippin LOVE Freecycle. Where else can I advertise my nasty stove and have it picked up within 24 hrs? Where else can I get...dun dun DUUUUUUNNNN...
A free dishwasher ?
Oh yes, I found a dishwasher, for FREE, and picked it up first thing this morning, with high hopes of having it installed by noon. As with most of my hair brained schemes, the way I planned it and the way it actually played out were dramatically different.
Here is the scene about 10 a.m. when I got the new dishwasher home:
The rest of the day went like this:
10:00 a.m.-Find water shut off
10:15 a.m.-ask a neighbor where to shut off the water
10:20 a.m.-Neighbor shuts off water for me
10:25 a.m.-Neighbor gives careful instructions on how to unhook water
10:30 a.m.-Find power supply and turn off breaker
10:35-10:40-Stand in front of dishwasher, hands on my hips, afraid to touch the wires in case I actually didn't turn off the power supply.
10:45 a.m.-Finally get the balls to unhook the power from the old dishwasher. Do a little dance that I wasn't electrocuted. Feel pretty good about myself.
10:50 a.m.-Carefully turn compression nut on water supply until it comes loose
10:55 a.m.-Realize it was supposed to turn the other way, and you stripped it
11:00 a.m.-11:15 a.m.-Spout colorful language and search the internet finding a way to fix what you've just done
11:20 a.m.-Drive to L0we's (again!) to get replacement part
11:30 a.m.
11:40 a.m.-install new part, plug everything in and turn water back on
11:45 a.m.-realize that you should have used plumber's tape on all the connections which are now arbitrarily spouting water at you
11:47 a.m.-shut off water (again!) and go back to L0we's (again!!) for plumber's tape, since the kids walked off with yours (again!!!)
...an hour or two later...
Tahh dahhhhh!! Yes, it works. Yes, I did it myself. Does it leak? I don't THINK so...but I haven't run it yet, either.
How does this girl feel after torquing on stuck nuts all day?
Like you would expect. Sore and happy.
Now where is my free labor to clean this mess up?
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Nothing is more controversial. Nothing is more talked about. NOTHING in HISTORY has been the subject of more jokes than hair color.
That's right, it's time to discuss the color of my hair. I realize that it's not one of the things Mighty Girl recommends you discuss to drum up interest in your blog in her famous book, No One Cares What You Had For Lunch , and in fact, I believe it's one of the things she specifically recommends you NOT talk about. But, rules being rules, I toss them aside like the rebel I am. And I am .
Yesterday's entry had many folks commenting on my appearance. Not the "dear GOD please don't post pictures of yourself" that I expected, but in fact, some very complimentary things. I was touched, flattered, and felt pretty darn good about myself the rest of the day (and also with each new comment that came along). With me people, flattery truly will get you everywhere. You listening, Charles? Oh wait...you already know that.
So today's debate and completely low-tech poll?
RED or Dark Brown? Yes, I want to know what you think about my hair color. I promise not to ask you what you think about my bowel habits, and will most likely insist you tell me what you think about politics, religion and every other taboo subject, but today, it's hair. MY hair. Tomorrow?
So here are the exhibits for your review:
EXHIBIT A-The fiery redhead
EXHIBIT B-The blue eyed brunette
So there we have it. You have the evidence. You have the mission. Now proceed with spewing your totally educated opinions my direction. Don't hit the jacket, though. It's my favorite (obviously, since it's in both shots, taken months apart...and in front of the same pine tree), and there's a story behind it. I'll tell you eventually, I'm sure.
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Walking out my front door, my senses are bombarded. It's beautiful (though not quite sunny, still lovely), the temperature is crisp, but not cold, and you can smell the cut grass and freshly moved dirt.
If the last two hours are any indication, that dirt came from someone digging a grave for later.
The 15 yr old stayed home (again!) with a migraine (again!!), and by 1pm was probably fine to go to school, but that class is some kind of PE (they don't call it that anymore) so I thought better of sending him. Instead, I decided to put him to work.
There once was a hill...a small mound of grass, where I wanted to place my swing. It has always bothered me that this hill was sort of...misplaced. It needed to be flattened out. And hey, if we're doing that, we should totally dig it out and put down weed cloth...maybe even fill it with decorative rock and put the swing in there. OH and THEN we can make our own STEPPING STONES and put them in there!
I'm tired just saying that. Nevertheless:
This is what we started with (or a drawing of it)
Here is our progress thus far. We don't have the rocks to fill it with yet. Probably should have thought of that before I started, but I've baked many a batch of brownies with no oil or eggs, so this is going to be no different. Don't you wish I was YOUR mom?
Clearly, a LOT of work was done. I have to say that I did the majority of it before a light bulb popped on above my head and I realized I had a healthy, strong 15 year old sitting on his duff in his bedroom. Again, I sing the praises of free labor.
As the other two came home from school, I put THEM to work as well, one digging new holes to move the krokus and the other moving the large rocks for the outer border.
The fun part really started when I sent the 13 yr old in to get her brother. You see, the neighbor was kind enough to loan me his lawnmower, and again, I sing the praises of free labor. Somehow, she not only didn't go tell him I wanted him outside, but also sat down at the kids' computer and decided to "take a break" and shove her younger sister off of what she was doing. This, of course, caused a screaming match, with me being the winner. Yay me!
Screaming match over, 13 yr old then stomps and huffs back to her room and disappears. No door slamming, which is great, because that new door we installed for her? Off the hinges if I hear it slam. It would seem that hanging her by her toes in the backyard for an hour made an impression on her. Yeah, Mother of the year, remember?
Once back outside and re-engaged in the task at hand, I realized that the 13 yr old had not finished her job. I called her outside and again.with.the.DRAMA. When this is over, she had better be a 20mil per picture actress who buys her mother houses and cars to make up for what she put her through as a teen. Or else.
Meanwhile, the 15 yr old is struggle to give the lawn it's first haircut of the season. Throwing them both together in the front yard during high tension? The most fun you can have with clothes on. Thankfully, this time there has yet to be an incident. However, I can hear him continually hitting thick patches of grass which kills the motor. Over and over and over again. I fully expect the mower to be thrown into the garage door any moment now. Hopefully he's still too weak from having that migraine.
Finally, as promised, the before and after pictures of the "Wysteria Project".
Ok now look frightened...now look confused...now show me angry...roar! Angry! Great...and we're spent.
Ignore the redhead looking lost. She always looks that way. Only she's no longer a redhead. We'll talk about that tomorrow!
Here is the almost finished product, which will be gorgeous when it blooms:
I'm exhausted, but feeling mighty productive for a chick with an impairment. Fibromyalgia can totally kiss my ass .
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A big fat THANK YOU to all who participated in the contest to come up with a new moniker.
Without further adieu...
EVERYONE immediately go to Lara's site and leave her kudos. Yes, NOW. Right now! You! Go!
Until I can come up with something really cool and cheap to send out to my contest winners, you'll have to settle for shameless plugs with cool graphics designed JUST. FOR. YOU. Because you're just that special! Yes! YOU!
I do have to give a shout out to the husband, whose nomination of "Titallating, Sexy & Mine" was my personal favorite. However, it just doesn't speak as to what the MEAT of this blog is. TSM is actually my intials, as was earlier deduced, but it has been great fun finding out what else it could possibly stand for. Outside of schoolyard teasing, that is.
On an interesting note, my initials USED to be TSP. Yeah, go nuts with that one.
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Like any good horror story, this one starts out with a trip to...
...the drug store.
You see, now that I'm in my...um...30s...I find that I have developed...how shall I say this...oh fine...I HAVE A MOUSTACHE. Ok? IT's dark, and ugly and I want it GONE! Post Haste!
After talking with women friends and asking them what *they* would do when faced with my situation, they all had something different to say.
" Behead a chicken by the light of the full moon and chant four times 'hair be gone, hair be gone' and you won't have hair ."
Any hair? That might be bad. Next?
"Waxing is the key, baby. Wax it."
You mean where they RIP out the hair by its roots? There must be another way...
"Shave?"
No. Thank. You. I already have too many masculine features. I don't need to nurture my male side any more.
So I bought....tah dahhhh....WAXING STRIPS.
I got 'em home and was reading about how it would make me a supermodel if my brows, lip and bikini line were waxed. Being half-drunk and fully believing the box, I decided to first try the bikini line, just for KICKS.
OH. MY. GOD.
"Take strip and apply it in the direction of the hair growth, pressing firmly." Check.
"Push down in the direction of the hair growth." Check.
"Pull in the opposite direction of the hair growth, holding skin firmly."
HOLY CRAP!!! Ouchie M#%#@!% F!#%#@ PAIN PAIN PAIN!!!!
I apologize. That totally wasn't necessary.
When the pain-induced stupor wore off, I looked down to gaze upon my newly-hair-free bikini line...
Not only did I STILL have hair, but it was PURPLE . That's right, dark purple. Like a bruise. Or a hickey. I'd much rather have a hickey, lemmejusttellya.
I don't know if folks with fair coloring are supposed to shun the waxing strips, or if I just am an idiot and don't know how to wax my own bikini line. Seriously, though, let's face facts. I'm certainly not going to prance around in a bikini (while sober, anyway) around anyone other than my husband, so WHY does it matter what my bikini line looks like?
I think it has something to do with feeling shame. I'm ashamed I abused my bikini line. Ashamed that under these spectacular Levi's I have this horrible brown bruise-looking mark that makes me worse than the rest of womankind. For surely, THEY can all self-wax, whereas *I* can't even do that.
Dare I try my lip?
Survey says NO FLIPPIN WAY .
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