persistence and patience

 

 

 

in which my naughty bits get a makeover and my sister-in-law gets the last laugh.

When I get nervous, I make jokes.  I’m usually pretty right on in the humor department and some of my friends’ friends even refer to me as “that one really hot friend with the kick-ass sense of humor and large yet shapely feet”.  Yes, they say that.  All of it. Exactly like that, too.  I’m intriguing. And I have lovely arches.

i digress.

There are a number of recent situations where my nerves got the better part of me and zingers just flowed from my mouth like stuff that flows out of other things really easily.   I’m not as great at analogies.

Last weekend, as a suggestion from my sister-in-law, I found myself laying naked from the waist down with a paper towel covering my lady bits in a room the color of Grover and the size of my bathroom.  And there may have been fake flowers.  I think the sign outside said WAXMANIA or WAXI-MA-CALLIT or WAXTASTIC.  I can’t remember exactly because what happened in the Grover room was so traumatic that I blocked everything immediately before it out of my mind forever except for these words,

:::You’ll be fine:::

FINE, according to some people, means a woman wearing rubber gloves will use an obscene amount of baby oil on the parts “you want to keep” and then smudge hot wax that sort-of-feels-nice-but-don’t-you-tell-anyone-or-i’ll-hunt-you-down-and-SoHelpMe on the parts you want to lose and then rip them out in smallish sections until you’re holding your breath and sweating like a fat man pedaling a tricycle on the beach.

I got a bikini wax.  The kind that women from Brazil go for because apparently, I can be talked into anything if frozen yogurt and/or margaritas are part of the deal.  And let’s just say that getting my lady-parts waxed has been placed ever-so-carefully atop the list of situations that make me nervous. 

The proof:

Waxing Chick: just relax and butterfly your legs for me

me: oh. um. okay.

WC: are there any parts you want to keep? like a strip or a triangle?

me: how good are your cursive J’s?

WC: the first one’s are always the worst because the hair is so coarse and thick.

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: sweetbabyjesus

WC: you okay?

me: {squeak}

WC: but after your second or third time, it’s so easy. the hair is fine and comes out easier. you’ll be addicted.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP

me: i bet this is like crack to some people….how long does it take?

WC: about twenty minutes

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me: is that bit supposed to come off?

WC: i think it’s much more difficult when the men get it done. they have a lower pain tolerance.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

me: and more to lose.

WC: and you’ve obviously had kids, so your tolerance is probably way up there.

me: what do you mean obviously?

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me: is it hot in here?

WC: you need a break?

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WC: because I can give you a minute

me: no, i’m good. if you pause for more than ten seconds, i’ll end up looking like an emo asian kid down there.

WC: good. we’re almost past the hardest part.

me: great. that’s wonderful news.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: you could really use a where’s waldo poster up there or something.

WC: that’s a good one.

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WC: people always suggest we get televisions, but where’s waldo is a great idea.

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPP

me: yeah. it will take people’s minds off of strangling you.

WC: hahahaha.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: really.

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WC: okay. almost done.

me: really?

WC: time for the backside.

me: hahahaha.

WC: it’s way less painful

me: hahahaha.

WC: hug your knees for me.

me: hahahahha.

WC: are you okay?

me: fine. *sigh* but I usually require at least three glasses of wine for this sort of business.

WC: you’re funny

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

 

Longest story ever. And then I proceeded to run into every vagina-high counter corner for the next 24 hours. 

 

And I’m cold. 

a longish post about *gum with two rhetorical questions at the end.

Some people work really hard trying to get their kids to use proper terminology when discussing human anatomy.  In my opinion, it doesn’t really matter if my kids call it pee pee or wee wee or vagina or whatever.  Let’s face facts here.  When they’re teenagers they’re going to call it balls and dick and all sorts of other things you wouldn’t want your mother in law hearing, so why bother with all the effort?  And mostly, the ~quote~ inappropriate words are going to be reserved for their friends and the kids they are trying to impress at the bus stop.  The parental units, as I recall from my own experiences, are spared discussions about genitals all together.  Win friggin win.

So tonight, while bathing Sam {the ferocious one year old dollface} and Ladybug {the nearly seven year old dance queen}, I heard a good one that made me laugh out loud and thank ye gods of propriety that I am not joining their club any time soon.

“don’t pull on your bubble-gums” she practically screamed at the little dude and covered his little gesture with a finger-pinched wash cloth raised at arm’s length.

Incapable of embarrassment and completely ticked off by her attempt to ruin the fun he stood up, pissed in the water, bent over, and stirred the pee with his hand while Ladybug watched in spastic horror swishing the tainted tub bubbles away.

We rinsed. They toweled. He was set free on the bed for a little naked time since the urinary security level threat was at an easy GREEN.  Diaper, pajamas, kisses, bed.

And then I sat to write it down, because seriously…when was the last time you stirred pee with your hand?  Or pinched your bubble gums?

 

 

*are you supposed to put the asterisk before the word it refers to or after? and by gum I meant ball sack.

Do they make pink straight jackets?

 

At the risk of sounding like a complete nut-job, I’m going to tell you a secret. And by secret, I mean something my husband recently yelled at my from the dry side of the shower door on the morning of my son’s first birthday.   *YOU NEED SOME FUCKING HELP!

And no, not you.  Me.  Well.  Probably you, too but this is my blog.  Not So-s0 Tammy’s or So-so Brumhilda’s.  You clicked here to read about me and today we’re going to talk about me and my problems so just suck it up and read or go HERE instead and see some disturbingly hilarious photos of a domestic dispute and laugh till you pee.

But stay, because I’m having problems and you leaving right now is just making them worse.

I made a doctor’s appointment.  One with the physician I’ve only ever seen twice and fifty percent of those two times I cried. The first time I was pregnant, so there’s my excuse.  She was all quiet and nodding and smiling and trying to be supportive, so I just carried on about hormones and “i’m sorry, i’m so emo right now” and she nodded because she has a daughter “emo age” and I tried to laugh but snot bubbles came out.  Long story short, I was fine and no medicine or straight jacket necessary. Phew.

Next was a sinus infection. No tears. Double the snot. Antibiotics. Woot.

So. I just scheduled my third appointment for Thursday.  Why? What are my symptoms? I can’t really say.  Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. I just want to know if I should be crying every day or if maybe that’s not normal. And the yelling? And maybe do something about the filthy words that come out of my mouth every time I drop a something or stub a toe or what have you.

Fucka-duck, doll’s balls, shitburgers et friggin al.   Just because I’m adding PG words into the mix and rhyming my expletives with children’s play things doesn’t make it okay.

JG’s been encouraging me to see someone about my “issues”.  I made the call.  I didn’t know where to start, so I just dialed Dr. Quiet to avoid starting over with someone new who hasn’t seen my cry at all. 

Reception: Doctor Quiet’s office

Me: Hi. I need to see Dr. Quiet.

Reception: Okay. What’s your name?

Me: Stephanie Meade Gresham (don’t Google me)

Reception: Okay. Is there anything specific you’re seeing the doctor for?

Me: Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.

Reception: Excuse me?

Me: I might be going crazy.

Reception: Um. Do you  need a physical?

Me: Yes.

Reception: Okay. Anything else?

Me: Yes. At three o’clock every day I cry. And people say I am being mean a lot. What the shit is that all about, right?

Reception: Anxiety sound good?

Me: No. It sounds perfectly horrible.

Reception: I mean, that’s what I’ll put you down for.

Me: Do you not know what a preposition is? And where it’s not supposed to be?

Reception: Let’s go with Anxiety. Thursday at 9:15, mmmkay? We’ll see you then.

*click*

Cross your fingers for me.  There’s only one thing that makes me cry more than my usual daily fit of tears and that’s talking about my usual daily fit of tears.  Dr. Quiet is in for a treat.

 

 

*On the wet side, there might have been tears, moaning, and head banging on the shower wall. I was stressed. And can’t a girl shower ALONE anymore???

Today is Turquoise

The grass feels different on my feet today.  I took Sam out to stand in the rain.  We laughed as our eyelashes darkened and clung together.  He squealed.  I squealed.  We ran barefoot in the field.

Today was the day we expected my niece, Amelia, to arrive. Instead, we are trying to remember how wonderful life can be.  How easy it is to take love and living for granted.  We are all learning to live with this comfortable sadness that is now a part of our days. 

We talk about her every day.  But today is a little different. Today would be her birthday.  Instead, it is our birthday.  Our chance to love more and live harder.

I’d like to know…What color was your day?

Look!~ A UNICORN!

Because I can’t keep my trap shut and everyone else is doing worldess Wednesdays…

My mom wore these glasses in 1985.  They are back in style now and only cost $2.00 at the dollar store. (Two dollar store?) Ladybug rocks them with her two tooth-holes pretty hard.  Right after this, we danced to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Because the song is our Gospel, that’s why.

 

Watch out!  He has six teeth now and he knows how to use them.  He will also rock-out to some Cyndi Lauper.  Or Hanna Montana. Whatever the Bug is listening to. He kind of worships her.

 

So do I.

 

Now comment here about how much you love when I post photos, but will I please stop being lazy and come up with something decent to write about and stat!  I need a kick in my blog-pants.

My Wagon needs a Maid

Here’s a list of the stuff on the floor of my car.

one hundred “Morning O’s” give or take a million

one stuffed bunny covered in applesauce

two capri-sun straw wrappers

three capri-sun pouches (the ratio of straw wrappers to pouches is wrong and that’s just off-putting now, isn’t it?)

a bag of stuff belonging to a neighbor: pink beach towel, blue and purpley sparkle eye shadow in a blue plastic case. (i have very sophisticated neighbors)

tan sweater- because the heat index here today is 106, but I still GET COLD.

one freshly squeezed lime. freshness fading fast. (wtf)

five socks of varying sizes and colors

a severely bent Ikea umbrella

two empty coffee cups

one pacifier complete with human AND dog hair

two empty Buddy Fruit pouches (seriously, everything we eat does NOT come from a pouch. i promise.)

one Go-gurt pouch. (okay, MOST of what we eat doesn’t come out of a pouch.)

one broken headband- two pieces

one sippy cup with mystery drink inside-original date of freshness unknown.

three reusable grocery bags because i care about the Earff.

the field trip permission slip i looked hours for in February

barbie sunglasses

hanna montana sunglasses- those go with my um…jeans

a receipt from world market I wiped Sam snot on after a monster sneeze and no tissues

pack of tissues (doh)

sixty seven cents- no quarters

box of drammamine