Saturday, March 24, 2012

Babies No More

I did something strange just now.

It's not really strange, but it left me with a sad, little hollow feeling in my mommy heart.  That kind of strange.

I just unsubscribed to emails from Gymboree.  Because I don't shop there for my kids now, and I haven't in a long time (unless I have a baby shower to go to).  I realize it's not a monumental event, but it is one more step away from my kids being little.  It felt important.

Usually when I get emails from them, I just immediately delete them like I do 99% of the ad mail that comes to my inbox. 

I have been working on reducing those ad emails that I receive though, so this morning I deleted it and then thought..."Hey.  I don't really need to know about the sales at Gymboree any longer."  I opened my recently deleted mail, follwed the link to their communications preferences page, and hit "unsubscribe."

I really don't need to hear from Harry & David so often either now that they no longer have a store a stone's throw from my home.

Somehow, unsubscribing from pears didn't feel nearly so poignant.

Friday, March 23, 2012

New Easter Dress!

Shabby Apple

I just ordered the "Alice" and "Ahoy" dresses from Shabby Apple.  It may just turn out to be my new favorite place to shop (online, anyway).  Check out the Spearmint earrings.  I would have ordered those if they weren't out of stock. 

If you order through this link: Shabby Apple you will get 15% of your order, and I might get a little something, too.  And then I might feel a burning desire to share...

Laser Hair Removal: The Sequel

Just when you thought it couldn't get any more embarrassing for me, along came the second session of my laser hair removal treatment...

I arrive and sit down in the waiting area just like the first time.  The owner asks me if I am there for spider vein treatment and just like last time I say, "No, bikini line laser hair removal."  She says "Okay.  I'll be right with you.", gets a puzzled look on her face, and then scurries into her office.  Two minutes later, she emerges and shows me to a room.  Not the same room as last time, so I am already breathing a sigh of relief.

She asks me a couple of questions as she is turning dials on the laser machine and then tells me take off my pants.

And stands there.

So I stand there.  Looking at her.  Waiting for my paper panties.

She doesn't move.

And we continue at this standstill for a moment or two.  She again says, "Go ahead and get undressed."

And I awkwardly say, "Umm, you haven't given me any panties yet?"

She says, "No panties necessary for only bikini line. You can just keep on your own."

Which should have been a relief, right?

Not so much.

Since I had to change into the fabulous, sexy paper panties at the previous appointment, I had not carefully considered my panties and their particular impact on my laser hair removal treatment when dressing that morning.

They were clean.

They were pretty.

They were not particularly skimpy.

And I grow doubtful that this hair removal session is going to do much for my swimsuit season because the panty line of this pair would gobble up the line on my bikini and still have an inch or so to spare.

Then, she continues to stand there.

And I realize she is not going to leave the room while I take off my jeans.

I guess she figured we were all girls and had seen it all before...

I consider asking her to leave the room, but then I figure she is going to see me in my panties one way or another, so why bother and prolong this appointment that is already not going to my liking.

I move toward the chair, sit my purse down, quickly slip off my shoes and jeans, drop them on the chair, wish I was wearing a longer shirt, and Fosbury Flop myself onto the table. 

She begins zapping at my bikini line and then out of nowhere hikes up my panties to get to that inch or so between my panty line and my bikini line.  She seems a little annoyed with my choice in undergarments and the fact that she is having to wrestle with her laser wand and my leg opening at the same time.

"Here, can you hold this for me?"

And then I'm assisting her in pulling my panty line up and over.

In my head, I'm thinking, "I told you I needed the panties."  Hmphf!  I knew what I was talking about.  I'll bet she will give the paper panties to everyone from now on....

When finished tells me that I should expect a great deal of hair regrowth following this appointment.  And that I won't return for twelve weeks.  Then, she mumbles something about how it has to follow this schedule because of the hair growth cycle and maximum effectiveness.
Great.  That's after Memorial Day weekend.  I think to myself that I will have two choices for how I look for the beginning of swimsuit season:  1)  buckwheat in a headlock, or 2) razor burn that looks like a highly communicable disease.  They are both looks.  Neither is a good one, but....

Here's the thing.  Once you start laser hair removal you are only allowed one other option of hair removal during the entire course of treatment.  You can't wax.  You can't use depilatories.  You can't tweeze.

You can only shave.

And the ingrown-hair-meets-razor-burn-and-gets-married-and-has-way-too-many-ugly-children results of shaving are why I decided that laser hair removal was a necessity for me.  I know that was an evil and cruel mental picture I just planted in your head.  Don't look at me funny the next time we see each other...

I'm sure I had an interesting look on my face by this point.  She leaves the room.  I get to put my pants on in private.  As I am dressing, I consider wearing a dress I can just pull up to my waist and a tiny thong for the next appointment in case she decides to give me the paper panties and still not leave the room.  Hopefully, I will remember this particular panty debacle when June rolls around.

I had this treatment back on the fifth of March.  I'm not seeing the massive regrowth she predicted yet.  I didn't see it at the three week period after my first treatment either.  I have had to shave once since my second treatment, and the razor burn was almost non-existent. I appear to be having better results than most at this point in the treatment.

We'll talk hair removal again in June when Laser Hair Removal: Part III comes out.  But, you already know that the third release in a series is always disappointing.



Thursday, March 8, 2012

Super Tuesday

I almost flipped my hooptie hottie minivan on Tuesday.  For reals.

I was just minding my own business driving a short mile or two to meet some friends for lunch and the next thing I know, I was teetering precariously on two wheels.  And there was nowhere to stop even though I knew I had blown out one tire, possibly two.

I had to drive my recently disabled vehicle about one hundred yards before I could pull into a left turn lane (it's actually one where you can't make a left turn because there is no road to the left, so it was convenient and out of the heavy traffic speeding down the main drag).  By that time I had damaged the wheel.

The back driver side tire also had a baseball sized bulge on the sidewall, but thankfully it did not blow out.  I'm pretty sure I would have flipped if it had.
I drew quite a little crowd.  A man stopped to offer assistance, but I told him my husband was on his was way.  A woman in the fanciest Mercedes money can buy pulled up and offered to give me a ride.  She said she turned around and came back because she didn't want me to have to stand in the median.  I thanked her, too, and explained that my husband was just around the corner and not to worry herself over me. 

Mr. Incredible pulled up.  As he exited his truck, I asked him to please not fuss at me because I was extremely upset from nearly rolling my van.  He didn't.  He just asked if I was okay and kinda scratched his head.  He wasn't sure what we were going to do and asked if insurance would tow the car.  I suggested we call AAA because it would be faster and easier and probably less expensive.  He called and had them send a tow truck.

While we were waiting for the fast tow guy, two county sheriffs pulled up to offer assistance and keep traffic off of us.  They were helpful and kind-hearted.  They joked with us and made us laugh, which kept me from crying.  We talked about Mr. Incredible skeletoes shoes.  We talked about the commercial where the pudgy cop says when he gets of his shift all he wants to do is lay on the couch and watch some tv and then flashes to him on the sofa watching "COPS." 

As we chatted with the county sheriffs, a local police car pulled up and sent the county sheriffs on their happy way.  This officer was not my favorite.  He asked for my license, and I gave it to him.  And my heart pounded because, although I knew it had been a complete accident (and completely bizarre), he made me feel like a criminal.  He asked me if I had been texting or talking on the phone; I had not.  He quizzed me about how it could have possibly happened and insinuated that "accidents" like that do not happen without some kind of precipitating action.  I told him that I thought I caught the curb and corrected in such a way that one wheel went over the curb and then corrected again to have the other wheel join and finally both wheels came of the curb which seemed to cause the blow out.  It was extremely windy.  The gust of wind could have blown me too close to the curb.  I told him I really wasn't sure; it all happened so quickly.

He never asked if I was okay or if I was injured.  And he just kept looking at me accusingly.  And asking me questions.  It was terrible.  And I knew Mr. Incredible was not liking the way he was talking to me and looking at me.

Finally, the tow truck pulled up.  I was so relieved that I could get out of that median, away from that officer, and stop being the circus sideshow for everyone who traveled down that busy road. 

Mr. Incredible had some choice words for the local officer once we got home.  I agreed with him and wondered why the local officer could not handle the situation in the same way the county officers had. 

The rest of the day was devoted to trying to find a replacement wheel that could be here by Friday.  Which never happened.  It's rental city here for the next week. Which is fine. 

And then Bonus broke his glasses on Tuesday.  And cried about it a couple of times.

I'm thankful I'm safe, and I'm thankful I was alone in the car.  I never like to scar my children for life.  I'm thankful for the means to have a rental car.  I'm thankful that Mr. Incredible is still letting me drive his truck...

Not the Super Tuesday you thought?  Well, it surprised me, too.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Tonight I Skate

This is an old post I never published from the beginning of February.  Enjoy or don't.  I'm too busy to care...

I'm tired.  I have been up multiple times on multiple nights with a sick child. 

Tonight I skate.

I'm sore.  My behind is bruised from one too many hits and falls in Saturday's bout (Go Muertas!  We won 126-84).  From my biopsy, I have steri-strips and an amazing bruise on my right twin, (not identical... I wish I could post a picture because it is so derby-worthy.)

Tonight I skate.

The laundry is out of control.  My sink is full of dishes.  Not a bed in the house is made.

Tonight I skate.

And when I skate, I think about nothing but skating.  And I am grateful for the singular focus brought by eight wheels.

Tonight I skate.  Tonight I soar.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Where have YOU been?

I have been to the southernmost level of hell.   I've been visiting since the middle of January, and I have to go back today.  I don't like it, but now I'm committed.  I jumped in without a full understanding of the consequences, and now, I have to do the time.

I don't care what Milton or Dante had to say about what is located on this level; I know the truth.

The lowest level of hell is my childrens' bathroom.

For So. Many. Reasons.

However, I will not get into the rug-squishing my feet found just the other day...  ick.
The main reason I am spending so much time in there right now is NOT that I ate some bad sushi.  I wish it was that simple and quick. And easily resolved.

I got a wild hair in January that it was time to redecorate their bathroom.  It was time for major sprucing.

Please, please, PLEASE, please hurt me the next time I make a suggestion this ludicrous.

We moved into this home in 2004.  I was a thirty-four year old mother to two precious little girls.  Rock N Roll Princess was sixteen months old.  She was in to EVERYTHING.  I couldn't turn my back on her for a second.  The girls' bathroom was papered in a hideous grasscloth.  I wish I could find some pictures to show you just how ugly it was, but I haven't been able to locate our househunting pictures yet.  Trust me, it really is better for your minds and eyes.

The prospect of stripping grasscloth was more than a little daunting with my little rugrat underfoot.  I decided that the texture of the grasscloth would add interest, so instead of tearing it down, I just painted it yellow, put up a butterfly and flower valance, threw a couple of ladybug rugs on the floor, and pronounced it livable.

Fast-forward eight years.  The painted grasscloth had seen better days.  A corner has been broken off of the mirror.

But, mainly...

A little boy has had to pee in a girly bathroom for nearly six years.

It seemed borderline cruel.

I determined that the project could not wait one second longer, grabbed Miss Noteworthy as my assistant, and set to strippin'.

Wallpaper, you pervs.

With my trusty Russian-accented assistant (yes, we spoke in Russian accents ALL DAY LONG and told stories about "Back in Russia..." It was truly hilarious.), we made quick work of the painted top layer of the grasscloth.  We even made quick work of the most of the backing of the grasscloth.

And then all our efforts came to a screeching halt.

We were mortified to learn that underneath the hideous grasscloth there lurked a second layer of wallpaper even uglier and more treacherous than the first.  Aqua foil which refused to come off except in the smallest pieces.  No more cries of triumph as we pulled long, luxurious strips from the wall as we had with the grasscloth.


We were fighting for every square inch.  Chinking away with our tools, we vowed that we would carry on until the bitter end of the eye-burning aqua foil.  We said we would not lose heart. 

And then,  I made a false move with my stripping tool and gouged the wall.

I swear I'm not making this part up.

I know you are going to think I am embellishing to make a dull wallpaper stripping story bearable.

Under the first and second layers of wallpapering lay a third even more offensive than the first two.

Our backs sore, our fingers bearing the blisters of the long day of work, we raised our white flag and called it a night.

And now I have to go back in and complete the job alone. 

Back to the trenches...