After a week or so of slacking off in the "looks department" due to my son's mid-winter recess from school, I reluctantly decided to look into a mirror. This is something I try to avoid doing considering that every time I pass the damn thing it adds a few extra grey hairs, a gigantic blemish and a scattering of "not so fine" lines. And my "winter white" skin isn't becoming the only problem. Taking a close second and quickly moving in to first is my heritage. Yes, the Italian is somehow taking over the mutt part, and is not only responsible for my big nose, but my ever-growing need to wax as well.
Nevermind the inherited "blonde mustache" and the "peach fuzzy" face, now it's a hardcore black smattering of chin hair, and completely archless, thick eyebrows. Now that I've been forced to wax at least twice a week, I've taken to less public, and less expensive forms of waxing.
I searched Walmart high and low for the best salon alternative, (It always comes back to Walmart, doesn't it?) and bought the biggest at-home waxing kit they sold; which included the canvas strips, redness remover, etc. My story begins six months later, as I'm staring into the mirror, praying that the lighting is bad.
The at-home kit definitely proved worthy, and all was good until I ran out of the strips....
You see, I still had more than enough wax(oddly enough), so I thought I might just buy the strips. Of course Walmart doesn't sell the strips separately! Why would they do that?! Back at square one with no strips in which to remove my ever-growing brows, I began to search around my house for anything that even came close to canvas. I found that I actually did have canvas cloth in my sewing bag, tried it out and it worked perfectly. I've been using it ever since; that is, until it ran out....
So, this morning, desperately in need of a good waxing, I began again to hunt around the house, hoping that maybe the canvas cloth had magically reproduced in my bag.
I never did find more cloth, but as I was searching high and low, I did discover my husband's old t-shirt in a pile of rags under the sink. Hmmm...I figured perhaps that it might not make a difference; that maybe all material would work the same way...that is, until I ripped off the wrong part of my eyebrow, forcing me to paint it on with a brown sharpie. Yes, I find that sometimes I am way too honest.
My first advice: Don't ever take my advice. Secondly, Mom I'm sorry you raised such a stupid idiot.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Desperate Housewives of Madison County
As I meandered around my house this morning picking up my husband's trail of dirty socks, underwear and empty coffee cups, I slowly began to wonder about the Housewives of Orange County, and all of the other supposedly "desperate" wives on TV. I walked past a mound of dishes, and a hungry, sad-looking dog thinking to myself, what makes them so desperate?
These women have rich, good-looking husbands, call shopping a hobby and fight like bull dogs. What about the real desperate housewives out there? The ones that pull apart fighting children while cooking dinner and doing the laundry? I wondered if the Housewives of Orange County cleaned up their kid's puke at 3a.m., showered at 5, and carefully layed out their husband's clothes so he wouldn't go to work naked.
What about the housewives of Madison County? Sure, the only place we have to shop is Walmart, but why not?
This is why the housewives of Madison County really are desperate:
1. We don't have nannies, we have t.v.
2. We don't drive limos, we drive pickup trucks
3. Our husbands only wear a suit if someone dies
4. The only escargot we've ever seen is when our kids throw up
5. We don't have our nails done, we bite them
6. When we drop everything to go shopping it's to get cough syrup
7. Our idea of a weekend getaway is Old Forge
8. When we say we don't have any cash it's not because the ATM broke
9. The only time we put makeup on is to go to a soccer game
10. We don't dress our dogs up in tiny little sweaters and diamonds, we dress them in camo and bright orange so they don't get shot
These women have rich, good-looking husbands, call shopping a hobby and fight like bull dogs. What about the real desperate housewives out there? The ones that pull apart fighting children while cooking dinner and doing the laundry? I wondered if the Housewives of Orange County cleaned up their kid's puke at 3a.m., showered at 5, and carefully layed out their husband's clothes so he wouldn't go to work naked.
What about the housewives of Madison County? Sure, the only place we have to shop is Walmart, but why not?
This is why the housewives of Madison County really are desperate:
1. We don't have nannies, we have t.v.
2. We don't drive limos, we drive pickup trucks
3. Our husbands only wear a suit if someone dies
4. The only escargot we've ever seen is when our kids throw up
5. We don't have our nails done, we bite them
6. When we drop everything to go shopping it's to get cough syrup
7. Our idea of a weekend getaway is Old Forge
8. When we say we don't have any cash it's not because the ATM broke
9. The only time we put makeup on is to go to a soccer game
10. We don't dress our dogs up in tiny little sweaters and diamonds, we dress them in camo and bright orange so they don't get shot
Monday, February 23, 2009
A "novel" idea: The Bubble Dumper
Settling in with my evening pot of coffee(yes, a whole pot), I stare blankly at my half-finished manuscript, hoping to squeeze in a fresh page or two before the last of the day's chaos ensues. I've left my son reading peacefully in the living room, while my daughter has decided to "help" my husband give the dog a bath.
I figure I have at least half an hour before the nightly ritual of not-wanting-to-brush-the-teeth and "No! I will not go potty!" begins. I silently and hopefully stare at the flashing cursor before my eyes, praying that the words will come quickly.
Ten minutes in I'm typing away; the words flowing so fast that my fingers can barely keep up. I'm totally into the story; feeling the angst of my character as she struggles to hang on to her new-found love; sobbing with heartache as he leaves her with just a short letter of goodbye. Just as she dramatically throws herself to the floor, pitiful and overcome, I am bluntly forced back to reality by the sound of what can only be a wet dog sliding across the floor.
I run to the kitchen to find not only my wet beagle, but a dripping wet two-year-old in tow, yelling happily as she slips and slides right into the dog. Not far behind, is my clearly frustrated husband, with a towel. After promising not to let my daughter soak herself, he just looks at me and shrugs; angrily stuttering and beyond comprehension.
"She got into the bubble dumper!"
I had to laugh. Clearly, he wasn't aware that he didn't make sense, which angered him more.
"The what?" I racked my brain, trying to think of what he might be talking about. No clue.
"You know, the bubble dumper...I mean the bucket thing." Ah, the bucket thing. Because that made more sense.
My daughter returns, water dripping from her chubby face, holding her little pink bath bucket.
"See mommy? Bubble dumper," she laughs as she dumps the remaining water on the poor dog. Now my husband is laughing, as I just shake my head and look longingly at my manuscript from a distance, knowing that I will be drinking another pot of coffee when the kids go to bed.
I figure I have at least half an hour before the nightly ritual of not-wanting-to-brush-the-teeth and "No! I will not go potty!" begins. I silently and hopefully stare at the flashing cursor before my eyes, praying that the words will come quickly.
Ten minutes in I'm typing away; the words flowing so fast that my fingers can barely keep up. I'm totally into the story; feeling the angst of my character as she struggles to hang on to her new-found love; sobbing with heartache as he leaves her with just a short letter of goodbye. Just as she dramatically throws herself to the floor, pitiful and overcome, I am bluntly forced back to reality by the sound of what can only be a wet dog sliding across the floor.
I run to the kitchen to find not only my wet beagle, but a dripping wet two-year-old in tow, yelling happily as she slips and slides right into the dog. Not far behind, is my clearly frustrated husband, with a towel. After promising not to let my daughter soak herself, he just looks at me and shrugs; angrily stuttering and beyond comprehension.
"She got into the bubble dumper!"
I had to laugh. Clearly, he wasn't aware that he didn't make sense, which angered him more.
"The what?" I racked my brain, trying to think of what he might be talking about. No clue.
"You know, the bubble dumper...I mean the bucket thing." Ah, the bucket thing. Because that made more sense.
My daughter returns, water dripping from her chubby face, holding her little pink bath bucket.
"See mommy? Bubble dumper," she laughs as she dumps the remaining water on the poor dog. Now my husband is laughing, as I just shake my head and look longingly at my manuscript from a distance, knowing that I will be drinking another pot of coffee when the kids go to bed.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Christmas is in the air
It's Christmas morning, and as I watch my children excitedly tear open the mountain of gifts under the tree, I check the clock, knowing that in just a couple of hours we will be in the car, rushing back and forth between the homes of open armed grandparents, and aunts and uncles. Knowing full well that my children will explode into fits of rage at having to get dressed and leave the toys behind, I silently sip my coffee, taking in the last moments of peace on earth.
I dress first, trying to slow down the impending doom that is sure to send my house into an uproar. Of course, I have nothing "Christmasy" to wear, and end up throwing on a pair of jeans and any sweater I can find that's the least bit clean. I clean up piles of wrapping paper, and carefully lay out each child's dress clothes, which they will no doubt destroy before we even reach the first house.
As I tip toe into the living room, my son is busy constructing the latest Star Wars Clone Trooper assault vehicle, while my daughter is playing house with her wide array of barbie dolls and teddy bears. I shake my head knowing that they are never this quiet, and to disturb them will mean hours of dirty looks and pouting. Suddenly they look up from play, knowing exactly why I'm there. I put on my game face, and head into what will no doubt be war.
My son wails as if having to put on clothes is the worst form of torture ever laid upon someone, all while yelling, "It's not fair! You are the meanest mom ever!" My daughter puts up quite a fight, wriggling and sqirming in every direction possible. It takes me ten minutes to get a leg in her little red tights. And comb her hair? Impossible. I limp away from the battle, with bruised abdomen from the kicks of a two-year old, and a scratch just below one eye. Meanwhile the two of them are howling in the background, one vowing to never speak to me again.
"Well then," I look at my husband who's so obviously amused at not having to do anything, "looks like we're ready."
As we pull into my parents' driveway, I quickly scramble to get out, running for the door, children screaming behind me. My son has threatened to rip off his red sweater and stomp it unrecognizable, while my daughter has already stained her beautiful dress with cranberry juice and some other goo I've never seen before. Thankfully, more presents await, and with them more peace and quiet.
We enjoy a wonderful Christmas meal, minus my son freaking out because vegetables are "icky", and my daughter flinging mashed potatoes on everyone. Again I look at the clock in agony, and begin the battle once more. I leave my parents smiling, knowing that they will now have peace until our next visit.
As we head down the road to the next house, my husband begins to sniff the air next to me.
"What?" I say somewhat annoyed, and give him the look of death.
"Oh nothing, you just kind of smell like onions from the food." he shrugs like it's nothing, like people just walk around smelling like onions everyday. Great. I quickly search the car for anything that smells better than onions. I spray on the first scent I find, and take a deep breath as we pull into yet another driveway.
We're greeted warmly by my husband's great grandmother, who gives me a hug. She smiles up at me. "Dear, you smell lovely. What is that scent?" I rack my brain, trying to think of some great sounding perfume, but to no avail. I just shrug.
"It's febreze auto."
I dress first, trying to slow down the impending doom that is sure to send my house into an uproar. Of course, I have nothing "Christmasy" to wear, and end up throwing on a pair of jeans and any sweater I can find that's the least bit clean. I clean up piles of wrapping paper, and carefully lay out each child's dress clothes, which they will no doubt destroy before we even reach the first house.
As I tip toe into the living room, my son is busy constructing the latest Star Wars Clone Trooper assault vehicle, while my daughter is playing house with her wide array of barbie dolls and teddy bears. I shake my head knowing that they are never this quiet, and to disturb them will mean hours of dirty looks and pouting. Suddenly they look up from play, knowing exactly why I'm there. I put on my game face, and head into what will no doubt be war.
My son wails as if having to put on clothes is the worst form of torture ever laid upon someone, all while yelling, "It's not fair! You are the meanest mom ever!" My daughter puts up quite a fight, wriggling and sqirming in every direction possible. It takes me ten minutes to get a leg in her little red tights. And comb her hair? Impossible. I limp away from the battle, with bruised abdomen from the kicks of a two-year old, and a scratch just below one eye. Meanwhile the two of them are howling in the background, one vowing to never speak to me again.
"Well then," I look at my husband who's so obviously amused at not having to do anything, "looks like we're ready."
As we pull into my parents' driveway, I quickly scramble to get out, running for the door, children screaming behind me. My son has threatened to rip off his red sweater and stomp it unrecognizable, while my daughter has already stained her beautiful dress with cranberry juice and some other goo I've never seen before. Thankfully, more presents await, and with them more peace and quiet.
We enjoy a wonderful Christmas meal, minus my son freaking out because vegetables are "icky", and my daughter flinging mashed potatoes on everyone. Again I look at the clock in agony, and begin the battle once more. I leave my parents smiling, knowing that they will now have peace until our next visit.
As we head down the road to the next house, my husband begins to sniff the air next to me.
"What?" I say somewhat annoyed, and give him the look of death.
"Oh nothing, you just kind of smell like onions from the food." he shrugs like it's nothing, like people just walk around smelling like onions everyday. Great. I quickly search the car for anything that smells better than onions. I spray on the first scent I find, and take a deep breath as we pull into yet another driveway.
We're greeted warmly by my husband's great grandmother, who gives me a hug. She smiles up at me. "Dear, you smell lovely. What is that scent?" I rack my brain, trying to think of some great sounding perfume, but to no avail. I just shrug.
"It's febreze auto."
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
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