It Was a Mild Pinstrosity...

Dear Diary, 

     Last week, I tried doing my nails all cute-like. You know how Pinterest has so many fabulous ideas on how to make you look glamorous? Well, I gave it a shot. I went with the style below, since I was heading to California to relax on the beach. Very lovely nails, am I right? 

     

     Here's how mine turned out: 

     Not so fabulous. Can you even tell my middle finger has an anchor on it? (Don't answer that.) Not to mention, about ten minutes into this nail makeover, two of my nails chipped. Fifty points goes to the first person who can tell me what the secret is to not chipping your nails. More polish? Less polish? Clear top coat? HELP. I'm going to go ahead and classify this project as a Pinstrosity. For those of you who don't know what Pinstrosity is, you have to check it out. It's a blog that takes submissions from fellow Pinteresters (like myself) whose projects don't *quite* turn out the way Pinterest portrays them. It's very entertaining. 

            As for our vacation, I learned the following: 

*Life in general is easier when you have a wiener. Yes, a wiener. My toddler had to use the restroom (while driving) more times than I could count and I was just grateful it wasn't me instead. I imagined me squatting there, at the edge of the running board, parked on the shoulder of the I-10 with both the passenger and backseat door open to hide my nakedness, balancing a squat, yet still having a stream of urine heading southward down my legs as a police officer pulls over and arrests me for indecent exposure. The horror. 

*People living in beach homes like to use sheer curtains. Even to cover the bathroom window. The one right next to the shower. Maybe I need to be more like Tobias Funke; I'd worry less. 

*Wheels don't roll in the sand. Hauling a wagon full of 53 pounds of human flesh, a boogie board, a Camelbak, and a gym bag full of beach toys/towels is a full blown workout. I kind of felt like this. Notice there is no horse. I was the horse. Some of you are asking, "Where was your husband?" Oh, he was just dropping our car off at the shop. (See below). 

*Life is not that fun when your air conditioner goes out 2 hours into your 6+ hour drive. 

*Chick-Fil-A doesn't taste as good in CA. 

*Polaroid moments are not as Polaroidy when you try to whip out your camera phone to take a picture only to realize the camera part doesn't work because it previously took a dive into the toilet. 

*Sand will find it's way into every crack in your body. We spent many minutes cleaning out sandy hineys. (Where was this stuff when I went last weekend? And more importantly, what's it made of...?)

*Without the MAP app on our phones, we'd have eaten the same thing every day and only gone to the beach and back. 

*CA has more interstates than anywhere I've ever seen. 

*There are more ugly parts of CA than pretty parts. (Sorry, Californians. The people are super nice, though!)

*The Goodwills in CA are not as good as the ones in AZ. ($2.99 for a VHS? Come on.)

*Private parts are not very fond of 50 degree ocean water. 

*And last but not least, driving with a feisty infant is extremely masochistic. My daughter is the embodiment of a shaken two liter of Diet Coke with a Mento dropped into it, strapped to a rocket and taken on a roller coaster. 

     But all in all, we had a blast and our first family vacation was a success. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Road Tripper. 

Hotter than Tar.

Dear Diary, 

    
     The summertime is so wonderful, isn't it? The birds are chirping, the grass is lusciously green, and the extra vitamin D from the sun leaves you feeling fabulous. However, I do believe there is a threshold (for many) in the heat department. We all like to try and one-up the other by saying our heat beats yours because it's 126* in our car when leaving Target, while others say their heat beats ours because it's 126* in their car with humidity thrown into the mix. We go back and forth until everyone realizes that we all suck at living in extremely hot temperatures and suddenly the homes in San Francisco begin to appraise for twice the amount they were in the winter. Go figure. 

     I do believe I have found the ultimate winning punch line for the hotter-than-thou argument that bounces around the mouths of individuals everywhere from May to September. (Or in the case of Arizonans, from March to December.)

     Yesterday, my little family was leaving our church service at 11:00 AM. So...not even lunch time yet, right? You'd still consider that "morning". As we were driving off, I heard a rattling sound at my back right tire. You know that noise you hear after you've driven your car through the mud all weekend, then it dries, and for the next few days you hear dried mud chunks getting kicked off of your tire and up onto the frame of your car? Yeah, that noise. Only, we haven't been off-roading in muddy terrain. We pulled over. Hubby got out to check the wheel. After some quick evaluating, to our amazement, we realized our car had been sunk into the tar of the parking lot and strips of tar had been glued to our tire by the sun. We had to peel the gummy tar off in chunks before we could continue on. 

     So...your place is hot. But your car doesn't sink into parking lots like quick sand because the ground beneath you can no longer withstand the satanic temperatures. One point for me, no points for you. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The hot momma. No seriously, it is way. Too. Hot. 

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Dear Diary, 

    There is nothing quite like getting farted on during Body Pump Class. Imagine a bunch of women around you doing squats with fans spinning overhead at full speed. Once that puff of smoke has left the hiney from whence it fled, there is no taking it back...and there is definitely no UNsmelling it. After about 3 very rancid gas leaks, the Pump instructor says, "It stinks in here. Do you guys smell it?" Oh I smelled it. And then he pulled a Positive Polly on us and said, "It smells like SPIRIT! Let's GOOOOOO!" and proceeded to do his squats to the obnoxious Lady Gaga music blasting through the speakers. Needless to say, it was a long hour of Pump. 

     In other news, my 17 month old daughter learned the word "boob" yesterday, my dog is still menstruating (But in style. I stitched her up a pair of pink panties. Go ahead, call me crafty. Whoever said you can't menstruate in style was probably a male politician), and it's still as hot as Hades' living room outside. But life is good; no complaints here. Happy Summer!

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Body Pumper/Panty Stitcher. 

Spread Eagle.

Dear Diary, 

     
     I'll be the first to admit I'm a hairy person (or so I think). And even though I'm hairy, I hate hair. So naturally, I do away with it. Razors, tweezers, wax strips, etc. Those suckers don't stand a chance. 

     One of my friends is an esthetician and has access to professional grade wax. She had mentioned to me before that she waxes her own body and I asked if she'd be willing to take on a new client. This was no ordinary wax job, people. This was a full blown Brazilian. The kind that makes you want to bite a stick or get knocked out with a frying pan while your unmentionables undergo major torture. 

     When I showed up, she laid a towel down in her open living area and told me to go ahead and lay down. "Wait. What? Right HERE?" I looked to my left and saw her gigantic sliding glass door wide open with an awesome view of her neighbors house. Also, this room had no door and there were two other cohabitants of the household presently home. This wasn't going to work for me. I don't always Spread Eagle, but when I do, it's not in the open. 

     We made our way to her in-home salon instead, where I dropped my yoga pants and packed up any embarrassment or dignity I had left and wadded it up with my pile of clothing. I quickly realized that the positions required of one crazy enough to submit to such pain is enough to make a grown man cry. 

     When she began, I felt a too-hot-for-my-liking sticky substance being smeared across my carnal treasure with a popsicle stick. I knew that the next half hour was going to be terrible. Once that sticky substance dries, there is no going back. It's like getting buried in cement and being left there for days. Someone's gonna have to jackhammer you out of that $*!#. Same with your hair. Your two choices are to either let that wax become a permanent fixture on your body, or rip out anything that's stuck to it so it all comes off at once. The initial rip sent me from a 0 degree angle to a full blown 90 degrees, where my screaming face was right in the face of my red-haired friend who apparently had no shame in ripping me to pieces. The pain continued for at least another hour, each reaction nearly the same as the one before it. At 95% completion, I told her to leave the rest. I was just too wimpy. I was going to have to accept that my new crotch was to be the Centaur of its kind. 

     I bit the bullet and she finished the job, no doubt longer than it could have been had I not screamed through most of it and begged her to kill the switch. I paid her, then left her house with a terribly uncomfortable feeling of empty crotch follicles. I look back and realize that I PAID someone to torture me via my most sensitive lady parts. I can definitely see where men think women are completely irrational human beings.

Sincerely, 

Me. The Irrational Woman. 


The IDEA:

THE REALITY: