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:

In Heat.

Dear Diary, 

     In my few years as a parent, I've become fairly accustomed to urine, blood and fecal matter. Not that I enjoy them, let's get that straight right now, but I am simply not a wimp about it. 

     However. ..

     My dog is currently in heat. We adopted our 5 year old Boxer just after Christmas, when she'd recently wrapped up her bi-annual hot moment. Here we are, six months later and find orange spotting scattered randomly throughout the house. (Barf.) We realized the issue and took matters into our own hands by putting a size 5 diaper on the poor girl. Well, a dog's shape is quite different from a 30 pound human, so the faux velcro straps didn't hold up too well. We got clever and cut a hole in it for her tail. Also didn't work. Ironically, that same day, I was cleaning out my bathroom and found two unnaturally huge maxi-pads from my stay at the hospital. Judging by the size of those things, you'd have thought I was about to pass my weight in blood. (Also barf.) I took one look at them, wondered if I'd need them (HA!), then threw them out with the trash. Little did I know that night I would regret tossing such a treasure. So we got even more clever. My husband piped up and said, "Listen. We need some undies and a maxi-pad." (Who is this guy?!) I followed orders and my undies were entirely too large for her(instant ego-booster). So we snuck into my toddler's bedroom and snatched some up out of his underwear drawer. Gave the back end a little snippety snip-snip for the tail and voila! She was officially wearing Old Navy underwear and a menstrual pad. 

     Regrettably, this was not enough for me to think she was not utterly disgusting in her crimson tide drip-age. I told my husband this was his area of expertise (he raised female Boxers) and that I was going to gracefully bow out. I informed him that I will continue to mow the lawn, pick up dog poop, change (human) diapers and run to The Home Depot for all our houses fix-its (Yes, I am the handy man. This is not a joke. My husband also sleeps with a sleep mask and ear plugs from time to time. I live with a 200 pound, muscular, sexy, male version of Princess Peach.) but that I was just NOT going to take care of dog menstruation. He seemed taken aback, but agreed. 

     In the middle of the night, I'd hear a loud licking/smacking noise. During the day, I'd hear the same loud noise. Every time I looked over, my dog was lip smacking her own cootchie and I'd about roll over and die every time. Her underwear lining is soaked in blood and saliva and I can. Not. Handle. It. It is entirely too gross for me. Therefore I find myself subconsciously saying things out loud, such as: 

"Oof. She is so nasty." 
"Son, leave her outside, she has a yucky bum." 
"You lip-smacking, cootchie-licking dog. You are gross."
"Babe, let's just send her somewhere for 2 weeks until her period is over." 
"Look at her. Isn't she gross? Poor girl. She doesn't mean to be gross but she just is."

     Then my husband said, "I think I'll send you away once a month, too" to which I replied, "Well, the difference is...I don't lick my own labia." 

     I do suppose I didn't realize just how rude my subconscious was (Not me. My subconscious.)and decided I'd try and take this red heat wave of blood in stride. From the side lines. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Dog Owner. 

It Was a Slam Dunk.

Dear Diary, 

     I wouldn't say I'm the worst at sports, but let's just say I never made a school team. However, today, I pulled a Michael Jordan move that almost cost me a whole lotta money. 

     My son has a nasty habit of hopping in the bathtub as it's filling with water, then doing a little dancey-dance before admitting he has to go potty. I sit on the toilet lid when I give them baths, so obviously I get up when he needs to do his business. Today, I decided to bring my phone into the bathroom so I could dink around on Instagram as the kids played (bad idea). When he finished going, my phone turned into a slippery fish and fell into the urine-filled water below. My eyes nearly bulged out of my head as I saw myself in an Instagram picture staring back at me through that yellow water, as if yelling, "HELP" as I was screaming, "Ah!" * "Ah!" * "Ah!" in return. Frantic, I tossed it into the sink like a hot potato and began to turn on the faucet to rinse off the pee. Then my rational self reminded my irrational self that THAT WAS NOT GOING TO FIX THE PROBLEM. I quickly dried it with a towel and began ripping off that trusty old Otter Box. To my surprise and delight, my phone worked. I began to breathe easy. But my husband was sure to comment on my less-than-stellar track record of dropping cell phones in urine infested waters. Two years ago, we were moving from Texas to Georgia. We'd made it to Odessa and stopped at a McDonald's when I had to use the restroom. My Blackberry was in the back pocket of my jeans, so when I pulled down my pants, the pocket flipped upside down and PLOP went my phone. Needless to say, the last 16.5 hours of driving were spent making hand signals out my SUV window to my husband who was driving a huge rental truck and pulling my small car behind it in a trailer. Eventually, my phone came back alive and all was right in the world. 

     But tonight, in that frantic moment while removing my phone from the toilet, I immediately (mentally) blamed my cute little toddler for having to relieve his bladder. Then I blamed Instagram instead, for being so addicting. Then the even more irrational blaming ensued and I had to cut off my thoughts. Ah, being a mother is great. But it has, at times, made me a bit crazy. 

Sincerely, 

Me.    

The Secret to Staying Young

Dear Diary, 

     Yesterday, I was at the grocery store when I ended up standing next to an elderly woman scanning over the selection of toilet paper. Now, with T.P., there isn't need for much looking. Fluffy, scruffy, one ply, two ply- it all wipes your butt. 

     She noticed my kids and told me the classic old lady line that went something like, "Enjoy them while they are little. Mine are all grown." She proceeded to tell me that her daughters were in their 50's now. I told her she looked too young to have children in their 50's. I sensed that she got that a lot. She told me she was pushing 90 and I was honestly shocked- she looked at least 15 years younger or more. I told her my thoughts and she said, "I drink a lot, that's why." Wondering if I didn't hear her correctly, I smiled politely and kept gazing over the things in the aisle that I was searching for. Before I could do much searching, she spouted off quite loudly, "Vodka & Orange Juice." Excuse me? "Vodka. And Orange Juice. Milk is for wimps." 

     Inside, I was cracking up. This woman was clearly so happy to have found me in the toilet paper aisle. A young mother, dying to know the secret to staying young. Desperately hoping to run into a beautiful elderly woman with so many stories to tell, all while my kids kick and scream and stomp on the bag of chips in the cart while trying to mess with the egg cartons in the front. Bliss, obviously. I continued listening to her tell me stories of how she paid for all of her children and grandchildren to go to college and how one of them is a sportscaster in Chicago. How she moved to Arizona from Ohio and how she had an obvious addiction to alcohol. Eventually, I wrapped up my conversation with her while my children were wrapped up in soon-to-be destroyed groceries and hauled our circus to the check out lane. I was glad I met her, but I'm hoping the next old lady with a secret to staying young doesn't tell me it involves being a rich alcoholic. If I was rich and an alcoholic, I might be relaxed also. But alas, the stresses of life get the best of me every day and I think I'd rather earn those wrinkles when they get to me. 

Sincerely, 

Me.