I mean he has an account on Facebook but he never looks at it. He doesn’t even have the app anymore. He receives family and friends gossip from me. If you want to interact with Scott on social media – follow him on Instagram. He only posts hunting pictures, for the most part.
Why did Scott stop looking at Facebook? He says he got bored with it. People complained too much. I think he stopped using Facebook because the wives were killing my vibe.
“Mike’s cool girlfriend hunts with him all the time. Look at all these turkeys she’s killed.”
“Jim’s wife is super hot. I bet he gets laid every night.”
“Hunter’s family looks normal in these family pictures. Must be nice.”
These statements are Scott’s opinion, of course. He succumbed to Facebook’s Fakebook. But if you talk to Mike, Jim, or Hunter, you will find that all of the men – including Scott – are married to the same wife.
Things ALL WIVES say to their husbands – I don’t care how many hobbies a wife shares with her husband, how hot she is, or how picture-perfect her family appears in a photo. We’re all the same. We’re all mad here.
“This period blood made your children.” From buying tampons to listening about her cramps to sharing a bed with blood stained sheets – men have to hear about periods. I would dare to say a menstruating woman is grosser than any male. Just look in the bathroom trash can.
“We can’t stay late.” Maybe she said it in the car on the way to the party. Or maybe she whispered it in his ear. This doesn’t happen at every social event but it will happen. She doesn’t want to be there. She wants to be at home because the drunker he gets, the more responsibility falls on her shoulders. Those kids are waking up at 6 am and a puking husband is the last thing she needs.
“Here’s your list.” The list. Every wife has one. The list can be limited to physical things she can’t do or doesn’t know how to do. It can also include shared chores of the household. The hotter the wife, the longer she takes to get ready, therefore – the longer the chore list. It’s science.
“Fine. But leave my shirt on and hurry up.” We’ve all said it. We’re tired ok?
“I gotta poop.” I mean, women do eat. Women poop. The normal women poop, the hot women poop, your daughters poop, your mom poops, Kate Upton poops. Ok, fine – they might not say ‘poop’ but it’s disguised as, “I was sick in the bathroom this morning.” Whatever. It’s poop. She pooped.
“Take them. They’re your kids.” That picture-perfect family has days where the kids break them – both of them, mom and dad. They can’t do it anymore. That mom will be pushed past the point of exhaustion and that’s when – oh yeah! Another person helped create this 3-year-old spawn of Satan. Your turn.
“Wait! Stop! We need to get a picture so I can put it on Instagram!” She’s said it because she wants to show off her loves. You can’t see a life in a still-shot picture. We’re all mad here.
You know when you were a kid and your mom yelled at you for pulling your sister’s hair?
You knew better but did it anyway. There’s no way of “accidentally” pulling your sister’s hair.
You know after years into adulthood, you get the lecture by the dental hygienist for not flossing well enough?
You’re ashamed because you remembered to floss but you’re also a lazy ass and don’t want to get out of the warm bed and walk on the cold tile floor.
Shame on you.
The index finger shake. The shame shake. The you-knew-better shake.
You know when you’re driving along the road and you think to yourself, ‘I haven’t had a pedicure in a long time. I’m going to treat myself to a pedicure while the kids are at school.’ Good. You deserve it. Sometimes you need to do something for yourself.
I have two daughters. Two daughters that love expensive pedicures. I felt no shame sneaking in a pedicure while my daughters were at school. I was saving money by only paying for myself instead of three full pedicures.
“Do You Lilac It?” by OPI was my color choice. Why, yes I do lilac it. I lilac sitting alone, scrolling my phone, people watching, and reading a book. I found great comfort soaking my feet in hot water while my girls were staring at multiplication flashcards and running a mile in middle school P.E.
School is good for them. I graduated school. I deserved a pedicure alone.
What the hell.
I put down my book and looked down at the nail tech. She was using her tiny scoop to dig out the sides of my toenail, where the nail meets the skin.
Hm, that’s weird. She tapped the top of my foot. That’s never happened…
Tap. Tap. Tap.
White piles of toe gunk fell from her scoop and rested on top of my foot. I pulled out my phone.
She’s placing the gunk on my foot. Why isn’t she using a towel like everyone else? She’s piling my toe gunk on top of my foot.
My mouth dropped. I looked around the room. No one had white toe gunk in tiny piles on top of their feet. I opened the camera app on my phone and slid the viewer to video. I pushed record and held the phone at a slight angle. I spread my fingers apart on the screen and zoomed.
“Nasty toes. You see this? You nasty toes.”
There it was.
Shame on me.
The index finger point.
I’ve been getting pedicures long enough to know she was showing me I didn’t get enough pedicures. She placed my toe gunk there for all to see.
She tapped my foot with her hand. Code for, “put your foot back in the water.” I waited a second to see if she would wipe the gunk off my foot with her towel. She did not. I closed my eyes and slid my foot back into the water. I could feel the toe gunk release and float up. I wished I was holding up multiplication flash cards for my daughter. I wished I was running a mile with my other daughter. I wished for anywhere but here.
I opened my eyes, saved the video, and closed my phone down. I lifted my right foot.
She shoveled my toe gunk out again.
“See that? You need to keep coming.”
I knew it. She was trying to sell me more pedicures in an odd sales pitch including white toe gunk placed on top of my foot.
Shame on me.
I got a pedicure without my two expensive daughters.
A gentleman should always hold the door open for a lady.
A gentleman should offer his jacket if a lady gets cold.
Is chivalry dead? Not unless the woman kills it. I can open the door myself, thank you.
The person that gets to the door first should hold the door open for the following person.
Regardless of gender, anyone that wants to give up their coat for a someone that is cold is simply a nice person. Or maybe they’re just hot.
It’s a new era. The 2017 etiquette for men has new rules.
One rule, really.
Flowers are always nice.
No, forget the flowers.
The one rule:never say the word relax.
I take that back – you can say relax to the brand new mother of your child when you hand her a gift certificate to a spa. “Here, you’ve been up all night. Go relax.”
You can say it on the beach as the waves pull your lover’s feet into the ocean. “You want to grab a slice of pizza and relax on the beach?”
You can say it inside a hot tub in the mountains as you hand your lady a glass of wine. “Here, I thought this would be even more relaxing.”
Hell, I don’t care, you can say it while you load up the kids in the car on a trip to the grocery store on your own. “I’ll run to Target with the kids. Sit here and relax.”
But the second you have an angry woman in front of you – you better start agreeing with whatever nonsense she’s spitting at you. Agree and talk about it later. Trust me. You do NOT – I repeat – you DO NOT utter the word RELAX. See also CALM DOWN. If you include the arms motioning downward, they will be kicked back up.
I will light the town on fire and tell a female cop I discovered arson because I was told to RE-LAX. Oh, hell no. Where’s my torch.
This isn’t a post about Scott and me. This is a post about a little girl finding womanhood.
Scott told Kate to relax.
This adorable photo from the Daddy/Daughter dance shows a reserved 5th grader and her father. And then there’s the 2nd grader, chugging her childhood down her throat because the same father told her to relax.
Kate wasn’t even angry at Scott when it all started. She stomped in our room that morning and showed up next to my side of the bed with her arms crossed.
Kate: I’m mad at Emma.
Me: Just cuddle with us and ignore her.
Kate: No! Mom! But Emma…
Scott: JUST RELAX, KATE.
I felt a fury ignite in my stomach. It passed.
Kate: NO, DADDY! THEN I’M NOT GOING TO THE DANCE WITH YOU TONIGHT!
Scott: Fine, I’ll go with Emma.
Kate: I don’t care. You won’t be going with ME.
Kate stomped out of the room.
Scott: What happened to her?
Me: You told her to relax when she was angry. She’s me now.
Kate felt the fire inside her at age seven. It’s the fire every woman feels when a man tells her to “relax” or “calm down.”
I had a chat with Kate woman-to-woman. I reminded her he did get her a corsage for the evening. Flowers are always nice. And he would love to have a date on each arm for the night. She must forgive his words.
She agreed to go to dinner and the dance with Scott.
I love having code words to get men out the room. They scatter like a flock of birds when a woman starts running towards them, flapping her arms, and screaming crazy talk.
Just us ladies? Cool.
Men. I don’t understand their minds. I thought I did. I thought I knew Scott. I’ve known the guy for 15 years. Scott is like most men.
The answer is always yes or no with Scott. Scott knows what he likes. He’s messy and unorganized. He’s athletic. He takes pride in opening a jar of spaghetti sauce but he’s not cocky. He loves making others feel better about themselves. He never expects a thank you. And, like all men, he likes pretty women.
He’s also turned off when a woman doesn’t shave her legs.
He’s turned off when a woman doesn’t shave her armpits.
Bikini area. Meh, I don’t think he cares about this one. Unless you’re in a bikini.
Hairy toes. Turn off.
Nose hair. Turn off.
Hairy face. “Why the hell would you shave your face? You’re not shaving your face. Please go get a hobby. I will divorce you if you start shaving your face.”
Scott has a problem with a woman shaving her face. It doesn’t make any sense. I believe I’m correct when saying most men only like hair on a woman’s head. Then Scott threw me for a loop and decided he likes silky smooth legs, soft skin, supple breasts, and a hairy face.
I shaved my face.
He’s not divorcing me. My face looks better. He just hasn’t noticed yet.
It’s not that I have a hairy face. I’m half Mexican but I have a white face and body. I have dark hair but the majority of my hair is on the top of my head. I don’t need to shave my face. I don’t have a mustache or even a single chin hair. I’m not a hairy person.
You see, I got to chatting with some girlfriends and I discovered shaving your face is the new thing to do. We all have peach fuzz on our face. If you remove the fuzz with short little strokes using a facial razor – not our normal leg razor or a men’s facial razor – it exfoliates your face. It also makes it easier for moisturizer to absorb and makeup goes on better.
I bought Finishing Touch Lumina from Target. (This is not a sponsored ad. I’m just telling you what I used.)
See? It’s not a normal razor. And I don’t have makeup on, not that you care because this is girl talk.
Use short little strokes at an angle and BOOM. Silky smooth face. It hasn’t grown back courser or darker. If you want a demo, watch this YouTube video. Hell no, it’s not me on YouTube. I’m awkward on camera.
Or maybe you’re all doing this and I’m the last to know.
There’s my new beauty secret. Don’t tell Scott.
I can’t say I know how a man’s mind works but I do know a woman’s secrets. Like how we go days, weeks even, without washing a bra. And how we drink our wine with the dead fruit fly in it because that’s what the fruit fly deserves. Or without thinking, we look at the the toilet paper after we wipe. Oh! We love to scrub the dandruff off our scalps before we get in the shower, really digging in good with our fingernails. We will waddle with a piece of toilet paper in our crotch until we can find a tampon…
The men are still here, aren’t they? That’s what you get for eavesdropping.
Until today. Because this is much funnier than saying hello.
*Notes: Scott isn’t on Twitter anymore. I’m 34 now. My clothing choice reflects the warm night, not January. But I still hold true to my argument – sleeping in lingerie sucks.
Scott: Can I tweet I hate sports bras?
Me: I don’t care what you tweet. What do you mean you hate sports bras? Do you want every guy at the gym to ogle women?
Scott: No. I mean I hate that you wear sports bras to bed.
Me: Um, my boobs are still perky after two breastfed babies. And I’m 31. You’re welcome. Perky-ish.
Scott: And they also shrunk. What are you wearing? A onesie?
Me: It’s called a romper. It’s comfortable.
Scott: It’s a onesie. With a sports bra. Take off the sports bra!
Scott: You’re like Fort Knox!
Me: Fine. What would you like for me to wear to bed, sweet husband of mine?
Me: No. I mean to sleep in. I get the whole lingerie thing. Whatever. But I’m not sleeping in that. I get cold. And the girls would see me in the morning and they’ll be all “Oooooo. Pretty lacy red dress. You look pretty, mommy! Can I try it on? It’s my size!” Next thing you know they will be showing their friends their new dress up clothes in my closet drawer.
Scott: You have a lingerie drawer?
Scott: Never knew that.
Me: I just want to be comfortable when I sleep. Sports bra. T-shirt. PJ shorts.
Scott: Wait, where is this red, lacy lingerie?
Me: In. My. Lingerie. Drawer. This is like me asking you to go to bed with a tool belt on and nothing else. You can’t sleep in that.
Scott: You want me to wear a tool belt?
Me: Oh my God. It doesn’t matter! Tool belts, lingerie, sports bras and t-shirt, WE END UP NAKED ANYWAY. Gah!
Scott: Don’t hate on Victoria.
Me: Who the hell is Vic-oh my God. And don’t hate on her secret too?
Scott: Don’t hate on Victoria.
Me: I love Victoria’s Secret. They sell sports bras. And let me tell you something – every advertisement for Victoria Secret is photoshopped. The real Victoria wakes up with a boob popped out of the lingerie, a string stuck up her ass, like way up. And that ass is far from clean the next morning because Victoria farts in her sleep. She has no make up and morning breath. Morning breath that will make you turn away. But you wouldn’t know this because she stole the giant comforter from you and has it wrapped twice around her body because she’s freezing. And don’t get me started on wearing heels to bed.
Scott: Sorry, I’m a man. I just want to see my beautiful wife in lingerie.
Me: Look all you want, take it off, wear it yourself. But when it’s time to sleep, I’m changing to something comfortable. You shouldn’t care what I’m sleeping in because you will be sleeping too, dreaming of me.
Scott: In a onesie and a sports bra at Fort Knox.
Ladies, tell him I’m right on this one – we’re freezing when we wake up the next morning. Do you enjoy wearing lingerie? Do you enjoy actually sleeping in it? Do all men agree with Scott? Do all men want to see their beautiful wife/girlfriend/lover in lingerie? Or do you want to see her in whatever makes her happy?
They say after you have a baby, you blink, and then that baby is headed off to college.
I call bullshit.
A kid doesn’t just wake up one day and become an 18 year old. It’s a process. Time slows down after the age of 9.
And do you know why years 9 through 18 are slowed down? I’ll tell you why – it’s so Scott and I can be slowly reminded we’re going to be grandparents one day. THAT’S WHY.
The hormones that will make my grandchildren have showed up with their pretty, little eye-rolls.
Emma turned 9 this weekend. I usually write a sweet post about Emma’s birthday. Emma’s birth made me a mom. She made Scott a dad. Her grandparents became grandparents and her aunts and uncles became, well, aunts and uncles.
And when you’re a newbie at raising a baby, you will get unsolicited advice. Maybe it’s not so much advice but a warning. Like a hurricane. It’s coming straight for us and all we can do is board up the house and hide.
“You’re doing good, mom. Believe it or not, you’ll miss these days when she’s a teenager!” – an older mom at Target, watching me wrestle a screaming, arched-back baby Emma in my arms.
“Oh, this is nothin’. Just wait until junior high!” – my dad, during a five-year-old Emma meltdown.
“Well, she’s 9 years old now. She’s not a kid anymore. 4th grade is the year. You’ll start to see a few girls…with body changes.” – the pediatrician, at Emma’s wellness check.
If there is one thing my kid overachieves at, it’s exploding estrogen. The teenager showed up last year. It was subtle at first.
You’re the meanest mom ever! I tell all my friends you’re mean!
That’s cool. A big kid meltdown. When she’s mad at me, she runs to Scott. And when she’s mad at Scott, she runs to me. We have this all under control. She has no clue we’re on the same team.
Then it unraveled within the year.
I don’t like my hair in a ponytail because my face looks fat.
I just walked around the playground by myself because no one would play with me. I want to change schools now.
That girl said she’s not going to be my friend anymore. Everyone hates me because I’m ugly. And Kate is the pretty one.
Watching a child change into a woman is painful. Heartbreaking, even.
I could write advice about middle school and the awkward years. But she wouldn’t relate to it because she hasn’t been through it. And I know the first rule of age 9 through 18 because I invented the rule – don’t listen to your mother.
She’ll figure it all out.
She’ll figure out those mean kids don’t hate her. Those mean kids will just turn into asshole adults. The world is full of them. They probably don’t even know they’re assholes. She’ll learn to brush them off.
She’ll figure out she is not ugly. It won’t take a family member to tell her she’s not. Or even a girlfriend. Or a stranger. The only person that will get her to believe she is pretty is a boy.
And as far as a dislike for her hair up, well, I don’t like my hair up either. Not because of the word “fat” but because I feel like I look like a boy. If she doesn’t like her hair up, then good. She cares. Wear your hair down, Emma. Be your own woman.
She’ll figure out that raising a child never gets easier. Worry is a cloud that hangs over parenthood. Worrying about her baby taking its first breath is just as scary as worrying about her toddler falling down the stairs. And that worry is just as scary as that “child” driving off to college, freshman-stye.
She’ll figure out one day that she’ll be a woman that blinked. And she’ll call bullshit too.
I gave birth to a blonde-haired baby girl named Kate.
May 7, 2015.
Scott claimed he went to a place where only women have gone. It’s a place where the human body tortures and rips itself open in the highest severity of pain. It’s the 10 out of 10.
You guys, Scott experienced the pains of childbirth.
Me: I NEED HELP! I NEED A STRETCHER FOR MY HUSBAND IN THE CAR.
Doctor: Ma’am. Is your husband injured?
Me: Yes. Yes, hurry. He can’t move.
Nurse: (pushing an empty wheelchair out the Emergency Department’s doors) Ma’am, how did you get him in the car if he can’t move?
Me: I had help. It took hours. And he won’t want that wheelchair. He needs to lay down.
Nurse: Ma’am this is all we have. He’ll have to use the wheelchair.
Scott: I can’t….I can’t…I need to lay down.
Nurse: Sir, what happened?
Scott: My back went out. I can’t move.
Nurse: We’ll make it work. I’ll call for back up. Ma’am, when we get him loaded, you can park your car over there.
Nurse: Scott, what is your pain level right now?
Scott: It’s……hold…on. It’s high. 9. 10. 9-10. It’s when I move. The pain makes it…unbearable.
Nurse: Ok. What time did this happen?
Scott: About 9 am.
Nurse: You’ve been in this kind of pain for 7 hours?
Nurse: (looks at me) You poor thing.
Scott: I thought…it…would get better.
Me: (mouth) Thank you.
Nurse: Ok, Scott. The doctor is coming in now.
Doctor: Hey, Scott. I see you were working at the farm when this happened?
Doctor: (looks at me) And your relation is….
Me: Oh. I’m his wife.
Doctor: And do you two live on a farm?
Me: (giggle) No. He was planting corn on the farm he leases. It’s to feed deer. He’s a pretend farmer. He hunts deer.
Doctor: Ok. So tell me, pretend farmer, what exactly happened when you got your injury?
Scott: I…bent. over. I bent over. To pick up something. It felt like….like, a lightening strike in my back. I fell. I can’t move when my…back spasms. When it stops spasming….I’m ok when I’m laying down.
Doctor: Ok, I’m going to touch in a couple spots. Can you feel me here?
Doctor: This might hurt. Can you feel this?
Scott: OW OW! YES!
Doctor: What medicines have you taken so far?
Scott: (points at me) Well, she gave me some leftover oxicodone that expired in 2011. I took one about two hours ago. It didn’t help.
Me: (mouth drop)
Doctor: SHE did? Ok, I’m going to make you more comfortable with medicine and order a CT scan. We’ll see how you are after that.
Me: SCOTT! I didn’t give you oxicodone! I gave you Emma’s leftover acetaminophen with codine cough syrup from 2011!
Scott: Did I say oxicodone?
Me: YES! Huge difference!
Scott: Oh, sorry.
Me: We should have called an ambulance. You’re lucky your concerned sister-in-law didn’t do it for you.
Scott: Jessica was going to call an ambulance?!
Me: Uh. Yeah.
Scott: I would have sent the bill to her.
Me: How’s your back now?
Scott: It’s like a 2. I’m ok once the spasming stops. When I’m flat on a bed.
Me: Christine says they’ll probably give you some really good drugs.
Scott: You already texted Christine?
Me: She’s a nurse, dude. Oh, she said if you’re in this much pain, she wants to see tears. Here. Will you pose with tears?
Nurse: Ok. The doctor ordered 4 drugs for you. One is a muscle relaxer. And three are for pain. I’m going to give them to you by IV. Hold your arm out while I start the IV. These will cause you not to be able to operate a vehicle or sign any important documents.
Nurse: Here we go. They might make you feel kinda funny at first. It’ll hit you then hopefully start working.
Scott: I’m really ok now that I’m on my back. I don’t feel any…. oh wow. You just rocked my world.
Scott: You’re so beautiful.
Me: (giggle) HA! Nice drugs, there.
Scott: You are. You’re so pretty.
Me: Can I film you?
Scott: I really hope these food plots get us some monster deer.
Me: Tell me I’m pretty again.
Scott: I mean, all I did was bend over! It could have happened anywhere! I wasn’t lifting or anything. I’m so lucky this didn’t happen while driving my truck. I went paralyzed. I would have died.
Me: Well, you’re ok now. These drugs will help and the doctor will figure out what happened. Ugh, I hate this. I want to tell the doctors you have a high pain tolerance. And that your 6 is every man’s 9.
Scott: I’m telling you, when my back spasms like that…I’ve never felt any pain greater.
Me: I thought you said your surgery knee pain was a 10.
Scott: This is more than that. This is more than childbirth.
I dropped my phone in my lap.
Me: I’m sorry, what.
Scott: Childbirth. My whole body goes numb in pain. But this time, there’s no relief. It just keeps going until I lay down on my back. My body can’t relax. It’s, like, constant pain, unbearable. My whole body goes numb.
Scott: Don’t look at me like that.
Scott: I’m telling you. It’s worse.
Me: How do you feel now?
Scott: I’m ok when I’m on my back. My body can relax.
Scott: I know I have a herniated disk. It’s nerve pain. Worst pain you can imagine.
Me: RING. OF. FIRE.
Doctor: Well Scott, after looking at your CT scan, your spine is showing laxity. It’s basically loose ligaments. An MRI will tell us more. You can get a consult with an Ortho as an outpatient. We’ll send you home with some drugs. It looks like you are tolerating the pain better.
Nurse: Ok, Scott. Can you move out of your bed and stand, slowly?
Scott tried to get up. He collapsed back into the bed. His back was spasming.
Scott: I…can’t. I can’t move….It’s spasming again. Feel how…tight my abs are.
Nurse: Ok, I can’t let you leave if you can’t move out of bed.
Scott: I. Can’t move.
Nurse: What’s the pain level?
Scott: 10….it’s 9-10. Worst pain. Unbearable.
Nurse: I’m going to give you one more dose of a pain meds. Let me get the doctor.
Doctor: Hey, Scott. You’re staying with me tonight.
Me: WHAT?! He’s being admitted?
Doctor: Yep. We’ll get a room for him upstairs. I can’t let him go if he can’t walk out of the hospital.
Me: Oh no! Our daughter’s birthday is tomorrow!
Doctor: How old is she?
Me: She’ll be 6.
Doctor: Cool. Birthday cake at the hospital. We’re going to schedule an MRI for tonight. We’ll have results by morning.
Scott: Call my mom.
Me: How did you sleep last night? Did they read the MRI yet? Kate had me bring you one of her stuffed animals with its back ripped open.
Me: She’s so funny.
Scott: The MRI was ok. The nurse thinks I have a herinated disk.
Me: Really? Did they say if you need surg – OH MY GOD, SCOTT. WHAT ARE YOU ON?
Scott: It’s not even helping. I’m waiting on the doctor to make rounds.
Me: Hey. I was in pain, at a hospital, at this exact moment 6 years ago. My pain ended in an epidural.
Scott: Your pain ended with a beautiful baby girl. Your pain was natural. I just want to walk.
Doctor: Scott, you are a candidate for an epidural.
Doctor: You have a herniated disk. You will need to get a consult from Ortho. For now, our objective is to get you walking. Since you are not getting relief from these meds, I’m going to have the nurses wheel you down to the pain center. It’s inside the hospital.
Scott: An epidural? Like what SHE had?
Doctor: It’s not quite the same as a woman in labor. It’s a little different. You will be getting a steroid nerve block. But yes, same type of procedure in the back.
Scott: I don’t know what all you women complain about with an epidural. That was nothing. I even got to watch a video of the needle going in. Kinda cool.
Me: No mother has complained about an epidural. The epidural is the relief. It’s the pain leading up to the epidural. And some moms don’t even get an epidural. You want to die but you want your child to live. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that 6 years ago because women can’t speak with that level of pain. I’m sure your pain is your 10. But it’s not that 10.
And you’re forgetting who I delivered. KATE.
Scott’s epidural helped him through his level 10 pain. His pain has moved to about a 4 and tolerable. He will continue physical therapy until he is completely healed. He was released from the hospital with a greater appreciation for Mother’s Day.
I want to know – have any mothers experienced a pain greater than childbirth? Can anyone back Scott up?
I’m not the best at reading blogs, lately. I don’t have the time.
The easiest way to get me to read your blog is commenting on my post. I’ll most likely comment back then click to see what you’re up to.
Last night I clicked – The Brickhouse Chick. I have never met her in real life. She rarely posts pictures of herself. But I would know her if I ran into her on the street. I picture her being loud, intertwining the languages of spanish and english. And a great laugh. I have no doubt Mrs. Brickhouse has a great laugh.
She posted a writing challenge: Love in Ten Lines. (click her link to see her version.) I volunteered to participate. A writing challenge that gave me a way to explain to Scott let’s just skip the lingerie and get naked.
After all, my time is valuable.
•Write about love using only 10 lines.
•Use the word love in every line.
•Each line can only be four words long.
•Nominate others who are up for the challenge.
•Let them know about the challenge.
•Title the post: Love in Ten Lines
•Include a quote about love (this can be your own).
•You may write in any language.
Love in Ten Lines by Julie Burton
Love is not ribbons
and love isn’t lace.
That love seems pretty.
That love comes off.
I don’t understand love;
love that’s easily removed.
Admit love is bare.
Unveiled. Bald. Love exposed.
Love is not hidden.
Love is stark, undressed.
Quote: “One love, one heart.” — Bob Marley. Because sunshine, saltwater, and rum cocktails.
Your turn! Who’s good at poetry? This came easier to me that I thought it would. Thank you, Maria, for the inspiration for some creative writing today. Go get naked, chica.
I was not planning on writing about my first bikini wax.
But ladies – What the hell is wrong with you?!
Or maybe I should be yelling at the men. Or the Brazilians. Whose idea was this anyway? I should google that.
On a whim, I scheduled a bikini wax before my Florida trip. I thought it would be nice not to have to worry about shaving. My sister highly recommended that I request the woman that does her bikini waxes.
The more my bikini area grew in preparation, the more nervous I got about someone ripping my course Mexican hairs out with wax. I brought up my upcoming bikini wax to every woman I know. I found out that I am the only one not waxing.
I also found out, “the first is the worst.”
Oh, it will hurt. But this girl is fast. You will be done in 10 minutes. Use their lotions they give you afterwards. That will help. Your first time will be the worst.
Yeah, I’ve had one. It hurt really bad. But my pain tolerance is very low. You should be ok. I’ve heard the first is the worst. But I’ve only had one.
I’m not going to lie. The first time will hurt. But it gets better after that and you’ll love it.
I mean it’s not fun. But it’s so worth it. The first is the worst. I’ll be getting one on that day too! Guess I’ll have a bloody mary that morning.
I texted my sister in the parking lot of the wax place:
Sister: Ha! This will totally be blog worthy.
Me: WHAT?! NO! Don’t say that!
I walked inside. I was ushered into a room by a gorgeous woman.
Hi Julie. I’m Hollie. So you want a Brazilian today?
Me: Yes. It’s my first time. I’m scared!
Hollie: The first is the worst. Take off everything from waist down and lay on the table with your feet together, butterfly style.
Oh. Ok then. Hello! No towel or sheet or anything.
I hopped up on the table. I arranged my legs butterfly style and stared at the ceiling.
I’ll never make eye contact with this woman again.
Hollie: Ok. I won’t be able to get everything because there is a cycle that hair comes in. I should be able to make you look good though. After your next appointment in about 3 to 4 weeks, you should be caught up.
Me: Oh, ok. That will be fine. I’m going to Florida on Monday. I just don’t want to have to shave. My sister recommended this place to me. She said you’re good.
Hollie: I thought you looked familiar! But then I saw you are a first time customer and got confused.
Me: Oh…yeah I guess we look alike.
Wait, what. I hope she’s talking about our face.
Me: I have two little girls.
Hollie: Really? How old?
Me: 7 and 4.
Hollie: Are they going to Florida too?
She dumped baby powder all over me. She smoothed out warm wax.
I should have said I gave birth vaginally to explain myself. Ha! I crack myself up.
Hollie: What part of Florida are you going to?
Me: Um…the Keys. My husband is from South Florida. We have friends down there …
She ripped again.
NO! Oh God. Help me. I can’t talk.
Hollie: That is awesome to have friends down there. I’m so jealous!
Oh God. I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding all over the table. I need to pee.
I just peed. Which way is up?
Hollie: Sorry, those were sensitive ones. Those are over.
My hands were covered in sweat.
Hollie: I’ll do a couple clean up ones. They won’t hurt as bad. Promise.
I’ll just shave. I’ll shave. I promise I’ll shave really good.
Am I in labor? I’m peeing on the table again.
Hollie: Ok, now for the butt strips. These are easy.
Wait, what. The hole?
Hollie: Pull your knees up to your chest.
My arms shook while trying to hold my legs up. I felt warm wax applied.
I just want to be a man. I think I’m going to cry. Did I wipe good?
Why am I a woman?
Why am I Mexican?
Hollie: I’ll tweeze what I can of the smaller hairs. Those will come out nicely in 4 weeks. You’ll look good for Florida.
I felt dots of fire.
Hollie: All done! You look good. I’m going to rub some of our lotion to help with the redness. And I’ll give you some samples to take home. Once you get dressed, I’ll walk you out.
I paid and in my moment of pain-stricken horror, I made an appointment for 4 weeks later. The receptionist looked at my pale face and promised me it wouldn’t be as bad next time. I waddled to my car and texted my sister:
I called Scott in the car. I had to let him know this was his entire fault.
Me: SCOTT. I hate men. I hate Brazilians. I hate women that keep doing this to give the rest of us a high standard to meet. SHIT. Dammit, I almost hit a car. I don’t feel good. I don’t feel good at all. I’m going to throw up chunks.
Scott laughed. I could tell from Scott’s laugh that he didn’t know whether I was really mad or joking.
I hung up on Scott for laughing.
I could still feel the rips all over, radiating. I started to cry. I considered calling the wax place to tell them they need to warn first-timers to get a driver home.
I pulled up to our driveway and waddled in our house. Scott saw me and laughed. He didn’t say a word. He pointed to the two Tylenols ready for me with a glass of water. He started texting our friend, Devon, and started giggling again.
I sent a single picture text to every woman I know who has had a bikini wax:
I got LOLs and “the first is the worst” texted right back to me.
I can only hope in 4 weeks they are right. At least I was warned.
** I will not be writing a blog post this week. I will be in Florida, tossing my razor into the ocean – maybe it will float its way to Brazil.
It’s been a long winter. The sweatshirts and jeans are gone. I don’t want to see them until October when my face is buried in a pumpkin spice candle.
The tank tops are hanging front and center in my closet. My strapless bras are sitting in my drawers like perfect little mountain tops. This will be my second summer wearing tank tops without bra straps. To kick off summer weather, I give you a re-post from last year: Raising the Tatas.
This post is intended for women to read. The title is true – it is about the tatas. So men, keep reading if you want but it’s just some womanhood gossip: wearing the right size bra. You wouldn’t understand. There will be no pictures.
I found myself with a few days/nights kid-free and husband-free. This is a rarity. Maybe a once a year event. I am NEVER alone. The thought sounds nice when I think about being alone for a few days. Whatever shall I do?!?! Anything I want!! Weeeeee!
But in reality, I don’t know what to do with myself when I wake up alone. Well, when I wake up alone at noon.
Besides sleep, I don’t have the first clue as to what I like to do. What are my hobbies? What do I do all day with the kids that I truly enjoy? Grocery shopping with no kids? That’s relaxing. Watch Mad Men on Netflix all day? I cannot be that lazy. Lay out at the pool? No, I get bored when not constantly watching my two kids like a hawk. Go to the gym? Yeah, I do like that. Cook? Hate it. WHO AM I?! What the heck did I do before marriage and kids?? What do those single-no-kids people do? Don’t they get bored on the weekends? Surely, I can find something.
Thinking back to my early 20s – the mall.
I decided I needed a good strapless bra. The only strapless I have is from high school. And it’s uncomfortable. I’ve kept this thing for over ten years – through two pregnancies and 2 years of breastfeeding. In public, I have no problem just reaching down my shirt, pulling my bra up then doing a double handful check on the outside of my shirt. I avoid strapless shirts whenever possible. I even avoided a strapless wedding gown – I went for the halter style just so I would feel confident when dancing with my arms up. I secretly cringe at strapless bridesmaids dresses (I would never tell the bride that, of course. I do have a good alterations lady). I have no problem showing my bra straps when wearing a tank top.
I have heard that Nordstroms lingerie department has exceptional service. I have never been sized for a bra so this sounded like the place to do it. I knew I would be paying for the service in the price of the bra, but I figured it would be worth it – and oh, was it. I walked right past Victoria’s Secret and into the swanky Nordstroms.
The lingerie department was busy but I was immediately helped. Taylor Swift asked me what I was looking for.
Look-alike Taylor Swift.
I told her strapless bras. She put me in a dressing room and told me to wait. She brought back her measuring tape and a sizing bra. She asked me if I was modest, if so, I could face the wall. Ha! Modest. I told her that my modesty went out the window after nursing two children. Or a few cocktails.
My shirt and bra came flying off and the employee got to work. She told me my real size. I laughed. The only thing I could say was, “do you mind if I text that to my husband real quick? He will be so proud.” She politely waited for me to text him.
I tried 3 or 4 different brands of bras. The employee critiqued each one and explained how a bra should fit. The boob shouldn’t be popping out of the top. But it shouldn’t have space at the top either. The middle of the bra should be flat against the chest for appropriate separation. The wire cup should start under the armpit to support the side boob.
My old bra did none of this. My old bra was 3 cup sizes too small and too large around.
I picked one bra to purchase. She told me to go ahead and wear it out; she would wait for me at the register while I got dressed. I already felt like a new woman. I could walk around and completely forget about the status of my falling bra. The tank top I wore in looked amazing. I looked perfectly perky. I felt like my boobs were tightly custom wrapped and I loved it. I jumped. They were like rocks. No top jiggling. No wires in the side boob. No armpit fat. It was all molded seamlessly in two perfect humps.
When I walked to the register, I noticed I could stand straight with my shoulders back. The bra wouldn’t budge.
I considered doing a cartwheel.
The employee told me I looked like a new woman.
My whole wardrobe looks different now. I can finally wear a cute tank top without being uncomfortable or showing my bra straps. I understand why a woman’s confidence level goes up when they get breast alteration surgery. Altering your breasts, even without surgery, can make you feel more like a woman. Clothes fit better. You can walk with more confidence. You can forget they need tending to.
I still don’t know what my hobbies are and I still can’t answer the question to “who am I?” But I did find one heck of a good investment. Ladies, you will not be disappointed what a good bra will do to a woman.
Or a man. Are you still reading, men? I told you there would be no pictures.