Archives for March 2013

Me, Myself, and the Bouquet

Dear Lyssa of Psychobabble,

Recently, you announced your online wedding to Shirtless Ryan Gosling (henceforth in this post and future posts as SRG). I am so utterly happy for you that I can’t begin to find the right words.

Of course, I was also incredibly disappointed that as your future sister-in-law in the Shirtless family, I wasn’t automatically invited to be a bridesmaid. Even moreso, I was very sad to discover that I was going to have to DUKE IT OUT to catch the bouquet. This is emotionally difficult for me, since…well…you know how I feel about my imaginary  internet boyfriend Shirtless Jesse Metcalfe and what catching the bouquet would mean to me us.

Shirtless Jesse Metcalfe Photoshopped

Aren’t we a cute couple?

And so, I’ve compiled this photo blog post for you, Lyssa…to make the right decision.

Because I have bouquet toss HISTORY. I mean…the first time I caught the bouquet, the bride’s sister was all whine whine whine “IIIIII wanted to catch my sister’s bouquet” so I was all wine wine wine, “FINE.”

After that, catching the bouquet was a competition. One I was determined to win. At least, in the weddings I stood up in. And one or two others…

The first two weddings were competitions with Katie (who I beat out both times and she STILL got married before me…)

Bouquet Toss Wedding

Katie and I were both vying for this bouquet, since we both gave the MOH speech.

Bouquet toss drama

I wish I had the awesome picture, BROOKE, that really went with this wedding. I was airborn and vicious and victorious all at the same time…Again, Katie and I were both hoping for a piece of the action. I think it’s because I’m bigger than her that I always win…

funny bridesmaid photos

I make an excellent and FUN bridesmaid…I’ll get you liquored up and make you take funny photos…BEFORE the reception. This bride had a married bridesmaid directing her where to throw the bouquet (where I was standing) because I may or may not have threatened physical harm…

bouquet drama

This was when Katie got married. She practically handed me the bouquet. It probably didn’t help that my ex-boyfriend’s fiance was standing right next to me…

Bouquet Toss Drama

Her bouquet broke into 3 pieces when it flew…She didn’t want me hurting her niece who got to be the flower girl, even though Katie wanted that job since before flower girl was BORN…

Bouquet toss

At her bachelorette party, I told her I was vicious and should probably catch her bouquet…I’m sure it helped that I was one of 2 of our friends still unmarried…hopefully Shirtless Jesse Metcalfe will fix that after YOUR wedding, Lyssa…

Bouquet Toss Winner Halloween Costume

A few years ago, I went as the bouquet toss winner for Halloween. You’ll note the crutches (Yes, crutches AND high heels, all for the sake of Halloween, LYSSA), the bruising, the scratches on my arms…the fake nails glued into the dress…the bloody nose…you can’t see the ripped out earring with blood on the other ear…the ripped to shreds bridesmaid dress. Yep. All me. All true. Make it happen again.

Dear Blog Friends,

Please tell Lyssa that you think I should be her bouquet toss winner. Because it’s not about what winning the bouquet MEANS. It’s about taking out the competition.

Thank you for your time. I know that SRG and you will be very happy together. But happier still if I’m there. Shirtless Jesse Metcalfe and I hope you make the right decision.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How verbal filters, seashell bras and reality tv make a happy toddler.

First, let me introduce myself.  My name is Brooke, and I went to college with Chrissy.  Does this mean we share many scandalous stories? Yes. Will I be sharing any of them with you? Nope. Chrissy asked me to write a guest post this week while she is taking the week for her and Brian. Now, there are a few things about this that I think you should know.  I have never written anything for public consumption.  The very idea of doing so is vaguely terrifying to me. I have no freaking idea why this is, as I was a COMMUNICATIONS major in college. The basic premise of communicating is using words to interact with others. Yep, I get how incongruous this is with my aversion to writing for you.

None the less, I am not a blogger and so this entire concept has me terrified that you will all point and laugh at me, the guest poster in this digital high school lunch room of a blogiverse. But I love Chrissy, and I love Brian, and since I cannot make them lasagna or gnocci during their bereavement, I will discuss my life here, with the hope that it will amuse you and bring a smile to my Chrissy’s face. So. Hello, my name is Brooke, and it’s nice to virtually meet you. Kinda.

Now, I think we have all been told by our mothers at one time or another that they hope our children will end up being exactly like us one day. In my case, this happened every day during my “I hate everything that you do” phase that lasted roughly from age 12 until 16.  I know, long phase. My poor mother.  Anyway, when they say that, you always think that you’d LOVE to have a kid just like you, since you’re awesome, right? Me too. However, I have recently come to the realization that my almost three year old daughter is becoming a carbon copy of her darling mother. And I’m kinda petrified.

I was born without a verbal filtration system.  This has come back to bite me on so many occasions that I cannot even describe them because they all run together in a long train of “OMG, did I actually just say that OUT LOUD?!?” Yep. Sure did.  But I’ve tried to teach my daughter that it’s important to be considerate of other people’s feelings. Or whatever. But it’s obviously not working.  Let me give you an example.

The other day, my husband and daughter were playing on the couch. This is a normal occurrence, so I wasn’t paying much attention to what they were saying. But suddenly my daughter jumps up and states that she is now “Eric”. This might make you ladies think she means she watches too much True Blood, but she was instead referring to her aspiration of being the little mermaid. All attempts to explain that she can’t be Eric AND a mermaid simultaneously have fallen on deaf toddler ears. Whatever. So, my husband gamely responds with “Ok, I’ll be Ariel!”  Yeah, he’s a good dad like that, and he’s secure in his masculinity. Or maybe he harbors a secret desire to wear a seashell bra. Well, who doesn’t?? No judging.

He then begins singing this atrocious yodel type song that closely resembles what I imagine a moose with a broken leg would sound like while calling to his moosey buddies for a splint and a margarita. My daughter looks at her father and says “Daddy! No, don’t do that! Your singing is a horrible noise!!”

Yep, I’m a failure as a mother.  She is indeed going to be exactly like me, with a complete inability to conceal her sarcasm and disdain.   But on the upside, if I could just get her to incorporate the word “pitchy” into her critiques, she might have a career ahead of her as a judge on one of those “I’m The New Best American Singer Ever” reality shows. See?  Verbal diarrhea is now an employable skill. Yay for reality TV!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Turning thirty-five scares me, but not as much as the cost of that dress!

Hi everyone!  It’s April from First Time Mom & Dad.  In case you do not know me, which I expect, I am a filterless southern belle turned filterless southern belle MOTHER with, SURPRISE – A parenting weblog.  Yes, I am one of the 4 Zillion mom bloggers on the Internet.  Trust me, if I knew there were that many moms already trying to peddle cute photos of their kids attached to advice and narcissistic stories, I would have considered a different genre… but whatevs… I’m a mom, I have a kid, and I love to write…

I am so stoked to be guest posting today for Chrissy! Besides the fact I love Chrissy long time, I love this weblog long time too!  So here goes…

I am fast approaching my 35th birthday with a ridiculous amount of apprehension.  It’s not so much turning 35, as it is turning 35 without a job, focus, style or sense of who the hell I am anymore.  I had my first child a year ago and am only now coming out of the haze that is post-partum mixed with becoming a mother.  Trust me, both will turn your life upside down then right side up so you can see the dysfunction and mess lying in front of you.

Now that the haze has lifted, I realize that I have actually been out of the social and fashion scene for two years now!  I got pregnant 8 days after my 33rd birthday and now here I am… turning 35 with a closet full of maternity clothes piled on top of my old pre-pregnancy clothes and not a damn thing fits me anymore. Yet, I still have this goal of showing up to my 35th birthday like a rock star!

This attempt at rock star status has been in full swing since New Years day.  I have created a mini goal for each month leading up to my birthday in May.  January’s goal was to create more “me” time… or to find the ME in MothEr. I did OK with that.  I go out on my own at least three to four times a week to shop, or unwind and managed to have a two lunches and a one girls night out a month.  Trust me that’s EPIC for me.

February was all about Dump the Frump. Throughout February I did my hair and makeup and dressed nicely regularly. I painted my nails (toes too!) and coordinated handbags.  I instantly began to feel renewed and sassy, even when everything around me looked winter grey and dismal.

March has been all about New Mommy Autonomy. I finally recognized that I no longer need the new mommy crutch. Even though my son is a year old now, I was still running around calling myself a ‘New Mother.’  Which clearly was not true, and imagine the look on the person’s face when they asked how old my ‘baby’ was.  My baby is a man-child now; there is nothing baby about him. I am a mother, but that is not my defining role and should not be the first thing I tell someone when we meet!

So, here I am on the cusp of April.  Closing in on my birthday… Shit!  The biggest transformation is still ahead of me, my new mid-thirties look and style. The goal for this month is, “All about April” – or ME!  This coming month I’m working on what image I want to portray.  Since I am no longer the 32-year-old ‘happy hour’ princess (nor can I wear those clothes), or the pregnant or post-partum frumpy chick (thank God I can no longer wear those clothes!), it’s time for a Mom to Fab makeover!

To find some inspiration for this final leg of my journey, I picked up my favorite magazine in the whole word… The Enquirer… KIDDING! Self Magazine. I LOVE LOVE LOVE that glossy print Goddess! It is a perfect mix of my favorite things; food, fashion, fun workouts and quick tip sheets that I love to use to make false promises.

As I was flipping through the pages of my old friend, I came across a dress I loved! Most times Self publishes cute clothes I can afford, like a summer maxi from HM that only cost $30. So, I look over to the side for the info on the ‘Shift’ dress and see that it’s by Moschino with a price tag of $2,995.  I honestly did a double take!  WHAT THE FUCK??? THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS!! For a long t-shirt? (Or as my husband called it, a bloody tea towel!) Really?  To add insult to injury, the bracelet the model was wearing cost $600. For fuck’s sake! Thankfully she wasn’t wearing any shoes, because I am certain I would have dropped a load in my pants had this tiny outfit crossed the $4000 mark.

photo 1photo 2

I’m sorry, ok not really, but I have to ask, Does the dress give a happy ending? Does it clean itself?  Does it make you look three sizes smaller?  Is it made from a cotton that is so hard to find an entire village has to be employed to collect it from the caves of Neverland? Why is this short Shift dress $2,995????  I know I have been out of the social and fashion scenes for a couple of years, but what the hell has happened that we are now expected to pay 3k for a mini-dress?

We are still in a recession right?  Don’t get me wrong, I understand fashion coming at a price. Pre-baby I would pay a couple of hundred for a great pair of denim jeans or a few hundred for well tailored business suit, but never for a summer garden dress! I like to think before my days of becoming a mother I would still think that was crazy.

I admit, now that I am a mother I live on a strict budget so the value of money has COMPLETELY changed to me.  I can no longer, consciously, drop more than $50 on a great pair of jeans, and really that number is closer to $35.  Still, my financial situation aside, I just cannot ever imagine a day will come where I will justify that kind of a purchase when the world is still in the shits.  A donation of half the cost of that dress would feed 10 villages for a month! And possibly medicate the villages as well.

This whole in-and-out makeover that I have been undergoing these past few months has taught me that not only has my outward appearance and lifestyle changed, but also my outlook on life and the world in general. I still do not know for sure what I want to be when I grow up, but what I do know is I better figure it out and fast, because I am growing up quickly now that I am a mid-thirties mother.  I have no doubt I will ring in my 35th birthday like a rock star, but I can guarantee you even if I get a miracle financial boost between now and my birthday, I will NOT be wearing a $3,000 dress with $600 bracelet stumbling around in a $800 pair of stilettos, that life is not mine, THANK G!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Bad Dates Illustrated With Crayons

Quirky Chrissy asked me to guest post today. All I could think to write about was a few of the bad dates I’d had in my twenties. This is me without enough coffee, obviously. Then, of course, I had to illustrate my adventures with crayons. That’s what happens when you become a parent. You have to do everything with crayons. I mean, your kids steal all of the pens and hide them so they can write on the wall when you aren’t looking. At least, that is what happens at my house.

When I was young I wasn’t much of a dater (Wait, is that even a word? I’m guest posting on the grammar Queen’s blog. It’s making me so nervous about punctuation and poorly chosen words). I was more of a serial monogamist. I had boyfriends, not dates. There was a short, awkward period, in my twenties, where I did actually try to date, but it didn’t exactly go so well. Usually, I’d just get nervous and say something embarrassing. Like this:

Super-Salad-comic

That awkward moment where you think the waitress asking if you want soup or salad is offering you a “super” salad.

Sometimes, I’d trip, or fall, or spill my drink all over the table and my date. In my defense, that one time when I did spill my drink, my date was totally looking way too hard at the waitresses cleavage. It’s not entirely my fault that Karma paid him a visit immediately. I mean, that just happens sometimes.

Bad date comic

Karma happens fast sometimes.

Dating has never been easy for me and now that I am married, it still isn’t. All of the self-help relationship books say husbands and wives need date nights to keep the spark alive. My husband and I try to do this, but because we haven’t found a reliable babysitter we often have to take our toddler with us. Whether or not a date, accompanied by a toddler, is actually a date, is debatable, but we are desperate (How many commas do I need here? Seriously, I don’t even know…). We take what we can get. We go on dates with our toddler. All. The. Time.

Bad dates: bringing the toddler

Dating hasn’t improved over the years.

Last St. Patrick’s Day, we drove an hour to a fancy restaurant and bar that promised food, green martinis, and dart championship games. When we got there the restaurant was closed and the bar didn’t have food. Plus, it’s weird to bring a toddler into a bar. I mean, everyone stops talking and sort of stares at you. It’s awkward. We were annoyed by the restaurants false advertising. We were also all really, really hungry. So, we got back in the car and headed towards the last restaurant we had passed on our 60 mile drive. Before we could get there, our daughter started crying and saying her tummy hurt. I figured she was probably just hungry. We all were. We were all getting a little cranky too. Unfortunately, I was terribly wrong. She wasn’t just hungry. She was sick. The vomiting started and would not stop. We pulled over on the side of the road. I tried to clean her up. We had vomit all over. It was kind of a disaster. We were all wearing green, looking miserable and smelling like vomit all the way home.

Bad Dates: St. Patricks Day

Little Toad Creek not even open when we got there at 3pm  (LIARS!)

Last St. Patrick’s Day was probably my worst bad date ever. Between the restaurant being closed, the cranky husband, the cranky toddler and the ode to vomit perfume (not to mention we ended up having spaghetti for dinner) it was spectacular in all the wrong ways. Still, at least I didn’t have to worry about getting a second date. I mean, we sealed that deal years ago. Thank God. Now we can just call bad dates life.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Eleventh Commandment

Dear Chrissy’s Readers,

This is Katie from Words for Worms. Chrissy isn’t here writing today. She and Brian have suffered a terrible blow. Brian’s mom, who had been battling cancer for the past 7 months, passed away early Saturday morning.

My first instinct when someone loses a loved one is to find out if there’s anything I can do to help. The impotence of the situation is maddening. My friends are hurting and there’s not a damn thing I can do to fix it. So, when Chrissy asked for a guest post, I jumped at the chance. She said that she and Brian want to laugh, and I freaking love these guys, so I’m going to give it a shot. So. Here goes nothing…

I’m pretty sure the 11th commandment is “Feed The Grieving.” This is a universal cultural phenomenon. Seriously y’all. I think cavemen dropped off a nice Wooly Mammoth hot dish to the neighboring cave in times of mourning. People empathize, but they also realize (if they’re smart) that all their words of comfort won’t make the loss any easier. Thus? They feed. When local friends lose someone, I bust out my tried and true chocolate chip cake. Sometimes a pot of chili. I don’t even like cooking, but THAT’S WHAT YOU DO. You feed people! You know what sucks? I’m currently too far away to feed Chrissy and Brian! (Although, they’re probably thankful for that, because they’re foodies and I’m a doctored up cake mix kind of girl…)

After sitting through the tri-fecta of sad funeral songs, sometimes you just NEED chocolate cake. In my experience, the songs that are indelibly linked with funerals are “How Great Thou Art,” “On Eagle’s Wings,” and “Amazing Grace.” In fact, my husband’s aunt once told me that she wanted “How Great Thou Art” played at her funeral because (and this is a direct quote) “It’ll make people cry even if they didn’t like me.” (She’s one feisty broad.) The thing is, even if I swear off these songs for my own funeral (which I fully intend to plan because I don’t want anyone else to have to deal with that) I couldn’t use songs I love- it would ruin those songs for people! I’ve decided that I’m going to have songs I hate at my funeral, so that everyone else will hate them too. Celine Dion’s greatest hits shall play. Everyone’s hearts will go on, and nobody’s favorite songs will be sullied by sad funerary memories…

I’m terrible at funerals. Even if the deceased aren’t my loved ones, I see a single grieving family member and melt into a puddle. It’s hard enough when you lose someone in their 80s, but losing someone far too young to cancer? That’s just CRAP. Cancer sucks. Hard. If Cancer were a dude, I would kick it in the nads really hard. Stupid little mutant cells. You’re not even COOL mutants like the X-Men! You’re just mean and dumb and grow out of control and RUIN LIVES. Nobody is impressed by your rampant proliferation, Cancer. You think you’re all high and mighty, but you’re no super virus. Step back, loser disease, before I kick you again.

I hope you all will join me in sending loving, healing vibes to Chrissy and Brian. I hope you will also join me in sending angry, poisonous vibes to Cancer. Brian’s mom was Irish, so while googling some comforting words of wisdom, I found this gem on a website of Irish proverbs, “If God sends you down a stony path, may he give you strong shoes.” Praying that your shoes are sturdy. I love you both.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Two Years Seems Like Just Yesterday AND Like Forever

Two years ago, Brian took me out on a date. And so today is our anniversary. (It is also Katie’s birthday–and thanks to this anniversary shenanigans, I finally remember that.)

In honor of our anniversary, I’ve composed a thank you letter/list to Brian. For always being there. For always being the best. For putting up with me. For being my best friend. For being the ONLY person in the whole world that I can spend as much time with as I do without wanting to kill each other. At all. Ever. Okay…maybe just like once. But definitely not usually.

To Brian on our second anniversary of being us,

It feels like I’ve known you forever, and yet the time has flown faster than I could possibly imagine. I have so many things in my life to be thankful for, and you are most definitely one of them. But I also have a lot of things to thank YOU for…and so I compiled this very poetic list.

Thank you for always knowing exactly where I am…
Even when I have no fucking clue
And for directing me out of being lost
Especially at the train station in the city which is flipping huge.
 
Thank you for not being mad…
That one time I parked your car in the city and forgot that city parking requires payment.
And that other time I accidentally got drunk and needed a ride from Naperville
And that other time I accidentally dyed your bathroom rug red
And that other time I took you to a party in the city and apologized a whole lot for being drunk. And losing my wallet. And falling off a booth. That I was sitting on.
And all of those times I forgot to turn the stove off.
 
Thank you for suggesting that we go to Disney World,
Even though it’s probably the last place on Earth you wanted to go…
And even if you don’t actually remember being the one to suggest it.
 
Thank you for force feeding me Doctor Who
Until I decided that it was amazing
And became obsessed and all of a sudden loved the Doctor way more than you do.
 
Thank you for not thinking I’m CRAZY
When I cry for no reason
And when I tell you about how I’m going to be famous one day
And when I refuse to walk to my car to get my glasses but will drive all the way to the Wisconsin for cheese
And for everything else that I do that makes me just a little bit different from other girls.
On that note, thank you for thinking my quirks are adorable instead of annoying
 
Thank you for laughing at my really stupid jokes…
And actually thank you for cracking your own stupid jokes
So that I always have something to laugh at.
 
Thank you for allowing me the creative license to remember things slightly different…
Especially when I write blog posts…
 
Most importantly, thank you for being you.
You know exactly how to make me smile.
I have so many wonderful things to say about you,
But I know that you hate the spotlight.
I think the world knows how much you mean to me,
And if they don’t…
They can all bugger off.
Because you’re the cheese to my mac.
The cheese to my puffs.
The cheese to my sandwich.
And the chocolate to my cheese.
 
Anniversary Card

This is my anniversary card to Brian. You’ll note that my happy places include Disney, Cheese, and Brian. Sometimes all at the same time.

 

 
Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Know How to Pick ‘Em (Eye Doctors That Is)

I went to the eye doc this week in order to renew my contact prescription (you know, because my the script for my specs is like 7 years old, maybe older…like 9…and I have no desire to get new glasses…) And this is the conversation that transpired.

Doc: Something tells me that your glasses aren’t from the prescription we had last year.

Me: No…they may be a little older than that…But…I mean, it’s okay, because I NEVER wear my glasses (this is kind of a little white lie).

Doc: Well, you know…in the zombie apocalypse, no one’s going to be running out to find contact solution. Update. Your. Glasses.

Me: *Internal SQUEE!* OK, you’ve got me there…

Doc: I’ve been watching The Walking Dead…

Me: Don’t tell me; we haven’t watched this week’s episode yet.

Doc: After 3 years, the zombies don’t scare me anymore…it’s the people. That backpacker from a few weeks ago? Yeah. Horrible.

Me: Right?! When I have my zombie nightmares on Sunday/Monday nights depending on when we watch it…I don’t dream about the zombies…it’s the people that really get to me.

Doc: You know, I’m not very prepared for it either. No gun. Maybe a few kitchen knives.  Then there are the people who save up food and water and supplies getting themselves prepared for anything…except that they have no weapons. They don’t realize they’re stocking up for the fully stocked armory that is one of their neighbors.

Me: True story, Doc.

Doc: Great show, The Walking Dead. I’ll see you in a year. Get some new glasses, alright?

Me: Sure thing, Doc.

I must be doing something right. Best. Eye Doctor. Ever.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

11 Things I Think in Yoga Class

I know that in yoga, you’re supposed to meditate and find your inner chi or peace or something…

Instead, my mind starts to wander and I have some very valuable (and bizarre) thoughts. It’s almost as good as my shower thinking (which is where I do all of my big thinking). A lot of the thoughts I have are about my boobs. But you’d think about your boobs a lot too, if you spent multiple minutes at a time with your face in your own tits. Fucking yoga.
Yoga

11 Things I Think While Meditating in Yoga Asanas

I wonder what would happen if I try that next pose?

My boobs are fucking ginormous.

He (the instructor) wants me to do what?

I have the worst frontal wedgie in the history of ever.

So this is what a motorboat feels like.

I don’t care what Special K said, a power bar does not equal dinner.

I wonder if I could pop my boobs like a balloon.

I wonder if anyone would notice me pull my underwear out of my crotch.

My feet are fucking freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth.

Is that pose even possible?

I’m supposed to be meditating. Is thinking about dinner meditating?

Blog friends, what do you think about when you’re working out?

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Bought Cool Mickey Band Aids When We Went To Disney World…And Then I Used Them All…

Brian: I got you something.

Me: Oh yeah?

Brian: It’s smaller than a bread box.

(I look in the bag expecting Peeps or Cadbury Cream Eggs or Cadbury Mini Eggs or jellybeans.)

Me: *Squeal*

Mickey Mouse Band Aids

Me: I ran out of these when we were in Florida!

Brian: Wait, you had these?

Me: Duh. (I look at the side package.) No! OMG THESE ARE WAY BETTER.

Mickey Mouse Band Aids

Brian: WOAH. I have to take them back. There’s some serious Mickey abuse going on. I didn’t see that in the store.

Me: No! It’s just a love pat. Look! They’re kissing! And it’s pink!

Brian: Abuse. That’s horrible.

Me: LOVE. Tap. (I pet his cheek and shout “Smack!”) See. Love.

Brian: Now don’t go hurting yourself on purpose to wear these.

Me: *Silence*

Brian: If you want to wear one, you can just put it on. You don’t need any real injuries. OK?

Me: What should I chop for dinner?

Brian: I don’t know…HEY! WAIT A MINUTE!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Monday Memories: Because Polish Girls Have Some Crazy Arm Hair…

Today, thanks to Lily from It’s a Dome Life, our Monday Memory is all about Beauty Gone Painful. I’ve already told you about that one time I accidentally cut a giant bald spot in my hair (Seriously, go read that) And there was the time that I was visiting my aunt and we took some SERIOUS glamour shots…This one is all about unpleasant hair.

I’m Polish. (And Irish. And English. And German. And Jewish-ish. And probably a little bit Scottish.)

So regardless of the blond hair as a child, the brownish hair speckled with gray hiding under the red dye, I have some black as black can be arm hair. Or I would if I didn’t shave it all off weekly.

Yep. I shave my arm hair. But long before I thought to just…you know…shave it all off…my little sister and I invested in NADS Australian no-heat wax. With money from my grandfather.

We thought that it would be an excellent way to get rid of that pesky arm hair. And so we lathered ourselves up, and let that shit dry. The we let-er-rip. Holy fucking crap, did that shit hurt. It was like trying to get gum out of your hair and pulling your hair and stabbing your skin and burning your skin (no-heat wax or not) all at once. And it didn’t even do a good job. So what did we do? We tried our legs. And that didn’t work at all because apparently your hair has to be ridiculously long for it to work.

The lesson? Even if it leaves the occasional need for Mickey Mouse Band-Aids…Bust out the razor.

Band-Aids

Check out my Monday Memory partners in crime, as they tell you all about their beauty mishaps!

Monday Memories
Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!