From time to time I will send a little quip in an email, or will put something together as a joke that makes my friends giggle. Recently I put together an instructional manual for my family members on appropriate White Elephant gifting. As a result, I've had many requests to write a blog. Mind you, most people said "You should write a blog." Their tone and inflection may have suggested that they don't find me funny at all and were sarcastically telling me I need to stop. However, I've interpreted their request as a genuine "Amy you are great! You should write a blog!"
I have pulled out my blogging archives (again), and am going to give this another shot. I love to write, I just need people willing to read me. I also need topics! My friends requested that I write about Magic Mike. I have decided this will be the topic of my first blog, well kind of. There is only so much to say about Magic Mike, Channing Tatum is beautiful and those boys are quite talented. It's really something you must see on your own. However, in their honor, I'll share with you my personal experience with a male strip club.
When I was 21, Eric and I got married. We were oh so young. Although I would never recommend this to anyone, I don't regret it. Everything that's happened in my life has happened for a reason and has shaped me into the lovely person I have become today. I could quickly turn sappy vs. silly, so I will move on. Preparing for our big day, our best man and maid of honor arranged our bachelor and bachelorette parties. Eric and I lived together in an itty bitty apartment and made the ridiculous decision to have our parties on the same night. This is also not recommended and if I were to do it again, I would NOT. This evening did nothing positive for my future, nor did it shape me into the lovely person I am now.
I'm not going to lie, I remember little about this evening. I'm sure us ladies went to dinner, and I'm sure we went out partying, but I only remember tid bits of the night which occured at a male strip club in Redneckville (see previous blog about Redneck towns). I also don't remember who was at the party except for my maid of honor, her sister in law (a friend of mine), and my mom. My mom is my best friend, it only makes sense she was there. If you were at this party and I have left you out, don't take it personally.
I was quite excited when we walked into the club. I heard the music bumping loudly and was expecting to walk into a scene from Magic Mike. Instead, I walked into a scene of Middle Aged Men Gone Wild. I am an open-minded chicky. Although I may seem cold-hearted and ruthless, I do have a big heart and never want to hurt anyone's feelings. For that reason, I felt guilty telling any of these men to go away. If you've ever seen the episode of Friends where Danny Devito is the stripper, you'll have a glimpse into my evening.
One thing ran true between this strip club and Magic Mike. The men shaved all their body hair and oiled up. I'm sure the men in Magic Mike did not oil up with Great Value vegetable oil,which I'm pretty sure was the oil of choice by the strippers I saw. I can't prove this, but there was a very distinct cooking "aroma" emanating from their bodies and the oil was caked on as if you were preparing their bodies for a cake mix before to go into the oven.
The men did not dance on the stage which I expected. They danced on the ladies, and apparently if they knew you were a bride-to-be, this made you a prime target. I remember in particular a very very large African American man who did a handstand in front of me, then dropped his feet onto my shoulders while I sat in the chair. You can imagine what he did with his body then. I believe his ankles left oil stains on the shoulders of my t-shirt. I sat there in shock with my hands up in front of me as if there was a spider there I didn't want to touch. Finally mom saved the day, patted his behind and said "Ok, good job, go on now." I have never had so many fat, unattractive, oily men sit on my lap in my life.
About half way through the evening there, someone blindfolded me from behind and led me to a chair on stage. When they took off my blindfold I was nose to "nose" with a, well, a um, g-string. By this time, I was already done with the male strip club. The place was disgusting and smelly, and gross. The big-hearted part of me left the room momentarily, I looked up at the stripper and said "Would you like to get that thing out of my face, or shall I bite the damn thing off!?!?" He said "Oh, come on. Don't be a spoiled sport." I flipped. "Spoiled sport!?!? SPOILED SPORT!?!? Do you realize the crap I've dealt with tonight from you people?" I heard the DJ say "let's give it up for Amy!" and I was escorted from the stage. My crew must have known I had hit my limit as they all got up so we could leave the club.
We arrived back at the apartment about the same time Eric and his crew did. I was drunk, and Eric was really drunk. Eric spent the evening drinking red Aftershock and blue Mad Dog 20/20. After everyone left, we went to bed. Shortly after, Eric became very sick. He went to the bathroom to throw up, but tells me he couldn't find the toilet, the sink, or the tub. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom Exorcist style, and sprayed down every inch of the bathroom, wall to wall, ceiling and floor with projectile purple vomit. He then made his way back to the bedroom where he passed out on the floor and continued to vomit purple vomit on the white carpet.
I tried to wake him up gently by kicking him, hitting him, slapping him and dropping the remote control on his head yet he still would not respond. I called my mom at 3:00 am. I cried "He'th tho drunk, I hate him tho muth. I aint gonna marry that thon-of-a-bith. He didn't even pick up his thocks." Mom said "Amy, you are also 'tho drunk'. You love Eric, you will want to marry him again tomorrow. Go to bed now." I said "But you don't underthand mom. He'th a horribible perthon. There'th purple people eather poop everwherth." Mom seemed shocked and said "He pooped on the wall?!?" I said "NO! You don't lithen. Purple poop everywherth." Mom laid down the law and told me to GO TO BED and call her in the morning!!!
The next morning was rough and there was definately some chatting to be had. I laid down the law and Eric agreed to never again drink so much that he couldn't find the bathtub while standing in the bathroom. I agreed that I would no longer kick him or drop things on his head in an effort to wake him up. Everything has been great ever since.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Mothering boys - 03/25/10 - PG
I was just reading my blog about truck testicles, which made me think that the perfect blog would be about my experiences being a first time mother with a son! Funny how the mind changes gears, isn't it! Maybe this will be helpful for other first time mothers of boys.
When I found out I was pregnant with Zach I was very excited. When I found out it was a boy, I was even more excited. As I sat in the hospital in labor, trying to give birth, I got very scared. What the heck am I supposed to do with a boy??? I am not good with children, I don't know anything about children, I really don't even like children. Let alone little boys with their dirty little faces, carrying around worms, and playing with cars. Although I wanted to change my mind, the Dr. told me that it was too late.
As an only child, I'm lucky to have married a man who loves kids and was raised in a house with four of them. He's been my mentor for parenting. Here are a few lessons I've learned.
1. You can use baby wash as baby shampoo. During a post-partum breakdown, I came undone over this. If the baby wash bottle says "use on body and hair", why the heck do they make baby shampoo? What the heck is the difference? Eric told me to step away from the baby bath products and relax. Apparently you can use either. I think this is a crock, and just a big Johnson and Johnson conspiracy.
2. Even baby boys get erections. This typically happens in the morning. I went to change Zach's diaper one morning and was shocked at what I saw when I removed the pamper. I stumbled back and screamed for Eric. He looked and said "Oh, it's just a morning wood", and walked out of the room. I tried my best to wash Zach off and put a diaper on without going anywhere close to that "thing".
3. If your child overhears an inappropriate word on television and asks you what it is, you CAN say "I'll tell you when you are older". You needn't panic and make something up. Case in point #1, Zach was watching Waterboy. Someone cracked a joke about the Waterboy being a virgin. Zach asked me what a virgin was. In a panic I responded "A virgin is someone who doesn't play football very well". Later we were at a grocery store, it was close to Superbowl time. The check out clerk asked Zach if he liked football and he said "No, I'm a virgin." She said "That's good to know!" and looked at me, I could only give her the "don't even ask" look. Case in point #2. Eric and I were watching a stand up comedy act while the boys were watching a movie in Zach's room. The comedian was talking about wet dreams and we hadn't noticed that Zach walked in the room. When Zach asked what that meant, I told him that it meant the guy had a nightmare and pottied in his bed. You guessed it, a couple weeks later Zach woke up crying and screamed out, "Mom, I just had a wet dream!"
4. If men shouldn't be expected to buy their daughter's feminine hygeine products, women shouldn't be expected to buy their son's protective sports gear. When Eric sent me on a mission to buy Zach's first set of hockey gear, I had no idea what I was in for. I now know that these little devices are called hockey jocks. They are specific to hockey, and had I known this, I would have been able to say it very easily. Instead, I walked up to the clerk inside The Stick Shack who was no doubt a hockey player himself.
Clerk: How can I help you?
Me: Well, I am, well, I need some um, "protection" for my son. (I did finger quotes and everything)
Clerk: Oh, like a chest protector? Maybe some arm guards?
Me: Um, no, not those types. I need um, .... "lower protection" (again with the finger quotes)
Clerk: Oh, sure. The shin guards and hockey socks are this way....
Me: Oh, well, I don't think that's what I need. I need more like "mid region protection". (By now I'm giggling, waving my hands in a circular motion in front of my lady parts and using finger quotes.)
Clerk: Breezers? (Breezers are the padded shorts that hockey players wear).
Me: *sigh*. No. Um... "private protection?" (finger quotes)
Clerk: OH! A cup!
Me: Oh god! Shhhh. Yes, that's what I would like to purchase please.
Clerk: Well, we have a cup that fits in a strap, but you'd probably prefer a hockey jock. It's much easier.
Me: I really don't care. I have no idea. Um, wow, I'm really out of my league here.
Clerk: Ok, I'll help you. (I think he could see my horror by this point). What size do you think you need?
Me: SIZE???
Clerk: Yeah. How big is your son? (obviously he wasn't thinking "big" like I was thinking "big", or maybe it wouldn't have been so embarassing.)
Me: Oh, sure. Um, I don't know, I guess..... (by now the clerk can see me trying to estimate the size of my son's package with my hands).
Clerk: No, how old is your son I mean?
Me: OH! He's 4.
Clerk: Ok then.
He then pulled out these weird biker short looking pants (AKA Hockey Jock) and a cup. My face turned bright red when he pulled that out of the cabinet. He then went on to demonstrate how the cup slid into the hockey jock and so forth. All the while I was mortified.
I went home and told Eric that I would NEVER do that again.
More stories will soon follow in regard to motherhood, I'm sure. Until then, I'm going to soak up every little moment, embarrasing or not, because it will be over before I know it.
When I found out I was pregnant with Zach I was very excited. When I found out it was a boy, I was even more excited. As I sat in the hospital in labor, trying to give birth, I got very scared. What the heck am I supposed to do with a boy??? I am not good with children, I don't know anything about children, I really don't even like children. Let alone little boys with their dirty little faces, carrying around worms, and playing with cars. Although I wanted to change my mind, the Dr. told me that it was too late.
As an only child, I'm lucky to have married a man who loves kids and was raised in a house with four of them. He's been my mentor for parenting. Here are a few lessons I've learned.
1. You can use baby wash as baby shampoo. During a post-partum breakdown, I came undone over this. If the baby wash bottle says "use on body and hair", why the heck do they make baby shampoo? What the heck is the difference? Eric told me to step away from the baby bath products and relax. Apparently you can use either. I think this is a crock, and just a big Johnson and Johnson conspiracy.
2. Even baby boys get erections. This typically happens in the morning. I went to change Zach's diaper one morning and was shocked at what I saw when I removed the pamper. I stumbled back and screamed for Eric. He looked and said "Oh, it's just a morning wood", and walked out of the room. I tried my best to wash Zach off and put a diaper on without going anywhere close to that "thing".
3. If your child overhears an inappropriate word on television and asks you what it is, you CAN say "I'll tell you when you are older". You needn't panic and make something up. Case in point #1, Zach was watching Waterboy. Someone cracked a joke about the Waterboy being a virgin. Zach asked me what a virgin was. In a panic I responded "A virgin is someone who doesn't play football very well". Later we were at a grocery store, it was close to Superbowl time. The check out clerk asked Zach if he liked football and he said "No, I'm a virgin." She said "That's good to know!" and looked at me, I could only give her the "don't even ask" look. Case in point #2. Eric and I were watching a stand up comedy act while the boys were watching a movie in Zach's room. The comedian was talking about wet dreams and we hadn't noticed that Zach walked in the room. When Zach asked what that meant, I told him that it meant the guy had a nightmare and pottied in his bed. You guessed it, a couple weeks later Zach woke up crying and screamed out, "Mom, I just had a wet dream!"
4. If men shouldn't be expected to buy their daughter's feminine hygeine products, women shouldn't be expected to buy their son's protective sports gear. When Eric sent me on a mission to buy Zach's first set of hockey gear, I had no idea what I was in for. I now know that these little devices are called hockey jocks. They are specific to hockey, and had I known this, I would have been able to say it very easily. Instead, I walked up to the clerk inside The Stick Shack who was no doubt a hockey player himself.
Clerk: How can I help you?
Me: Well, I am, well, I need some um, "protection" for my son. (I did finger quotes and everything)
Clerk: Oh, like a chest protector? Maybe some arm guards?
Me: Um, no, not those types. I need um, .... "lower protection" (again with the finger quotes)
Clerk: Oh, sure. The shin guards and hockey socks are this way....
Me: Oh, well, I don't think that's what I need. I need more like "mid region protection". (By now I'm giggling, waving my hands in a circular motion in front of my lady parts and using finger quotes.)
Clerk: Breezers? (Breezers are the padded shorts that hockey players wear).
Me: *sigh*. No. Um... "private protection?" (finger quotes)
Clerk: OH! A cup!
Me: Oh god! Shhhh. Yes, that's what I would like to purchase please.
Clerk: Well, we have a cup that fits in a strap, but you'd probably prefer a hockey jock. It's much easier.
Me: I really don't care. I have no idea. Um, wow, I'm really out of my league here.
Clerk: Ok, I'll help you. (I think he could see my horror by this point). What size do you think you need?
Me: SIZE???
Clerk: Yeah. How big is your son? (obviously he wasn't thinking "big" like I was thinking "big", or maybe it wouldn't have been so embarassing.)
Me: Oh, sure. Um, I don't know, I guess..... (by now the clerk can see me trying to estimate the size of my son's package with my hands).
Clerk: No, how old is your son I mean?
Me: OH! He's 4.
Clerk: Ok then.
He then pulled out these weird biker short looking pants (AKA Hockey Jock) and a cup. My face turned bright red when he pulled that out of the cabinet. He then went on to demonstrate how the cup slid into the hockey jock and so forth. All the while I was mortified.
I went home and told Eric that I would NEVER do that again.
More stories will soon follow in regard to motherhood, I'm sure. Until then, I'm going to soak up every little moment, embarrasing or not, because it will be over before I know it.
Visiting Redneckville 06/02/08 - PG13
I grew up in a town that I thought was great when I lived there. When I moved into the city I live in now, I realize my home town could also be known as Redneckville. It's called Omaha's sister city if you are being politically correct. If you are being honest, and live in Nebraska, most call it the armpit of Omaha. I grew up in a nice part of town, went to a nice school, I have no complaints. A lot of my family and friends still live there and are of course excluded from my rant about "Redneckville" (which is what I will call this town to protect the innocent". I also acknowledge that there are some lovely parts of town with new developments. However, there are also those not so nice parts, the redneck parts, and those who know Redneckville know exactly to where I'm referring.
Because my family still lives there, from time to time we are forced to venture into Redneckville. It's always an adventure . We were driving through RNV (Redneckville) one night. We just happened to be driving down the main strip no less. Back in the day, cruising the main strip was the thing to do. I could do this for hours upon hours on end. Of course gas cost 90 cents a gallon and it was different then. I also walked up hill both ways to school, in the snow, with no shoes! Times change.
Apparently some folks think that cruising is still the thing to do. We were driving down the main strip in our mini-van. Oh yes, mini-van. Seat belts on, driving the speed limit, kids watching Cars on the DVD. Out of no where we heard this loud RUMBLE getting closer, and closer and closer. We started to get a little scared, and wanted to turn around and look, but afraid of what we might see.
Then it happened. A red light. We stopped, and this monster of a truck (the producer of the rumble) pulled up next to us. Our window was level with the running board (for those even less redneck than me, that is the little step to get into the truck). The light turned green and Eric and I realized that we missed the invitation given to us to race this truck in our minivan. The truck took off like a sloth out of hell. I would say a bat out of hell, but the truck wasn't very fast.
It had one mud-flap with a silver girl on it and one mud-flap with Yosimite Sam saying "Back off". Between the mud flaps was a pair of fake testicles. A gun rack in the back window, two confederate flags sticking out of the cab, one window cling that said "pave the planet", one that showed Calvin peeing on a Chevrolet symbol, a home made bumper sticker that said "Vote for Bush in 2008!", and a personalized license plate that said "GIT R DUN". As they drove away, as fast as they could, the passenger (a woman I think), rose her fist out the window and shook it as she squealed "WEE HOO!"
Eric just looked at me and said "now, there's something to blog about". I replied "yep".
I have a few thoughts on the many pieces to this truck. Let's start with the mud flaps. They made it clear that the owner of this truck likes sex, and will also will stand his ground and tell you when you are entering his territory. Matching mudflaps would not have conveyed the same message. Why the little silver woman on a mud flap is beyond me. You would never see a woman with a mud flap with a silver man flexing a large bicep. Seriously, what is the point? To tell the world that you like "da ladies"? Regarding Yosemite Sam saying "Back Off", I never recall him saying this in the Looney Tunes cartoons. I guess "You dang near rootin tootin long eared yella bellied rabbit!" wouldn't fit on a mud flap, and really what would it mean? Those are a lot of words for a simple mind.
Now, the testicles. These crack me up everytime I see them. Note, I'm laughing AT them, not WITH them. They are not much larger than human testicles, so I'm trying to understand the point here. They say "My truck has balls!!" Ok? Proving? Your truck may have balls, but the are very small. If you were to make them to scale they should be the size of basketballs. I've decided to go get some fake nipples to stick on the headlights of my mini-van. Then when people see me, they will know that a woman who has boobs is driving.
The gun rack in the back window, I guess I can't complain here. They are following the "no concealed weapons" law. Two confederate flags sticking out of the cab really got me though. True, to those in North Dakota, we are from the South. But, to the Confederates, we are not. Should the "south rise again", those of us in this part of the country could be screwed.
I will not comment on the "pave the planet" bumper sticker. This is as tasteful as "Save the trees, wipe your ass with a spotted owl". Calvin peeing on a Chevrolet symbol, I'm really tired of seeing Calvin peeing on everything. GIT R DUN license plate, do I even need to comment on this? Really?
Lastly, the "Vote for Bush in 2008" bumper sticker. Now, you may read this, you may think "Duh, Federal law only allows for two presidential terms." While this is correct, what you don't know is that next to the statement "Vote for Bush in 2008" was a drawing of a lady's nether regions. This bumper sticker basically says "Vote Vagina for president in 2008". Makes sense, don't you think?
I could go on and on, and actually have many more examples and stories to share, but I guess the GITRDUN truck, as Eric and I refer to it, had enough story to last one blog at least.
Because my family still lives there, from time to time we are forced to venture into Redneckville. It's always an adventure . We were driving through RNV (Redneckville) one night. We just happened to be driving down the main strip no less. Back in the day, cruising the main strip was the thing to do. I could do this for hours upon hours on end. Of course gas cost 90 cents a gallon and it was different then. I also walked up hill both ways to school, in the snow, with no shoes! Times change.
Apparently some folks think that cruising is still the thing to do. We were driving down the main strip in our mini-van. Oh yes, mini-van. Seat belts on, driving the speed limit, kids watching Cars on the DVD. Out of no where we heard this loud RUMBLE getting closer, and closer and closer. We started to get a little scared, and wanted to turn around and look, but afraid of what we might see.
Then it happened. A red light. We stopped, and this monster of a truck (the producer of the rumble) pulled up next to us. Our window was level with the running board (for those even less redneck than me, that is the little step to get into the truck). The light turned green and Eric and I realized that we missed the invitation given to us to race this truck in our minivan. The truck took off like a sloth out of hell. I would say a bat out of hell, but the truck wasn't very fast.
It had one mud-flap with a silver girl on it and one mud-flap with Yosimite Sam saying "Back off". Between the mud flaps was a pair of fake testicles. A gun rack in the back window, two confederate flags sticking out of the cab, one window cling that said "pave the planet", one that showed Calvin peeing on a Chevrolet symbol, a home made bumper sticker that said "Vote for Bush in 2008!", and a personalized license plate that said "GIT R DUN". As they drove away, as fast as they could, the passenger (a woman I think), rose her fist out the window and shook it as she squealed "WEE HOO!"
Eric just looked at me and said "now, there's something to blog about". I replied "yep".
I have a few thoughts on the many pieces to this truck. Let's start with the mud flaps. They made it clear that the owner of this truck likes sex, and will also will stand his ground and tell you when you are entering his territory. Matching mudflaps would not have conveyed the same message. Why the little silver woman on a mud flap is beyond me. You would never see a woman with a mud flap with a silver man flexing a large bicep. Seriously, what is the point? To tell the world that you like "da ladies"? Regarding Yosemite Sam saying "Back Off", I never recall him saying this in the Looney Tunes cartoons. I guess "You dang near rootin tootin long eared yella bellied rabbit!" wouldn't fit on a mud flap, and really what would it mean? Those are a lot of words for a simple mind.
Now, the testicles. These crack me up everytime I see them. Note, I'm laughing AT them, not WITH them. They are not much larger than human testicles, so I'm trying to understand the point here. They say "My truck has balls!!" Ok? Proving? Your truck may have balls, but the are very small. If you were to make them to scale they should be the size of basketballs. I've decided to go get some fake nipples to stick on the headlights of my mini-van. Then when people see me, they will know that a woman who has boobs is driving.
The gun rack in the back window, I guess I can't complain here. They are following the "no concealed weapons" law. Two confederate flags sticking out of the cab really got me though. True, to those in North Dakota, we are from the South. But, to the Confederates, we are not. Should the "south rise again", those of us in this part of the country could be screwed.
I will not comment on the "pave the planet" bumper sticker. This is as tasteful as "Save the trees, wipe your ass with a spotted owl". Calvin peeing on a Chevrolet symbol, I'm really tired of seeing Calvin peeing on everything. GIT R DUN license plate, do I even need to comment on this? Really?
Lastly, the "Vote for Bush in 2008" bumper sticker. Now, you may read this, you may think "Duh, Federal law only allows for two presidential terms." While this is correct, what you don't know is that next to the statement "Vote for Bush in 2008" was a drawing of a lady's nether regions. This bumper sticker basically says "Vote Vagina for president in 2008". Makes sense, don't you think?
I could go on and on, and actually have many more examples and stories to share, but I guess the GITRDUN truck, as Eric and I refer to it, had enough story to last one blog at least.
Business Travel 03/26/08 - PG
I got back into town yesterday from a trip to Houston for work. I have nothing else to blog about, so thought I’d go ahead and give my thoughts on the lovely world of business travel.
My very first business trip (for this job anyway) was to Raleigh, NC. My most recent trip was Monday to Houston where I flew out at 6:00 am, and arrived back in Omaha at 11:00 am the next day, drove directly to the office and went back to work.
I have to say that my first couple of trips were fun and exhilarating. Walking through the airport with my high heels and suit, pulling my fancy luggage on wheels, carrying my head high while I pranced around as if to say "I am important, I’m on a business trip!" I don’t drink coffee, but would stop at the coffee shop to pick up a hot cocoa so that I looked like I was carrying around a cup of coffee or cappucino or something else business like. As the trips have become more frequent, I've noticed that I have changed in the way that I travel and feel about travel. On Monday I arrived at the airport at 5:00 am to catch my 6:00 am flight. I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and old ratty slip-on tennis shoes. I was not drinking anything out of a fancy mug, in fact I wasn’t drinking anything. I figured I’d wait for the airplane waitress to come around, knock me in the elbow with the little push cart and give me a 3 ounce cup of soda.
On my first trip, I was polite and nice to the person in the seat next to mine. I’d say "hello", they would say "hello, are you from Omaha" and I would say "Yes. I’m on my way to such and such for business". My suit, high heels, and coffee mug didn’t seem to tip them off, so I thought I’d drive the point home. On my most recent trip I was really ticked off to learn that I got the "premium seat". For those who don’t know, that’s the seat in the MIDDLE of the 3 seat section. To my right was a man who stuffed his face so far into the window, I couldn’t see a hint of sky go by if I wanted to. On my left was a woman who really should have purchased two plane tickets if you know what I mean. We were unable to put down the arm rest between us, and in fact she had to place part of her right buttock on my lap.
On my first trip I pulled out my marketing material to study for my presentation to make sure that I had everything down and was well prepared. On this trip I pulled out the safety guide and giggled at the pictures.
On my first trip I stepped into the rest room at the final leg of the trip to freshen up my hair, touch up my make up, spray some perfume, brush my teeth, and prepare for the meeting. On this trip I lugged my stupid suitcase into the handicapped stall and changed from my jeans into my suit for the presentation and sprayed myself with a little Downy wrinkle releaser. As we walked to the rental car I threw on some lipstick while in motion hoping that I didn’t get any on my teeth.
On my first trip I went back to the hotel after the presentation. I gathered up all of my materials, went into the lobby, reviewed what I had done that day and made notes on the important events. I went through every detail while drinking another cup of hot chocolate. Still in my suit and heels because now, not only do the airport people know that I’m a business woman, on a business trip, the hotel people do too! On this trip I went to the hotel after the presentation and dinner, went to my room, pulled back the sheets to check for spiders, got into my jammies and went to sleep.
On my first trip I had a wake up call 2 hours before I needed to get moving. I got up, ironed my other suit and put it on, did full hair and make up, and clip clopped my high heels back to the lobby with my wheeled suitcase. Met my business associates with a "good morning! What a nice day!" On this trip I set my cell phone alarm for 15 minutes before I had to be in the lobby. I jumped in the shower, dried my hair half way, brushed my teeth and put on my jeans and sweatshirt from the day before. I lugged myself down to the lobby and greeted my business associates with a grunt.
On my first trip I was happy to get back to work to share my experiences with everyone and tell them of the positive impact that our presentation had. When I returned from this trip and was asked how things went, I simply said "fine" and went back to work.
So, for anyone who thinks that flying around the country for work is a glamorous life and fun. Think again. It kind of even sucks a little. It’s tiring, and honestly, my shoulders hurt today from lugging around all that heavy stuff for two days. But, I still love my job. Every day.
Now whenever I see the cute little blonde at the airport in her perfectly pressed suit, matching luggage, stilettos, french manicure, and cup of espresso, I just smile. Rookie.
My very first business trip (for this job anyway) was to Raleigh, NC. My most recent trip was Monday to Houston where I flew out at 6:00 am, and arrived back in Omaha at 11:00 am the next day, drove directly to the office and went back to work.
I have to say that my first couple of trips were fun and exhilarating. Walking through the airport with my high heels and suit, pulling my fancy luggage on wheels, carrying my head high while I pranced around as if to say "I am important, I’m on a business trip!" I don’t drink coffee, but would stop at the coffee shop to pick up a hot cocoa so that I looked like I was carrying around a cup of coffee or cappucino or something else business like. As the trips have become more frequent, I've noticed that I have changed in the way that I travel and feel about travel. On Monday I arrived at the airport at 5:00 am to catch my 6:00 am flight. I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and old ratty slip-on tennis shoes. I was not drinking anything out of a fancy mug, in fact I wasn’t drinking anything. I figured I’d wait for the airplane waitress to come around, knock me in the elbow with the little push cart and give me a 3 ounce cup of soda.
On my first trip, I was polite and nice to the person in the seat next to mine. I’d say "hello", they would say "hello, are you from Omaha" and I would say "Yes. I’m on my way to such and such for business". My suit, high heels, and coffee mug didn’t seem to tip them off, so I thought I’d drive the point home. On my most recent trip I was really ticked off to learn that I got the "premium seat". For those who don’t know, that’s the seat in the MIDDLE of the 3 seat section. To my right was a man who stuffed his face so far into the window, I couldn’t see a hint of sky go by if I wanted to. On my left was a woman who really should have purchased two plane tickets if you know what I mean. We were unable to put down the arm rest between us, and in fact she had to place part of her right buttock on my lap.
On my first trip I pulled out my marketing material to study for my presentation to make sure that I had everything down and was well prepared. On this trip I pulled out the safety guide and giggled at the pictures.
On my first trip I stepped into the rest room at the final leg of the trip to freshen up my hair, touch up my make up, spray some perfume, brush my teeth, and prepare for the meeting. On this trip I lugged my stupid suitcase into the handicapped stall and changed from my jeans into my suit for the presentation and sprayed myself with a little Downy wrinkle releaser. As we walked to the rental car I threw on some lipstick while in motion hoping that I didn’t get any on my teeth.
On my first trip I went back to the hotel after the presentation. I gathered up all of my materials, went into the lobby, reviewed what I had done that day and made notes on the important events. I went through every detail while drinking another cup of hot chocolate. Still in my suit and heels because now, not only do the airport people know that I’m a business woman, on a business trip, the hotel people do too! On this trip I went to the hotel after the presentation and dinner, went to my room, pulled back the sheets to check for spiders, got into my jammies and went to sleep.
On my first trip I had a wake up call 2 hours before I needed to get moving. I got up, ironed my other suit and put it on, did full hair and make up, and clip clopped my high heels back to the lobby with my wheeled suitcase. Met my business associates with a "good morning! What a nice day!" On this trip I set my cell phone alarm for 15 minutes before I had to be in the lobby. I jumped in the shower, dried my hair half way, brushed my teeth and put on my jeans and sweatshirt from the day before. I lugged myself down to the lobby and greeted my business associates with a grunt.
On my first trip I was happy to get back to work to share my experiences with everyone and tell them of the positive impact that our presentation had. When I returned from this trip and was asked how things went, I simply said "fine" and went back to work.
So, for anyone who thinks that flying around the country for work is a glamorous life and fun. Think again. It kind of even sucks a little. It’s tiring, and honestly, my shoulders hurt today from lugging around all that heavy stuff for two days. But, I still love my job. Every day.
Now whenever I see the cute little blonde at the airport in her perfectly pressed suit, matching luggage, stilettos, french manicure, and cup of espresso, I just smile. Rookie.
Chicken 02/28/08 - PG
I'm sure when you saw the title of my blog you thought that it was me referring to myself as a chicken. I hope that you are not disappointed to find that this blog is about real chicken. The poultry. Fog Horn Leg Horn, the little red hen.
My tummy hurts a little bit, but I'm not sure if I'm hungry or ate something bad at lunch. I had a turkey sandwich. Maybe it wasn't free range turkey, but processed turkey. Maybe that's my problem. Now there is a topic to blog about. Free range chicken. Or Organic Chicken. What the heck is that? Is that anything like Wild caught fish vs. farm raised?
I'm trying to understand the free range chicken thing. I mean, are there chicken hunters? We know there are chicken farmers, who raise the .... that's right, farm raised chicken. But what about free range? Do they roam the forests and prairies wild? Do chicken hunters have to set up post and use chicken calls to pull the chickens out of the brush? Are they not allowed to shoot hens, only roosters? And if so, how obnoxious would a rooster call be!?
Do they ever stuff the chickens and put them over their fireplace as trophies of honor? "Hey, look there Bill! I tracked that there chicken for a mile before ol' Butch flushed him out for me!" Do the hunters tell non-hunters how it's necessary to thin out the chicken herd to keep them free of disease? If they don't kill 'em, nature will?
Maybe I'm underestimating the chicken. Perhaps hunting chicken is more like hunting wild boar. Vicious wild beasts! Thus the reason they are used for cock fighting. Maybe the hunter has to take up post a top a tall tree where the chicken can't get to him. He can only hope that he doesn't fall into the chicken pit to be shread to bits by the strong sharp talons of the chicken. He better also hope that he's got a good dog like Ol Yeller who can go get mama to come stitch up his wounds with a hair from the donkey's tail.
I'm getting off track. But why is free range chicken better than normal chicken? Are the emails about the beak-less foot-less chickens used at KFC for real? And if so, does it really matter? I don't eat the beaks or feet anyway. If they don't need their beaks or feet, you could probably just cut off the whole head. Their body can live without it. They are chickens, they won't know the difference! Well, those are my thoughts for today. Tune in next time when I discuss Boca Burgers. Is it beef? Tofu? Soy? Does it come from Boca Raton? Hmmm, think about it. Until next time! Peace.
My tummy hurts a little bit, but I'm not sure if I'm hungry or ate something bad at lunch. I had a turkey sandwich. Maybe it wasn't free range turkey, but processed turkey. Maybe that's my problem. Now there is a topic to blog about. Free range chicken. Or Organic Chicken. What the heck is that? Is that anything like Wild caught fish vs. farm raised?
I'm trying to understand the free range chicken thing. I mean, are there chicken hunters? We know there are chicken farmers, who raise the .... that's right, farm raised chicken. But what about free range? Do they roam the forests and prairies wild? Do chicken hunters have to set up post and use chicken calls to pull the chickens out of the brush? Are they not allowed to shoot hens, only roosters? And if so, how obnoxious would a rooster call be!?
Do they ever stuff the chickens and put them over their fireplace as trophies of honor? "Hey, look there Bill! I tracked that there chicken for a mile before ol' Butch flushed him out for me!" Do the hunters tell non-hunters how it's necessary to thin out the chicken herd to keep them free of disease? If they don't kill 'em, nature will?
Maybe I'm underestimating the chicken. Perhaps hunting chicken is more like hunting wild boar. Vicious wild beasts! Thus the reason they are used for cock fighting. Maybe the hunter has to take up post a top a tall tree where the chicken can't get to him. He can only hope that he doesn't fall into the chicken pit to be shread to bits by the strong sharp talons of the chicken. He better also hope that he's got a good dog like Ol Yeller who can go get mama to come stitch up his wounds with a hair from the donkey's tail.
I'm getting off track. But why is free range chicken better than normal chicken? Are the emails about the beak-less foot-less chickens used at KFC for real? And if so, does it really matter? I don't eat the beaks or feet anyway. If they don't need their beaks or feet, you could probably just cut off the whole head. Their body can live without it. They are chickens, they won't know the difference! Well, those are my thoughts for today. Tune in next time when I discuss Boca Burgers. Is it beef? Tofu? Soy? Does it come from Boca Raton? Hmmm, think about it. Until next time! Peace.
Shopping with a know-it-all 2/10/08 - PG
Our internet service is currently down. I'm typing my blog in Word and will just cut and paste it. Cox Communications can't find our account looking up by our phone number, social security number, or account number. Eric's freaking out on the poor phone service guy saying that he is working on a State Educational Service something and the gateway is wide open for anyone to tap into without protection because he can't do something. It's not funny because it sounds pretty serious, but I do feel sorry for the poor soul on the other line. It's kind of like when we went shopping for a new computer a few months ago.
Now, as if this isn't obvious, I'm love my husband and think he is the greatest man alive. I don't know if that's true, or if love is blind. We went into the stores searching for computers as any couple would. For work, Eric wears his glasses, his shirt and slacks, handsome, but only missing his pocket protector. Just kidding of course, but someone wouldn't be suprised when he said that he's a programmer. On the weekend, he's Eric. The Eric that I know with the baseball hat on backwards, stylishly holy jeans and a hoodie. Not very programmer-esk.
We entered each store, Best Buy, Office Depot, The Apple Store, Office Max, etc. The more experience we had with this shopping, the more I dreaded the approaching sales clerk. The one who would say "You don't really need 2GB, that's only for people who use the computer a lot", or "There's nothing wrong with Vista". Keep in mind that I am doing good to log in and remember what it means when it says "Enter your password". And I still don't understand the logic behind the weird squiggly letters that you have to copy when you log into a secure website.*
* Eric, as you read this, this is not an invitiation for you to give me a disertation on what the squiggly letters are.
So, back on track. I know little about computers, so I struggle to tell you what it's like shopping with Eric because I can't use any of the jargon. So, for the sake of this blog, we'll pretend that Eric's a manager for McDonald's and we are going in to buy a hamburger. These are terms that I can understand and use as an example.
Eric: Hi. I'd like to order a hamburger please.
Clerk: Wouldn't you rather have a cheeseburger?
Eric: No thank you. I'd like to have a hamburger.
Clerk: What about a Big Mac?
Eric: No thank you. Just a hamburger.
Clerk: I think you will be returning the hamburger within 10 minutes because you will wish you had gotten a cheeseburger.
Eric: NO, I specifically asked for a hamburger. If I wanted a cheeseburger, I would have preceeded HAMBURGER with the word cheese.
Clerk: Well, I don't want to offend you, I'm just saying, I don't know if you understand just how much of an impact the cheese has on a hamburger.
In case you wonder where I am in this point of the conversation, I'm standing behind Eric, facing the clerk, frantically waving my hand in front of my neck. The universal sign saying "for the love of God, all that is holy and for your own safety and self preservation, SHUT UP!!!"
Eric: Please, would you like to sell me a hamburger, or should I just go to Burger King?
Clerk: Well, I certainly don't want you to go to burger king. I just don't want you to make an uneducated decision based on propaganda. I want to be sure that I'm doing my job and helping you understand what you are missing when you order just a hamburger. At this point I start to back away. I can feel the heat from Eric's nostrils starting to get warmer and warmer meaning that flames will be spewing from them momentarily.
Eric: Listen ...... "Stewart".... That's your name right? I'm reading it from your nametag. What are you credentials to tell me what I need to purchase in regard to ground beef sandwich products?
Clerk: Well, I did go to McCollege and was the McEmployee of the month twice, in July of 2005, and October 2007. I also train new McEmployees on the importance of ground beef and vegetable McSafety.
Eric: Well Stewart, I have been the District and Regional managers for McDonalds for 14 years. I began my career at the Air Force Stragetic Command kiosk McDonalds serving hamburgers AND cheeseburgers to generals, heads of state and even the President once. I can tell you that each of these MCOfficials preferred the standard hamburger to the cheeseburger. WHY? Because cheese adds 80 extra calories of which is mostly fat. When in reality if the hamburger is made property the onion and pickle ratio of 4 pickles to 2 teaspoons of dehydrated onions evenly spread over the hamburger adds enough flavor to negate the need for cheese. As for the Big Mac, HA! Unless you are planning to eat enough food for 3 people at a meal, it's totally unnecessary. Your average Joe Schmo off the street is not going to need to eat the food of 3 people. In fact, the average Joe Schmo really only needs to eat one small fry that comes in the little paper packaging. But they don't! Why? Because punks like you try to convince them that they need to eat a cheeseburger, a big mac and a McFish because a simple small fry won't be enough to satisfy their appetite. The average non-educated consumer who doesn't know better trusts you with your big McDegree and McEmployee of the month McPlaque and will purchase the additional food which will add 10 extra pounds to their hips and take an extra $5.00 out of their pocket when they really never wanted it to begin with. So. Are you ready to sell me a hamburger?
Clerk: Well Mr. Customer, you seem to be quite experienced with McDonald's products. I'll be happy to ring up your hamburger now. I would normally ask if you would like fries with that, but I think I know the answer.
Eric: Good. Thank you.
And it goes on, and the rest of the sale is history. Usually by this time the clerk has thrown in a printer and has upgraded the size of the monitor for good measure.
Eric knows this story wouldn't be complete without adding the Walmart video game experience. We were shopping for computer video games for Zach over Christmas. We were at Walmart and looking for something like Cars or Thrillville, or something along those lines. Out of nowhere, Napoleon Dynamite's long lost twin appeared, who was also an employee of Walmart.
NDT (Napoleon Dynamite Twin): Hello. If I may make a suggestion....
Me: Um, ok?
NDT: You are wasting your time looking at these games when you can simply buy this package here which is the same price and has 10 games in it.
Me: Well, we appreciate the tip, however we are searching for an eight year old.
NDT: Any age group can play these games.
Me: I would respectfully disagree. "Death Match 4", "Brothel Tycoon", "Kill your deer hunting buddy in the field" and "Grand Theft Auto Burbon Street" don't seem appropriate for an 8 year old.
NDT: My parents raised me without limitations. I played these games when I was your son's age and it raised me to be aware that the media and society put enough limitations on us.
Eric: Yeah, but he's EIGHT! I think we'll stick with Mario Cart.
NDT: That's your perogative.
Eric: Hmmm, It would appear that Mario Cart doesn't run with Vista.
NDT: Yes it does.
Eric: No, the box specifically says "Mario Cart won't run on Vista".
NDT: It will run on Vista.
Eric: No, Vista doesn't have the such and such fancy computer doohicky.
NDT: INCORRECT!!! (you think I'm exageratting, I'm not, this really happened)
Eric: Excuse me?
NDT: You are incorrect! Vista does have the such and such fancy computer doohicky.
Eric: Rant rant rant, I'm a programmer and know things, you are a kid and don't, and computer talk computer talk, computer talk.
NDT: Well, I didn't realize that computer talk, computer talk, computer talk.
Eric: Yes, more computer talk....
I walked away and went to look at candles. Laughing as I looked back and Eric gave me the "How dare you leave me alone with this guy" look.
I'm still waiting for payback on that one.
Now, as if this isn't obvious, I'm love my husband and think he is the greatest man alive. I don't know if that's true, or if love is blind. We went into the stores searching for computers as any couple would. For work, Eric wears his glasses, his shirt and slacks, handsome, but only missing his pocket protector. Just kidding of course, but someone wouldn't be suprised when he said that he's a programmer. On the weekend, he's Eric. The Eric that I know with the baseball hat on backwards, stylishly holy jeans and a hoodie. Not very programmer-esk.
We entered each store, Best Buy, Office Depot, The Apple Store, Office Max, etc. The more experience we had with this shopping, the more I dreaded the approaching sales clerk. The one who would say "You don't really need 2GB, that's only for people who use the computer a lot", or "There's nothing wrong with Vista". Keep in mind that I am doing good to log in and remember what it means when it says "Enter your password". And I still don't understand the logic behind the weird squiggly letters that you have to copy when you log into a secure website.*
* Eric, as you read this, this is not an invitiation for you to give me a disertation on what the squiggly letters are.
So, back on track. I know little about computers, so I struggle to tell you what it's like shopping with Eric because I can't use any of the jargon. So, for the sake of this blog, we'll pretend that Eric's a manager for McDonald's and we are going in to buy a hamburger. These are terms that I can understand and use as an example.
Eric: Hi. I'd like to order a hamburger please.
Clerk: Wouldn't you rather have a cheeseburger?
Eric: No thank you. I'd like to have a hamburger.
Clerk: What about a Big Mac?
Eric: No thank you. Just a hamburger.
Clerk: I think you will be returning the hamburger within 10 minutes because you will wish you had gotten a cheeseburger.
Eric: NO, I specifically asked for a hamburger. If I wanted a cheeseburger, I would have preceeded HAMBURGER with the word cheese.
Clerk: Well, I don't want to offend you, I'm just saying, I don't know if you understand just how much of an impact the cheese has on a hamburger.
In case you wonder where I am in this point of the conversation, I'm standing behind Eric, facing the clerk, frantically waving my hand in front of my neck. The universal sign saying "for the love of God, all that is holy and for your own safety and self preservation, SHUT UP!!!"
Eric: Please, would you like to sell me a hamburger, or should I just go to Burger King?
Clerk: Well, I certainly don't want you to go to burger king. I just don't want you to make an uneducated decision based on propaganda. I want to be sure that I'm doing my job and helping you understand what you are missing when you order just a hamburger. At this point I start to back away. I can feel the heat from Eric's nostrils starting to get warmer and warmer meaning that flames will be spewing from them momentarily.
Eric: Listen ...... "Stewart".... That's your name right? I'm reading it from your nametag. What are you credentials to tell me what I need to purchase in regard to ground beef sandwich products?
Clerk: Well, I did go to McCollege and was the McEmployee of the month twice, in July of 2005, and October 2007. I also train new McEmployees on the importance of ground beef and vegetable McSafety.
Eric: Well Stewart, I have been the District and Regional managers for McDonalds for 14 years. I began my career at the Air Force Stragetic Command kiosk McDonalds serving hamburgers AND cheeseburgers to generals, heads of state and even the President once. I can tell you that each of these MCOfficials preferred the standard hamburger to the cheeseburger. WHY? Because cheese adds 80 extra calories of which is mostly fat. When in reality if the hamburger is made property the onion and pickle ratio of 4 pickles to 2 teaspoons of dehydrated onions evenly spread over the hamburger adds enough flavor to negate the need for cheese. As for the Big Mac, HA! Unless you are planning to eat enough food for 3 people at a meal, it's totally unnecessary. Your average Joe Schmo off the street is not going to need to eat the food of 3 people. In fact, the average Joe Schmo really only needs to eat one small fry that comes in the little paper packaging. But they don't! Why? Because punks like you try to convince them that they need to eat a cheeseburger, a big mac and a McFish because a simple small fry won't be enough to satisfy their appetite. The average non-educated consumer who doesn't know better trusts you with your big McDegree and McEmployee of the month McPlaque and will purchase the additional food which will add 10 extra pounds to their hips and take an extra $5.00 out of their pocket when they really never wanted it to begin with. So. Are you ready to sell me a hamburger?
Clerk: Well Mr. Customer, you seem to be quite experienced with McDonald's products. I'll be happy to ring up your hamburger now. I would normally ask if you would like fries with that, but I think I know the answer.
Eric: Good. Thank you.
And it goes on, and the rest of the sale is history. Usually by this time the clerk has thrown in a printer and has upgraded the size of the monitor for good measure.
Eric knows this story wouldn't be complete without adding the Walmart video game experience. We were shopping for computer video games for Zach over Christmas. We were at Walmart and looking for something like Cars or Thrillville, or something along those lines. Out of nowhere, Napoleon Dynamite's long lost twin appeared, who was also an employee of Walmart.
NDT (Napoleon Dynamite Twin): Hello. If I may make a suggestion....
Me: Um, ok?
NDT: You are wasting your time looking at these games when you can simply buy this package here which is the same price and has 10 games in it.
Me: Well, we appreciate the tip, however we are searching for an eight year old.
NDT: Any age group can play these games.
Me: I would respectfully disagree. "Death Match 4", "Brothel Tycoon", "Kill your deer hunting buddy in the field" and "Grand Theft Auto Burbon Street" don't seem appropriate for an 8 year old.
NDT: My parents raised me without limitations. I played these games when I was your son's age and it raised me to be aware that the media and society put enough limitations on us.
Eric: Yeah, but he's EIGHT! I think we'll stick with Mario Cart.
NDT: That's your perogative.
Eric: Hmmm, It would appear that Mario Cart doesn't run with Vista.
NDT: Yes it does.
Eric: No, the box specifically says "Mario Cart won't run on Vista".
NDT: It will run on Vista.
Eric: No, Vista doesn't have the such and such fancy computer doohicky.
NDT: INCORRECT!!! (you think I'm exageratting, I'm not, this really happened)
Eric: Excuse me?
NDT: You are incorrect! Vista does have the such and such fancy computer doohicky.
Eric: Rant rant rant, I'm a programmer and know things, you are a kid and don't, and computer talk computer talk, computer talk.
NDT: Well, I didn't realize that computer talk, computer talk, computer talk.
Eric: Yes, more computer talk....
I walked away and went to look at candles. Laughing as I looked back and Eric gave me the "How dare you leave me alone with this guy" look.
I'm still waiting for payback on that one.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Waxing for ametuers - PG
Eric and I have a date tonight. That happens very seldom and with his current work schedule, I am very excited. I thought I would make myself "pretty" last night to prepare for the big day. I went and got my hair cut (much shorter than anticipated) and purchased a hair color and highlight kit (light warm brown and blonde highlights).
I got home, prepped everything for the color (put on my hair color nightshirt, laid down towels, etc). I put the color on my hair and although it looked black, the box said "don’t worry if your hair looks different than the result you want". Well, no worries then, moving on! I decided that I should save the gloves because I thought I might wax my legs later, and the wax sometimes gets messy. I washed my hands with the gloves on to remove the hair color and preserve the gloves. One glove filled with water. It was kind of funny, so I giggled to myself thinking of those weird people who blow up gloves and pretend they are chickens. Instead of removing the glove to let out the water, I raised my hand to let the water run out, and it did; right down to my armpit. That was stupid. I should have let that be my first clue, just turned off the bathroom light and called it a night. I was obviously not in a "smart" kind of mood to undertake something like this. But, I didn’t realize that at the time.
DING! It was time to rinse my hair. I went to the sink and scalded myself, but rinsed the color. I removed the towel and HOLY COW! Carrot orange. Not a big deal, that was just a 'base coat', I could just do it again. I mean, at that point I looked like a male Pippy Longstocking. Since my hair was now so short, I just used the other half of the bottle and colored it again. I thought I would multi-task and wax my legs at the same time, like I have done many times in the past. I spread the wax on my right shin, put on the paper, ripped off the paper, OUCH! But wait, the wax was still on my leg and the consistency of a strange goo. Weird. 3, 4, 5, 6 times with the paper. Something was seriously wrong with the wax. I realized that it was just not going to happen. I had to just wash it off. I was disappointed because that summer I had a waxing problem but I used the "no strips" kind and it was a mess. I vowed to NEVER go without strips again, because they ALWAYS work. Yeah right.
Anyway, "DING". Oops, first I had to rinse coat 2 of hair color out. While I was at the sink rinsing my hair, Kitty started loving with me and rubbing all over my legs. Kitty is never nice to me! I realized it was sweet, but suddenly Kitty was mad and screaming! Although the wax didn’t take the hair off my legs, it did take the hair off Kitty's side and put it on my legs. Damn. Who has more hair on them after waxing than before they started!?!? I had to worry about that later after checking my hair color. I took off the towel and was less orange, more fire engine red. Such is life.
I took a second and looked in the mirror. I mean really looked. I had bright red hair sticking up from the towel dry, mascara running down my cheeks from the rinse, my nightgown was tucked into my underpants (to keep it from hitting the wax on my leg), and I had one leg that now had cat hair and some of the bathroom rug (still don’t know how that happened) stuck to it. I was mad and realized it was Clairol’s fault. I called their hotline, so that I could give them a piece of my mind and maybe get a coupon out of the deal. They weren’t there.
I decided I better highlight my hair in an effort to tone down the red of course (third color in 2 hours). I put the highlight on and realized that I would have to take care of my "wax problem" while I waited for the highlight to set. I tried a hot washcloth to warm up the wax a little. That didn’t work, but did add a layer of burgundy washcloth lint to my leg and I had to throw away the washcloth, as it was a waxy sticky mess. I went to the garage and pulled out Eric’s extra strength "Goop". If it could remove grease, tar, and man stuff, it could surely remove wax! I was wrong, although I did smell nice with the combo of the vanilla scented wax with the Orange scented goop.
My next attempt was body wash on my loofa (not a poof, a LOOFA), and not a light wash, a SCRUB, and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed a little more for good measure. Nothing. My next attempt was
fingernail polish remover. I didn’t have any turpentine or mineral spirits or that would have been next. Apparently I scrubbed a little hard with the loofa because the fingernail polish caused a blinding "sting" that wouldn’t stop. My next stop was to call Sally Hansen’s hotline to give Sally a piece of my mind and maybe get a coupon out of the deal. I learned that they are only open until 7:00 pm. Who waxes their legs before 7? Come on!!.
I went online to search "wax removal". I found nothing except how to remove candle wax from carpet. Thinking wax is wax, I found that I had two options. My first option was to put a towel over the wax and use an iron to melt it. Although I was very tempted for a minute, I chose not to go that route. The story would be too long for the Dr. in the ER. Instead I tried option number 2. ICE. Supposedly you can freeze wax and peel it off which sounded like a piece of cake. Halfway into my "icing" routine, my highlight dinger went off. Since I didn’t want to back out on the progress I had made, I used a towel to tie some ice to my leg and leave it there.
I rinsed my hair which was still a mess. I felt it to be the least of my concerns at that moment! I took off the towel and the ice and used my finger to "peel off the wax". That didn’t work, but two of my fingers got stuck together with wax. Eventually when I found the antidote to remove the wax from my legs, I would also have to do it to my fingers. Out of desperation (and midnight stupidity) I wrapped a paper towel around a butter knife to try to "scrape" the wax off. No luck, but I added paper towel rippings to the mess on my leg.
Finally I went to Sally Hansen’s website. It said that you can use the soothing Azulene Oil that comes with the kit to easily remove leftover wax residue. I alone in my basement burst into laughter. Not the kind of laughter like "Wow, this is quite a humorous situation I’m in", but more of the kind of laughter you laugh when you are ready to go to Walgreen’s with your shirt tucked into your underpants and punch the cosmetic clerk who said this was easy. I gained my composure and went back to the bathroom and found the soothing Azulene Oil. I poured a little on my leg, rubbed it a little and the wax turned into a little ball and gently removed from my leg. In a quiet, calm rage I put the oil, the wax, and the strips into their cute little box, and placed them in the trash while I said calmly with a tear in my eye "screw you Sally Hansen. I hate you. I really really do."
I then looked in the mirror again. I was still looking sad, and began to realize the magnitude of what I had done to my hair. I decided to give the hair color girl on the box a piece of my mind too. It wouldn’t be nice to take all of my anger out on the Sally Hansen girl, would it? I said to her sarcastically (and I think that she heard me) "Oh, look at me, I’m the pretty Clairol girl. I have BROWN hair, the box says brown, but I’m kidding, it’s really red". There was nothing I could do then, I certainly wasn’t going to go to Walgreens for another color. That would be dangerous for all involved. I again stood back and looked at myself. What a mess. On top of the hair, mascara runs, nightshirt tucked into my underwear (which I probably could have untucked by now since my leg was fixed, but chose to just leave it that way), my eyes were now blood shot and my face was flushed. I was so sad.
I curled my hair, and put on all of my make up. Mascara, lipstick, everything. The makeup and style helped a little. I had a glass of water and went to bed, make up and all. I have vowed to never try and save a buck on salon visits, and if Eric doesn’t say that I’m pretty today, he better sleep with one eye open. I know where that waxing kit is, and I'm not afraid to use it on him next!
I got home, prepped everything for the color (put on my hair color nightshirt, laid down towels, etc). I put the color on my hair and although it looked black, the box said "don’t worry if your hair looks different than the result you want". Well, no worries then, moving on! I decided that I should save the gloves because I thought I might wax my legs later, and the wax sometimes gets messy. I washed my hands with the gloves on to remove the hair color and preserve the gloves. One glove filled with water. It was kind of funny, so I giggled to myself thinking of those weird people who blow up gloves and pretend they are chickens. Instead of removing the glove to let out the water, I raised my hand to let the water run out, and it did; right down to my armpit. That was stupid. I should have let that be my first clue, just turned off the bathroom light and called it a night. I was obviously not in a "smart" kind of mood to undertake something like this. But, I didn’t realize that at the time.
DING! It was time to rinse my hair. I went to the sink and scalded myself, but rinsed the color. I removed the towel and HOLY COW! Carrot orange. Not a big deal, that was just a 'base coat', I could just do it again. I mean, at that point I looked like a male Pippy Longstocking. Since my hair was now so short, I just used the other half of the bottle and colored it again. I thought I would multi-task and wax my legs at the same time, like I have done many times in the past. I spread the wax on my right shin, put on the paper, ripped off the paper, OUCH! But wait, the wax was still on my leg and the consistency of a strange goo. Weird. 3, 4, 5, 6 times with the paper. Something was seriously wrong with the wax. I realized that it was just not going to happen. I had to just wash it off. I was disappointed because that summer I had a waxing problem but I used the "no strips" kind and it was a mess. I vowed to NEVER go without strips again, because they ALWAYS work. Yeah right.
Anyway, "DING". Oops, first I had to rinse coat 2 of hair color out. While I was at the sink rinsing my hair, Kitty started loving with me and rubbing all over my legs. Kitty is never nice to me! I realized it was sweet, but suddenly Kitty was mad and screaming! Although the wax didn’t take the hair off my legs, it did take the hair off Kitty's side and put it on my legs. Damn. Who has more hair on them after waxing than before they started!?!? I had to worry about that later after checking my hair color. I took off the towel and was less orange, more fire engine red. Such is life.
I took a second and looked in the mirror. I mean really looked. I had bright red hair sticking up from the towel dry, mascara running down my cheeks from the rinse, my nightgown was tucked into my underpants (to keep it from hitting the wax on my leg), and I had one leg that now had cat hair and some of the bathroom rug (still don’t know how that happened) stuck to it. I was mad and realized it was Clairol’s fault. I called their hotline, so that I could give them a piece of my mind and maybe get a coupon out of the deal. They weren’t there.
I decided I better highlight my hair in an effort to tone down the red of course (third color in 2 hours). I put the highlight on and realized that I would have to take care of my "wax problem" while I waited for the highlight to set. I tried a hot washcloth to warm up the wax a little. That didn’t work, but did add a layer of burgundy washcloth lint to my leg and I had to throw away the washcloth, as it was a waxy sticky mess. I went to the garage and pulled out Eric’s extra strength "Goop". If it could remove grease, tar, and man stuff, it could surely remove wax! I was wrong, although I did smell nice with the combo of the vanilla scented wax with the Orange scented goop.
My next attempt was body wash on my loofa (not a poof, a LOOFA), and not a light wash, a SCRUB, and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed a little more for good measure. Nothing. My next attempt was
fingernail polish remover. I didn’t have any turpentine or mineral spirits or that would have been next. Apparently I scrubbed a little hard with the loofa because the fingernail polish caused a blinding "sting" that wouldn’t stop. My next stop was to call Sally Hansen’s hotline to give Sally a piece of my mind and maybe get a coupon out of the deal. I learned that they are only open until 7:00 pm. Who waxes their legs before 7? Come on!!.
I went online to search "wax removal". I found nothing except how to remove candle wax from carpet. Thinking wax is wax, I found that I had two options. My first option was to put a towel over the wax and use an iron to melt it. Although I was very tempted for a minute, I chose not to go that route. The story would be too long for the Dr. in the ER. Instead I tried option number 2. ICE. Supposedly you can freeze wax and peel it off which sounded like a piece of cake. Halfway into my "icing" routine, my highlight dinger went off. Since I didn’t want to back out on the progress I had made, I used a towel to tie some ice to my leg and leave it there.
I rinsed my hair which was still a mess. I felt it to be the least of my concerns at that moment! I took off the towel and the ice and used my finger to "peel off the wax". That didn’t work, but two of my fingers got stuck together with wax. Eventually when I found the antidote to remove the wax from my legs, I would also have to do it to my fingers. Out of desperation (and midnight stupidity) I wrapped a paper towel around a butter knife to try to "scrape" the wax off. No luck, but I added paper towel rippings to the mess on my leg.
Finally I went to Sally Hansen’s website. It said that you can use the soothing Azulene Oil that comes with the kit to easily remove leftover wax residue. I alone in my basement burst into laughter. Not the kind of laughter like "Wow, this is quite a humorous situation I’m in", but more of the kind of laughter you laugh when you are ready to go to Walgreen’s with your shirt tucked into your underpants and punch the cosmetic clerk who said this was easy. I gained my composure and went back to the bathroom and found the soothing Azulene Oil. I poured a little on my leg, rubbed it a little and the wax turned into a little ball and gently removed from my leg. In a quiet, calm rage I put the oil, the wax, and the strips into their cute little box, and placed them in the trash while I said calmly with a tear in my eye "screw you Sally Hansen. I hate you. I really really do."
I then looked in the mirror again. I was still looking sad, and began to realize the magnitude of what I had done to my hair. I decided to give the hair color girl on the box a piece of my mind too. It wouldn’t be nice to take all of my anger out on the Sally Hansen girl, would it? I said to her sarcastically (and I think that she heard me) "Oh, look at me, I’m the pretty Clairol girl. I have BROWN hair, the box says brown, but I’m kidding, it’s really red". There was nothing I could do then, I certainly wasn’t going to go to Walgreens for another color. That would be dangerous for all involved. I again stood back and looked at myself. What a mess. On top of the hair, mascara runs, nightshirt tucked into my underwear (which I probably could have untucked by now since my leg was fixed, but chose to just leave it that way), my eyes were now blood shot and my face was flushed. I was so sad.
I curled my hair, and put on all of my make up. Mascara, lipstick, everything. The makeup and style helped a little. I had a glass of water and went to bed, make up and all. I have vowed to never try and save a buck on salon visits, and if Eric doesn’t say that I’m pretty today, he better sleep with one eye open. I know where that waxing kit is, and I'm not afraid to use it on him next!
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