The Pitfalls of Back Hair

I just couldn’t let this opportunity to explore the glories of advertising pass me by. I previously mentioned a coupon app that allows its user to sign up for scads of free stuff. One of the apps recent treasures, was the offering of a free one year subscription to Maxim magazine (yes, hubby has this app on his phone too). O…the joys. Yesterday our household was finally graced with the presence of this long awaited arrival. At first this fine example of modern literary ambition languished (facedown of course) on the computer desk. Now, flash-forward a few hours. I am sitting upstairs solving riddles with the boy, when Aaron approaches, magazine lightly clenched in his hand, says :”Jennifer, come here a minute”, and proceeds towards our bedroom. Now, I am thinking to myself, I sure hope this man isn’t going to show me some pictures of scantily clad models in the hopes that I will take it as a subtle hint to do more ab work and get an artfully executed wax job (if he was leaning towards the latter, I would assume he had forgotten the tagic NADS debacle of 2005, a story born for different sort of website of course). If so, he had best start hiding his underwear (I have discovered that if you remove every other stitch in a garment, its wearer will, initially, be none the wiser of its structural damage. Then about half-way into a busy day things start to unravel for no apparent reason J) So, it was with some trepidation that I entered the bedroom. Aaron hands me the magazine, pointing out an advertisement for the “RAZORBA”. 
I will repost my photo of the ad here, but my favorite line is “Hot girls hate back hair”. Now, while I am sure no truer thing has ever been written, I would like to over-think this product and its potential consumer for a bit (this is a habit of mine to be sure, entertaining at times, but a bit of a drag if one has had the misfortune of living with me). Firstly, the product. Judging by the ad, it appears to be a normal shaving razor affixed to a three foot handle with a presumably ergonomic grip. Ok, I can see the utility of this. Old ladies with flexibility issues could stop wearing slacks, regular chicks could shave without bending over etc…For the man with the “hot girl” kryptonite, i.e., the hairy back, a full length mirror and 30 minutes of free time could easily have you back on the dating circuit. Now, let us pause for a moment and imagine such a man and his situation. We will call him Joe, for lack of creativity. Now, Joe is a moderately handsome man, piercing eyes, full head of thick wavy hair, off-white smile, but for all of these exceptional features, Joe is alone. Every time he has tried to pick up a hot girl at the local swimming hole, he has been turned down with disgusted sneers and suggestions that he work for the Geico ad department. What is Joe’s problem, a reader might ask? Well, owing to a Mediterranean heritage, he has been cursed with a pelt of unsightly back hair. Ick. Joe, ever interested in expanding his mind, drops by the local book store and picks up a copy of his favorite magazine, Maxim (what, you thought Joe was gonna pick up a book?! Posh, he’s a happening guy, not some pathetic autodidact). Flipping through its glossy pages, he comes across an ad for the Razorba. Finally!!!! His dating woes have come to an end. He immediately gets online, and after updating his facebook status to inform his friends that he finally got a prescription for that infection (yep, some people, and I’m not naming any names, reveal a bit too much personal info), he orders his very own Razorba. Several weeks later, Joe is back in action, razor burns anointed and masked by spray-on tan. He is able to capture the attentions of a suitably “hot girl” whose interests include: fashion, self-loathing, and detox cleansing (which the internet has informed me involves an enema bag, and a long tube……I will pass). He is able to lure her back to his home with the promise of Red bull and vodka. Upon her arrival, she excuses herself to the restroom, in order to be forcefully rid of the nachos (cheese on the side please) that she consumed at the pool. Curious by nature, our hot lassie begins exploring….(often in the hopes of scoring prescription sleeping pills). Hmmm…what is this thing hanging from the shower head? Could that be a razor with an overly long handle? Why, yes, that is exactly what it is! You see, Joe didn’t think ahead. With careful planning, his horrible condition could have remained a secret. But seriously guys and gals, where DO you stash a four-foot shaving razor? It sure as heck wouldn’t fit in any of my medicine cabinets (not that it would have helped Joe if it had, cause Tiffany is a gal on a mission). Do you put it in your clothes closet, under the bed, between the sofa cushions? What do you think? Where would you hide YOUR Razorba?

Its not what you think.

For those of you who have children, and perhaps a few of you who do not, it is a thing of ceaseless wonder the random tidbits that fall out of their mouths. Programs like “Kids Say the Darndest Things” have capitalized on kids’ fumbling in the adult world of the spoken word. One of my favorite parts of parenting is observing this phenomenon. For example, my youngest son is convinced that a hooker is the device on the back of a tow truck (I’m never telling him otherwise, oh there isn’t a wreck we pass by that doesn’t elicit a chuckle or two from the front seat). As my oldest son has progressed from adorable toddler to adorable child, these choice little nuggets of confusion have come few and far between. As his naivety has dwindled he has begun to doubt my ultimate wisdom on all things true. In fact, he has even gone so far as to question my math skills (which are above par for the average elementary student, I would bet money on it).So, imagine my surprise when, during a routine ball toss in the front yard, the boy turns to me and asks if I know what a muff is. The conversation proceeded as follows:
Me: I certainly do! A better question is how you know.
Boy: I saw it on tv.
Me: [silently wondering how boy deciphered parental locks on tv] Oh yeah?
Boy: Football
Me: [silently figuring out why men are so obsessed with football] So, what is a muff?
Boy: It is when a punt is never in possession by its receiver (he then acts out scenario).
Me: [silently thanking parental control gods of Comcast (who are still greedy, unforgiven asses)]
I pondered this conversation for a few days then turned to my husband and asked him if he knew what a muff was. He gave me the I-thought-you-knew-me look until I rehashed the little instruction I had received. Unable to believe this neat little factoid, he googled (I would never google the word muff, really, honest to Comcast). He then explained the difference between a muff (hehe) and a fumble. This difference is predicated on the rules governing the retrieval of the ball after it has been muffed or fumbled. I then, with the seriousness that the situation called for, asked my husband if the player who retrieves the muff from the field could, by virtue of definition, be called a muff diver. I amused the hell out of myself, I really did. Football is now my favorite sport, tight-ends, endzones, wide receivers, muffs, sounds like a movie on Cinemax.
Meanwhile, back in Gotham: Last night was grocery night, oh the laughs, the tears. Anyhow, as husband was squirreling food away in the fridge, he came across a tray of uncooked meat well passed its prime. He tossed the nastiness in to the garbage while I made mental note to remove it to bin. Alas, I forgot. This morning I happened upon my beastly German Shepherd dog munching away on a slab of rancid meat. I verbally reprimanded the nasty bastard, snatched meat away (with a paper towel mind you), and placed back in bin (oh you silly woman). I then proceed upstairs. Came down over-burdened with 200 lbs of dirty laundry to see dog gazing remorsefully at me over EMPTY meat tray. Thirty minutes later I am sponging rancid meat vomit off of the carpet while opportunistic Chihuahua

competes with me for dibs, getting a lick in here and there. As if that weren’t enough drama for a Monday, I undertook the task of cleaning out from under my bed. I know you are all thinking “you shamless slob of a woman, what are you twelve, still shoving things under your bed”? Well, just to let you know the only things I nudge under the bed are the occasional random shoe or slipper. What I have is a ferret.

This sneaky little devil has chosen the underside of my bed as its hording grounds. I found the following things:
7 bottles of water in various stages of empty
5 water bottle caps
5 tubes of martian matter
7 tubes of acrylic paint
1 bottle of spray Formula 409 (jeepers, this bottle is actually bigger than the ferret)
1 bottle of hand lotion
1 bottle of rash cream
1 tube anti-itch cream
1 container of holiday cookie sprinkles
1 bottle of after bath body spray
2 dryer sheets
1 G.I. Joes
3 Hotweel cars
1 tennis ball
I love my pets.

Pajama Sexism

This morning I was picking stuff up off the floor, and as is my custom, I attempted to shove some of the loose toy parts into my pockets. Well, as you all must know by now, I have no job so I am free to roam in my pajama pants until the mood strikes me to get dressed (usually before noon). So, I stand there, my hand twisting a around like a puppy rooting for a teat, until I remember that ladies' pajamas pants do not come with pockets. Why is this? I have seen what men have (for pajamas, haha), and they freaking have pockets! Do women not need pockets? This pocket sexism exists for ladies' slacks as well. There are no pockets. Suit jackets for women often do have pockets, but they are tiny affairs which I always end up over-stuffing, so that it looks like I have a thyroid disorder. I know exactly on what assumption that this pocket exclusion is based on. Garment makers depend upon the notion that women carry handbags. I carry no such bag. I have a bag, but I don't want to feel like some Mt. Everest sherpa with some bag tethered to my neck and shoulder all day. God forbid I set the thing down, because as sure as I am sitting here, I will forget the bag and some homeless woman will be applying for a car loan with my social security number (good luck to her, by the way my credit sucks!). What is really frustrating for me is when I go to buy a pair of jeans (which is all that us unemployed people really need to wear), I try them on, fit is good, price is good, they get bought then lo and behold I wear them that first day and discover that they have "decorative" pockets. What the bloody hell! Decorative pockets? Sequins are decorative (which I abhor), pockets are functional, as in I need them to stuff my crap into. It is either that or the pockets, while not sewn together, are so small that I could barely fit a marble in them, less alone a set of keys, some money (really very little of that), a cell phone, and an army guy or two. Again the presumption of the handbag. I can understand this really, but how does this fixation on the handbag carry over to pajamas? Are there seriously women toting around Gucci bags in their lounge wear? Do they sleep with the bag (guess that depends on what's in it -eh)? If I could sew I would just buy some cloth and affix some cargo pockets on my sleeping pants.

Where to go from here?

The plague has arrived. My oldest boy was sent home Friday with a fever, (it lasted the entire weekend), and today my four year-old spiked at 103.8. At this point I called the insurance sponsored Nursewise to request sound advice. As I am answering questions regarding his last urination, how well he ate lunch, and his energy level, I realized what a privilege it has been to be a stay-at-home mom. I was able to answer those questions like I wrote em myself. As James’s school career looms on the horizon, I have been forced to contemplate workforce reentry. How will I be able to translate a useless liberal arts degree and five years of parenting into viable career skills, and what sort of profession would be best suited to my experience and knowledge? Well, my friends, I have found the answer! Herewith you shall find my letter of introduction/resume to the United Nations Security Counsel.

Jennifer Wilson
Smalltown, IN. USA
BA, Purdue University

I am writing to express my interest in your position as a security advisor. I feel that my skills as a stay-at-home mom would be an asset to your organization. My interest in international affairs is paralleled only by my desire for world peace despite the belligerent nature of man. Listed below you will find my applicable qualifications for the placement in question.

Arbitrator
During the last five years, I have routinely been called upon to settle the disputes of two opposing parties. I have impartially divided hot wheel cars, cookies, and computer sessions. These decisions were often made under extreme duress and resulted in the salvation of both parties’ stature and world view.

Supply Manager
Keeping in mind that many conflicts are a result of the gross economic disparity between the haves and have-nots, I feel it is imperative that I mention my experience as a product facilitator. I have been able to supply my household with its necessary goods through a combination of savvy coupon clipping and observation of sales trends.

Disarmament Specialist
I have routinely been called into disputes regarding potentially lethal weaponry. I have always managed to procure a resolution with a minimal amount of blood shed. It is a matter of personal pride that I have managed to persuade all antagonists to surrender their weapons with a minimal amount of sanctions.

Sanctions Monitor
Your organization is world-renown for its ability to detect a nation’s maturity, and thereby use that perceived maturity to issue permissions regarding funds and accessibility to technology. I too, am a firm believer in such restrictions. I have routinely defended my standpoint to decidedly hostile insurgents. I am adept at setting and maintaining boundaries for my charges, while insuring, through careful scrutiny and diligence, that said parties adhere to said restrictions. This includes, but is not limited to: street crossing privileges, internet browsing clearance, traveling permissions, and financial support.

I appreciation your consideration of my application, and I hope to hear from you at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Wilson

Cryogenics and Over-achievers

So, some day last week I was watching the early morning shows when my coffee-enriched brain took notice of a bizarre “news” feature. Apparently, a former Alcor employee has written some sordid expose on the vagrancies of cryogenic preservation. I tell you my interest was mightily piqued when he began to explain how they removed a bumble bee tuna can from a baseball legend’s head (tuna can was the uh..high-tech head stabilizer, they tend to wobble a bit without the whole neck/torso set-up to bolster them up). Some years back I worked for a trailer manufacturer. Whenever we encountered a discrepancy between blue print specs and actual dimensions, we took a giant orange rubber mallet, and beat whatever it was till it fit. Well, those dastardly technicians at Alcor (supposedly), taking a page from that book, took a wrench to poor man’s head in order to beat off (hee hee) a tuna can that was scientifically frozen to said head (hey they only missed once, and I’m sure future scientists can spackle out the divot). Of course the outrage!!! Whatever, the man was dead. This does beg the question a bit though. This Ted Williams fella elected to have the whole kit frozen (lord knows why they separated it), but there are others who chose only to have their heads “preserved”. Why just the head, an astute observer might ask. The answer is frighteningly simple: its CHEAPER. I guess if you are looking to save a buck… Okay, I will journey to fantasy land for a bit and presuppose that there will be some miracle of science in the year 3010 that will not only allow for the healing of whatever nastiness killed your ass in the first place, but will also manage to fix the untold damaged of being flushed with anti-freeze and frozen to -320 or however low. So then, its 3010, you awake to a bustling metropolis, ahhh…… but you are a head. With what shall you walk to Starbucks with??? I can only assume that this sordid business of finding a donor body will be outsourced. Can’t you just imagine: hundreds of elderly male WASPy heads wobbling about on the bodies of South East Asian preteens??

In other news, I recently attended my oldest son’s Egyptian project presentation. He is in an amalgamated “gifted class” with fourth and fifth graders (me thinks the fifth graders are getting the short end of the stick here, but hey who am I to judge, eh?). I thought we were running smooth with our painted, carved, fancy-schmancy hieroglyphics tablet, sphinx nose, home-crafted Egyptian garb, and poster board, but ohhh no, twas not the case. There was a boy who had on display a WORKING Egyptian loom. Now bear in mind he is a member of a devout religious sect that eschews nasty time suckers like t.v., music, and the internet, but still a loom?! We have parent-teacher conferences looming on the horizon and I am looking forward to bringing home the class pet over fall break. What’s one more pooping creature?

Why I need a blow-gun, and other news

Today ended in typical Monday fashion, with me trudging maggot-covered trash from bin to curb. For those of you unfamiliar with my past rubbish debacles, I have a garbage can whose lid mysteriously disappeared several months ago. Since then I have had some troubles. Firstly, the absence of lid is practically an invitation to flies to deposit their disgusting offspring near what is apparently a tasty meal of leftovers, and assorted other nastiness. Secondly, I have also had to contend with pesky passers-by tossing their gas station debris loosely in MY garbage pail. One might say “Gee Jennifer, what’s the big deal about a few extra slurpy cups”? Well, I will tell you what the big deal is all about. As my small town lives in an era where mechanized trash pick-up remains a misty dream in the far off future, we are restricted to only placing bins on curbs that have less than a 40 gallon capacity (for those of you on the metric system, sorry, my lousy degree is in Liberal Arts, so you’ll have to do your own conversion here). Unfortunately, hubby and I had missed that handy piece of fine print when we purchased our 50 gallon container. That being said, we must individually place bags at curb (if trash output exceeds two bags, we must pay for additional tickets which must be then affixed to any extraneous trash bags). It is very irritating when, safely garbed in rubber gloves; I must collect other’s soggy, larvae-covered junk and properly place it in bags. This leads us to my third garbage problem. Lately, a pack of ravenous somethings has been mucking about in my bin. For those of you who have yet develop a murderous rage for unseen assailants, let me tell you how it feels. Oh… how ever lovely is it to pick up (again with the gloves) what you believe to be a firm and solid bag of refuse only to have the bottom of it erupt all over your freshly washed, indoor/outdoor, hard-to-find, butchy ladies’ slippers (why they were recently washed is a another story all-together)! Me thinks I would like an aboriginal blow-gun equipped with deadly poison tipped darts. That-a-way, I can stake-out the bin after a particularly odorous batch of trash has been put out. For those of you who would pity any poor, cute, and neigh, cuddly creature, driven by hunger to invade my garbage,… balls to that! I would shoot my poisonous dart in to the furry bottom of any kitty, possum, raccoon, or random homeless man who would dare make an appearance. Anyone know where I might get a gun like that?
In other news, we got carpet. YES, fuzzy, cushy, just plain awesome carpet! You see, due to some poor animal control on the part of previous tenants, we were left with stripped hardwood that some poor idiot though might fare well with a coat of cream-colored paint. The brilliance of this plan faded mere days after our move-in. Our downstairs is rather large (upstairs fared better and was allowed to have replacement carpet instead of paint from the get-go) and with two dogs, a long-necked furry creature, two children, and plenty of visitors, the shiny veneer of this paint job was quickly tarnished. Additionally, anyone who has ever tried to sweep dog fur off of painted hardwood can tell you its sorta like a three-legged dog trying to catch a squirrel. So today, as the three of us are sitting on the stairs watching the carpet men perform their wondrous magic, eyes tearing up with sheer joy (carpet men must have wondered if we were refugees from a fundamentalist cult, never allowed the pleasure of plush flooring), it occurred to me that I will need to have my German shepherd de-clawed. Again, any suggestions as to where one might get this sort of procedure would be kindly appreciated. The carpet men were also amused by my recent attempt at bathroom décor. I’ll be sure to let you know how that goes

I designed and posted this picture behind my toilet in an effort to direct the peeing efforts of both literate, and illiterate males.

This weekend began with mischief and mayhem. First of all, my four year-old regressed to age two and proceeded to wreak havoc while I was performing my ritual animal husbandry tasks. He began by experimenting with the little sprayer hose that lives in the kitchen sink. I come down stairs to find him sopping up 25 gallons of water with every dishcloth and hand towel in the house (he had removed table cloth and was prepared to put it to work as well). James Michael Leo Wilson (that is what I call him when he is naughty) then reorganized the bathroom cabinets (whilst I was bathing ferret) so that all items were readily accessible from the floor! He then surreptitiously removed every furniture cushion and arranged them in a pile in the living room, while I was trying to start demon spawn mower (I use all of my weekly curse words in this exercise). I believe this was done in order to reenact some absurd wrestling maneuver. This brings me to day two.

Saturday: Hubby suggested we all, the five of us (three children, two adults, absurdly outnumbered we are), take a little trip to the Brookston (small Indiana town) Popcorn and Apple Festival. Ahh…The sights. You have your typical yard sale fare, craft booths, and lo and behold “Professional” wrestling. You see, we are walking down various side-streets in this quaint little town when we come upon…yes…a Wrestling Ring, set up right smack dab in the middle of the block! The children begged us to stay for the show, and the loving, acquiescent parents that we are, we agreed. Now I don’t know about ya’ll, but when I think wrestling, I think muscle-bound men writhing around in tight pants. Not so abhorrent, in theory, that is if said theory is applied correctly. Well, let me tell you there were plenty of tight pants, but not a muscle in sight! Oh, believe you me I took pictures. There was one fella who had the supple breasts of a young adult film star (course the rest of him was not so enviable).

One other “professional” wrestler had obviously forgotten that when one is a man, and if that one man wears tights, that man should also take care to wear proper undergarments. What I saw wasn’t impressive, and I have done grave stone rubbings that were, uhh…less revealing. I should mention that the high point of this family field trip was that yours truly was privileged enough to see an actual elf! Oh yes! I was crowd watching, as is my want, when I noticed a peculiarly dressed elderly man beginning his approach. I looked a bit closer, and noticed that he had elf ears! Not believing my eyes, the blackberry camera and I approached for a closer inspection. The ears were typically pointed and very large. I could detect no obvious seem where they might be attached, and as said elf was nearly one-hundred, I doubted a malicious hoax. The picture is posted. You be the judge.

Later that evening hubby and I are reclining on the sofa, when it occurs to us that we have no suitable snack food. Now as we live in the land that the twenty-four hour shop-center forgot (I haven’t forgotten that Comcast also disbelieves in the existence of Delphi), this is quite a revelation at ten o’clock at night. We strategize for a bit and admit that we are willing to pay an excessive amount of money for gas station priced munchies. The debate then ensues regarding which of us is more suitable to approach middle-aged gas station attendant in pajamas. Guess who lost? So, I am at nearest gas station (so close I am on foot, in slippers, mind you), and discover that they do not carry salsa (communist bastards!). I then make the decision to cross highway (why did the pajama clad woman cross the road? To get to the higher end gas station of course) and procure salsa from other gas station just minutes from closing time. All of this public humiliation for fountain pops, salsa, and almond snickers. Was it worth it? Yes, yum.