Random Tuesday Thoughts: Beards

I recently learned that my aunt shaves her face with a razor and that my cousin had eyebrows tattooed on because she plucked them off and they never grew back. I wish I'd known that before I bought their Christmas presents. Shaving cream is a lot less expensive than electronics.

My brother’s ex-fiancée Holly came over last night. She brought a bottle of wine and fancy cheese. I fed her tator tots. I guess that qualifies as our second date.

Holly now knows the relationship is officially over because my brother set his Facebook status to "single." Fucking Facebook.

Things were going great (well, better) until my brother called my house phone and left a message. She cried when she heard his voice. I jumped up and gave her her Christmas present—I thought it might cheer her up.

“I love it!” she said. Then she burst into tears again. Turns out the colors in the scarf I’d given her—turquoise and pink—were going to be the colors in her bridal party.

Brilliant.

She’s only 22 but she knows she loves my brother. She also knows she wants to settle down and have kids. She said she’s known since eighth grade, when her teacher asked everyone what profession they wanted to pursue and she answered “I want to be a mom.”

Do you know that the teacher wouldn’t accept her answer? She made Holly pick “an actual profession” (the teacher’s words).

Blasphemy.

Holly's present is the only one I've bought so far. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for. Maybe for things to be 100% off. Oh wait, that's shoplifting.

We're having 20 people for Christmas Eve. I'm terrified. Last year my gravy looked like simmered brain in mud sauce, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to cook meat.

If you read about a family that spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room, you'll know they belong to me. Except for the bearded woman. I'm not ready to admit I know her just yet.

It's a scientific fact: Connecticut is Hell on Earth

When we woke up this morning we couldn't open our front door:



Those are our cars (we don't have a garage, so Chuck covered them with tarps):



And this is Chuck shoveling:



If you could hear him now, he sounds something like this:

"F**ing snow. F***ing winter. F***ing cold. F***ing Connecticut. I hate Connecticut!"

Chuck's not alone. In fact, he's commiserating with a fellow shoveler as I type:



The fact is, everyone's talking smack about Connecticut. It recently ranked number 50 on a list of the states ranked highest for happiness levels. Number 50. New Jersey ranked higher.

New Jersey.

I think this article says it all. I'd summarize for you, but Chuck's lying in the middle of the road right now and I think I should ask traffic not to run him over.



Sigh. If we lived in Jersey, this would never happen.

The real truth is that women are more obsessed with breasts than men

I’m going to switch gears now. I’m sure you’re devastated that I’m leaving my sexy reindeer boots behind but trust me, it’s for the best. If I kept going on the boot topic, I’d eventually confess that I have an entire fleet of sexy animal boots. Then you’d probably break up with me.

Yes, now I'd like to talk about work. Specifically my co-worker Sarah, who came back to work today after her three-month maternity leave.

Three piddly months.

In the five years I’ve been at my job, I’ve seen a lot of new mothers come back to work. Some look chipper (it’s true, they’re overly happy to see you); others have that wide-eyed, freaked out look. The look that says Where’s my baby and how can I get back to him? Judging from the size of Sarah's bulging eyeballs, she was the latter.

When I ran into her, she was in the breakroom. She was hunched over, making herself a cup of tea, minding her own business. I was about to ask her how she was doing when a swarm of women burst through the door and started firing:

“Are you breastfeeding? I did for a year. Is the baby sleeping? I let mine cry it out. You should, too. How was your labor? Mine was 46 hours. Did you deliver vaginally? I did. Did you get stitches? I did. Have you pooped yet? I cried when I did. Split me right open. Are you going to have another? Mine are nine months apart. Get it out of the way. Who's watching your kid? Did you put him in daycare? Are you breastfeeding?”

I don’t know Sarah very well but judging from the way she was shrinking into her sweater, she’s not the kind of woman who would hold up a sign like this:



I wanted to grab her by the arm and whisk her away to an underground cave. Or at least fart or belch or pee on the floor—anything that would draw people’s attention away from her.

I understand that some people are genuinely curious about how a new mother is doing, but it seems to me (based on my own experience and that of my friends), that a big part of motherhood/parenthood is inquisition and subsequent verbal annihilation. Think I’m exaggerating? After our children were born, my friend and I were going to write a mommy book. Some of the chapters were:

Why do you care if I breastfeed? Really?

Don't hate me because I get out of the house a few days a week

Does hurting me help you?

Take your homemade organic, gluton-free, farm raised, free range, sugar free baby food and shove it

Motherhood: This shit is hard enough without your two cents

Now look, maybe my friend and I are hanging around with the wrong people or maybe we’re overly sensitive fuckheads who don’t know our leaky breasts from our stitched up anuses, but I was in flashback hell watching Sarah field questions then defend her parenting choices.

Why does this keep happening? When did the word "mother" become synonymous with "interrogate" and "judge"?

And holy divulge! Did Sarah (tired, overwhelmed, shell-shocked Sarah) really need to hear about another woman’s experience with cracked, bleeding nipples? Is the verbal vomit born out of a desperation for female camaraderie? Is it the equivalent of the locker room ass smack? If if is, I think we can do better. I’d give a million dollars to a woman if I saw her smack a new mom on the ass instead of hear her ask, “Are you breastfeeding?”

“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”

It’s like we’re all trapped in a little tornado of verbal vomit serum and we keep circling and swigging, circling and swigging.

Right down the drain.

Sexy reindeer boots. Remember, you asked to see them

Okay, this is what they look like:



I Photoshopped out my legs so you wouldn’t be able to guess my true identity (you already have the top of my head from the post below; what more do you need?).

They were expensive, but well worth it because they really dress up a boring skirt. Drawbacks are that they're a little clunky on stairs and sometimes the smell of reindeer is off-putting. And you can't sneak up on someone—the jingling bells give you away every time. It makes surprising your partner (or random guy at the bar) nearly impossible. Which kind of sucks, because who doesn’t want to be surprised by a woman in thigh high black patent boots with reindeer hooves, bells and stuffed reindeer heads?

I mean, really.

I was lucky enough to have bought my sexy reindeer boots as part of the 2008 Sexy Reindeer Holiday Collection, which included a sexy reindeer whip and a free canister of lube.



Yes, I said canister.

You're jealous, I know. And you're probably asking yourself, Where can I get a pair of my own sexy reindeer boots? I'm sorry to say, I have the only pair on planet earth. I bought them from QVC while tripping on acid—at least, I think it was QVC—and I haven't seen another pair since.

But wait! If you're interested in a sexy reindeer boot knock-off, check out this site. These puppies come with "spring loaded cloven hooves." They can't touch my plushy, jingling temptress boots, but it looks like you wouldn't need a whip. A swift kick to the forehead might yield the same result.

Maybe.

Can we all move on now?

(If it wasn't for this blogger, this post would have died a quick death, which probably would have been better.)

Why office holiday parties make me want to run away and hide

The post below is from December 4, 2008. I thought I'd repost it before I write about my 2009 office holiday party, so you can enjoy two year's worth of suffering.



Behold the photo we had taken for the office holiday card. I'd show you my face, but I'd like to retain some of my dignity.

The card is the pre-cursor to the office holiday party next week* for which it has been suggested (i.e., mandated) that we wear red sweaters, brown skirts and "sexy" reindeer boots (this is from a boss who made me wear her hooker heels, remember?) to accompany our antlers and red noses...

I sent the photo to my friend. This is what she wrote:

"It's sad and funny at the same time."

I love getting kicked when I'm down. On all fours.

* Oddly, I never actually wrote about the 2009 party, nor can I locate my sexy reindeer boots. They've got to be around here somewhere.

Don't tickle me there, Elmo!

I would never say that I have the perfect child but up until now, Junior has been pretty wonderful. He says please and thank you. He sleeps from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., and bedtime isn’t a battle. He’s a good eater. He loves to take baths. He likes the clothes I pick out for him. Unless he’s overtired, you can reason with him. And he’s affectionate.

I think I’m going to keep him.

Lately I don’t think Chuck feels the same way. It could have something to do with the fact that he feels like a stray dog in his own home. Junior’s been a bully lately—a tyrant, really. If Chuck tries to get him out of bed or read him stories or feed him, Junior yells, “NO! NOT YOU! MOMMY DO IT! GO AWAY!” He’s even stuck out his leg to kick Chuck.

My friend thinks Junior’s acting out because Chuck is home with Junior full-time and Junior is sick of Chuck, whereas I am somewhat of a novelty. You know, like that dusty bobble head belly dancer on the dashboard. But why the hostility?

Chuck put it best: “It’s like Junior suddenly has something against me.”

Not only does Junior not want Chuck when I’m around, if Chuck and I are talking, Junior will yell, “Stop talking to Daddy! Talk to ME!”

I’ve never dated someone who's overly possessive, but I think this is what it must feel like. It’s a little unnerving. So I Googled “Naked Hugh Jackman”—oops, I mean, “toddler wants daddy gone”—and stumbled across an article entitled “When a boy wants only Mom.”

The doctor sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so I read on.

Holy heart attack. I wasn’t prepared for “oedipal complex” or “developmental crisis” or the doctor’s assertion that “This classic phase can be interpreted to be a developmental working through of two of the most powerful emotions we will ever experience: love and hate.”

Fuck. Did I suddenly become a parent to a teenager? I thought kids under three were supposed to be cuddly little hellions? You know, kissy-kissy one minute and poke-your eyes-out the next. I can handle bipolar. I’m not ready for potentially scarring life lessons. It’s like thinking you’re playing Level 1 of a video game and suddenly you’re trying to kill the…

…You know what? I know so little about video games I can’t even come up with an evil character.

The end of the article states:

“A sense of well-being is the result of experiencing love and hate in a family that is able to contain and transform these primal energies, without making anybody go away! Somehow, this tempers the polarities of the primary forces inherent in life and renders us more capable of experiencing the ups and downs of living with less distress and more equanimity.”

Huh? With what magic gadget does one transform primal energies?

I think I want to go back to the newborn stage when all we worried about was whether or not Junior had gas. It’s really hitting me that our child’s emotional health depends on us. And, frankly, that concerns me. Cause before I embarked on my "toddler hit man" Googling session, I was planning on using this juvenile picture as my post:



Me and Elmo. Caught canoodling on the couch. Chuck took the picture. Right before Junior sicced his fleet of Thomas the Trains on him.

Poor Chuck.

Poor Elmo.

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy come on, sugar, paint my toe

I never wanted to have my portrait painted. I’m not complaining that someone offered, I’m just saying that it wasn't on my top 10 list of things to do (in case you’re wondering, #1 is go to bed and #10 is hang glide. I’d also like to see the Grand Canyon).

Last night I went to my last sitting for Mr. Painter—with my clothes on, of course (remember how you all helped me decide whether or not I should disrobe? That was so special).

For some reason, the sitting was particularly boring. It dragged on, and somewhere between 5:00 and 5:01 I really started to dislike Painter Man. I gave up hours of my life to sit for him; if I’d known it meant I’d be listening to him wax philosophical about his passion for art, I’d have declined.

Plus, he talks to himself. After having a child I’m more sympathetic to this affliction (what parent doesn’t talk to him or herself?) but I never knew if he was looking for affirmation from me. Like when he’d shout, “Keep it together, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that shade of blue?” I never knew if I should interject with “I’m sure you’re doing a great job” [freak].

Since this was our last hoorah, I thought I’d amuse Painter Man with my clever observation about how portrait painting is the perfect cover for having an affair (think about it: you can’t answer your phone and you go home in different clothes. What more do you need?) But instead of applauding my ingenuity, he got all serious on me.

“It's one of the gray areas of my profession. Some of my models assume that certain extras are part of the modeling arrangement. I have to very nicely tell them it’s not.”

The room grew very

very

quiet.

I started to wonder if he thought I was coming on to him? Ack! The last thing I'd want to do is sleep with someone who'd shout out “Keep it up, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that hip thrust?”

And then I started to get silly. Cause really, what would a portrait painting pick-up line sound like?

“Oooooh, is that a paintbrush in your pocket or are you just happy to see my left breast?”

(Oh shut up. I triple dog dare you to come up with something better.)

When he was finally done painting, he invited me to take a look at his masterpiece. I have to admit, he captured my likeness. Fictitious DDD breasts and all. And now I want the painting. Bad. It would look so nice over the bidet.

There’s only one problem: Anyone have an extra $10,000 lying around?

Getting dumped at Christmas sucks

Chuck and I put up our Christmas tree this weekend. It’s a fake tree and for as much as I hate its synthetic, shiny branches it was ridiculously easy to drag up from the basement—pre-lit—and plop in front of the window. Add a few pine scented candles and voila, our redneck neighbors won’t be none the wiser.

So there I was: glass of wine in one hand; hairy psycho Santa in the other. I stuck him on a branch and stood back to inspect his placement.



Then, the questions started. Is the ornament next to one that complements its colors? Is it the appropriate weight for the branch? Is the size of the ornament relative to its position on the tree? Should the ornament be grouped with ornaments similar in theme? Is the ornament facing in the right direction?

OMG.

I don’t enjoy the mental check list, but it’s ingrained. My mother took tree decorating very, very, very seriously. She had four siblings and, as she tells it, never got to put the ornaments where she wanted. Which is why when I was a child, after I had put up an ornament, she would sneak over to the tree when I wasn’t looking and move it. While Alvin and Simon duked it out on the record player, my parents duked it out treeside.

My father [to my mother]: “Why did you move that snowman?”

My mother: “It looked horrible there.”

My father: “Let her decorate the tree.”

My mother: “It’s my tree, too.”

My father: “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

My mother: “It was on the wrong branch, facing in the wrong direction. Next to a gingerbread house!”

My father would move it back. My mother would yell. My father would go outside to his tool shed. My mother would slam the bedroom door.

Finally, I could decorate the tree in peace and quiet.

My parents finally divorced in 1983. That same year, my mother married a man who got her two Christmas trees, which she decorated all by herself. The downstairs tree had a pink and red theme; the upstairs, white. Meanwhile, at my father’s house, my father threatened to ignite the tree as my three-year-old brother and I bickered over ornament and light placement.

Kidding. Kind of. Poor pops.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but think of all this Saturday night as I stood there with my ornaments. I thought about how Chuck and I might actually make it as a couple because he could give a shit about what branches I hang the ornaments on.

I thought about my brother Ted and how he called off his engagement today (I didn't even get a chance to find #22 on ebay). On the phone he asked me if I wanted any ornaments. His now former fiancee had brought a tree back to their apartment and its chances of being decorated were pretty slim.

I thought about the boxes of ornaments that sit in my father’s basement and if, because he doesn’t get a tree anymore, he thinks about someday giving them to me?

I thought about my mother’s two enormous trees and how she wants to give me all of her ornaments someday. All of them.

Then I thought about Chuck’s mom and how she loves fluffy, tacky ornaments and how she likes to give us ornaments every year—sometimes stockingfuls at a time.

It hit me: Someday I’m going to be smushed in an avalanche of fucking ornaments. Choked by Santa hair. Hobbled by sleighs. Hiney-poked by this bad boy:



The question is, will Chuck still be there to save me?