Max, I understand that you’re nervous, but what’s the worst that could happen? At least it’s not Hobo Day and you’re all dressed up as a hobo and have to get on the bus. Did I ever tell you about the time I was nine and it was Hobo Day at summer camp?

My Hobo costume was just a few patches sewn on my shorts because Uncle Travis and I forgot and Grandma Donna had to quickly improvise something. When I got to camp, there was only one other girl dressed as a hobo and her costume blew mine out of the water. So I was one of two girls dressed up (out of, I’m sure, a hundred other girls) and I stuck out like a sore thumb because the other girl was older than me and not in my group.

To make matters worse, when we went on our nature hike in a pasture, I stepped in cow poop but I didn’t know it. Then I knelt down on one knee and sat on the heel of my other foot. And do you know which foot that was? The one covered in cow poop. And when I stood up I had cow poop on my butt and it looked like I pooped my pants.

THAT was embarrassing. Getting on a new bus with kids you already know from school is not embarrassing. Man up, son.

Also? I counted and there are 17 kids at this new bus stop. We had three at our old stop. Thirteen of the kids at the new stop are girls. That’s about a 3:1 ratio. When I explained that Jan & Dean and the Beach Boys would not only take those odds, they wrote a song about it, my boy just rolled his eyes. I didn’t really think he’d get it or that he’d take advantage of the situation, but I do like to mess with him early in the morning.

I saw this headline: Mexico Replaces Customs Staff, Revamps Borders

And I considered what Bill & Eric would look like in uniform.

On one of those touch feet and roll over nights, Husband suddenly asked, “What are you thinking about?”

I hesitated. Should I tell him? I said, “Nothing.”

Then I wondered.

“Wait,” I said. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about nothing. I was considering the differences of Joomla and WordPress as CMS and why someone would choose one or the other, but I didn’t think you’d be interested so I just said ‘nothing’.”

“Good night,” my husband said.

Last night, Chili Jr. and I were our own version of golf widows since Husband and Max were out practicing for the evening. We decided we were in need of a little Chik-Fil-A because it had been all of two days since we’d had it.

These outings with just one child are some of my favorties because I really can focus on what that child is telling me and we can truly laugh together. There is something about being one-on-one that encourages us to really connect. Last night I loved two things that Chili Jr. did. So much so that I have to share them.

1. It’s allergy season here in Oklahoma and those darn Pear trees are wreaking havoc on my kids’ sinuses. Chili Jr. quickly covered her face with her arm so she could sneeze into her elbow instead of on her (and my) chicken and fries. She only sneezed once. Her response? “OH! Only one! Well, that’s a treat!” I’m telling you, friends, that’s how she rolls. She can almost always find something positive in things other people dismiss. It’s a gift.
2. “Hey, Mom,” Chili Jr. said nonchalantly (which is when I should have realized I was in trouble.) “Yes?” I replied. “I can make Chik-Fil-A into a flirt. Listen: Hey chick! (pause) You’re a filet.” Which was accompanied by a wink and a double hand-gun point. I wish I were kidding. I also wish I hadn’t doubled over laughing and almost spurted tea out my nose. Yes, sure, for the obvious parenting reasons, but also because it was just plain embarrassing. Who spurts tea out their nose in public?

If you are male, I implore you to click away. Dad? Travis? Wayward
uncle that has come for your annual page view? Please go. This is not
the post for you. I will be discussing delicate areas you do not want
to know about. You have been warned.

For the past four years or so, I have worn a skirtini for my poolside ensemble. (I’m sure you can imagine my dismay when I realized a skirtini
is a bathing suit, not a drink.) That little skirt hides quit a bit: the
last of the pregnancy fat hiding on my thighs, the last of the
pregnancy fat hiding on my butt, and, yes, the fact that I don’t like
to shave north of my knees. I don’t like to shave, period. This year,
though, I figured I would go for the bikini wax. You know, as a treat
to myself. Or a blog post at the very least.

“Hello, Lisa. My name is Melanie. I’ve never done this before so you’ll have to tell me what I need to do.”

Innocuous enough, I suppose, but it was the beginning of what may be the most uncomfortable 20 minutes I’ve ever had.

“No problem,” Lisa breezed. “Just put on these disposable panties and I’ll be right back.”

She handed me a plastic package with the same dimensions of a tampon. Because I am really a 12-year-old boy, I squeezed all the air from one end of the package to the other until I heard a satisfying *pop* then tried to find the hole so I could liberate my transitional panties. I could not find the hole.

I tried to use my fingernails to make another hole. No luck.

Finally, worried that I was taking entirely too long to separate the panties from their plastic confines, I used my teeth to tear open the package–because I was in a spa and I’m klassy like that.

What I was left with was a piece of elastic and two pieces of tissue paper that were each the width of three of my fingers. It reminded me of the time we went to Zumanity in Las Vegas and we saw two 350lb women in see-through body stockings handing out chocolate-covered strawberries. Why? Because I was pretty sure I was going to look just as good in this flimsy excuse of a g-string as those women in Vegas did. Even though no one would see me but Lisa, I was mortified. It just ain’t fittin, it just ain’t fittin! (Props to you if you can name the movie, the character, and the situation.)

Lisa finally reappeared and asked what we were doing. I just wanted the traditional bikini wax–no lightning bolts, landing strips, or countries for me, thanks.

So she got to work. Or tried to. She had to stop, get the scissors, and trim. Y’all. I told you I hate to shave. It had been at least four years since I had ventured into this territory. I was mortified for the second time in five minutes. This was going very well, indeed.

Lisa was finally able to find some skin on which to paste the warm wax. She suggested I pull the skin taught around it so it would be easier (less painful?) for her to pull off.

First strip! Ugh.Similar to having the brows waxed. Not the worst thing I’ve ever encountered.

Second strip! Hey. I thought you just did that part. At least it didn’t really hurt this time.

Third strip! Holy hell! What the feck are you doing to me? Is that blood? Is this payback for having to trim before you scar me for life? Please, for the love of Pete, stop!

In her sweetest voice, Lisa asked, “Are you still doing OK?”

“Thank you, sir!” I choked out. “May I have another?”

She complied.

I had my first bikini wax and possibly my last. For the next four years, anyway.

It’s finally warm on a consistent basis here in my neck of the woods. Rainy, yes, but warm.

Which means I can move from jeans to capri pants and skirts.

Which in turn means it’s time for me to shave.

You see, around the end of September–or sooner if I have no PTA or school-related activities I’m required to show up for–I stop shaving my legs. I hate shaving my legs. Once the crisp air of autumn hits, I’m done with that nonsense.

You would think this could be a deal-breaker in the realm of marriage, but I have found that my husband is amazingly tolerant of my quirks, as is evidenced by this little convo that I’m certain has happened:

Husband: Hello, my darling love! I missed you today while I was at work earning money so you can stay home and wait for our children to return from school! How was your day? What did you do?

Me: Well, my dearest, I sat on my ass blogging and reading blogs. Dinner is not ready and I have not done laundry since last month. And I still haven’t shaved my legs.

Husband: Wonderful! I love you!

By Thanksgiving my leg hair is nice and furry.

By Christmas, I could braid it.

By Valentine’s, it’s like crawling into bed with two dachshunds.

But now it’s April and the capri pants and skirts are calling to me.

Do you know how many razors it takes to prune the hair on my legs? Just to get the hair to a manageable length that a razor can actually handle? It will most likely take me two or three shaves to find that silky-smooth leg of last summer.

And the hair. Oy! The hair. Those first few shaves produce more hair than Husband and I both lose in the shower in any given week. And I have a thyroid problem and he has always been losing his hair. So that’s saying something.

But OH! The capris! The skirts! The spring! They call to me. And I must shave again.

But I’m only going to the knee.

I mean, let’s not be silly. Why would I go all the way when it’s not even swimsuit season yet?

She once pinched my butt and I almost took her down. However, in the last split second before I went all Medieval on her, I remembered she was the boss’s wife and simply gave her "the Look". She talks about it to this day.

I must say, I do like the quote.

And I think I’ve seen pictures of me with this expression.

  1958 

  1966   

1980 

1986 

1996 

Tonight I was packing and finishing up a few loose ends–including rolling my hair for a special ‘do I like. Then I realized I couldn’t find the special bobby pins for my thick hair. Are you freaking kidding me?!?

So I had to go to Wal-Greens and buy them. While I looked like this:

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

And with that embarrassment, I’m off to BlogHer ’08. Shannon will pick me up at 5:30 AM and with any luck I will be awake and dressed.

I have lots of hilarious guest posts lined up. Show some comment love and be good. I’ll have a full report on BlogHer when I get back.

I was able to score some excellent tickets for my husband and I and my mom and her friend. I had to endure an excruciatingly long line and a local television celebrity (in the loosest sense–I think he must have some weird iron-clad contract or something) poking his face and microphone into everyone else’s face and yelling, “Hey! What’s the deal?” I was able to escape by simply giving my patented “look”. He quickly passed me by.

So. I was able to get tickets to the show and we wowed my mom with her present and we were amazed when the organ went up in the air RIGHT. OVER. OUR. HEADS. We were that close.

A good evening.

I had to tell you that part to show just how fun and exciting everything was and also, so I could tell you this next part.

The morning after The Phantom of the Opera, my mother was so thankful she insisted she take me out to breakfast. Who am I to turn down free food? So we went in search of a good breakfast. The problem was that I was fairly new to town and didn’t know where to go.

We stopped at a gas station because, really, if you want a good breakfast, stop and ask directions from a gas station attendant.

My mom came out of the gas station and got back in the car.

“He said there is a place called Billy Jin’s on the next street over,” she said.

“Billy Jin’s? Are you sure that’s what he said?” I asked.

“Yes. I asked him, “Billy Jin’s?’ and he nodded and said, “Billy Jin’s.’”

“OK. I’ve never heard of it, but I’ll see if I can find it.”

As we drove the mile to the next street and followed his directions, I had a revelation.

“Mom? Do you think maybe he was saying Village Inn instead of Billy Jin’s? Because there’s a Village Inn right there.”

“Oh.”

I wish I could say it’s gotten better, but that would be a big ol’ whopper.