Towanda! And other things I yell while shaving.

I have unwanted body hair. Surprising, I know. It grows in odd places, and at odd lengths. It grows in pairs, and threes, and fours. I even think I have at least a half dozen spurting from a mole on my face. My pubic hair decided to elope with my thigh hair, as my calf hair has meandered it’s way to my toes. One arm pit grows faster than the other, as it battles on in some sort of hair war. My lower back has become a breeding ground for whatever hybrid my butt crack developed, and my “happy trail” has become reminiscent of an overgrown driveway on an old southern plantation. I even shaved my arms once, in hopes to at least hide some of the hair. Now, in winter, there is no need for a sweater to keep them warm.

This is how it goes when you’re a woman. We climb into our showers in the morning with razors, shaving cream, and soap. We lather up from the neck down, and embark on the endless journey to a hairless life. We’re women, we’re supposed to be smooth and soft. Our skin needs to feel fingertips brush against it, and soft breaths move across it. That’s how we are supposed to feel, and what we are supposed to need. Alas, the reality of the situation is hair. Before getting in the shower we all have just enough unwanted body hair to do a one woman rendition of the famous 60’s rock musical of the same name. Out come the round sunglasses as we gyrate in front of the mirror, tapping into our inner hippie and celebrating free love. Maybe not the free love part, or the round sunglasses, but…never mind.

We would love to be able to leave the burly hairiness to the men so they can carry on with their lumbersexual image, and grunt in hairy masculine unity. However, it seems the older we all get, the less hair men have and the more hair us women get. If at this point you all are sitting there reading this afraid I’m going to go rogue and join the “Lady Pit Hair Club”, chill out. My battle with unwanted body hair will rage on. I will proudly raise my razor high, yell “Towanda!”, and shave every last hair from the neck down. I will continue with my contortionist moves allowing me to reach the hairy areas of the unknown. I will spend hundreds of dollars each year on moisturizing raisers for sensitive skin, and ten different brands of shaving cream. I will do all of this, and do it with pride and purpose because my skin deserves the touch of fingertips and soft breaths.

But men, remember what I’ve just told you the next time you hold your woman close and feel her soft skin. Be thankful she deems you worthy of shower acrobats all in the name of woman. Because the struggle is real, and the hair is unruly. Still, don’t buy us a pack of razors in lieu of flowers. Unless, of course, you want us to cut you.

Jack and the Penis Stock

I don’t know about other people’s kids, but mine are always chatty on the car ride to school every morning. By chatty I mean they don’t shut up from the moment I start the car to the moment I push them out the door as we slowly drive by their schools. There are mornings when I’m pretty sure they don’t even come up for air, and they become endless run on sentences. No punctuation. No structure. Just the longest word in the world. Needless to say, I often end up tuning them out. They could be talking about the affects global warming has on penguin habitats, and I would have no idea. Just me being blissfully numb to the run on sentences in the backseat.

As most mothers will tell you, we tend to be “ok” with all the noise kids make, even if it involves screaming. We shrug off the thumps and bumps, and we only listen a tiny bit after a scream to make sure no serious injury has occurred. The part that actually gets us to listen is silence. The minute it’s silent we start to worry. As much as I would enjoy a silent car ride in the morning, I’d rather all the jibber jabber than a brief spurt of silence. That spurt of silence means only one thing in my car, someone has done something inappropriate. Due to my keen listening skills ability to tune my children out, I have no idea what was said prior to this silence the other day. All I know is nothing audible was said followed by, “Pheobe, that’s not what I said. I said BEAN stock.”

Honestly, what on earth could a five year old get the word “bean” confused with? Why the whisper? Wait…another whisper followed by another “Pheobe! That’s NOT what I said! I said BEAN stock!” Spleen. Spleen was the only word I could think of that would drive my son through the roof. Duh! After stopping the world from ending the argument in the back seat, it was time to get to the root of the problem. The silence.

Me: What word did you think your brother said?

Pheobe: …..

Me: He said BEAN stock.

Pheobe: …..

Me: …..

Pheobe: *looks at Theo*

Me: …..

Pheobe: *giggle*

Me: PHEOBE!

Pheobe: *whispers* penis

So there you have it. She thought he said “PENIS stock” not “BEAN stock”. Suddenly images of Jack burying seeds in the ground in his back yard, only to wake up to a giant dildo that reaches the sky jutting up from where the seeds once were, go flying through my head. Jack climbs the giant dildo into the clouds, and comes upon a giant vagina with an appetite for destruction and doom! He searches for the golden egg as most men do only to find it hidden in the most obvious spot. Trust me men, it’s very simple to find. He grabs the egg, and slides back down the dildo, takes out his ax and goes all Lorena Bobbitt on it. It falls to the ground with a mighty thud as Jack rejoices in FINALLY finding the golden egg. <<<Obviously NOT the same image my five year old daughter had in her head, thankfully.

Dating Possibly Leads To Stolen Soul

A week and a half ago my daughter lost her favorite toy “Cowie”; the one she’s had since day one. It’s been heartbreaking more for me than her. So when a friend sent me a text the other night saying she “found something”, it took everything in me to not go screaming through the house in joy. I was sure she had found that one little piece of my daughter’s life that I was missing. Upon further inspection of the text, I saw that it didn’t say “someTHING”, it said “someONE”. My heart sank, and a tear came to my eye. My friend had not found the beloved Cowie, instead she had found someone to hook me up with. To give you perspective of how much the happiness of my children means to me, I almost didn’t want to continue the conversation about the man she had found for me because he wasn’t Cowie. *sigh*

Alas, I fed into my friend’s excitement of supposedly finding the last “decent” single man in the area. She explained to me that this guy, we shall call him Hayward, is her niece’s father. Her niece who is friends with my son. Absolutely not, no way! I refuse to date fathers of my son’s friends. I will come up with every excuse in the book not to. Thanks for the suggestion, friend, but Hayward does not make the cut. Wait…what? Never mind, she said her niece’s uncle, not father. Evidently I didn’t want to pay attention to anything anyone said that night. This is probably the disconnect I run into with my children at times. Knowing that the father is shorter than me, my first question was about his height. Is he taller than his brother? Does he have a full time job? A driver’s license? Kids? A drinking problem? Is he a drug addict? Yes. Yes. No (never been married). No and No. Results! Is he afraid of social media? No. Does he even LIKE kids? Yes. Is he all about the bass? A very important question for those of us with junk in the trunk. The answer was, “who isn’t?!?!”

After passing the simple question gauntlet and learning that he’s 38 and “awesome”, I commence a brief FBI, Facebook Investigation. He “looks” tall-ish, has a beard, likes guns, has a sense of humor, and is a ginger. So far the only thing I can find “wrong” with him is that he obviously has no soul, as is the case with gingers. I agreed with my friend to let her “hook me up”, especially after she said Hayward’s brother would watch the kids. I am unsure of when this date will happen, but when it does, you all will know about it. That is assuming he won’t take my soul during a candle lit dinner.

Back Into The Dating World

Here’s the deal, I’m single again. That’s right, at the ripe ol’ age of 35 with two fucking kids in tow, this bitch is yet again available. Before all of you single men jump out of your seats to take me to dinner, let me first warm you…there is a good chance you will be mentioned in my blog. I’ve decided to jump back into the “single” world with both feet, and I am going to track every last bit of it. I mean seriously, who doesn’t want to follow the trials and tribulations of an almost middle aged mother of two throwing herself back into the dating world?

I am encouraging my friends to “hook me up” with poor unsuspecting single men, and I may even join a dating sight (if someone else wants to pay for it). Each date will be followed up with a blog post. Don’t worry, names will be changed to protect the dignity identity of those involved. This is going to be fun. This is going to be hilarious, and who knows, this might actually go somewhere. So be prepared, help me out, add to my fun, and lets do this!

Love and the Single Mommy-Translated

I’m single again. Yes, it’s true. I will now wait for for the line of available men to form at my front door. Don’t everyone jump up at once, I will get to you eventually. Perhaps we can form this into a New Hampshire version of “The Bachelorette”. I will be beautiful and breathtaking from sun up to sun down, while 16+ handsome men fawn over me and have occasional fits of testosterone. By the end, three men will be down on one knee asking me to marry them. I will obviously pick the perfect one, and we will ride off into the sunset to plan our wedding, and live happily ever after.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again because I have can’t seem to grasp the fact that badboy/redneck does not mean a “good man”. In other words, I have shit taste in men. I will now sit home at night crying because the only men who tell me I’m “hot” are the ones online and don’t actually know me. Due to a fat ass and two kids in tow, I will officially make it to the bottom of the Upper Valley’s list of “Most Eligible Bachelorettes”. My hair will be a mess and my clothes dirty, every day except Monday. An 8 and 5 year old will drape themselves over me like human blankets on the couch every night. This will go on for an endless amount of time until I’m old, and greyer than I am now grey. Many sunsets will past as my kids grow and move out, leaving me alone.

Let me translate that for you:

I’m single again, and I’m ok with that. I know I’m a pretty awesome-ish person, and have a lot to offer. Although I live in a very small town, the people around me know how much I have to offer someone. It may take a while, but I know I won’t be a bachelorette forever. I will be happy and beautiful from the inside out. A very lucky man or two will notice this and want to call me his. I won’t settle, and I will end up married to my soul mate. We will have our ups and downs, but our companionship will prevail because everyone needs a best friend for life.

Being A Mom Is Madness

I have to admit, I don’t always enjoy being a mother. In fact, there are some days I absolutely hate it. Those are the days I wish daycare was a 24 hour thing, and you only had to pick them up when you feel like it. The days where all I want to do is hide under the covers until they both disappear. I am stressed, pushed to my max capacity, and pretty sure my head is going to explode.

My typical week day starts at 5 am with a pot of coffee, and the intent to participate in some sort of physical exercise. All to often the extent of this is couch squats, where I get up and down from the couch to refresh my coffee, let the cat in/out, or go to the bathroom. I fold laundry, do the dishes, sweep the floor, put blankets away, and fix the couch cushions. By 6 am I am lumbering into the shower, with an industrial sized razor, to shave off the inch of hair that grew overnight and wash the key body parts. Arm pits, under boob, face, butt, and vagina; the usual. Dry off, get dressed, paint my face. And so the madness begins.

  • 6:30 am it’s time to wake the tiny people whose heads barely stick out from their mountain of blankets. This includes, but not limited to, singing at a high volume, bouncing them off their mattresses, throwing the cat on them, and stripping all blankets from their beds. Related, our house is usually between 57 and 60 degrees first thing in the morning. A brief weather report is recited before leaving them to get themselves dressed and downstairs. Breakfast, teeth brushed. Coats and boots on.
  • 7:25 am we are leaving the house to start our journey through the galaxy .
  • 7:40 am tiny person #1 is at preschool.
  • 7:45 am tiny person #2 is at elementary school.
  • 7:50 am I am at work. Paper work, spreadsheets, budgets, herding kittens, etc..
  • 4:35 pm it’s off to pick up #2 at after school care, followed by #1 at hers.
  • 5:15 pm home to start dinner.
  • 6:00 pm is time for the tiny people to clear off the table and set it; followed by dinner at 6:15 pm.
  • 6:45 pm table is clear and a previously designated tiny person and myself are doing dishes.
  • 7 pm showers and teeth.
  • 7:30 pm phone call from daddy 3,000 miles away.
  • 7:45 pm kids are duck taped snugly in their beds.

There are nights when I will fold more laundry, sweep the floors, etc., but in all honesty, I don’t feel like doing shit after 8 pm.

By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m toast. I don’t want to do anything but drink mimosas and eat grapes on the terrace which I don’t own.  I end up spending my days dreaming of a different life. Perhaps I have a nanny to help, or maybe even a healthier income that allows me to take my kids on weekend vacations. I dream of having someone around to help me in my daily endeavors of mommy hood. Someone who will have the toilet cleaned by the time I roll out of bed, and then offer to rub my feet. By the time I’m done daydreaming of ridiculous things it’s time to clean the toilet that won’t clean itself, wash more laundry, drive to basketball practice, hang out at the mountain as my son dreams of becoming the next Shaun White, wash the floors, maybe dust clean up tooth paste, grocery shop, and cook. I thank the good lord above when we are invited over to a friend’s house so i can forget about the mess that is my house for a few hours. Where my kids can run around with their friends, and there is a cold beer in my hand.

Now that I think about it, despite the non stop single action parenting I have going on, every Sunday night I climb into bed and smile. My kids went to bed happy, my house is clean-ish, and I’ve accomplished more than most double action parents I know. I keep the roof over our heads, the food on our plates, and the crayons in the living room. There isn’t a day where my kids don’t make me smile at least a dozen times, and my heart swells 10 times bigger every time they say “I love you mommy”. They are growing up to be independent functioning human beings. They can get their own breakfast, make mine, sweep the floors, fold laundry, put laundry away, help with dinner, set the table, do the dishes, make their beds, and feed the cat. They are loud and I want to strangle them, they are messy, like little tornadoes, and they tend to whine and cry. They’re children. They’re not perfect, and they’re not everyone’s cup of tea.

Despite my fleeting thoughts of running away, eating my kids, and hiding under the covers; being a mother is a pretty rewarding job. I look forward to seeing what they will both accomplish when they are older, and what kid of people they will turn into. With that being said, it would be nice to have a Fernando, a manny, a sugar daddy, or at LEAST win the lottery. I would even take little elves coming into my house, cleaning it, and putting dinner in the crock pot. A girl can dream, after all.