Bitch and Ye Shall Receive!

Photo by carbonNYC.

So....if you read the post "Stuck in the 1950's", you were privy to some particularly heavy handed husband bashing.  If you are a woman reading the post, you likely recognized the nature of the rant, and appreciate it as the way chicks talk to each other about their boyfriends or hubbies.  It doesn't mean we don't love them, we just happen to share with each other the negative things our husbands do, while seeking support and commiseration.  We seldom share the good things.  It doesn't mean we take them for granted, we just don't need a shoulder to cry on about those.

A man however, reading that blog might become defensive on behalf of the poor guy, and suspect his wife doesn't appreciate him, and is somehow being unfair.  Trust me, your wife or girlfriend has shared such chats with her girlfriends, about you, at least that harshly, and perhaps even more so, depending upon how much you have pissed her off.  The thing about her girlfriends is, they get the purpose of the conversation and understand that the aforementioned rant does not reflect on the entirety of the man or the relationship.

My husband has assured me that he did not read that blog, after I sheepishly asked him.  I told him that I had bashed him pretty good.  I was a little worried about what he might think if he did read it.  I am not sure what specifically triggered him then, to offer to cook and clean for the full two weeks of our recent vacation.  We have a home in the desert, and we keep it cheap by eating in most meals.  I usually do the majority of the cooking and cleaning on vacation too.  At first when he offered, I was skeptical.  This would be something!  He assured me he wasn't joking, and intended to do all the grocery shopping and cook all meals!

And, he did it!  Early on in the vacation, my inner micro manager came forward at the grocery store, to gently prod him in the direction of the organic dairy products and steer him away from the frozen food section.  He told me to "Back off! I've got it!"  I did my best to butt out, and reasoned that drinking the cheap store brand milk or big, white, genetically modified eggs, wouldn't kill me in a mere two weeks.  So I zipped it, and watched him fill the cart with items that I generally would steer clear of.  Things like rainbow color "fruit" roll-ups, sold by the foot for the kids, frozen french fries, hot pockets, chips and dip...you get the picture.  I made a decision at check out, to butt out, and go with it, and let him do it his way.  If he wanted to do it, I wanted the full experience, for him and me.

I was worried I wouldn't be able to stand back and just let him do everything.  At home, I am up and running constantly.  Every moment occupied with completing some detail of the to-do list. I seldom sit still. It took a day or two, but I was surprised how easily I slipped into this new role.  I have spent a significant amount of time lounging on the couch.  I briefly tried to tuck my hand in my pants whilst sipping beer and watching football, but that was pushing the limits of this experiment.  I settled for plowing through the Twilight vampire series, reading one 600 page book a day.   I slept in.  I didn't wash one dish!! 

He made meals that were surprisingly, okay.  We had fish several nights, with some form of rice or veggie.  A couple of times I had to intervene for small things like, undercooked sausages or near raw baked potatoes.  For the most part though, he did a great job.  I began to realize how much I probably inhibit his participation in these day to day tasks by my constant interference and personal expectations.  It is like I had subconsciously set a standard that he couldn't possibly hope to achieve. When I stepped back, and wasn't critical, or comparing what he did to what I did, it was pretty much fine!

I found my mind unfettered by frustrations about the state of the house cleanliness, or whether or not everything we ate was organic.  I cringed when he served the hot pockets, and didn't partake of them myself, but of course, the kids loved them.  I realized that often, issues are only issues when I decide to make them issues.  Stepping back like that, I could more clearly see how unimportant some of these things were.  I have never let him take over this area because I never really trusted that he could do it.

It reminds me of our honey moon in Mexico, when he excitedly took me sailing on a small catamaran.  I had no idea he possessed these skills from his life prior to me and so didn't trust the experience.  I was in panic mode the whole time, certain the boat would flip, or we would end up helplessly drifting out into the open ocean.  He laughed at my nervousness and confidently handled the boat.  I realized that he had a set of experiences and skills that were in place long before I came along, but for some reason, I only trusted the ones that I had witnessed during our time together.  I think this applies to my feelings about his household skills as well.

When we first started dating, his condo was a mess...clean, but not really clean.  I spent a day scrubbing it down and furnishing it with essential items, like dish towels, that he was missing.  Somehow this imprinted on me that he lacked the capacity to do these things, and I stepped in and assumed the role.  I realize now, that he can do these things, but I have just assumed that because he doesn't do them like me, he can't.  I told him on our final day of vacation, that I was impressed, and that I was going to start delegating more.  Now that I had seen him in action, I was expecting him to keep it up.  For my part, I have to butt out and accept he'll do it differently, but he will do it.

I learned alot these last two weeks.  One reason I have failed to motivate him in the past to help out more, is that there were always unspoken conditions.  Another thing I learned is that some of my frustration is self inflicted...I make issues where there aren't any.  Should I lose sleep over counter top clutter or untidy shoes in the mud room?  I am not taking all the blame here.  Somehow he never communicated that to me or stepped up to do his fair share.  The rules are reset now.  I have new expectations.  Now that I know he can do it I will be more resentful if he doesn't, and you can only imagine what that blog will be like! 

Caution: Content May Include Pubic Hair

Photo by art_es_anna.

As I write this blog, and supportive friends return to read and comment on the contents created herein, I realize that the personal-ness of the content, may be TMI (too much information), for most of them.  I understand the reason that writers use pen names...more so when the main topics of said writer are pubic hair and husband bashing.  Writing is really personal, and it can't be good or very interesting if it isn't.  A quote from Kafka I read recently states "Writing means revealing oneself to excess".  I think even if I weren't telling people what style of pubic-coiffing I was sporting at the moment, the excessive revealing would still be true.  Even say, if I were writing about being worried about writing about pubic hair.

Great art, painting or writing, is created without fear or judgement.  The judgement that matters most is the judgement brought to the work by the artists themselves.  If a writer or painter were to put pen to paper, brush to canvas, and think at each idea or stroke "What if this isn't good enough?" or "What if people don't like it?" the flow of creative juices would be stoppered up, and the artist would fail to create anything spontaneous or meaningful. Once the creator begins to pre-edit his own content, originality and and creativity are stifled.  I am finding it harder not to pre-edit my personal girly-girl experiences, worried that I will begin to enjoy prolonged stares at the local coffee shop. If you know what my pubes look like, will you still respect me?

Great artists do not give a flying flat what other people think of what they create.  This takes an admirable amount of pilotes (balls), effusive self-esteem and leaden oblivious-ness, not present in the average human.  Most of these people I feel are also socially inept and disliked.  Part of humanity is caring about what other people think; about you personally or about the effect your actions might have upon the lives of others.  I am a big fat wuss.  My self esteem has been externally motivated for the majority of my life.  If you tell me you love it, then it is good...I'm not sure what I think about it, unless I know what you think first.  Pathetic really.  The worst of it however is how it hovers over the things I try and create.  Even when I go shopping, before I buy something, I look at it through someone else's eyes first, guessing if they will like it. 

The first few blogs were written in complete anonymity...I didn't really expect they would be read, and so I just wrote stuff.  Now, I know some people are reading it, not very many, but some, and I have begun to filter and edit. The same thing happened with my painting.  The first few times I messed with it, I had no expectations...I just did it, tried it, and waited to see what happened.  Somewhere I learned to have expectations...I could create some interesting things, and so everything from that moment on needed to be just as or more interesting as the thing before.  If I didn't think it was, I feared I'd lost whatever ability I had had, and began to doubt my ability to create anything good ever again.  When I began golfing a few years back, I was pretty terrible.  I recall during one especially high scoring effort telling a friend, "Man, if I had any expectations at all, I would be really pissed right now!"

I think it is too late for a pen-name.  I confused an editor recently by trying to change the author credit to a pen name before she printed it.  I told her I thought a pen name would be prudent, given that the article was about blow-jobs.  I finally just told her to use my name.  There is a lot of learning and skin thickening that must go on as you begin to write.  At first I thought I could write without concern for what other people thought, but I'm not so sure anymore.  I have an understanding of the concept of writing and creating without fear, but enacting it is a work in progress.   

Theoretically, if I pretend nobody will read what I write or ever see anything I paint, I won't care what it looks or sounds like.  If I stop caring who reads about my waxing habits, I should be set free. As a precaution, I think that I will start putting warning labels on my blogs.  If a blog is about pubic hair, and you would rather not read about pubic hair, you will be warned to move along.  Some of you will be personally instructed to never, ever, read the pubic hair blogs, and for the sake of our coffee shop encounters, please respect my request!

The Hairless Cat!

Photo by The Pug Father

I am now officially bald...downstairs that is.  As the newest member of the Dare to Bare club, I survived the ordeal of waxing a Brazilian.  Well, I didn't wax a Brazilian, I got a Brazilian. In previous posts I bashed the Brazilian as one more oppressive beauty requirement imposed on women.  As any good reporter should, I decided to consider the other side of the story; the possibility that this decision can be driven by the woman herself and not be something society has forcethed upon her.

Nikki, a self described waxing expert, convinced me that I might consider the possibility that women who get a Brazilian are sexually empowering themselves.  "Trust me," she tells me, "You are going to feel really hot!"  I admit, for the first 48 hours I did indeed feel hot.  And red, and irritated.  Surprisingly less than I had anticipated however.  I have yet to test drive the new coif in the sack, as I am making sure all is calm down there before getting down and dirty.  My hubby however has shown signs of interest, including remembering I had the appointment in the first place, and asking me how it went.  This is huge evidence that this procedure means something to him, as he does not remember ANYTHING!

When I entered Nikki's office for my appointment, I still wasn't convinced I was going to go through with it.  It just sort of happened.  Before I knew it, I was up on the table, naked from the waist down, and Nikki was up close and personal, slathering my bits with wax and tearing away.  She was so matter of fact about it, I just went with the flow.  We chatted and exchanged stories, with the occasional "Pull here" and "That was a tough one".  Of all the strips she did, only four of them hurt moderately and then, only briefly.  Nikki commended me for not flinching and being pretty stoic.  I must confess that I did flinch a little and rated the pain of the tougher strips (those closest to the clitoris) at a 6/10, but only for a moment.  She uses a blue wax that is gentler on the skin and targets the hair more directly. 

She got a bird's eye view of my nether regions, as the positions we got in were reminiscent of the gynecologists office.  I am glad I used my feminine wipes!  She was strictly professional, and I felt very comfortable.  The whole thing took her about 15 minutes.  She informed me that many waxers can drag this out over 45 minutes.  She proudly says that she can do the whole thing, most of the time, in under 20 minutes, and get all of the hair.  "Some waxers who try to do it faster, end up not doing a great job and missing alot of hair.  Even though I do it quickly, I make sure I get it all."  We had decided to leave some hair behind, something Nikki recommends.  We discussed my shape options.  I could get a tortilla chip or a mini-chip as she called it, or a rectangular landing strip.  For special occasions I learned that I could dress it up a bit and get a heart for valentine's day or a Christmas tree (with a very special present underneath) for Christmas.  Nikki told me she doesn't mind doing some custom shapes, but letters and other requests are very challenging to create with the wax.  I opted for the tortilla chip and she went to great pains to make sure it was even and straight.

Then it came time to do the back...this was my biggest fear for some reason.  I just imagined that this would be incredibly painful and sensitive, not to mention awkward and embarrassing.  She had me turn on my side, and grab one cheek. I was to lift it up and out of the way to allow Nikki free access. Another woman I had heard of was required to get on all fours for this part of the program, something that other waxers have commented reduces the dignity of the client. Nikki is adamant that a waxer who claims to be giving you a Brazilian but who fails to do this part of the procedure is not in fact doing a Brazilian wax. "Anyone who waxes and says "Yucky" about any part of this, should not be doing it. Period", she says.  "If they don't do the butt, they should not charge you for a full Brazilian".

Surprisingly, this part of the procedure was a piece of cake (other than the part where she was staring at my asshole).  Asses are ugly!  I was having another women's panel that very evening, of which Nikki is a member, and I told her "Wow, here you are seeing my butt, and we will be sharing cocktails in a few short hours!"  "Trust me, I won't remember your butt", she answered back.  Hmm, I was slightly disappointed that my butt was forgettable.

Finally, after the last strip was pulled away, Nikki handed me a mirror, much like a hair dresser, to inspect her work.  By this time I was so not-self-conscious, I grabbed the mirror, took a long look, and poked around a bit, exclaiming, "Ooh, it's so smooth!"  She asked me to check for any strays and encouraged me to share, "I am not offended like some waxers are if you critique my work".  I found no stragglers.  I hopped off the bed and got dressed.  Just like that, I was a porn star in the making!

As I settled up, Nikki warned me about a possible pee issue to be aware of.  Now this was completely new information.  "Most women love the way it feels to have a Brazilian.  Some women don't, and one reason is the possibility of spraying when they urinate, and some dripping afterwards.  Pubic hair helps direct the flow of urine, and once it is removed some women discover they are sprayers."  Eww, kinda makes pubic hair sound even grosser! 

 I spent the rest of the day noticing if I felt any different.  When I ran into a friend I asked her, "Do I look different?"  I kept looking at people, thinking  "  I got a Brazilian!  I got a Brazilian!" Fortunately, things in the bathroom were the same, so I was good with that part of it.  Washing in the shower is a little weird, as there is nothing down there to lather up anymore, and everything is baby smooth.  I have been hiding from my kids when I am naked, not sure how I will answer any questions about how different it looks down there, and it does.  I have to admit though, it does not look creepy or like a child, it just looks clean and organized.  Women have different anatomy downstairs, so each will look different after getting waxed.  There are innies (the inner labia and the clitoris are inside the outer lips) and outies, where the inner labia and/or clitoris pass beyond the outer lips.  Most women are outies, Nikki explains. (I am an inny).

So now there are a few more things I have to experience before I can give my final verdict.  How is sex and does it make a difference?  I am not sure if my sexual "hotness" is closely tied to my pubic hair or not, but it might be to my husband.  How does it grow in and how long does it last?  Nikki tells me that with regular waxing, the hair will soften and less and less of it will return.  It is definitely something that I am no longer afraid of, and would be willing to do again.  It really isn't the big deal I thought it was going to be.  More updates to follow!

Bye Bye Bushy!

Photo by DanBrady flickr.

The appointment is made, and my apprehension is growing.  If I can muster the courage, I am getting a Brazilian on Friday...this Friday.  I phoned Nikki, booked my time, and hung up.  Moments later, she called back and suggested I take a couple of advil about half an hour before the appointment, "To take the edge off", she said. "If you're nervous."  "I am", I told her.  Don't tell Nikki, but warning me to medicate prior to the appointment did not reduce my anxiety.  Now my mind is racing.


I am really freaked out about this.  It has to hurt, right? That hair has been around for a long time. The roots have grown deep. I am not sure they will surrender without a fight. I am also not sure if she will go after the back door or not.  Technically, a Brazilian means the whole enchilada or taco if you must.  I also wonder if my skin will freak out after the waxing.  Generally, after I have any waxing done, my skin becomes fiery red, and irritated.  This look, down-town, would be less than flattering.  I have read scary skin infection stories where bush-wacking has lead to the tragic death of the vain waxee.  Is this worth risking my life for?  Most of my attempts at vanity have led to vile repercussions.  Like the time I tried self tanner, and was so deathly allergic I ended up on prednisone.

What will I say to my daughter if she sees my baldness?  "Where did your hair go, mommy?" "Well honey, your daddy likes it this way?" or "This is a sign of a sexually empowered woman".  Some wax patrons intentionally keep a small amount of lady hair down there to minimize the reaction by their children.  I can get on board with that.

Much like a woman anticipating her cleaning lady's next visit, I am pre-cleaning my house.  I don't want Nikki to think I am a slob, after all.  I have been doing a little styling, for fear she might be overwhelmed by my au-naturalness.  I even bought some "Refreshing Feminine Wipes" to make sure my bits are immaculate.  Waxers get up close and personal with y'all, and I hear tell they can tell if things are getting stale down there, if you catch my drift. I am going to stash them in my purse, and visit the ladies room right before the appointment.  Surely she will believe that "Spring Fresh" is my normal perfume.

I am probably over-reacting.  Women do this everyday, and even on a regular basis.  Heck, I may even grow to love it. My husband might like it too. Right now though, I am as nervous as a child about to get a shot. 

Staying Regular

Photo by istolethetv on flicqr.

I have a hell of a time managing my body hair!  It's all in the scheduling.  I could just shave, and stay on top of things, but I am told this is archaic and I should never do it!  Shaving for a woman is a shameful practice...waxing is the only way to go (so saeth waxologists the world over).  The problem with this however, is that I need to know when I will need my next wax appointment, in advance, and make it.  The hair can't be too long or too short, or the waxing will not work. Given that hair must be a certain length before you get waxed, I am curious how other women live in this inbetwixt world of smooth, glossy, naked, skin and stubbly, fuzzy, abrasive skin.

I am told that most waxing salons can get you in at the last minute...it is sort of how they schedule.  Women like me everywhere, wake up one morning, look at their sasquatch legs and overflowing bushes and realize they need to get waxed right friggen' now!  No longer able to keep their eyebrows from poking them in the eyes, they call their waxing professionals, hysterical, pleading, hair removal is overdue!  I usually just break down and shave. When I finally realize the dire need for hair removal, I usually have a shit load of stuff to do, and I can't make time for an appointment.

Take today for example.  I was heading to the gym and noted my leg hair was getting unacceptable.  I couldn't not shave as the length of it surely made it visible from across the room.  Running on the treadmill would likely create a swooshing sound, as the hair from each leg, rubbed briskly against the hair of the other.  Pinning it back or pony tailing was not an appropriate option.  Thus, I shaved.  My legs shall now be smooth and lovely for about 10 minutes, before the stubble begins to reappear.  Waxing lasts for weeks!!  Why the hell can't I get it together!

I have made up my mind to make an appointment in one weeks time with Nikki the super-awesome-waxer!  A self-professed expert, she is an advocate of regular waxing, and sees the Brazilian, not as a burdensome- man-imposed standard on women, but an empowering sexual ritual.  I admit, I am afraid.  I even had nightmares about it!  Really! Actual nightmares!  I dreamed I was at the wax hut for my scheduled appointment, but my wax professional was waay overbooked.  She had 85 clients scheduled that day.  They kept politely telling me they would be right with me, as I lounged and napped in the waxing lounge.  Intermittently, someone would come in and do one waxing strip, then hours would pass before they would come and do the next one.  It was reminiscent of the waxing scene in the "40 Year Old Virgin".  I ended up, partially waxed, leaving the establishment in an indignant huff, shouting out expletives and constructive criticism as I left!

I have been conciously timing my hair growth...figuring the exact point that my hair is at critical mass.  I am going to do my legs (which is no big deal, I have done this a number of times, sporadically before), my bikini...maybe brazillian if Nikki can talk me into it (it just sounds twisted and painful...maybe I will just do the Mexican Tortilla chip), and I am going to consult about my underarms.  I would love to not shave them so often!  They grow at the pace of male facial hair after all these years of shaving. I threaten my husband that I am so tired of shaving here, that I will let it grow and just braid it.  It amuses me how much body hair on women can turn a man off.

I tried to wax my armpits...once.  I was pretty young...maybe 18.  I purchased a drug-store wax kit...and vaguely remember having to heat it up.  I had never been waxed before so my technique was improvised.  I slathered my entire armpit with the warm, waxy goo.  This was my first mistake.  Waxers generally only do small patches of hair at a time.  I pressed the cloth strip to my armpit and started to pull (you are supposed to pull rapid-bandaid-style).  The pain quickly overwhelmed me.  Because one hand was stuck over my head, I was unable to pull the skin of my armpit taught, which increases the comfort of the proceedure.  I spent a long and painful hour, slowly ripping the wax and hair from my armpit.  I had no choice but to slowly torture myself, lest I be covered in wax for the rest of my life.  It took many long years before I would consider waxing again.

I am going to call for my appointment ahead of time...which should virtually guarantee I get one.  I'll report back on the results and experience in an upcoming post.  Wish me luck!

Stuck in the 1950's

Photo by Throw Her in the Water.

We’ve come a long way towards equal rights for women. On the surface it seems that we are pretty equal with our male counterparts. As a teen, I was convinced that the man I married would be an equal partner in everything. He would cook and clean, help raise our children, and I, in turn would be a career women, bringing home some bacon of my own. I looked down upon the women of generations past who were slaves to their husbands. For these women, no retirement date was in sight. They continue working as full time housewives, long after their husbands get their gold watches. That, I swore, would never happen to me!

I laugh bitterly at this thinking, as I clean one of our many household toilets for the umpteenth time, whilst my equal opportunity husband naps on the couch, having fallen asleep watching golf. That he can so easily relax knowing full well that I am working my ass off cleaning the house, yet again, perplexes me. I rarely feel such a sense of time entitlement that I will abandon all household duty, kick my feet up, and tune everything out. The image of a woman with her hand in her pants, feet up, cold beer in hand, doesn’t exist. The phrase “A woman’s work is never done” is an understatement. I tell my husband he is like a bad roommate.

I blame my mother in law for some of his ways. I witness her continuing to serve her man, and it infuriates me. Despite his retirement many years ago, she continues in her full role as house wife, cook, laundress, house keeper, etc. Were he left to his own devices he would simply starve. Growing up in this type of household, my husband’s DNA is imprinted with the belief that women do the house work, and in fact, enjoy it. They like it so much, they don’t want or need any help. Helping them would be more of a nuisance really, so best stay out of the kitchen lest we interrupt their merriment! No matter how many times I bitch, complain, rationally discuss or present flashy power-point presentations, he hasn’t change his ways. I worry that my son will learn the same things from him and drive his future wife bonkers too!

Men benefited most from the equal opportunity pursuits of our forebears. They have their proverbial cake, that we bake in our immaculate kitchens, and eat it too, while we are at work making the dough! My mother-in-law did not work outside of the home. Her full time job was her home. Women today have two full time jobs, housewives and career women. I bring home the majority of the money, and pay the mortgage, but somehow I still have to do all of the house work! Don’t get me wrong, my husband is a hard worker and successful, he just never added anything else to his plate when his woman went to work. Some might blame me for enabling this, but I tell you, I can be a nasty biatch about this issue, and no amount of this generates any sympathy from him. I could cattle prod his ass, and he still would not learn how to turn the vacuum cleaner on. Our house could be buried in filth, and as long as it didn’t block the TV, he would ignore it.

For many years, I hired a cleaning lady, primarily to remove the possibility of me resenting my husband for his household laziness. I witnessed my mother, for years, grating at my step father, for not doing a damn thing around the house. When the economy turned, I let our housekeeper go, figuring we as a family could pick up the slack, and save the money. Well, I have been picking up the slack, and I am getting angrier and angrier, every time I mop the floor and do the laundry! Ironically, my income has increased during this economic downturn while my husband’s has decreased more than 50%, but I am still the only one doing housework!

When my husband goes on boys trips and regales me with stories of all of the great meals they cooked up for themselves, I could slit his throat! Are you kidding me?? You rarely cook at home for our family, but you can get off your ass on a boys trip and cook flank steak?? WTF? I don’t even know how to cook flank steak! He shared an ironic story with me about men who fail to contribute anything in their households, yet when golfing will rake a bunker to smooth perfection, and remove a fragment of grass from their putting line to insure the ball’s undisturbed travel to the hole. I laughed so hard I choked. He finds his behavior funny! Funny to whom? Him and all of the other lazy ass, free loading, dirt bag husbands who sit back and watch their little women toil their lives away in the never ending hell of housework? Just writing this I am getting pissed!

Sometimes I can get him to pick up groceries, but I have to make a very detailed list, else he will return with Cheese Nips and Dinty Moore Stew as our weekly staples. His household jobs are garbage removal (which he does about 80% of the time) and dishes. His definition of doing the dishes however, involves only what goes in or out of the dishwasher. Everything else accumulates on the counter top in bubbly soaking water until it rusts or I break down and wash it. Recently I had another teary, pleading break down, asking for his help. Couldn’t he, a reasonable and intelligent person observe the unfairness of this situation, and couldn’t he summon up some compassion to help a little around the house? He agreed that he could, and would take on the chore of cleaning the sinks and toilets in the house. I thanked him, telling him that anything he could do would help. That was four weeks ago, and he has yet to do either of those things.

I am at a loss. Somehow I was misled as a young woman into believing that equality was the norm, and that men were enlightened enough to recognize that if they benefited from a second income in the family, they would need to step up too, and take on their fair share of household duties. That memo apparently never got sent out. Maybe we are just at a generational crossroads. Husbands of my generation were raised by housewives. They seem to expect their wives to provide the same services.

I read recently that in relationships where women make more money than men, divorce rates are higher. My first thought was that men must grow to resent their wives for making more money and diminishing their manly role. I now realize that these marriages end because these hard-working exhausted women, are sick and tired of doing everything! I imagine they come home from work, deposit their big fat paycheck into their joint account, and their husbands call out to them, from the sofa, when they come in the door, “Honey, what’s for dinner?”