Thursday, April 25, 2013

We women have our quirks

This has absolutely nothing to do with men.  Well, I suppose it could by their connection to their spouses or girlfriends.  I know from a personal stand point that my husband, Eric who's currently reading this blog, will be in what I consider a very unattractive state quivering and snorting with laughter in acquiescence.  It's a good thing he's not telecommuting today as I'd whack him soundly upside the head.

We women have our quirks and one in particular is our need to remove unwanted facial hair or what I personally refer to as "hag hair".  These pesky little bastards are stiff, solid whiskers which appear in unwanted and obnoxious locations such as the corners of our mouths, in strange formations under our chins, and/or in moles around our necklines.

I have, in several past blogs discussed these awful hair follicles.  In fact, I believe I've dedicated entire posts to them.  I won't be doing this today; however, my writing will absorb a main portion of this topic. You see, in order for us to remove these nasty whiskers, women must have the proper tool to do so.  A good set of tweezers is irreplaceable.  Once we've found one which can pluck the offender quickly and efficiently, we consider these tweezers the mother pluckers of all our supplies.  We cherish them.  Let me repeat this...they are the golden tweezers.

My eldest son is a hoarder.  Impulsively and without considering the implications, if he sees something laying about, he'll pick it up and claim it as his own.  The other day I found the mother lode of all hag hairs.  It was extremely long and thick.  I couldn't concentrate on anything else until it was removed.  OH HELL NO!  My mother pluckers were missing.  My golden tweezers were not where they belonged!

I begged. I cried.  I attempted a plea deal.  All to no avail.  My son didn't want to get caught in an act of treachery.  I had to use my back-up tweezers.  They didn't do the job like my favorites.  I had to wear my glasses because God knows I'm too far sighted to see the little bugger up close.  I picked and pulled my skin until it bled because of course now that I'm in - - oh Hell...40's the hair was grey and harder to see..BUT I KNEW IT WAS THERE!

I sense that my male readers are laughing.  Don't be so quick to think I'm a solo insane female.  This is a broad based phenomenon my gentlemen friends.  I told one of my female compatriots the story and she called my kiddo a "son-of-a-bitch".  Of course, that would make me the bitch, but this only goes to show you my dear xy chromosome friends and blog readers, that we women take a good pair of tweezers very seriously.  She even coached me that lighting in parked cars makes removal of said "hag hairs" much easier which - of course - I've known for ages (any self-respecting "hag hair" puller would).

So here it is - I've placed my most recent complaint on the table.  If I'm lucky, I'll have just enough time to conduct a thorough crime scene investigation in my son's bedroom before he gets home from school.  Justice shall prevail.  My mother pluckers will be found. 

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

I'll be just fine...

I had a galvanizing moment of clarity a few days ago; an "AHA" moment so pulverizing it almost sent me to bed to recuperate.  Even as I sit and type this morning's blog I'm still shocked by the realization.  This post, though written about me, has an underlying dedication for whom - my dear friends and blog readers - you will shortly discover.

I was a wild and reckless kid.  I skateboarded before skateboards were popular.  No helmets or knee pads for this tomboy.  I wandered into the riverbed behind our house on hot summer days and searched for frogs in the green, murky water.  I rode my bike, leg cast and all, like a demon out of Hell practically daring the powers that be to break my other ankle in the process.  I climbed the tallest possible trees to avoid being found and crawled into the highest recesses of rusted out rocket ship cones in the neighborhood parks.  I scratched off scabs, cracked my knuckles, and learned to whistle through my fingers louder than most grown-ups.  Oh, and have I mentioned I could shove an entire pack of Big League Chew bubble gum into my mouth all at once?  Yes, I believe I have.

How did my mother handle my antics?  Well, she had three other teenagers to worry about and at this crazy time in my youth, mom was ready to give birth to my younger brother.  As long as I didn't knock out a tooth or the stitches from the dog bite weren't too horrific, I'd grow up just fine.

My mother had her hands full so when my older sister and I asked permission to take the bus 20 miles to the beach, she was okay with it.  After all, how much trouble could a sixteen and an eleven year old get into?  She never considered my thrill of boogie boarding the big waves or disregarding the rip tide warnings or not being aware of the weird dudes leering at my sister and I in our swim suits.  No, we would be just fine.

I come from a family of snow skiers.  My dad, during his Army years, served in Alaska on the Ski Patrol for the border between the US and Russia.  I remember his stories of helicopters dropping him and his buddies off on a mountain and how getting down was entirely up to them.  I was shown old 8mm film of my mom skiing in Lake Tahoe.  By the time he was ten, my younger brother was racing his older siblings down the expert runs at Mammoth Mountain and Park City, Utah.  My sister's kids, my godchildren, learned to ski when they began walking.

Where do I fit into this skiing equation?  I don't.  I am the lone Bryant who can't ski.  The one time I tried was mortifying.  It was in Taos, New Mexico.  My older brother had hired a private instructor for myself and his wife.  While standing sideways on top of the bunny hill, yes - bunny hill, I panicked and got leg cramps.  Within a matter of seconds I was on my back with three instructors pounding out my legs while I screamed, "Don't let me slide!".  Once I recovered from that indignation, I managed to take down ten innocent skiers on my first run.  It looked like a strike of fluorescent pins in snow gear.  SCORE!

Now I live in Colorado merely thirty minutes away from a ski resort.  I would like to redeem myself.  I can not have the maiden name of Bryant, live in Colorado, and say I don't know how to ski.  Seriously?  I can do this.

I mentioned this to my mother over the phone the other day.  She was adamant.  There was absolutely no way I should go skiing.  It's too dangerous.  Too many people have died going skiing.  "Remember Sonny Bono, and he knew how to ski!"  Ouch!

What?  This is my mother speaking?  Snow bunny of the 1950's!  The one who never worried about me as an eleven year old jumping eight foot waves at the beach?  NO!  Not possible!  Then her next words rang clear and true, "Where would the boys go if something were to happen to you or Eric?"

AHA!!!  Yes, that was it!  Immediately after we hung up I decided my mother would be the sole custodian of my two autistic teenage boys upon my untimely demise.  It's time buy a set of skis, recover my lost dignity, and hopefully avoid a tree or two along the way.  I'll be just fine. 


Friday, April 5, 2013

I'm moaning...

I've mentioned several times in the past that I'm a moaner.  I moan over everything.  Likes, dislikes, aches, pains, and yes - of course...great sex.  My moaning; however, is not limited to the privacy of my own home - no.  I've become extremely rowdy in my noises.  It's embarrassing actually.  Just a few weeks ago, I was caught, rather unceremoniously and unknowingly, moaning over a pair a black Vera Wang stiletto pumps in a department store.  Now, most shoe lovin' females would actually understand this and perhaps even approve.  There is - as always - a story behind my opening paragraph...

Dear friends and blog readers, I've also mentioned in prior posts that I was once a tomboy.  I grew up in a home with two older sisters, an older brother, and eleven years later - a younger brother.  When the hand-me-downs finally caught up with me, I asked my mother for my brother's jeans and t-shirts.  There was even a time, before the family moved into our second, larger home, when I shared a bedroom as a baby with my brother.

I fought the "girlie" stuff as long as I could.  Because I had golden hair and blue eyes, my mother took advantage of dressing me in anything and everything pink.  I remember the battle over wearing dresses to pre-school and kindergarten.  I was stubborn.  I will also mention that since I've moved out of my parent's home - some 33 years later -  I've never purchased anything pink again.

Did I have crushes growing up?  Sure I did but on sports figures for instance, Mike Scioscia, then catcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers or Pat Riley, then announcer and eventually the Head Coach for the LA Lakers.  I was an odd duck.  I never, if I could help it, wore dresses.  I hated them.  My clothing of choice; jeans, over sized t-shirts, and Nike high-tops.

Since I had to wear uniform skirts to attend Catholic private school, I was miserable.  The moment I came home or school let out, I changed into shorts or jeans.  In junior high, I played on the school's sports teams.  I considered myself athletic.  I was good at volleyball, okay at basketball, and terrible at softball.

Basketball kept my weight in check but my boobs were so big that I practically had to hold them down with my elbows when I ran.  In the late 1970's and early 80's, sports bras hadn't been developed yet for big girls like me.  I hated my chest.  The gym was normally filled to capacity with boys and I had a sneaky suspicion why.  I also tend to sweat terribly so it was always a wet t-shirt exhibit.  I'm surprised the nuns didn't pull me out at half-time.  Good grief.

Softball, be told, I was afraid of the ball.  This certainly says something about my ability.  The only reason I signed up was that I knew I'd receive the coveted trophy having been the only girl in all three sports.  Yes, I would be the Female Athlete of the Year (apparently I was born vain). 

Initially our coach, also my 8th grade teacher, placed me as the catcher.  Not the wisest decision for a kid terrified of the ball.  He felt I was big and could block the plate and I figured if I closed my eyes I wouldn't get whacked.  Mr. Rouch eventually figured out what was happening and placed me in left field where no one EVER hit the ball.  He regretted this decision the day I stuffed an entire package of Big League Chew bubble gum in my cheek to look as if I were chewing on real tobacco.  Of course, this was the only time in the history of Catholic girl junior league softball that a grounder was hit into left field.  The ball rolled directly in front of me.  I panicked and choked on my gum.   In the meantime, the other team scored an infield grand slam.  Oh, and I believe that was the same game I threw the bat and nailed one of my team mates (my cousin) giving her a serious concussion.  Did I mention my dad left work early to watch that game?

So here's the story behind the first paragraph, well - actually it's a question; when the Hell did the transformation from Nike high-top wearing, Big League bubble gum chewing tomboy to moaning,  high heeled, red-headed, middle-aged woman occur?  DON'T ANSWER THAT!  I'm too busy moaning to hear your answer anyway.