Beauty Double Dare: Going Bare Down There

Not so long ago, I worked for Charm Fashion Agency and my editor trusted me enough to let me write what I wanted. This is what she got.

There’s nothing sexy about at-home hair removal. Commercials romanticize it, depicting a woman reclining in foamy bubble bath with her hair tied up in an elegant chignon at the back of her head. She takes a sip of wine from the glass sitting on a bed of fluffy white towels, then s-l-o-w-l-y traces the razor up her leg that’s (always) a mile long. She smiles at the camera and laughs, and that makes all of us want to rush out and buy the newest sixteen blade razor that’s going to make our lives infinitely more convenient.

In reality, depilation is ugly. More often than not, it’s painful. But that doesn’t matter; as women, we’re expected to be smooth and soft and stubble-free.


To get that silky smooth baby-butt skin, we’re left with an extremely limited set of options. We can shave it, wax it, or literally burn it off of our skin with harsh chemicals. For some, laser hair removal and is an option. It doesn’t seem to matter how your hair disappears, as long as it does.

Since the waxing scene in 40 Year Old Virgin, more and more people have been flocking to estheticians asking for a complete body wax, or at the very least, a quick bikini zone clean-up. It seems that watching Steve Carell suffer for at the hands of a tiny Asian woman for his Man-o’lantern look denuded the populace of inhibitions. Now, you’re not hip unless you’re stripped.

For years, Lady Bic and I have been besties. Then fate stepped in and I began writing for Charm. That meant I had to throw my inhibitions to the wind and accept outrageous challenges, dignity be damned. When I asked my fiancé what he thought I should tackle for my first Beauty Double Dare, he just kind of waggled his eyebrows suggestively in the general direction of my lady bits.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s what you think I should write about? Why don’t I just send them all a big bucket of eyeball bleach while I’m at it?” He just grinned and went back to blowing up Elites with plasma grenades on his Xbox. After all, it wasn’t his hair being torn out.

So I pitched the idea to my editor, and the rest as they say is history. The next day, I found myself standing in the waxing aisle in Ulta, completely befuddled and bewildered. I couldn’t have been more awkward if I had been standing in an adult novelty store in a trench coat, perusing a rack of pleasure aids.

More than once, a sales associate came to check on me, asking me if I was still doing okay, and I have to admit that I really, really wanted to grab this well-intentioned woman by her perfectly ironed shirt collar and scream, “NO! No, I am not okay. Can’t you tell what I am looking at? I’m about to voluntarily inflict pain on myself so I can write about our society’s obsession with the pre-pubescent hairless look, and I’m SCARED.”

Instead, I just stood there, occasionally wincing involuntarily and muttering under my breath. After thirty excruciating minutes, I narrowed my choice down to the Nads Natural Hair Removal Kit ($20) because a) it was in my price range, and b) I vaguely recalled watching an episode of America’s Next Top Model wherein the contestants were subjected to a Brazilian via Nads.

If it’s good enough for Tyra, I reasoned, it’s good enough for me.

Don’t get me wrong. You don’t want to get your next bikini wax in some back alley hair salon, nor do you want to be thrifty with your at home version. If you’ve got the money to burn I recommend the Bliss Poetic At-home Hair Removal Kit (Sephora, $45). Originally developed for use in luxe spas, this low temperature, aromatherapy kit provides all the essentials you need to achieve that bare-down-there your significant other craves. (Except for the tissues you’ll need to wipe up all your pathetic tears and spilled red wine.)

But since I’m your typical mom who’d rather spend her dough on generic truck toy number 4023, I chose the Nads system. (And really? Nads? I know it’s a tribute to the creator’s daughter and all, but COME ON. I could barely suppress my giggles when I was buying the stuff.) Instead of springing for the additional waxing strips, I chose to visit my local fabric store and purchase one yard of muslin, which I attacked with my handy dandy pinking shears to create a slew of 2” by 6” strips.

Once I had my supplies, I had to wait a few weeks to do the deed, so I could, ahem, cultivate the forest. (This is the point at which my editor told me I could not describe my new situation as a 70s style porno bush. But I just did. So there.) Those fourteen days were some of the most uncomfortable in my life, not only because I was dreading the task ahead, but because I’m not used to being so… prickly. Ew.

Finally, the fabled evening arrived. I put the childling to bed early and broke out the finest box of Chardonnay that eight dollars can buy. I poured myself a couple of giant glasses, and prepared everything according the the manufacturer’s recommendations. Beforehand, I had toyed with the idea of making a Marvin Gaye playlist on iTunes, but I decided that someone crooning “Let’s Get it On” in a silky baritone while I ripped my pubic hair out by the roots would be too tacky.

So I sucked my breath and slicked the warm, maple syrup-like mixture. I applied the fabric strip, then rubbed up and down a few times for posterity. After stalling as long as I could…


Black spots danced at the periphery of my vision, and the floor swam frighteningly close.

Let me level with you. I’m familiar with pain. Thanks to my sadistic OB and his decision to completely turn off my epidural at an extremely critical moment, I delivered a baby with a thirteen inch gigantor -pumpkin head in what he laughingly referred to as ‘natural’ child birth. I’m no weenie.

Honestly, it wasn’t that awful, but it did make me question my sanity. And my decision to ever take writing suggestions from my fiance EVER AGAIN. At this point, I was perfectly okay living with a lone, deforested patch. But I carried on, strip by strip, until I was satisfied with my results.  Mission accomplished.

Of course there were unsightly strays that the wax left behind, and there was no other way to rid myself of them than to attack the stragglers with tweezers. I’ll spare you the details, but I have to admit that now, thanks to a set of Tweezerman slant tweezers (Sephora, $20) and  a 4X magnifying mirror, I’m more familiar with my nether regions than I ever thought I would be.

In the aftermath, I learned a few things. Chief among them is that I’ll never subject myself to that kind of pain in the name of beauty again. Many people tell me it gets easier with each subsequent waxing, but I don’t believe them. That’s like saying that having a second baby ripped from your loins is nowhere near as scarring as your first. Um, hello? Those people are liars. In the future, I’ll stick to my tried and true routine of shaving every couple of days, even if it is inconvenient. I doubt that anyone will give me grief about it.

But if you choose to try waxing, remember these tips to live by:

1)Take a anti-inflammatory like Advil or Tylenol a few hours before you make that first tear. This will help lessen your pain and prevent the swelling of your delicate, um, parts.

2) Remember to exfoliate the area you want to wax before you start. This will help prevent ingrown hairs and an embarrassing doctor’s visit. And don’t try to wax any hair that’s less than a ¼” long, because the wax won’t stick and you’ll just be tugging at your skin.

3) Always pull the waxing strip in the direction OPPOSITE of hair growth. This will vary over your entire hoo-ha, so pay special attention while you are spreading the wax.

4) Have fun with it. Some kits come with stencils. Get creative. It’s your va-jay-jay, and you should be proud to show off your hard work.

5) After you’re finished, apply a soothing cream. I like Bikini Zone Topical Analgesic Gel ($9, Ulta). This miracle elixir temporarily numbs the area, which will help you keep your hands off your newly bare happy places. Follow up by using Bliss Ingrown Eliminating Pads ($38, Sephora) which has alpha and beta hyroxy acids to stop bumps in their tracks.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy another box of wine. And a vat of chocolate. Because I think I’ve given myself a nice case of PTSD reliving this whole episode while I wrote it.

Posted in Not nearly as offensive as it sounds | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ten on Tuesday (And apologies. Again.)

So. I’ve been gone for a while. Again. Apologies.


It’s not that I’ve been busy, but I’ve been busy. I started making Christmas presents in August and I’m still not done.  I started (then failed spectacularly at) NaNoWriMo. I applied to yet another university so I can finish my degree. I actually put up a tree this year, even though I only decorated the part that you can see from the front. I contemplated putting up Christmas light outside, then decided glaring at my ghetto neighbor’s 8 foot tall blow-up Santa and Frosty abominations would suffice. I read the entirety of Brittany’s Barefoot Foodie archives. (She’s way funnier than I am, and hotter too. I’m totally jealous. And smitten.) I started a million posts in my head, then never finished them.

What can I say? I’ve got problems with follow-through.

So yeah, I know I’ve been a bad blogger. I guess that means I deserve to have my frequent shopper card revoked from the liquor store or something. I dunno. But these are things I do know:

1. Wanda Sykes is the funniest part of every movie she’s in. I’ll cut the bitch who says otherwise. (Monster-in-Law, Evan Almighty, Clerks II, etc.) You know I’m right.

2. My kid could totally be on the cover of Parents magazine. I mean, COME ON. The little girl this month must have hired Mariah Carey’s postpartum retouchers or something because she looks like the product of a drunken one-night stand between Matthew McConaughey with Brad Pitt. It’s ridiculous. At least my little critter looks real.

(And totally fed up with Santa because that look clearly says, Mom, get me out of here. This guy smells like reindeer poop and bad decisions.)

3. Christmas shopping is so much harder when you have to accomplish it with a really mouthy preschooler in tow. I love my child. I do. But I wanted to pop his little mouth tonight when we were walking away from the fish tanks at Walmart. Because apparently ten minutes is NOT a sufficient amount of time to stare at goldfish destined to end up in the bellies of larger fish. And because that’s not enough time, everyone shopping in the store needs to know about it. LOUDLY.

4. I get nervous when my blinker doesn’t flash in time with the car in front of me when I’m turning. So that’s why I play the turn-mine-on-and-off-until-it-does-game. It’s the same logic I use when I stare my cat down when he looks at me. If he blinks before I do, I WIN.

5. The little rituals I make up to celebrate the holiday season are absolutely necessary to ensure everyone else’s happiness. For example, I must watch either Home Alone 2 or How I Met Your Mother while I wrap presents or the entire celebration is doomed. DOOMED!

6. I should probably be on medication for anxiety disorder and/or mild OCD. But I don’t insurance. So I embrace the crazy.

7. Red is the one for me. He gets my crazy (and knows how to talk me down from the proverbial ledge). Besides being an awesome dad, he knows how to talk me out of wanting various creatures of the Cervidae family. Because even though they can be housebroken, they still need gigantic wee-wee pads.

8. Even though I had a dream wherein I had a dream that I went out clubbing with Prince Harry and he complained that his balls smelled like barbeque sauce while he danced the safety dance, I’m not completely crazy. Because I told Twitter. And someone retweeted me. That means that there’s someone even crazier than me out there.

9. I’m definitely getting older. One chicken sandwich from Braum’s and my hands swell up like a toad (that’s a real thing, right?) and I can’t get my engagement ring off my hand.

10. Also? Lactose intolerance is not just something vegans make up to diss people who like dairy products and delicious, delicious meat. I take the OTC pills every fucking day to prove it.

Posted in No one else will think this is funny | 2 Comments

Three Ring Mom does NaNoWriMo (again)

Every year around this time I get a little antsy. I know I need to start planning and outlining and thinking and generally getting up off my creative duff so I won’t mentally collapse come November 1.  Or, you know, lose my fucking mind and start trying to alphabetize the cat and brush the childling’s book collection. This is time of year when I get to scratch ‘one-day novelist’ off my to-do list and replace it with ‘right-now novelist’.

November is National Novel Writing Month, and it like my friend The Barenaked Critic, it’s my favorite time of the year.

With the exception of 2007, I have attempted NaNoWriMo every year since 2006. Cumulatively in those months, I’ve written close to 150,000 words of original fiction that will never, ever, ever see the light of day. Probably. Unless I die famous or something.

It’s an exercise in insanity. The goal is 50,000 words in thirty days or 1667 words per day. To those unfamiliar with the fiction writing process, that probably doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Banging out 1700 words of completely unpolished prose whilst sipping a latte at Starbucks probably sounds awesome and a wee bit romantic. Doable, even.

And it is those things. But it can also be soul-crushing.

I’m not one of those writers who can sit down a few months beforehand and outline every single character and plot point that I intend to write during November. For me, that’s a little like running three quarters of a 5K race then doubling back to do it all over again. I like the spontaneity of the writing process and the quasi-orgasmic feeling I get when a tricky problem unsnarls itself at my fingertips. I’m more of a ‘I have a vague story concept and a fucking awesome opening sentence so let’s go from there’ kind of writer.

Therein lies the problem. I tend to run out of steam around 15,000 words and story at around 20,000. That’s when the rose-colored glasses come off and reality sets in. In between playing arbiter between man and beast (YOU CANNOT POKE THE CAT’S EYEBALLS WITH THAT STICK) and keeping our home just clean enough to avoid colonization by various vermin, I have to find time to play at being a real adult by securing gainful employment. So, yeah. Not as easy as it sounds.

I’ve ‘won’ this contest between my brain and my willpower exactly twice. The other three years ranged from close brush with success to miserable failure. And yet, I keep trying.  Last year I bolted out of the gate with healthy 4.300 words in the first day alone, but finished the month at less than 15,000 words total. Granted, back then I was new to blogging and writing at least 10 articles a week for Charm, all while going to school full time and trying to leash train Boo. (Remember?)

This year is going to be different. Maybe. Hopefully. For the first time, I don’t have an original concept to flesh-out. Instead, I’m going to revisit my project from 2009. I reread it this summer and was pleasantly surprised by how, um, not terrible it was. I’ll probably rewrite the beginning to get reacquainted with my characters and then skip to where I left the story hanging where I abandoned it on December 1 of that year.

So if I haven’t managed to scare you off at this point and even remotely intrigued by all this, check out the official NaNoWriMo homepage.

Because the world needs your novel.

Join me, won’t you?


Posted in Boo, Internetland, NaNoWriMo, Nerdness | 7 Comments

I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m scared.

So, yeah. I haven’t written in a long time. Too long. Sorry. My creative energy has been totally nonexistent lately.

I’ve lost my mojo.

In the writing department, anyway. I lost my job with Charm and… Kapoof. It was gone. A million little things have happened in the last few months that made me think, hey, that would make a great blog post. But then I never get around to writing it because I know that the whole thing would come out flaccid and boring. (Kinda like this one so far?)

So to catch everyone up: I’m looking for a new job. I taught myself how to crochet. The childling formerly known as Boo has blossomed into a freaking person, all verbal and talky and shit. I’m in the process of launching a new website–details to follow.

And the fucking ghost is still here.

I’ve been trying to ignore it, but things have been really ramping up since I last aired my complaints in public. I’ve done the whole Catholic juju thing–there’s a crucifix blessed by an honest-to-God priest hanging above our front door now (which we fondly refer to as the ‘crooked Christ’ due to the fact that I failed to center the damn thing when I nailed it up there) but it doesn’t seem to have helped at all.

Case in point: my kid’s musical fucking potty. Go ahead, laugh. But that thing is a singing instrument of Satan. Or whatever.

Late one night after we had all gone to bed, something–some noise–woke me from a deep sleep. Since I’m a card-carrying member of the don’t-move-don’t-look-stay-covered-up-and-the-Raptors-won’t-get-you school of thought, I lay there, paralyzed with fear while I tried to figure out what (if anything) was making all that racket. After a second, I recognized the words:

I’m so big! Look at me! I can use my own pot-ty! And it makes me feel so very big and proud! When everybody SINGS OUT LOUD! Now, let’s flush the potty!

Squinting through the darkness without my glasses on, I could tell that Boo was soundly asleep in his room because his door was still closed. It wasn’t Red. Besides the fact he was laying beside me at that very moment, he’s not exactly the type of grown-ass adult voluntarily uses a technicolor musical toilet that sits four feet below the big one in the guest bathroom, ya know?

And the cat? The day that animal uses a toilet is the day I paint my fat ass red and run around the town square naked.

Not effing likely.

But I didn’t get out of bed to see what it might have been. I’m a scaredy-pants chickenshit. And I didn’t wake Red to tell him what I had heard. Sometimes I think he thinks I’m crazy. But I’m not, I swear. As my heart rate slowed to below 200, I rationalized that it might have been some random gust of air blowing across the toilet’s (covered) moisture-sensing elements.

It took a while, but I finally fell back to sleep while I concentrated on Red’s soft snoring. An hour later, it started again.

Toilet paper! Toilet paper! On the roll! Next to me! I can use a few squares, maybe one or two squares? How ’bout three? Hooray for me!

This time, I knew what it was. I found my glasses and fell rather inelegantly out of bed, heart pumping near-stroke range. Again. Much more of that and I would have been greasy puddle beside the bed.

I sprinted to Boo’s room across the hall. Thankfully, he was still curled up in the corner of his crib, showing no indication that the noises from the bathroom had bothered him. I knew this time I needed to man-up and check the bathroom.

So I said a little prayer to myself, one that had become a mantra over the last few months:

Lord, let your light shine upon us in all Your glory. Let no unwelcome spirit enter this home. Let only those of light and good cross the threshold, so that we may be bathed in your love.”

I touched Boo’s chest, trying to detect its gentle rise and fall. He sighed sleepily and muttered something about his bunny, then rolled over. All good.

My child was safe, there was no doubt about it. But the fucking potty still sang on. So I took a deep breath, flicked the hall light on, and threw myself into the doorway to the bathroom.

Of course nothing was there waiting for me. There was no pulsating light or mystical smoke, or whatever else the hell you would expect from an unwelcome visitor of the ectoplasmic variety. Just an empty room that looked exactly the same as it did during full daylight. I leaned over the potty–from a few feet away, of course–looking for a fly or a trail of ants or a beetle bug or something else that had gotten caught in the little bowl. But  there was nothing. Nothing to indicate that anything, um, supernatural, had occurred.

So I went back to bed.

Then it happened four more times that night. Every hour, on the hour. With each alternating song, I grew less scared and more annoyed. I mean, come on! If you were going to haunt a family, wouldn’t you choose to do it via something a little more frightening than a child’s singing shit receptacle?


So I dismissed it from my mind and moved on. Weird stuff follows me around, right?

Then one day while Boo was down for a nap, I went back to my bedroom to indulge in the silence and read for a bit. Not even fifteen minutes later, I heard something. Under the bed.

At first, I thought the cat was under our bed rubbing against the multitude of charger and power cords that crisscross the bottom of the baseboards. The logical explanation, right? Because it was ungodly annoying. Like fingers on a chalkboard annoying. So I went to drag him out.

There was nothing there.

Story of my life, right? I shrugged it off and chalked it up to the wind. But every day since then, I’ve heard that sound. Daylight or dark, even when the cat is sprawled out by my feet, I can hear something in the wall. Or under our bed.

If our house was older than the five years it has been occupying this property, I might say it was rats or possums or something chewing our wires. Or maybe the wind. But we can’t find an explanation for it, and it never bothers the cat. I figure he’s got more sensitive… senses than I’ve got.

Sometimes… Sometimes, though, he sits up during the night out of the blue and stares at noises I can’t hear. And sometimes, I feel like something is watching me.

Scratch that. I know something is watching me. At night, while I try to sleep, something is there.

Even with Red, my protector and bug squasher extraordinaire sitting in the living room a few meters away from me, this still freaks me out.

Believe what you want, I guess. I don’t watch horror movies. I despise them.  And although my imagination is a little wild–in the writerly sense, at least–I’m not one to make shit up. This stuff scares me. Honestly. I believe in the afterlife, the Christian idea of Heaven and Hell, and the idea that there are some–things–that slip through the cracks.

I just hope that our thing is something friendly.

Posted in Boo, Casper the unfriendly ghost, Cat Lady Confessions, Family, Red, Stories, Weirdness | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Baked Creamy Chicken Taquitos

Oh, Pinterest. How I love thee. All those pictures of crafts that I’m not creative enough to produce and food I don’t have the patience to make, wrapped up in a pretty, ridiculously easy to use package? Yeah, that spells addiction for little ole M-E.

Pinterest is where I found the picture and link to the recipe for the amazing taquitos I made tonight. They’re ridiculously easy and so much better than they’re frozen, store bought counterparts. I think I’ve found my new go-to party food for family get-togethers and  football season.

Baked Creamy Chicken Taquitos

You’ll need:

1 medium oven roasted chicken, cleaned and deboned, coarsely chopped

1 package (8 oz) light cream cheese spread

1/4 cup salsa

2 Tbsp fresh lime juice

1 tsp cumin

2 tsp chili powder

1 tsp onion powder

1/2 tsp garlic powder

3 Tbsp chopped cilantro

1/2 of a small onion, finely diced

1 block grated pepperjack cheese

15-20 soft taco size white corn or flour tortillas (flour are much easier to roll, trust me)

2 Tbsp melted butter

And here’s where things get fun:

1) Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Line a baking sheet with nonstick foil.

2) Heat cream cheese in the microwave for about 20-30 seconds until soft. Add salsa, lime juice, cumin, chili powder, onion powder and garlic powder and mix well. Add cilantro, green onions, chicken and pepperjack cheese and stir to combine well.

3) Wet a few paper towels and wrap 10 tortillas in an envelope shape so that all the entire surface of the tortillas are covered. Heat in the microwave for about a minute or until the tortillas are soft and pliable. Place 3 Tbsp of chicken mixture on the lower third of a tortilla, keeping it about 1/2 inch from the edges. Roll as tightly as you can, then place taquitos seam side down on the baking sheet.

4) Brush melted butter over the tops of taquitos and bake, uncovered, for 20 minutes. Halfway through the baking process, flip the taquitos over and brush the seam side with more melted butter.

And voilà! That’s it! It took me a little over an hour to prep and bake everything because I only have one good baking sheet and the cat attacked me once I started to take the chicken off the bones. (No, seriously. He hopped up on the back of a chair and then tried to jump on my butcher block to get to the meat. I had to catch him mid-flight and lock him in his bedroom to avoid seasoning everything with cat fur.) Boo thought that bit was riotously funny. Me, not so much. But whatever. The taquitos were delicious.

(Recipe adapted from The Girl Who Ate Everything. Image Credit: Christy from The Girl Who Ate Everything. Her photography skills are far superior to mine, as are her recipes. Go there and tell her so.)
Posted in What's For Dinner | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Someone hold muh earrings. This could get ugly.

Today was a good day. Even the part where I almost had to cut a woman at the children’s playground in the mall. But more on that later.

My furry best friend is back. He’s been living with my parents since Boo was born, but now he’s back where he belongs: curled up in a ball beside me, shedding white and orange fur all over Hell and half of Georgia. Even though he’s kinda of a special needs, pogo stick kitty now, I couldn’t be happier. (Red, on the other hand, is going to reserve judgment until we can get him rehabbed enough to actually pee in his litter box and not all over the plastic on the wall beside it.)

Do you have any expensive shoes you would like me to destroy?

Boo is equally as thrilled. He loves this cat. Loves him a little too much, perhaps. We have to be very careful when they’re in the same room, so that over-eager little hands don’t divest him of his remaining functional rear limb. Because that… would suck. Big time.

So after my parents dropped the cat off in his new luxury accomodations (ie: our master bedroom), I decided to take Boo to the mall so he could run off some of his IGOTTANEWKITTYANDHEMAKESNOISE!!! energy around in the children’s play area. Up until last week, I avoided this place like the plague because A) I don’t like other people’s children, and 2) other people’s children are germ factories. But then my mom pointed out that Boo needed socialization, lest he turn into that kid in pre-school this fall. (The one who can solve multi-variable algebra at age four but doesn’t like to play with his peers at recess.) (Or the one who asks for an abacus at Christmas.) (Also known as: a future software engineer who doesn’t mind supporting his mother in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.)

I knew she was right, so I armed myself with GermX and prayers and and set him free to run wild with the feral children who inhabit such places. And y’all, he was so happy.

Don’t get me wrong, we go to the park a lot when the weather is nice. But the weather right now? Is not nice. So our only options for safe play is indoors, very close to the air conditioner. That way our eyeballs don’t melt out of our skulls. Because I kind of value my eyesight. It helps me pick out teh krazees.

But, um. Whoops. I don’t remember where I was going with that last train of thought. Mister Kitty, Lord and Master of the UnderRealm demands my attention. And scritches. But not the clacky-clack typing noise I’m making. He’s all, cut that shit out and rub muh belly, woman.

Bow to me, for I am your new Master.

Oh yeah, the part where I almost knifed a bitch.

So we had been at the play area for a about five minutes when another mom and her friend sat down beside me. They de-shoed their offspring (ew, feet) and started talking about all the other kids who were playing.  Boo had just come down the slide in front of us, smiling like pig in mud, when one of the women pointed straight at him.

Woman: Now his curls are cute. But my Henry? He’s definitely prettier.

Friend: Yeah, Henry is pretty. That one kind of looks like a girl.

Chelsie: (strangled breathing) —!!!

I almost shat myself. Had they uttered another word, I would have lost it. I’m talking SOMEONE HOLD MUH EARRINGS CAUSE BISHES GONNA DIIIIIIIIE! But you would be proud of me. I just called Boo over to me, dropped a kiss on his sweaty little noggin, and sent a very pointed, very hairy stinkeye over at the two women. (And I told Twitter. Because you guys have my back.)

They didn’t say a word after that.

I let Boo chase their eleven-toed, bucktoothed kids all over for an hour then packed his sweaty self up into the car to go get ice cream.

I bet Henry didn’t get ice cream. His mom isn’t as cool as me. Duh.

Posted in Boo, Cat Lady Confessions, Family, Internetland, Nerdness, No one else will think this is funny | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

This is the post I should remember when I get pulled aside for additional screening in an airport security line.

One day a long time ago–a magical, pre-Boo time full of lots of extra sleep and floors that stayed clean for more than five minutes–I was browsing through Barnes and Noble when I came across a book called Milk, Eggs, Vodka: Grocery Lists Lost and Found. (Only not really. There are no Harvard commas in the list of the title, but I can’t bring myself to type like that. So there you go. I’m a liar with OCD.)

Any way, I was intrigued. It is, as the title suggests, a collection of discarded grocery lists that escape inanity by including items like “hookers and blow” right next to butter, soup, and creamer. (See! There’s that damn Harvard comma again. I just can’t escape it.)

I never bought the book (sorry author dude, I read it all in one sitting at the bookstore) but the idea has always stuck with me, because honestly, who leaves their lists in the shopping cart? (Here’s a hint: not the kind of people who are bothered by Harvard commas.)

Today I looked at my grocery list. The first three things listed were plastic sheeting, drano, bleach, and booze. Then I remembered that I recently did a little research about how many times a human being could be poked with a cattle prod before (ahem) expiring, what a long-range shot through the chest from a 9MM handgun looked like, and what the most effective ways to psychologically torture a person would be.

It’s all legit, I swear. But it certainly looks incriminating. Like I’m some kind of serial killer who likes to torture her victims by forcing them clean out clogged plumbing (with a little extra encouragement via electric shock) before dismembering the body and cleaning up the evidence with Clorox.

When I mentioned this on Twitter, one of my friends said I should just throw the Fibbies off my trail by putting the word ‘organic’ in there somewhere. Like adding ‘organic carrots’ to my list right next to ‘extra-strength ducktape’ would help my cause.

Because then I’d be the perp who sl-o-o-o-o-wly poisons her victims with Β-carotene before offing them. Heh.

So fess up: what kind of weird things have you shopped for? Baseball bats and meat cleavers? Quick lime and a shovel?

Please tell me I’m not the only one who wonders about this.

Posted in Internetland, No one else will think this is funny, Not nearly as offensive as it sounds | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

Southern Fried Foodgasm

There’s just something about Southern cooking that makes my taste buds stand up and go Mmmmm. It’s probably all the butter, but another likely suspect is the fact that Southern food is cooked with lots of love and ingredients that can be found in almost everyone’s pantry or refrigerator.

Regular mac and cheese is comforting and usually loaded with calories, but this recipe is full of easy, melty reduced-fat goodness that your whole family can enjoy. Bonus: it’s nearly impossible to screw up

Southern Style Smokey Baked Mac and Cheese with Bacon and Onion


  • 1-12 oz box whole wheat elbow macaroni (or whatever pasta you have on hand)
  • 3 tablespoons reduced fat margarine
  • 3 tablespoons flour
  • 1 tablespoon prepared mustard
  • 3 cups fat free milk
  • 1 small onion, finely diced
  • 3 slices hickory smoked turkey bacon, coarsely chopped
  • 1 teaspoon smoked chipotle pepper
  • 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
  • ¼ cup Eggbeaters whites
  • 12 ounces sharp cheddar, shredded
  • 1 teaspoon garlic salt
  • Fresh black pepper


  • 3 tablespoons butter
  • 1 cup panko bread crumbs


1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2) In a large pot of boiling, salted water cook the pasta until it nearly reaches al dente. (A little bite to the pasta is desirable so that it doesn’t overcook while it is baking.)

3) Coarsely chop bacon and crisp in a medium skillet on the stove. Drain bacon on paper towels, reserving approximately 2 tablespoons of grease. Sauté onions in reserved grease until transluscent. Set aside.

4) While the pasta is cooking, in a separate pot, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and mustard and keep it moving for about five minutes. Make sure it’s free of lumps. Stir in the milk, onion, smoked paprika, and chipotle. Simmer for ten minutes on lowest heat setting.

5) Temper the eggbeaters into the flour/butter/spice mixture. Add bacon and onions, then stir in 3/4 of the cheese. Season with garlic salt and pepper. Fold the macaroni into the mix and pour into a greased 2-quart casserole dish. Top with remaining cheese.

6) Melt the butter in a saute pan and toss the bread crumbs to coat. Top the macaroni with the bread crumbs. Bake for 30 minutes. Allow topping to brown under broiler, then remove from oven. Rest for five minutes before serving. Serves 6 to 8.

(Adapted from Alton Brown’s Backed Macaroni and Cheese)
Posted in What's For Dinner | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Some people just can’t take a hint.

Goddamn, those Jehovah’s Witness people are stubborn. Stubborn and freaking aggressive. Icing on the cake of a fan-effing-tastic day, lemme tell you.

Let me set the scene:

So there I was, enjoying some peace and quiet while that slavering honey badger living in the second bedroom Boo was taking a nap. I hadn’t changed out of my pajamas yet, my sweater puppies weren’t caged, and yesterday’s mascara had smeared all around my eyes while I slept, making me look something like a deranged half raccoon. On downers. The stress-migraine hammering away at my skull had decided to migrate south to my shoulders and neck, and there it fornicated with a good old-fashioned sternum-melting case of acid reflux to make some really, really ugly babies. (Really ugly. Like unibrowed, flipper-limbed baby ugly.)

All I wanted was a little time to sit in the darkness to feel sorry for myself.

And then someone knocked on the goddamn door.

I usually ignore people who knock on the door, because they’re usually just trying to sell me something or gain entrance into the house so they can evaluate the street worth of my electronics. (Here’s a hint: not very much.) So of course I pretended not to hear it, figuring the kind of fucktard who elected to walk around knocking on stranger’s doors in the middle of the day while it’s 115° outside would quickly lose interest and leave me alone.

Not so. The knocking continued, interspersed with hushed conversation about (presumably) the abhorrent condition of my the dead patches all over my lawn. Obviously, they weren’t going away until I opened the goddamn door to see what they had to say, so I threw a blanket around my shoulders, poncho-style, to conceal my swinging bazongas and cracked the door a fraction of an inch.

Two small women dressed in polyblend slacks and shortsleeved button down shirts stood there, clutching handfuls of pamphlets. I knew immediately what they were.

Chelsie: Can I help you?

Woman 1: Do have a minute to talk about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ?

Chelsie: (indicating the poncho-blanket) Um, no. Not really. I’m kinda in the middle of something.

Woman 2: It won’t take but a second.

Chelsie: (raises eyebrow) —

Woman 1: Have you ever given any thought to where the word Jehovah comes from?

Chelsie: Um, not really. Look, I really am–

Woman 2: You see, Jehovah comes from the Hebrew word meaning God. And Jesus is God.

Woman 1: (shoves a pamphlet at my chest) You’ll see in this literature–

Chelsie: Look, I know you mean well and all, but here’s the deal. I’ve got a rally at Planned Parenthood, then a doctor’s appointment for my hemophiliac son to get a blood transfusion, and then we need to go to a birthday party for our gay friends’ adopoted Somalian baby. We’re a little busy today. (Starts to close the door.)

Woman 1: What would be a more convenient time to call on you?

Y’all, I just laughed. Laughed and closed the door in their righteous faces. Because obviously someone (not naming names) thinks it’s really funny to subject a suffering woman to the religious right before she’s even had her first dose of caffeine of the day.

I give up.

Posted in No one else will think this is funny | 8 Comments

I <3 New York

Y’all, this post is probably going to alienate some of you out there. Or maybe it will bring others in. Either way, I don’t really care. I usually try to keep my mouth shut about things like this, but tonight I just can’t help myself.

All I want to say is this: today, we moved one step further toward equality. The New York state Senate passed a bill legalizing gay marriage and it landed on Governor Andrew Cuomo’s desk with a promised signature.

I can’t explain how happy this makes me.

I’m not gay. No one in my family is gay, but I do have many gay friends. My personal interest in this matter lies in the fact that I believe that a world with more love is beautiful place. People are people, and love is love.

Way to go, New York. It’s a step in the right direction.

(Now if the rest of the nation could get its shit together, eh?)

Posted in Uncategorized, Would it kill you to comment? | Tagged , , , , | 19 Comments