You like vanilla, I like chocolate. You’re a little bit country, I’m a little bit rock ‘n roll. Potato potata. But there is one thing we all agree on:  Traffic sucks. Hard.

Now there’s traffic, and there’s traffic. As in”bumper to bumper.” As in pounding on the steering wheel. Slamming your head against the headrest. Traffic borne of accidents. Many of these can be avoided if everyone would follow a few simple rules of the road. Oh, I don’t mean the official Rules of the Road (of course, follow those).   I’m talking about Madwoman rules. Now listen up! These might save your life. Or at least a few minutes of it.

First: Look where the fuck you’re going. Pay 100% attention. This is not the time to practice multitasking, people. We keep hearing about no texting, but how ’bout we add a few other [equally hazardous] no-no’s to the list. I’m thinking…No mascara application, no picking of teeth (or noses. WE CAN SEE YOU. gross). No jazz hands (at least one hand on the wheel, please). And no fellatio (every guy’s fantasy, I know. Where did that even come from? Was it in a movie or something? I’m blaming porn (again). That scene should’ve come with a disclaimer: “Don’t try this yourselves; these are trained professionals” kinda thing. The rest of you can’t be trusted to pull it off).

Second: Back the hell off. You don’t need to know what radio station the guy in front of you is listening to. Really, what is up with the tailgating? This is what causes accidents. Forget about speeding. Troopers should be ticketing the crap out of this (and leave us speeders be). I mean, isn’t it a violation or something? The rule is to keep one car length between you and the car in front of you…FOR EVERY TEN MILES YOU’RE TRAVELLING. Ok, maybe this isn’t realistic. Hell, where I live, if I left 7 car lengths between me and the guy in from of me, 7 cars would fill the space. No kidding.  But leave enough space so that I can’t read your inspection sticker as your car grille is about to couple with my rear bumper (Hey, abstinence is the only sure way to prevent accidents).  Seriously.  If you want to go there, the least you could do is buy me dinner first.

Third: Never get behind a Cadillac, especially an old model. You know, the ones the size of fishing boats, like old El Dorados. Especially if they have Florida license plates. More especially if the driver is an octagenarian, or can barely see over the steering wheel. [What is this phenomenon of old people driving Caddys anyway? And do elderly Floridians get special deals on them? Is it some AARP thing?] And if the driver is wearing a hat… Well then you’re really fucked. Beware an old guy wearing a hat drving an El Dorado with Florida plates. Get stuck behind that and it’s game over, my friends. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Lastly: Quit your rubbernecking. Really, what are you trying to see? Want some blood and guts with your Starbucks?   I have a theory about this: It’s the flashing lights. It’s like instant hypnosis.  People are drawn to a flashing light. Like it’s the state fair or something. You guys, it ain’t Vegas! Could be a mower. Or a tow truck. But OH, THE LIGHTS!  GOTTA.SLOW DOWN…MUST. SEE. WHAT HAPPENED.  It doesn’t even matter where the accident is. Yesterday morning there was an accident on the westbound side of the highway and the eastbound side was bumper to bumper!  Come on!  Four lanes and the divider separated us from it and people were seriously straining to make out what happened. And we’re talking slowing down enough to make a full investigation. Really? Can’t you read about it in the news later? Please, someone get Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility! That’s the answer, you know. Clear the accident from the road and make like nothing happened. Nothin’ to see here, people.  This would also prevent  “secondary” accidents caused by the deadly trifecta:  Car A is rubbernecking, Car B is tailgating, and Car C is putting on her mascara.  Result:  You’re gonna be two hours late to work today.  Might as well call in…OOPS!  And so the cycle begins again. Told ya.

Sad but true:  When I’m stuck in traffic, I no longer think “Oh, no! I hope no one was hurt!” Nope. Now I think “Who’s the dumbass who fucked up and caused an accident?! Sonofafreakinbitch! Now we’re all sitting in this fucking traffic! Douchebag! And look…Now you made my Turrets flare-up! Shithead.”

When this ugliness becomes me I remember something my sister in law once told me:  “Better to be stuck in traffic than be the cause of it” (She’s a wise woman, that one).  If you follow my simple rules, you’ll be neither.

Share them with all the drivers you know.  Then maybe we can all get to work on time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…Words you don’t want to hear whispered in your ear as you sleep.  By your sister. Who’s standing over you.  Wth a pillow in her hands…

Parents have favorites. So says my husband. So on the heels of “sibling day” (Seriously, does every day need to be special?), I thought we’d take a closer look at his hypothesis.

Query:  Can a parent truly love each of his/her children equally?

Answer:  Nope.  Sorry to break it to you, but someone had to. They won’t, for fear of the consequences, namely that you’ll stop trying to please them.  Look, it’s ok for you to suspect your parents like your sibling better. Parents don’t mind this at all.  You’ll keep trying to please them to get top billing and the favorite will keep trying to please them to retain the title. [Isn’t sibling rivalry precious?].  See, that way your parents can’t lose.  Oh, it’s a twisted game they play, parents.  Twisted and self-serving.  So they keep up the sham.  They know a good thing…

The harsh reality is that all children are not created equal.  There’s always one who’s just better than the others.  The pretty one. The one who’s better in school, better at sports.  Has a better boyfriend/girlfriend, spouse, job, whatever.  Who’s more…good. (This is why my brother will forever be known as “Billy-So-Good”).  Can you fault their parents for loving them more?  The others are just, well, mediocre.  Average.  Jan Brady. Not any trouble but nothing to brag about.  You know what I’m talking about.  [“It’s always Marcia this, Marcia that.  Marcia Marcia Marcia!”]  Then of course there are the black sheep, the fuck-ups.  You know who you are.  Yeah.  Your folks tell you they love you the same but they’re lying.  [Oh, come on, people.  I’m not tellin ’em anything they don’t already know]  Now of course they love you too (I’m sure. Probably).  But as much ?  Well, as much as they can.  

I argue here that love cannot be defined, let alone quantified.  So let’s just accept that parents love each of their children differently.  Take note when they look at your sibling and sigh and you know they’re thinking “Oh, look at her.  DAMN, we did a good job!  I love her SO MUCH!”  And then they look at you and you know they’re thinking “So much for that dream yoga studio in the basement.  We really fucked-up with this one. But she’s ours and we love her…” And then comes the sigh (that seals the deal).  Do they honestly not know we see through their weak attempts to mask their favoritism?  [They may suspect as much, however, after “accident” when you can’t account for your whereabouts. Or that missing pillow]  I bet if confronted you’ll see the guilt in their eyes.  When you do, well, knowledge is power, baby! Go with it. Oh, I don’t mean bail outs, lawyers, and shrinks.  Surely you can be more creative than that.  I’m talkin’ livin’ rent-free. Car AND insurance. Credit cards.  Oh, guilt money is GOOD money.

You think we would’ve learned by now that sibling rivalry can be a dangerous game.  Brotherly love takes on a green tint ’cause deep down every kid wants to be the favorite.  Loving parents sow the seeds of resentment and hostility and even (GASP) hatred (dun-dun-dun-DAAAH).  [Don’t you people read Shakespeare?]  How many years of therapy (or maximum security) is it gonna take before you understand that the root of all your problems is that your folks loved your sis/bro better? It’s the reason you’re such a “people pleaser,” an affliction which leads to foolish acts like marrying the wrong person, choosing the wrong career. Buying the too big house or the too expensive car. Being a brown-nose to your teachers, a kiss ass to your boss. Always saying yes because “no” would disappoint someone (What? Need a ride to the airport? On my day off? At 5 am? No problem! Help moving? On my birthday? I’m there!)  Even doing things you knew were wrong, like that time you (fill in the blank) and ended up getting your ass kicked which ended up with you spending the night in the county Hilton  ( I don’t know who I was trying to please that time.  I mean “Who were you trying to please that time?”)  Gee, thanks Mom and Dad.

ANYWAY…

Want my advice?  GET OVER IT.  That’s right.  Let that shit go already.  You’re all growed up now and you don’t need to please anyone but yourself.  Besides, whether you’re the favorite or the fuck-up your parents are stuck with you (and rightly so since it’s all their fault how you turned out).  And they love you.

Yes, even you.  Just not the same.

 

It’s that time of year again – Spring has sprung, the school year’s coming to a close and thoughts are turning to…Summer vacation!  Visions of tropical beaches, oceanic adventures, road trips.  Then, invariably someone throws out the “C” word…

Yep, you guessed it.  CAMPING.

So…camping.  The great outdoors.  Communing with nature.  “Roughing it.” And that’s where you lose me.  Look, to me roughing it means no turn-down service, no chocolates on my pillow.  Why the hell would I want to spend my precious vacation time sleeping on the ground with just a paper thin layer of nylon and some down feathers between my ass and whatever creepy crawlies are living in the dirt? Hell, I don’t even like the ground floor bedroom in my house.  And showering in a public shower? After spending a day hiking or whatever other outdoorsy things I’d be forced to do?  (So I’m sweaty, smelling of a mixture of sunscreen, Deet, and B.O. and I can’t even take a shower without a pair of damn flip flops.  Or take a shit sitting down).  And sleeping in a freakin’ bag?  On the ground?Protected by a tent pitched less than perfectly? (Oh, was I supposed to use ALL the poles?)   Seriously?  This is your idea of a fucking VACATION ?  (That word-I do not think it means what you think it means)

Now you proponents of camping will be all defensive here telling me how amazing it is. Being out in nature, peace and quiet.  Really?  Have you heard what a thousand frogs sound like at night?  How about a million crickets?  Or that one mosquito that keeps dive-bombing your head?  Oh, yes. Very peaceful.  Best sleep you’ll ever have, I’ve been told.  Yeah.  Know why you sleep like the dead when you’re camping?  Because:  a) you’re freakin’ exhausted from all the outdoorsy fun and/or fighting with your tent; or b) you’re freakin’ passoutdrunk from all the liquor you consumed because there’s nothing else to do once you finish having all that outdoorsy fun (everyone knows what’s in all those coolers, Camper Van Beethoven, and it ain’t that croquet set you bought at the last Walmart you passed).  But hey, what do I know?  I’m from Brooklyn.  Police sirens and car alarms are lullabies to me.

Here’s where you say: “But what about all that awesome stuff? ”   Like…what specifically?  The trees?  Got some right in my backyard (hammock and all.  and I HAVE slept on it. yes, outside. for an hour. in the daylight).  What else you got?  The stars ? Yeah, pretty sure I got them too.  They’re kind of there for everyone.  and anyway YOU can’t see ’em from your little campsite under the dense canopy of the forest (like that?  I read it in a book once).  I know, you’re saying…”Yes, but when you’re camping, you get to sleep out there with all of that…”  Yeah, so can I.  just with a roof over my head.  on a soft bed.  And all that fresh air?   Well, we have windows for that.

I’m sorry.  I just don’t get the allure.  Maybe it’s me.  I’m a city girl.  Remember ZsaZsa in Green Acres?  That’s me. (I mean, c’mon people!  Concrete is your friend! I don’t want to have to change out of my  4-inch heels to walk to my freakin’ mailbox.  My mantra, adopted from an old acquaintance: “Outside is just a place I go through to get to another inside.”  Let me give you a little insight.  I once fell out of a tree when I was a kid.  My family’s response was “What the hell were you doing climbing a tree? You’re from Brookkyn!”  Apparently even they they forgot one grows there).  Don’t get me wrong.  I LOVE trees and flowers (and puppies and sunsets).  I LOVE all bodies of water (except the one in that empty flower pot on my porch where the mosquitoes are breeding). I LOVE dining al fresco.  I LOVE a starry sky.  And when I’m done lovin’ all these things, I LOVE to take a long hot shower and get into my cozy bed, gaze up at the ceiling fan, and listen to the hum of the a/c,  and if I wake up during the night I can walk (sans hiking boots and flashlight) into my en suite bathroom and sit down to have a pee. 

Oh, and FYI, I tried camping once.  Worst night of my life.  Let’s just say that camping and claustrophobic girls from Brooklyn don’t mix.

Really, what are you camping folk trying to prove?  That you can live in harmony with nature? (Can’t you just have a picnic in the park?)  Or is “setting up camp” like driving a stake in the ground?  Your own little fiefdom?  An “It’s good to be the king” kinda thing?  Oh, you little colonialist, you!

I’m thinking there’s a bit of a survivalist thing happening here. (It’s not just you. we’re obviously obsessed with it.  according to cable television)   Personally I don’t feel the need to prove that I can survive in the wild.  I’m not worried about being ready for the end of days or the zombie apocalypse.  I’m not a “dress rehearsal” kinda girl.  I’m more of a “when the time comes I’ll kick ass” kinda girl.  Besides, I don’t know if I’d want to be one of the last ones standing.  Have you seen those Doomsday Preppers?  Yeah.  Just sayin.’

I look at it this way:  We humans have come so far.  We build houses to protect us from danger and the elements.  We invented indoor plumbing (may the universe bless the soul of John Harington and his progeny).  The mattress.  Carpets.  HVAC.  Steps!  Camping is like a big “fuck you” to all those who came before us, who had vision, who worked hard so that we could live safely and comfortably (and get a good night’s sleep).  Well I WON’T DO IT!  I will not snub my nose at those shining achievements.  NOT I!  I embrace them and I pledge that I shan’t let a day go by that I don’t use them all and give thanks.

So I think I’ll pass on the camping trip. It’s ok, you go on without me.  Dont worry, I’ll manage.

really old men and really old women look the same?  Actually it’s more like old women look like old men.  I swear.  Put a hat on anyone of ’em and you won’t be able to tell.  It’s inevitable androgeny.  [I want ofiicial credit for that term]

Be on the lookout.

The Madwoman is troubled.

Remember when you’d get up in the morning and grab your paper at your door/driveway/flower bed (or your neighbor’s. when they were away. and they asked you to, of course. Or when they slept in and you just borrowed it until they got up).  Every TV show from the ’50’s and 60’s, even 70’s showed someone at the kitchen table or at a desk reading the daily paper…

Seems for most of us that ritual is no more.  The New York Times figured it out and offers a weekends-only delivery option (because who really has time to read THAT opus every morning before work? You can’t really read it on the subway ’cause you invariably invade the personal space of those around you every time you turn a page. I used to read only the front page of each section for that reason. Please don’t tell).  There’s even a Sundays-only option (because as we all know, the Sunday NYT is the ultimate Sunday pastime.  Which lasts ALL WEEK.  Awesome).

It’s not that we don’t want our news. We just want it quick. I don’t mean hot-off-the-presses quick.  I mean in-a-nutshell quick.  Readers Digest quick (see below). And, of course, there’s an App for that.  The NYT has an app called NYT Now.  It sifts through it’s stories and provides you with it’s top picks.  They call it your “Morning (or afternoon or evening) Briefing.”  [So why is the paper so damn enormous if all I need to know is in a dozen articles?]   They even give the “read time” for each.  I kid you not.  I wonder…Is that the MBA read time? The Bachelor’s Degree read time? Probably not the Evelyn Wood grad read time (see below).

One-upping NYT Now is “the Skimm.”  Don’t know it?  You should check it out: https//theskimm.com.  They read the news for you and give you the top stories in a fresh and clever way.  It’s the tapas of news.  Small plates, full of flavor, surprisingly satisfying.  Subscribe and get the daily email newsletter – at 6:30 a.m. every weekday, you’ll be informed and entertained, and ready for tonight’s cocktail party. No more looking like someone just figured-out your true identity (hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?) when current events are being discussed.  Now THAT I have time for!  This madwoman likey.

Still…What changed?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Was it the Internet?  Probably to an extent,  but I think the Web had more to do with the method of getting information (online vs. paper).  Plus I think it may go back farther than that. Think about Readers Digest “condensed” books.  These became popular in the 1960’s.  “Abridged” versions of popular novels (What, people couldn’t take the time to read a damn book as the author wrote it?  I never understood this).   How about  “Evelyn Wood Reading Dynamics?”  Speed-reading course.  Started in 1959.  Teaches you to read faster and more efficiently (thus boosting your productivity, and who doesn’t want that, right?).  How does it work?  Seems you don’t have to read every word to get the meaning.  Seems you can skip some (who knew?) and Evelyn can teach you which ones don’t make the cut.  Must be how poor Pluto felt…

So what happened?  Did we undergo an evolutionary change to our collective attention span?  This was a cultural shift, folks.  Did the Women’s Movement have something to do with it?  Look at those time frames.  Coincidence?  [And by the way, Thanks Very Much, Gloria Steinem.  Now I have two full-time jobs-at home and out there, each of which suffers because of the other,  I’m tired all the time, and I still don’t earn as much as a man in the workforce. So yeah. Thanks for that]

Now we’re all “Tell me what I need to know” and “Just the facts, ma’am.”  This is merely a symptom of a bigger problem.  The problem is this:  We are out of time.  Time is a resource and there is not enough of it. So we look for shortcuts for everything (OMG!  WTF?).  We stop for nothing (certainly not to smell the flowers).  We’ve gone from home-cooked to take-out to drive-thru.  We “multitask” (a skill to be perfected and proud of).   We accelerate, we genetically modify.  Why? Because we need to it get it all done, more efficiently, with better results.  We were excited about the leaps made in technology.  They were supposed lead to greater efficiency and ultimately to more “down-time.”  Instead we ended up with more work time. Never unplugging. Never out of reach. Never logged off.  We were duped. Now we’re chasing ghosts.

Be afraid, I say. Be very afraid when we no longer have time to read a freakin’ news story, when we take our info in little regurgitated mouthfuls like baby birds – not because we can’t chew it or digest it ourselves, but because we don’t have time for the full meal.  Chew on that.

What’s next?  Maybe we can just get “chipped” and information can be transmitted directly to our brains, with perfect recall on demand (think of all those textbooks you’ve read).  Otherwise, we won’t even know it’s in there.

Why stop there?  Maybe we’ll stop even trying to chew our food. We’re on our way to that now.  Smoothie anyone?  We want all the good stuff without the effort…of what?  Chewing it?  Smoothies are NOT REAL FOOD, PEOPLE!  Real food is a steak, a pizza.  REAL FOOD requires chewing.  I don’t care what your guru says.  Hey, let’s all just walk around with IV ports in our arms and get our nutrients tubed in.  It’d save time (and talk about multitasking!).  And no more cooking – who has time for that anyway?  Hey, we could be onto something here!  What else can we automate?  No time for exercise?  Let’s hook-up some electrodes and work those muscles!  Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey!  Yet another multitasking opportunity!  And screw that “no pain, no gain” bullshit.  I never bought into that anyway.

But what would we do with all that freed-up (not free. nothing truly is) time…?

Anyway…

The final “what” and “why” I cannot answer:  What prize awaits us at the end of the race?  Then again, how can we win a race where there’s no finish line?  So why do we keep running?

Sorry for getting all heavy here.  I warned you (see line 1).

Look, somebody took my time and  I WANT IT BACK.  Is all I’m sayin’.

It’s 10a.m.  and I’m thinkin’:  Is it too early to start drinkin’?

I wonder…Are there guidelines for the imbibing of alcoholic beverages?

If so, what are they (I apparently missed the memo)?  If not, maybe it’d be a good idea to have some.  Some of us have a hard time with socially acceptable behavior.

Here’s what I’m thinking: [night or shift workers – modify as necessary]

Let’s start with the “when.” I think we can all agree that noon or later is absolutely acceptable, if circumstances permit.  But what about the morning hours?  Here’s where I have trouble.  Maybe there should be a sliding scale.  For example, 10 a.m. – 12 p.m. is “questionably acceptable” (translate as: most folks will cringe, pity you, or suspect you have a “problem”.  You will be shunned by your colleagues at your morning staff meetings, and you’ll probably get the entire pew to yourself at Sunday mass. Neither of which is necessarily a bad thing. Heck, you can’t even buy liquor before noon on Sunday. Do they really think that stops people from drinking on Sunday mornings?  I don’t think that’s gonna do it. What’s the intent of that law, anyway?  So you’ll make it to church?  If that’s the intent then they shouldn’t sell liquor on Saturday night. Now THAT would  give God a better chance of seeing you on Sunday morning.  And what about that whole water into wine thing? And the Blood of Christ.  The Sunday liquor law seems a little hypocritical.  Just sayin’).

Now drinking before 10 a.m. would likely fall into the “frowned upon” category.  UNLESS you are still drinking from the night before.  Say it’s Friday night and you’re gettin’ your drink on and once it’s on, you keep it on. It’s an all night PAR-TAY.  Before you know it,  it’s Saturday morning and…did somebody say Jell-O shots?   You get the picture.  I say this is AOK morning drinking.  Careful, though.  Too any nights like this and someone’s staging an intervention.  Be super suspicious of any pop-up family dinners or requests to “help a friend move.”

Another exception:  Medicinal purposes.  Consider this variation of my Friday night scenario: Before you know it, the sun’s up and you emerge from the darkness like the Count himself.  You know the feeling.  Only one smart thing to do here… Have another beer!  You see, the problem with drinking arises when you STOP drinking. Am I right?  Obviously you will have to stop at some point cause if you don’t you’ll be on a slippery slope downward spiral showing up late for work (in the clothes you wore yesterday), having meaningless irresponsible sex, eventually losing your job, alienating your friends, and moving in with an acquaintance (bad) or your parents (worse),  all of which will only cause you to drink more.

SIGH…

OK.  Back to the guidelines…

Vacation:  Anytime is a fine time?  Do the guidelines apply?   I say yes, and no, respectively. Of course this depends on your itinerary.  Probably not a good idea to start drinking before that scuba certification class or that 26-mile hike along the Appalachian Trail.

Not on vacation, but you have the day off from work (weekends included):   See “Vacation” above.

Now let’s consider the “where.”  Drinking at home (yours or someone else’s):  Fine in the evening, late afternoon, at lunch or brunch.  Morning?  OK, if you can squeeze it in under “brunch.”  That’s like the only real benefit about doing brunch.  You can drink with your pancakes and eggs.  Drinking at a bar/restaurant:  Obviously the time you can drink “out” will be dictated by the business hours of the establishments you frequent.  I say if it’s open, then it must be an ok time to drink.

What about the “what?”  Should there be different guidelines for beer, wine and hard liquor?  Brown liquor and clear liquor? Straight-up or mixed?  If I had a shot of tequila at 9 a.m. (just to take the edge off) would you judge me differently than if I had, say, a Bloody Mary (the breakfast of champions)?  I say there shouldn’t be a difference.  But there is, isn’t there? Seems to me there’s something social about Mary that a shot of Patron just doesn’t have.

What’s left?  A “why?”  Do we really need a reason? Does the reason matter?  OK, drinking just to get drunk is never a good idea. Why? Because all the things you wanted to forget by getting hammered are still there when you sober up.  Plus then you have such a wicked hangover that you can barely get up to pee, so now your troubles are a million times harder to face. Plus you have to face new ones like the stranger sleeping next to you and getting home from this motel three towns over when you can’t find your car keys but that’s not an issue ’cause you can’t find your freakin’ car anyway…So any other reason is good enough, right?    OK. ‘Nough said.

I preface these guidelines with a question:  Who’s askin’?  If you’re a schoolteacher on a school day (at MY kid’s school), I say you have to wait til that dismissal bell rings.  Sorry – you guys probably need to start earlier than any of us; the universe should bestow blessings on you every day. Or if you’re a surgeon, or my dentist who’s doing my 7:30 a.m. root canal – I don’t even want you drinking the night before.  You get it. Let’s use common sense here, people (remember that?  The “seventh sense?” Less common than the sixth.  Most of us have it but we don’t know it because we don’t use it enough).

So, let’s see…IF I had the day off from work today, it WOULD be ok IF I had a splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream in my coffee at, say, 10:05 a.m., because I like how it tastes.  Right?  PHEW!  I feel better now.

Oh, look at the time!  Barkeep, next round’s on me!

P.S.  You guys, please drink responsibly. I care about you. I do. I also don’t want anyone reading this to freak out and think I’m advocating drinking (which I’m not not doing if you are of legal age and you want to and you do it responsibly).

While we’re on the subject…

I like the Brazilian.  No, not the steakhouse. You know, the wax. Down there.  Everything but the landing strip (because looking like a prepubescent girl is not my thing.  I find it kinda creepy). Add this to the list of things you know about me.

Don’t ask me why I even ventured down the dark path.  Curiosity?  Peer pressure?  It started with the bikini wax.  It was good, but it was like marijuana, you know, a gateway drug (HA!).  From there I just kept going  – tighter and tighter. Pot to coke.  I just kept chasing that high, man.  Eventually it wasn’t enough. I made the jump.  That’s right. The Brazilian. The crack of waxes.

For the uninitiated, the process of hair removal by waxing goes like this:  Step 1) Prepare the area by trimming the hair.  It must be long enough for the wax to grab, but not too long. Figure it out;                         Step 2) Using what appears to be a tongue depressor (no kidding), apply hot wax to to the hair, a section at a time (not the candle kind of wax – so don’t go melting candles on yourself or your friends.  unless you’re into that);  Step 3)  Lay a strip of cloth on top, rubbing it down and then…Step 4) In one quick motion, pull the cloth in the opposite direction of the hair growth.  The result?  The cloth sticks to the wax which sticks to the hair and…OUCH!  Repeat this over and over until you have a completely clean work surface.

Ok.   Who invented this??? The Japanese as a torture method during the war?  Seriously, this could replace waterboarding.  Remember when you were a kid and you’d get a Band-Aid stuck to some hairs on your arm and you were afraid to take it off because you knew it was going to hurt like a bastard?  You’d try anything to avoid violently ripping it (and the hair) off?  Well imagine that DOWN THERE. And paying someone to do it.  Uh huh. Now you’re getting it, Marquis de Sade.  That said, it’s quick (so there’s that).  It’s not that I’m into pain. It’s just that the end result is….well, it’s good.  Real good.

As I lay on the waxing table at my last appointment, half naked and legs contorted, I wondered why the hairless pelvis came to be so popular (no more bearded clams, my friends). You know why?  One word:  PORN.  Porn is responsible (add it to the list of appetizers porn has put on the menu of everyday folk.  Along with dressing up like Catholic school girls, and ass done three ways. Actually I think the Romans are responsible for that one.  Actually both of them).  And that’s cool, but let’s think about it for a sec…There is a practical reason for it in porn. It’s all about the “Money Shot.” That perfect frame of film where we can see it all perfectly clearly, without obstruction.  The whole business. Play by glistening play (feel free  to substitute your own favorite adjective).  ‘Cause that’s what makes it so hot, right? Ummmm……Perhaps.  [we just covered this – see prior post]  Different strokes for different folks, I guess.  The guys in porn do it too because….that’s right!  It makes their penises look bigger!  And bigger is better.  We all agree on that (and don’t say size doesn’t matter because it certainly does. Does anyone really believe it doesn’t?  that LIE was obviously spread by a guy with a small dick who was trying to make himself feel better – and better able to get some ass.  there is a lesser known but more compelling expression:  “If you can’t touch bottom, you better be banging the hell out of the sides.”  there you go. just throwing some hope out there for you. you know who I’m talking to.  Work it).

Seriously, if you’re not planning to be in films, why go through it? Ain’t no one taking that close a look.   Are you on call for the Money Shot? For most of us, no. But now the bar has been set.  There are young men out there who have never been with a woman with pubic hair.  If this keeps up, staying in our more natural state will fall outside of our “porn norm” and those who choose not to submit will be outcasts, shunned and gettin’ none. OR maybe they’ll be kickass rebels who won’t answer to the man, who’ll opt out and start a movement of free love and full bushes (Just say NO to depilatories!), who’ll live in communes and camp out and smoke weed and…uh-oh.  the gateway drug!  NOOOOOO…..next thing you know they’ll move on to coke and then, you know, it’s on to the rock, and they’ll need more cash so they’ll start doin’ porn…

Anyway…

OK, I have to be honest. There are some pluses to the wax. For a guy, a clean package not only looks “manly” which is a good thing (see prior post – which also relates to my whole theory of evolution.  see prior prior post); it has practical implications as well.  It solves an age-old problem.  If you can’t guess it, let me just say I already floss twice a day, and I prefer the minty kind.  Wink-wink, ladies. Same goes for us girls.  Maybe if it didn’t take a John Deere to get there, more men would eat at the Y.  A man likes a clean work surface.  So I’ve heard.

That said, why is it the norm for a woman to groom her pubes but most men don’t provide us with the same courtesy?  We bear your children, dammit. Now this?  How much pain do we have to endure for your benefit?  Personally, I’d like to see a little more reciprocation.  Just saying.’

Truth be told, no one’s gonna turn down the sex because of poor grooming. It’s not like you’re gonna take your pants off and he/she is gonna be like:  “Oh, wow…uh, yeah, this isn’t gonna work. It’s not you, it’s me.  I’m just not into that whole Clan of the Cave Bear thing you got going on.”  So I say, if you’re going to      wax on-wax off,  do it for the right reasons…your own selfish reasons.  Don’t cave to pressure or follow someone else’s ideals or ideas of “normal” or of beauty.  EVER.  If they don’t dig you as your are, fuck’em.  Or fuck’em anyway.

Personally, I was thinking I’d quit.  Not because of the porn thing or to make a statement.  My principles are not that haughty. I actually don’t mind porn (the acting is stellar, and the storylines are so…well-developed).  I just thought I’d go back to a more natural state.  You know, keeping it real. I gotta say, it wasn’t workin’ for me.  I’m not into goin’ all tribal (I don’t even like camping).  It’s like my front yard:  I like some curb appeal.  I like a well-manicured lawn, bushes neatly trimmed.  A little landscaping.

…I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.