It's much like pointing out that a child does not ethnically resemble his parent.

The first time you tell someone that they look too young to have had whatever child they have, it's a compliment... or, at least, can be meant as one.
The second time you make the comment, it becomes mildly uncomfortable to the target. Target is the appropriate word here because the statement has become pointed.
The third and every following occurrence, you are simply begging for an awkward conversation about teen pregnancy and what it feels like to be a statistic.
Are you looking for some sort of confession?
Are you my priest?
Did my Catholicism unlapse without my noticing?
Have some couth.

Spellcheck does not recognize the word "epilator". It would prefer "depilatory", "ventilator", "dilatory", or "mutilator". All are oddly fitting.*

Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.

This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.

It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.

There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.

I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.

The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.

Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.

And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.

All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.

*It is depilatory; you think you need a ventilator while using it because you are going to die; I was very dilatory in completing the job because ohmygod the agony; and, well, mutilator, no explanation needed there.

This is more embarrassing than my Twilight confession.

I kind of want to cry and vomit at the same time, except that my head just exploded.

Glenn Beck and I are standing on the same side of an issue.

No, wait! Come back! Do you know how hard it was for me to say that?

From thedailywh.at (because I credit where credit is due) to The Huffington Post (this is the link with the video) to Bill O'Reilly to Glenn Beck (no, neither of those... ahem... gentlemen get a link. Screw them.), Beck was on O'Reilly's show, where he said, essentially, gay marriage was a non-issue. Gay marriage is not a threat to this country. (O'Reilly? Seriously? What the hell is with that drama? "Threat"? You're such a little bitch.) (And, yes, I know the drama is because it's what makes his ratings. He's still a little bitch.)

Beck's point? Look around, folks. There are so many other issues, there is so much wrong, this is not worth the focus. He then went on to quote Thomas Jefferson, "If it neither breaks my leg nor picks my pocket, what difference is it to me?" I'm not sure the validity of the quote, but its meaning is one of the primary rules I am raising my children with. I'm fairly sure that Beck does not typically practice what he's preaching there, but fine, whatever.

For the record, I think it should be a non-issue. But when one side makes it an issue, if no one is pulling on the other side of the ol' tug-o-war, guess who wins?

Also, for the record, this is it. I haven't seen any other thing I could possibly agree with Beck on... no, wait. His "respect" for O'Reilly. That's pretty great, too.

Notes on the video itself: At 1:58, Beck says to the camera, of O'Reilly, "He's so hostile!" Then he turns back to O'Reilly, "Need a little Jesus?" And I fell off the sofa, laughing. Then there's a, uhm, "size" discussion. That's decent. I watched the full length of this clip, but you can stop by the 4:00 mark. I promise that you'll want to slit your own throat if you continue past that.

A Little Butt-Crack Among Friends

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room- yes, a full length mirror. If you don't have one, you are doing yourself a disservice. You can often tell someone who doesn't have a full length mirror in their house because, daa-yum, you should not be wearing those pants.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked- yes, naked. I would make excuses about having just gotten out of the bath, which is true, but this is my bedroom, y'all. I walk around naked. Get past it.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed- okay, yes, making the bed naked is a little odd, I admit, but it was naked, too- sheets came off and never went back on this morning. And I wanted to go to bed. And Sam's not home. And I am not sleeping on a naked bed, that's just skeevy. And I'm a little drunk. But it's all fine because the sheets are now on the bed.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed, when I noticed that the sunburn on my lower back was smaller than usual. I know, odd sentiment. But the fact is, as I work outside, inevitably my shirt- usually a tank-top, hence the matching burned shoulders and upper back- works its was upward, revealing the hitherto un-publicly-known lower back (oh, hell, and love handles and belly). This is due to the fact that the stretchmarks that decorate said belly and love handles stretch all the way around my waist. What in the living hell was stretching during pregnancy that my back had to get involved? Please answer me that.

Several moments of drunken contemplation led to me the conclusion that this- the smaller burn area- is not because today's shirt was longer than usual. No, indeed. This was because said shirt was not nearly as tight, leading it to not have to work so damn far up over the aforementioned love handles.

Excellent.

This, however, was not the greatest of revelations in those few confused moments. The far more profound one was that this patch of sun burn sat directly on top of the crack of my rear. There is a T printed on my ass. The problem with this? Exactly how much of my crack was I showing off today? For it to be burnt right to the very upper edge, my pants must have been slipping down past that point repeatedly. So during all this yard work, I'm actually playing plumber. And did I mention the T my tush is donning?

I only have myself to blame. I'm down eight pounds to where I was last year (yeah, woohoo, except it was twelve pounds), which leads to the offending moon-show, and I refuse to buy new pants until I drop more. This hasn't happened in eight months, yet here I wait. It seems so stupid to spend money on clothes you hope to shrink out of. As I am the Official Bitch of Murphy's Law, something like my buying pants would lead to me losing weight in a manner to thus lead to me not being able to wear those clothes.

I'd just lose it in the form of a dog attack to my thigh or something.

Dear Industry of Growers of Chickens,

I know that we, as a society, want everything bigger and faster and more, more more, more! (Everyone's inner-reading-voice should have just converted to Boris Karloff- "And they'd sing! AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING"!) (That was a reference to How the Grinch Stole Christmas! If you didn't get that from the last set of parentheses, you should never tell me because I will make fun of you forEVER.) I get it. The chickens have been bred for their breast-size, much like Hollywood actresses. You've gotten to the point that the poor little chickys can't stand up on their own, much less even flap their wings. All because we Americans like maintaining our fat asses, and it's way cheaper to grow one huge chicken than two little ones.

So, yes, I get why chickens, and more specifically chicken breast, has gotten bigger and bigger over the years. But this?

That's frickdiculous. Absofrickinlutely frickdiculous. Yeah, I had to double up on the made-up words to express the point. Thanks for that, too, Industry of Growers of Chickens.

Loveys and salmonella,

Sarah

And there you have peek number three into my brain- just in time for my dialogue with myself.

This morning, the first thing I typed to Cassie was, "i'm going to investigate a noise. if i'm not back in five minutes, call the police." She responded with, "will do".

I'm not entirely sure this was the most logical way for me to go about things.

In situations like this, I always debate my under-reaction and my over-reaction. I refuse to be the chick who calls the police over a noise at her window that ends up being a bird flapping around. But I'm also not going to be the one who is killed in her home because she startled a burglar. So how do I appropriate-level-react?

If I had called Sam, I figured he'd have said, "There's no one in the house... No, there's not... Honey, stop... Fine! What's it sound like?... What the hell does "two spoons" sound like?... I don't have any spoons to test it out, just tell me... Well, where's the noise coming from?... What do you mean you don't know? Find out... Find out... By walking around!... Listen, I don't have time for this. If you're really worried, call the police. If you're not, then just go!... Well what if it's the furnace exploding?"

See? He'd be no help at all.

But I figured at least someone should know that I was going to go all bad-ass investigator. I wasn't entirely clear on how Cassie would react to my request- had I not returned. Possibly, I put her in an awkward position. If it were me, I'd try calling her first. Although I'd wait longer. And then I'd get no answer and I'd call again frantically and still no answer and then I'd call the police and they'd balk at me and I'd demand they react and then she'd be dead, all because I'm a horrible person.

And now you've had your second peek into the running stories I have going on inside my head.

Alright, I just asked her what she'd have done.

me: okay, i have an important question
what would you have done if i hadn't come back in five minutes?
Flutterby: i was debating that, actually
prob at the 5 min mark, i would've msg'd you while digging through my chats, etc to find your address
i estimated it would take me an add'l 5 min to come up with your address and the number for your localish PD
and then I prob would've called bc better safe than sorry
i figured if you said 5 and you weren't back in the add'l 5, that was reasonable to make a phone call
then i would've played spider solitaire or something :P

She is apparently a better person than I. Better at keeping other people alive, anyway.

So back to the noise. I leave that message with Cassie, and I slowly walk into the front hallway to try to pinpoint the noise. The noise stops. Of course. I head toward the upstairs. The noise starts up again. Dammit! It's coming from the basement. (We all know how much I love the basement.) I open the door, peek down there, realize I can see nothing, and then belly-down on the floor to get a better view. Yes, yes I really do. I am about to go down the stairs when I realize, as I'm saying in my head, "this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid". Is it so stupid that I'm afraid to go downstairs? No. It's stupid to go down there without a weapon. So I turn around and search the living room. Connor's lunch bag- what the hell is that doing here instead of at school with him? Whatever, not a good weapon. Where's the bat? (Why did I think there's going to be a bat in my living room? I have no idea.) Crap. Weapon, weapon, weapon. There is nothing bludgeoningable in this room! I know, a knife! I tippy-toe into the kitchen, find a pointy knife. Wait. Would I be able to stab someone if it came down to it?... Yes, yes I could. Okay, down the stairs. Slowly, slowly. (Because someone who is hiding in my basement- playing with spoons- isn't going to have noticed me opening the door and sneaking down.) I squat down on the landing halfway down the stairs and rotate on the spot, searching the noise out. I'm not turning the lights on- better to be blind than to let the psycho-spoon-playing-killer get a better view of me. Ah! What the hell is that?! Oh, the ping-pong table. (Why was this more threatening than all the other crap piled up in the basement? I have no idea. Because psycho-spoon-playing-killers are actually big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killers, I guess.) The noise kicks in again. Alright, that's it. The lights are going on because... because the sudden light will blind the big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer and I'll get the jump on him! (I watch entirely too much police-drama television.) The noise is coming from... there! Crap. The furnace. Why is the furnace playing spoons? Dammit, I hate it when Sam's right- wait, wasn't that in my head?

This was the point when the furnace turned off altogether. I couldn't therefore solve the mystery, but that was fine because it meant it wasn't a big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer. Screw it. Sam can solve the furnace issue when he gets home. So long as it doesn't blow up in the meantime.

Merry Christmas... and yes, he was back in at 6:20, and I expect him there again in five minutes.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring... oh, wait...

3:08am

*Knock Knock*
"Go back to bed," I say, groggily.
"But I threw up."
"Oh, no."

Poor Ethan. What a way to start Christmas. Poor me. Is there any possible way to get puke out of a mattress? Especially at three in the morning?

I set him up in a little nest right outside the bathroom door. He refuses the light being turned off, though. He's up again at 4:20. And by "again", I don't mean to imply that he sleeps in the intervening time...

5:10am

There is whispered conversation. Connor greets Ethan.
"I'm throwing up."
"On Christmas?!"
Because he has a choice in the matter? He didn't take into account the scheduling conflict?

Emily and Connor wait while Ethan throws up again at 5:20. There's nothing for it. We give up on the notion of sleep and go down to rip open some presents.

We've finally given in and given Connor his cell phone. I decided to put it in his stocking, since it's normally the last thing they tear into, yet it's the first thing he does. I hurriedly grab the video camera to catch his reaction. He's shocked into silence for a solid three seconds. A record. I look down. The friggin' camera is paused.

Moving on, I pull a large present out from under the tree to give to Ethan. Apparently this is the keystone gift. The tree decides it would prefer a horizontal life. It dumps water everywhere, breaks a tree-side's worth of ornaments, and irreparably damages the tree stand.

I think it's time to break out the espresso flavored vodka for my coffee.

I hope this morning is going better for everyone else.

Oh, wait. Here's my wine!

So, my kid. The oldest one. He turned twelve recently. Twelve. What the hell? I'm not sure how all that happened, but it did. My friend, Cassie, passed along birthday greetings:

Flutterby: your kid!
had a birthday
happy birthday to your kid!
me: didn't we already talk about his birthday?
Flutterby: we talked about that he was going to have one!
and then i forgot
me: oh
okay!
Flutterby: and i don't wanna lose my place as favorite online flutterby/cassie
me: happy it's-been-12-years-and-you-still-haven't-lost-the-weight to me!
Flutterby: woohoo!

It's been a very long and a very short dozen years. I was reminded of just how long the journey has been when a customer came in today, close to tears. It seems that she had just had to ditch the grocery store because her two year old terror angel had refused to sit in the cart. She was, at that moment, still in desperate need of food because the cupboards were bare- all young-mother-hubbard-esque. And also he refused to get dressed for twenty minutes this morning- what she was waiting on him for, I don't know.

Poor woman was at the end of her rope. I did not ask where the kid was, at this point, or why he couldn't be wherever the hell he was now while she ran to the grocery store. I also did not point out that the terrible-twos are far outawfuled by the terrible-threes. (No one ever mentions this to first-time parents of two year olds because we're all afraid they might decide to just cut their losses now.)

Talking the woman off the edge made me grateful to be past those early stages, but it also reminded me... oh shit, y'all, I'm about to have a teenage boy. I am so screwed- where's my wine?

Update (for Andy*) I have a lot of sympathy for the crazies. And I say "crazies" in only the most respectful way. The psychos kinda scare me, though.

So, hi. I'm Sarah. I haven't been around in a while, I know. Eeeehhhneeewaayyyy... I had a couple of interesting conversations at work. This is pretty much all you're getting out of me.

Customer: Hello.
Me: Hi. Can I help you with anything?
C: No. How are you?
Me: I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you?
C: I'm fine.
Me: That's great.
C: Did you go to college?
Me: I did indeed.
C: Oh. I did, too. I graduated from Yale in 1963.
Me: Wow. That's very impressive.
C: Thank you.

And he walked away. That's it. In its entirety. That was last night. The night before? This:

Me: How can I help you?
Different Customer: *blah blah pertinent to my job questions followed by:* You look very intelligent. Did you go to college?
Me: I sure did. (What? They both asked if I went to college, not graduated.)
DC: You look like you did. I bet it was an ivy league school.
Me: Nope, not a chance.
DC: Oh, but I bet you could have. So gorgeous and you don't look a day over nineteen. (Because if you didn't know he was crazy before this, you do now.)
Me: Thank you?
DC: Okay, thanks for your help.
Me: Have a good evening.
DC:Do you go to church?
Me: I do not.
DC: Do you believe in God?
Me: Yep.
DC: Do you read the bible?
Me: I have. (No, really. I have.)
DC: Do you believe in Jesus?
Me: Sure, there's a lot of evidence to support his having existed. (Honestly, it didn't really matter what I said; he was only listening to him anyway.)
DC: Do you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ who died for your sins so that you might live in heaven?
Me: Yes, absolutely.
DC: Do you repent for your sins and ask for forgiveness in confession?
Me: Okay, then. You have a good evening.

Update: *Because that crazy beyotch went and shut down her comments and I'm far too lazy to go emailing people... Andy! I'm totally with you. I've been talking to a friend online for well over two years (friggin' 696 conversations in gmail alone), and I'd probably crawl into a corner and rock back and forth and mutter to myself if she ever visited my area. Take comfort, Andy, in that I am (potentially) as effed up as you. Oh, and you're not one of the crazies. It's just coincidence that this is the "crazy" post. Really. No, really.

Would Calling it "The Face of Jesus" be a Little Much?

It's a friggin' miracle- of Buddy Jesus proportions, anyway. I cut into a green pepper that I grew all by my onesies in my own backyard garden. Lo and behold:

It even has eyebrows!

Be happy.

And listen, no one come and tell me that this means the pepper was contaminated with typhoid or something. We already ate the pepper, so I'd rather just not know.