Truth or Hair; Are You Pristine Down There?

If you are feeling "kinky" down there, "hair no evil" girlfriend.

I just learned of a new product today from another savvy sisters blog. Ok, when I first heard of "Betty hair Dye...for the hair down there, I have admit to laughing.

I guess The drapes should match the carpet..right?

Then I got to thinking about my own situation. Now I have always been a natural Blonde, with the last several years off admittedly highlighting my hair for some shine, golden highlights and added body...(somehow the extreme damage we pay big bucks for makes styling easier.) But just when I thought I was "up on things," I had an enlightening conversation with my "in the know" sister-in-law. Everything I know about any current trend, I glean from our 20 minute phone conversations griping about carpooling and our combined relatives. It went something like this:

SIL: Oh I have a landing strip now, did I tell you?

Me: A what?

SIL: A landing strip...ya know..down there??

Me: You shaved?

SIL: Noooooo, I had a wax, a semi-Brazilian done at the salon today...it's amazing! Everyone is doing it...sexy, clean, feels nummy in lace....your brother LOVES it!

Me: (Gagging at the visual of my brother even having sex...) "Did it hurt"?

SIL: I don't remember. They gave me lots of Chardonnay while I waited.

After hanging up I immediately raced to the bathroom and stripped naked from the waist down. God dang, is this even acceptable? I mean, I keep the garden trimmed but how much better can a wax job be for $35 plus tip?

I had an appointment within five minutes.

I had never given my pubes much thought with the exception of the regular "gray pube" check because apparently this is where they will spring up first, and when that happens I will simply shit.

The next day, while laying on the wax table I found myself with the same jitters of first time sex, not knowing what to expect, or if my parents would walk in.

I sat in a teeny pair of paper panties with bees imprinted on them, while listening to a vat of 200 degree wax bubble in the corner like a cauldron. The tech walked in, explained the procedure and with the ease and skill of a surgeon began twisting me into impossible positions while slathering me with hot honey wax with a wooden tongue depressor.

Watching this would be every guys dream I thought. I could put this on U-tube.

She next began pressing several (I'm taking like 30) strips of fabric over each tiny wax application, rubbing it and........ R-I-P-P-P....... tore it back. My eyes started to tear up when she moved towards the back end....geez!

I asked for a spinal block. They didn't have one. She gave me more wine.

Now with my new found partial wax jobs (Yes I have done it three times since) I am hooked and cannot imagine NOT doing it. She was right. Something about sliding on a Victoria Secrets lace panty afterwords is an amazing feeling.. even jeans feel great.

Now, apparently there is more work to be done....so I relented and ordered my very own "Blonde Betty" kit tonight. I am going to drink three glasses of wine, get a cab to my next wax job, treat myself to more underware and promptly come home and finish off the landscape myself.

I will blog about the results unless I damage myself beyond repair.

Here is what the owner of "Betty" had to say on her website at: http://bettybeauty.com/our_story.html


"...WOW! Thanks to everyone for your support. Betty is getting so much love and attention! From Vogue Magazine to Daily Candy, fans have been finding out about Betty and reaching out. We have heard from young and old, male and female, from New York to Sydney Australia! Once you try it, please let us know how you like Betty -- your feedback is important. Get your Betty ready!"

Back in New York, I told a salon-owner friend about it. She responded, "I'm sure my clients would love a product like this, and I'd use it myself!" Not only did she like the idea of matching her chestnut brown hair, but also - she confessed - she desperately needed to cover some grays she'd recently discovered down there!

My next stop was to ask a gynecologist friend to estimate the percentage of her clients whose hair down there didn't match the hair on their heads. As it turned out, almost no one matches!

The Mystery of HGUG
 

Every woman knows what HGUG is.

Its the ongoing mystery of "hot guy ugly girl" syndrome. To me it is right up there with other universal mysteries such as "why do bath towels smell funny after one use" and  "why do I always get seated next to people who smell on airplanes".

Women just don't understand what vibes these unattractive mavens emit to gain the undying devotion of a guy who looks like he is a district manager for Hermes or Chang, writes her love letters as hipster Haiku's, knows just how she likes her coffee, rubs her back during a football game and washes her car every Saturday morning in a tight black tank top.

Here is a prime example. Years ago there was a really good looking guy in my department at the airline I worked for.Any of us girls would have licked his spit off the floor just to get a taste of him.

When we heard that Felicia "face-picker" Johnson was engaged to Mr. "we want to smell your neck and taste your spit", none of us believed it, that is until she showed us the rock on her pudgy little finger. Watching her beam from ear to ear in her Christmas sweater with light up snow man, was when I heard the sound of my nervous system collapsing.

I have since wondered what these girls do to get these guys. These girls who are sweet..... but come ON people, we are talking ugly like what happens when first cousins have kids kind of ugly.What do these girls do to get these guys?

Do they make a mean lasagna? Acrobats in the sack?

OK, here is the scary part. I have always thought the guys I dated are hot.But what if I am one of these UG's with an HG and nobody is telling me? What if I am only a 2 on the 1-10 scale? (Yes, every girl secretly wishes she knew her number but is to afraid to ask).

The trick here is to ask a guy what he thinks of another random girl in a restaurant. We choose a girl who is better looking than what we think we are. When he says she's a 9 we can rest assured we are near 7 (If he says 5 it takes a full 30 minutes and two more Gin & Tonics to lubricate my brain that I am a 3.

There is also the reverse problem of HGUG (Hot girl-ugly guy) The beautiful girl with a killer body who laughs at everything "stinky bald guy" says, rests her hand on his arm and swings her flowery smelling tresses, but we all know the answer to that one.

Money.

So with that said, I will continue to wonder what is up with HGUG as I see these mismatched couples frolicking and kissing in the park. And if I am one of them... I never want to know.

Exorcism and Pound Cake


Most of my yoga friends are into the occult on some level; it seems the two go hand- in- hand. Just because you can bend funny, do you need to become a witch?

I'm not much for the stars, it scares me and I know why.


Call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from all the deliverance attempts I watched my mother perform in our living room as I hung over the banister watching at age nine, with my clueless pajama-clad brother next to me, excavating his nose.


I always knew when Mom made coffee and pound cake; Satan was coming to visit.


I guess if you "found Jesus" back in 1974 you must have received some sort of certificate giving you the go ahead to drive out dark forces in a twelve-by-thirteen living room with worn green carpet without a second thought.

I think my mother expected dramatic results of head-spinning-mouth-foaming-seizure-inducing proportions to manifest,but all she got was some lost soul sitting in one of our plaid Lazy-Boys with a cup of coffee in hand, waiting for something to happen.

She would try to practice her new "spiritual gift" on others, sometimes cruising a party listening for any mention of illness. New catch phrases became commonplace in our household. Words like "church split", "seeker friendly church", "prayer circles", "rapture", "second coming", (has nothing to do with sex) "slain in the spirit", "under the blood", "tithe" "redeemed", "and "spiritual warfare".


These deliverances were new and exciting to my now "Earth Shoe clad" mother, but they didn't stop at mere mortals.

It soon became apparent as a handy venue for broken appliances, lost keys and attempts to raise our three dollar gerbils from the dead.

She once walked around the house in a frenzy verbally rebuking Satan and demanding he return her lost sunglasses, claiming "spiritual harassment."

(I always doubted that Satan got-off on screwing with sunglasses in all his spare time down in Hell.)

My skeptical father walked outside and located the glasses in her car,shaking his head. She insisted an angel returned the bug-eyed-wonders swearing they were not there before.

I wondered why an angel wouldn't have just put them back in her purse.

My Mother eventually started leaving tiny booklets in public bathrooms all over town, which outlined in grave detail "How to be Saved" with cartoon pictures of colorful hippie's in bell bottoms burning in hell.

I could never imagine someone dropping to their knees in a Walgreens restroom reciting the sinners prayer under a hand dryer.


Our home was also stripped of all remnants of a "secular" life.

Shot glasses were removed along with yarn "God's Eyes" from our trip to Mexico, all "Woman of..." calendars, Sonny & Cher, the Cowsills and Neil Diamond found their new home in the attic. Gone were all brandy sniffers,Donny Osmond records (including matching lunch box), Native American Art, poker chips, dice, family Vegas photos, questionable movies or books, and any Far Eastern furniture (unless we were prepared to say we picked it up on a Missions trip)

Christian magazines replaced lingerie catalogs in my parents bathroom and Bible quiz trophies magically appeared on our dressers (I think Dad had them made for the occasion..as I have never won a thing in my life).

Halloween was strictly off-limits replaced by fake substitutes called "Harvest Parties" meeting at churchs or "Home Group", decorated with scattered hay bales and cornstalks instead of witches and ghouls.

Every child showed up as a generic "Bible Character" in a sheet, belted with a rope from the garage, wearing borrowed sandals. If we chose not to go, we sat in the dark in the basement eating burnt home-made popcorn balls until all trick-or-treater's were safely back home with their pillow cases full of chocolate.


Soon my parents bought matching guitars for prayer meeting worship sessions. (The last thing I ever remember they bought that matched was a set of red-white and blue bowling balls for the "beer-n-bowl" league a year earlier.)

Always the Euntrepreneur, I quickly figured out that storage unit companies should market to newly converted Evangelicals to hide their crap so kids from other new Evangelical families won't accidentally stumble on their booty.

Then there was the time our washing machine broke.

I found Mom in the laundry room, kneeling on top of the groaning metal mass laying her hands on its bubbling lid, rebuking demons at the top of her lungs, with rollers in her hair,and her blue smiley face earrings swinging madly back and forth while forcefully demanding Satan to take his hands off the Maytag, restoring it in whole in the name of Jesus.

Looking on with a friend, taking in this washing machine revival for a minute or two, I decided I needed to get her out of there fast. If she told her parents, I was doomed. Any future overnights or birthday parties would be out of the question.

Walking upstairs we grabbed a handful of cookies, taking full advantage of Mom's dealings with the Devil.

Normal just was a setting on a dryer in our house.

Some years later my parents had a garage sale and got rid of the "Bible on tape" series, dozens of eight tracks of the Gaither Trio Singers, three worship tambourines, sandals, earth shoes, the miracle sun-glasses, guitar sheet music and mass amounts of literature and VCR tapes on The End Times.

Later that summer I saw Jesus at Walgreens wearing my Mothers old sunglasses, buying a Gaither Brothers CD.

He winked at me and walked out.

He was wearing Earth Shoes.

So You Think Your a Stud do Ya?

Ok we've discussed all the things that girls shouldn't do to get a guy. What about the things guys shouldn't do when trying to get a girl?Things that make us want to jam a sissors in our retina just to get out of a date with them once we actually see them; realizing they don't look at ALL like their picture.

A few years back, a newly divorced friend of mine wanted to post herself on a dating web site and solicited my help in writing it. (Becareful what you ask for)!

So instead of listing all the charming attributes us gals seek in a guy (because we all know that men are in a constant state of denial and will think they posses all things good, regardless..)

I decided to list what women WOULDN'T want and throw these simple creatures for a loop. They would either have to "think" and quite possibly a light bulb would go off in their head, or they won't respond at all, thus weeding out the undesireables because no guy can change all his crap this fast, nor could he hide it.

It was the perfect personal ad and it read something like this:

Woman seeks mate for her best friend. I am writing this because I know her better than she knows herself and I have seen her laugh, cry, break stuff, PMS, barf, seen her sober and drunk, peaceful and hysterical, and laugh until she peed her pants on several occasions. She is blonde and tall and beautiful and if you mess with her heart, you will have to tangle with me...not a good thing as I have nothing to loose.

I seek a man for her who has a credit score that is higher than the number of women he has slept with. Must have a high end rental or home without blinkers on it. No souped up Cameros, fuzzy dice, duct taped windows, or ash trays on the dash with two-way tape.

No sticky bean bag chairs with porn mags hiding underneath it, no plaid sofas with wagon wheel arm rests. No black light posters, no speakers over one foot tall (I don't care if you got them free from the drive-in that closed in 1978) No light-up running boards on your truck, no chains outlining your license plates.

No decorating with shot glasses, jars of pennies, match books from trips, no Vegas spoon rests, cork, beer can pyramids, Budweiser towels as drapes, no spool end tables, deer or fish heads mounted on the walls, no TV trays, no nasty smelling bed sheets with crust in the center, no wooden tree clocks from the Sate Fair, no paneling, no hanging plants from a macrame holder you made in home economics your senior year. No dishes with dried egg on it mixed with ashes and ketchup in the sink.

Must have all original body parts, this includes hair and orthodontics. No mullets, no yellow teeth and must know what tooth whitening and floss are. No smoking, no B.O, no crotch rot or over grown patches of nasty-ass pubes (WE don't need the floss)

No Brut or Racquet Club, Polo or Old Spice cologne in your glove compartment to mask it either. No wide belts with name stamped in, no turquoise belt buckles, no Frye boots circa 1982, no Members Only jackets, no diamond earring studs or gold chains, no pink polo shirts with flip up collar.

Must posses an impressive job or talent.

Job must not be related to any of the following: "Sales rep", account rep, (aka: collections jerk) public relations,band member trying to hit it big, bowling alley manager, bouncer, fast food, casino or airport custodian, no working at Jiffy-Lubes or similar (I don't care if you are lead oil change guy), no used car dealerships, or any 100% commission jobs of any kind...this means you are so damn behind on your draw, that you live with your mother or she pays your trailer rent and makes you and your friends tater-tot hot-dish to eat while watching the game and you spend all your extra money on Tivo and beer.

Cannot be a boring conversationalist, talking only about yourself, any vile baggage, old parole officers you now party with, treatment center flings, sexual addictions you are "working to overcome" or speak of any physical attribuites of old girlfriends, ... this includes all sorts of reminiscing and rants.

If you still smoke pot with your friends every weekend, and have a Frisbee collection to de-seed it, you grow it, or deal it while looking forward to drinking the bong water and possibly making muffins or a BBQ marinade with it;

... you need not apply.

When my friend returned home that night, she found dozens of emails waiting. She called me screaming..."they said ..." I want your friends phone number who wrote this"..............you so suck!!

(I guess some men do get it)!

Do my tricepts look small in this shirt?

I'm lighthearted once again on day three of my period (spotty, no cramps) gives me new clarity on life as the horns have retreated back into my skull secretly covered by my hair until next month; when I will crawl back into the bitch cave and feel sorry for myself.

Why do women always nag men?

"Do these jeans make my butt look big"?

"Do you think that waitress is pretty"?

"Do you like me as much as you did 4 minutes ago when I asked you last"?

"If I gained 387 pounds, would you still want to have sex with me"?

Does a guy ever say to a girl: "Does this shirt make my tricepts look small"?

It's unfair to put a guy through this twisted mind screw.

Bottom line, guys don't express themselves because they are simple creatures.

They like you if they spend time with you. Once he is with you, don't ask him if he really, really, really likes you.

He's there.

He likes you on some level. Go with it already.

Guys also show their affection by putting up with us. We spend one complete week a month being moody, short tempered and needy. They also put up with the fact that they will get one week of NO real sex, dreading the verbal attacks.... and find us head first in a bag of chips with an empty ice cream pail next to the Midol while sobbing uncontrolably at a Hallmark commercial.


I contacted some of the closest males in my life asking for suggestions for a testosterone prospective. (I was fully expecting to hear "three feet tall, no teeth and a flat head to rest a beer on..." Here is the short list:

Learn to accept football
Don't wear a costume that requires a mustache
don't always leave him with the bill
Avoid celebrating every occasion and half anniversaries
don't own a dog that fits in your purse
don't doodle your first name and his last name
don't derail the "fun" train at week twelve and emerge in sweat pants
don't surprise him with short hair
And DON'T do any drunk dials no matter how tempting when you are out with your girlfriends.

Also don't buy clothes for him (You see them coming a mile away..the guy in the lime green sweater looking like he is going to cry, with "arm candy girl" at his side beaming while he is in his own cashmere hell.

Don't cling like a bad rash and don't stare at him while he sleeps. That's just plain creepy. (P.S. Your Psycho)

My tip to girls: Never be the wild woman you are in the sack right off the bat. Hold the missionary position for as long as you can without falling asleep, and when he suggests flippping you over, say your "embarressed, scared or you feel dirty"... (Hide the fuzzy handcuffs, gadgets, lotions, and gizmos until later telling him they are "new")

Recycle those old moves later.