November 14, 2013

It's A Truth I Must Own Up To

After twenty-nine years of life (I don't know what the fuck Ordie O is laughing her ass off about) I'm reading romance novels. I'm a housewife who reads romance novels. Ugh.

Ya wanna wait two seconds before you write me off? Thank you.

Maybe this will help my case - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso on the cover.

Wait, clarification - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso wearing period pants. And by 'period' I don't mean the back of the closet pants we ladies wear during our monthly curse, I mean 'period' as in sixteenth century Duke trousers. Or more specifically, no historical romances for this girl.

Also, no vampires, werewolves, or otherwise non-human characters. This includes those that hunt the aforementioned paranormal entities. I'm kinda over billionaires, too. And spys because men are shady enough, a spy is just one who is a little better at being a lying bastard. Ain't nobody got time for that!

After reading Fifty Shades of Grey and Beautiful Disaster - no heroines under age 29. And no virgins. I mean really, if you haven't bought an overpriced tube of wrinkle cream or taken the walk of shame a time or two, I can't relate to you and therefore I cannot get on board with your obsession with the hero in your story. Even if he is the perfect blend of alpha-male bad-ass and sensitive future father of your children. 

That brings me to an issue I have with many romance books. The alpha-male bad-ass. Oh, so good in a Kristen Ashley story, not so good in real life. I can say this with 100% certainty - a relationship between me and any man Kristen Ashley created would have ended in bloodshed within two weeks. The first week and a half would have been spent having great romance novel sex, of course, but after that petered out, mother-fucker would have been on borrowed time because I'd be looking to beat him with a sock full of quarters for trying to boss me around. Christian Grey? That psycho would have been served with a restraining order by chapter three. Not even a closet full of designer clothes is worth that kind of fucked up. If you think about it in real life terms, I'm sooooo right on this.

So in conclusion, I read romance novels, but only the really good ones. Are we still friends?

September 12, 2013

An All Together Unholy Experience

Oooookay, yeah, I've been gone for a year. Or is it two? I don't know, but it's been ages, mkay? 

It's not like my life suddenly got so boring there was nothing to write about. I could have written three hundred and nine posts just on stuff Aidan said that nearly made me chew my tongue off to keep from laughing and therefore encouraging him. For instance, the time he told us that bison smell like whore. The kid hasn't changed, let's just leave it at that.

Oh, and remember Asher - AKA mini-SB? He's still running around here, fucking shit up and getting off scot free because he's too cute to beat. He's taken first grade by the horns by managing to have more frowny faces than happy faces on his take home planner and graciously accepting a write-up for bad behavior from his bus driver. He vowed never to get caught being naughty again. Were you paying attention? He vowed not to get caught, not to change the behavior. This parenting nonsense hadn't gotten any easier while I've been away.

Now for the reason I had to write today. This happened seven days ago and I'm just feeling mentally healthy enough to talk about it.

I, Amanda - Queen of Pain Really Isn't My Thing - got a Brazilian wax. 

Oh yeah, you see where this is going, don'tcha?

To tell that story, I have to tell you the events of a few weeks prior to the infamous Brazilain Incident. 

I decided I was tired of shaving the lady bits and off to the store I go. I returned home with supplies. Those supplies were as follows;

Veet wax strips because hell yeah, I was totally going to be able to give myself a perfect bikini wax with no ill effects. 
Tend-Skin because I'm a girl who prepares. I mean, I was going to do an amazing job and would have no use for it because I would not have anything to 'tend' afterward but better safe than sorry, right?
Veet hair removal cream in the unlikely event that I overestimated my professional equivalent skills in waxing and still had hair.

Into the bathroom I went. I slapped on the wax strip, pulled my skin taught and inflicted a pain onto myself that I can only describe as satanic. Then I repeated this many times. By the time I had used ten strips, roughly eleven hairs had been removed.

Well, shit.

I'm not one to dwell so I quickly moved along to plan 2. Hair removal cream. 

Not pleasant and I was only down another eleven hairs. 

Well, shit. 

I ended up shaving, 

Fast forward to last Thursday. I go in to have a wax professionally done which grotesquely morphed into The Brazilian Incident.

I did not cry, I did not scream. What I did was plot the slow, painful death of the woman wielding the wax. She deserved everything I came up with, too. Trust me. But live through it, I did. Kudos to me.

Half an hour later I'm at home seething when I find errant hairs in the area that I just paid that sadist to ensure none remained. 

Pay attention, folks, this is where this goes horribly wrong. 

I grabbed my supplies and tried to wax those hairs myself. More unpleasant than the professional sadist waxer but I was still standing so I win, right?

Nope. Hair is still there. I lose.

So I reach for the hair removal cream. And proceed to apply a thick layer. To the notoriously sensitive area I have just paid someone to inflict trauma upon and then added to that trauma with my own two hands. 

Shut the fuck up and stop laughing, I'm not done telling the story!

Instant, mind numbing, fiery pain like I have never before felt in my twenty-nine years on this planet erupts in that notoriously sensitive area. I can only explain it as feeling like my who-ha was one kitchen chair somewhere in Hiroshima and the atom bomb was dropped and all of that power and fire and energy was concentrated onto that one specific chair. In other words, it fucking hurt like a fucking mother fucker.

And then it went numb. 

When the cream was gone, just take a guess at what was still down there. Waving at me. Sticking it's tongue out at me. Taunting me. That mother fucking hair, swear on everything I hold dear!

Well, shit.

Seven days later the chemical burns are slowly healing and I can walk somewhat normally again. Aren't you glad I'm still around to at least be one person who does dumber shit than you do? Me, too, guys. Really, I mean that from the bottom of my heart.