peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

I’m not sure why our society is obsessed with removing unwanted hair.

I remember back in the seventh grade, desperately wanting to shave my legs. I begged my mother. She said I could, but only up to the knee. That was a lovely sight. Hairless calves. Hairy thighs.

Then in the ninth grade, I discovered tweezers. And proceeded to overpluck my eyebrows.

Shave this. Shave that. Tweeze this. Pluck that. Blast that unwanted hair!

It wasn’t until the past decade that I discovered waxing. Professional eyebrow waxing. Upper lip waxing.

Over the years, when it came to swimsuit season, I simply used the razor to tidy up. No problem.

But I kept hearing about the wonders of bikini waxes. Friends told me, “You should totally do it!” But I put it off. Until right before my trip to Hawaii, when I put “bikini wax” on my to do list. Yeah, I totally did it!

And here are four things I learned about a bikini wax:

1. It was embarrassing.
2. It hurt.
3. Wear your pretty bikini panties. Oops.
4. Be clear with what you want. Oops.

I wasn’t exactly clear with what I wanted. Maybe it was the language barrier?

Let me just say that it’s a good thing hair grows back. Because two words: Hitler’s moustache.

My daughter decided to chop off eight inches of her hair while we were on vacation. I (mostly) try to support her when she makes her own decisions. So, a visit to SuperCuts in Kihei, Maui, and 25 minutes later: done.

Why did she do it?

a. She wanted a change.

b. She likes to make her own decisions.

c. Her hair was so tangled from salt water and chorine that she was forced to cut it.

d. All of the above.

Dude! It’s always “d.” Duh.

Rest assured, no self-confidence was cut.

Shopping for frozen blueberries at Costco, hurrying before I picked up my daughter from basketball practice. It was an unlikely place and time for me to meet a stranger, who told me something amazing and lovely.

The stranger and I started chatting. We both talked how we’re trying to eat healthier these days. How his wife likes spinach in her smoothies too. (Who knew?) How he’s worried that his daughter isn’t eating enough protein. Blah, blah, blah.

And then, out of the blue, he exclaims to me:

“You look radiant!”

It wasn’t flirting, I mean, dude! I was in yoga pants and a Nike hoodie…not exactly my sexy outfit.

Radiant?! It’s not something you hear every day. Remember Wilbur, the pig from Charlotte’s Web?

Radiant: adj. Emitting rays of light; shining; bright; bright with joy, hope.

On the way to pick up my daughter, I couldn’t help but smile. A big, beaming, radiant smile.

Sometimes it takes a stranger to see you for who you really are.

I have a pretty high tolerance for the gross, bizarre, and inappropriate.

However, my conversation with Barbie raised some TMI (too much information) eyebrows.

Last weekend, Barbie groomed my eyebrows at the brow bar. I had been there before because Barbie is a pro. Except her name isn’t actually Barbie, but it might as well have been with her long blonde hair, blue eyes, tan in the winter, perfectly groomed brows, perfectly fake breasts, thin body.

While she was waxing my brows, we started chatting.

About the new recipes we tried. Barbie likes to make Chicken Cordon Bleu.

About her commute. She drives 40 minutes to work.

About her new apartment. And her boyfriend. And how he just bought her a head-to-toe laser hair removal treatment.

Whoa!

But then Barbie kept talking about the procedure. In detail. Including the Brazilian.

TMI, Barbie!

“I’ll never have to shave again!” she exclaimed.

Yeah, thanks for the visual.

Looks can be deceiving. And eye opening.

The last time I took my kids swimming, it was: Splash! Slide! Marco Polo!

“You be the dolphin, I’ll be the shark!”

It was non-stop fun!

Another Mom caught my eye. She was a total hottie and was rocking her bikini. I stared. I couldn’t help it. She had a perfect body. I was instantly jealous.

Me? I was wearing my tankini. And, yeah, appropriately named. I kinda looked like a tank. But whatever.

The other Mom? She was gripping the pool’s edge. Not splashing. Or sliding. Or Marco Polo’ing. Or playing shark-eats-dolphin.

Why not??

I continued to glance over. What was her deal? Were her eyes sad? Wistful? I could feel her eyes on me. Was she watching me splash and play?

And then.

After the kids and I changed and piled into the car, I saw the bikini woman in the parking lot. Her face had a pained look; she was hurting. I now saw that she had M.S. and walked with a cane.

Wow.

It was truly eye opening. My jealousy instantly vanished. And like the Grinch, my compassion grew three sizes that day.

Yeah, yeah. I’ve joked about buying granny panties.

But see, the thing is, I often swing by the juniors department and pick up some pick-me-up panties. You know the ones I’m talking about.

So sexy! And fun!

And…tiny. They ride up too high in back and sit too low at my waist.

But who cares if they’re not comfortable? That’s not the point.

I have one pair with dice all over them. Dice?! As in “maybe I’ll get lucky” if I wear these.

Talk about sexy. Vegas, baby!

You know when you’re about to give a speech in front of a big crowd of people and you’re nervous? It is suggested that if you imagine the crowd in their undies, you won’t be as nervous. Yeah. So picture me in those dice undies. And have a laugh at my expense. At my lucky undies expense.

While at the hair salon getting my hair trimmed, highlighted, and glossed, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. You know the part, where she goes to the land of Oz the second time, and gets primped and fluffed?

Except my hair actually looked more like the lion. When the hairdresser combed it out, pulling out the curls, I was looking sorta crazy.

I admit, it’s always a little uncomfortable for me to be in the limelight. Either I make conversation or I stare into the mirror. But I sorta get sick of staring at myself. I tend to over-examine. How I applied my lipstick in a hurry and notice that it is askew. How my eyebrows need a little shaping. How I’m looking a little tired.

It’s always something.

But she doesn’t call attention to my imperfections. She sees plenty, I’m sure.

It’s the one hour and a half where I can just sit. And be taken care of. “Would you like some tea?”

When the hairdresser washes my hair, it’s my favorite part. It’s just not the same when I do it myself. I lather and scrub. Always racing the clock. Leaving the conditioner in while shaving. Always multitasking.

But the hairdresser? She takes her time. She massages. She uses plenty of hot water. This time around, I was so relaxed that I even dozed off for a few minutes!

After I was pampered and relaxed, instead of Dorothy, I was the woman in those stupid Calgon commercials. Remember those?

“The traffic. The boss. The baby. The dog…Calgon, take me away!”

This woman is losing it! Then cut to her in her tub of bubbles, oohing and aahing, relaxed and carefree.

That was me, but in the salon chair…Aveda, take me away!

I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers at Yeah Write this week. Check them out by clicking the badge below!

The invitation said “potluck” and “boating attire.” And “family welcome.”

A work party. At a home on a lake.

I should have read between the lines. WORK. Home on a LAKE. BOATING ATTIRE. In other words: FANCY. Not: Slip on some waterproof Keen sandals, bring the watermelon, and the dolphin-print beach towels under the arms of three over-excited children.

Potluck? That’s easy. I would make my broccoli-bacon-curried-almond salad. It’s yummy and a crowd pleaser. I chopped and mixed and tossed it into a Tupperware container. Done.

Attire? That’s easy. I wore my new purple Faded Glory peasant top. I bought it for $12 at Walmart–what a deal! It was bright and cheerful. Pair it with jeans. And my waterproof turquoise Keen sandals, of course. Perfect for a lake party.

Grab the kids’ swimsuits and beach towels. And we’re set.

My three kids in tow. Me with my Keens and cheap peasant blouse–which was feeling a little tight in all the wrong places–I was looking Lesbian-Frumpy Mom, all in one.

We show up. Ding dong. Were the watermelon wedges starting to slide off the tray? Were the kids a little over eager? Er, maybe the giant plastic bowl of broccoli salad didn’t look so pleasing after all.

You’d think we stepped into a Hollywood party. Everyone was in crisp white shirts and khaki linen pants. Ah, boating attire. That’s what that meant. Hors d’oeuvres and a yacht. Not hot dogs and cannonballs. My bad.

I was Faded Glory amidst the Ann Taylor crowd.

Pools of sweat began to puddle in my armpits. I made room for my homemade salad and watermelon wedges on the buffet table, amidst the hummus, fresh mozzarella with basil drizzled in olive oil, prosciutto, and charcuterie fare. I should have put my salad in my fancy Pier 1 bowl. Even the broccoli salad–though colorful and yummy–was not appropriately dressed. Dude! My salad didn’t seem to fit in either.

Then…splash! In jumped my kids into the lake, splashing the khaki linen crowd. “MOM! Did you see that cannonball?!” they yelled.

I grinned.

Yeah, we know how to make a splash, all right.

I’m linking up with some amazing writers and bloggers at Yeah Write. Check them out!

I was excited to receive a $100 gift card to a local spa. Ah, $100…I’ll get a massage, a pedicure, a manicure, maybe even a facial!

Uh, no. This spa was fancy-schmancy. One hundred dollars bought one pedicure. Or two “mini pedicures” for my mini me and me. I brought my daughter along for a girls’ day.

The waiting room was a meditation room. Bamboo. Candles. Orchids. Buddhas. A trickling fountain. Hot tea.

At least the hot tea was free. My daughter and I gulped down three cups each.

Two blond women in black smocks tiptoed in and led us through a dark hallways. Their feet were silent. White women with blond hair were gonna do our pedicures. Did you catch that?

The foot baths, lined with rocks, were piping hot. We each got a brief foot massage and basic nail care. “Bliss” pink polish for me. Blood red for my daughter.

• I asked, “Are you planning to scrape off some of the callouses and the rough skin?”
• “No,” she answered. “That’s not part of the mini pedicure.”

What?! My feet got robbed!

You know the saying…how you can paint a turd, but it’s still a turd? It’s even worse when you pay double for a turd paint job.

I have the prettiest, painted toe nails on the ugliest calloused feet. If it hadn’t been for that gift card, $100 could have bought a new pair of Adidas to cover these suckers up.

When I’m not getting ripped off at pedicures, I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers here. Check it out!