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.
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:
It was embarrassing.
It hurt.
Wear your pretty bikini panties. Oops.
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.
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.
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.
Except. I’m not really a scarf-wearer. I’m more of a t-shirt-and-jeans wearer.
Coordinating work clothes puts me in a tizzy. What with the blouse, the cardigan, the skirt, the tights, the shoes, the accessories. It’s overwhelming to me.
But. I am thankful to receive presents.
So.
I consulted my fashionista 10-year-old daughter and even checked out a fashion website–http://www.refinery29.com/how-to-tie-a-scarf/–that details exactly how to wear a scarf. Did you know there’s a way to wear a scarf called The Neck Brace? And, yeah, when I checked myself in the mirror, I looked about as uncomfortable as someone wearing an actual neck brace. Stiff and awkward.
I tried the looping and the twisting and the wrapping. I paired my new lime green scarf with my black outfit, and headed into work. I walked into the meeting looking something like this.
What’s lurking in MY closet? I’ll tell you: crazy-ugly clothes.
But that was last week. Today they are gone. Yep, I got rid of 1/5 of my clothes. Just. Like. That.
Here’s how it went down. I was getting dressed for work and I was in a hurry. I tried on a black skirt and a black turtleneck sweater. I took off the black skirt because–for some lame reason–it wasn’t the SAME matching black as the sweater. I threw it onto the floor. So there I was, standing in my turtleneck sweater and tights. I’ll wear some boots, it’ll be swell. But what skirt? The grey one? Yeah, that’s it. I peered at my reflection. No! All wrong! I yanked off the boots and put on flats. I took another peek in the mirror. No! Still not right! I shimmied out of the tights and put on (boring) slacks. And grabbed my keys, purse, laptop, phone…and dashed out the door.
Ugh. I hate it when I’m feeling uncomfortable–and lacking confidence–in my clothes. I also hate it when I continue to make bad clothing purchases.
So I did what I had to do. When I got home, I proceeded to:
Grab
Assess
Dump
Pilling sweaters. Skirts of strange lengths. Baggy blouses. Gaggy patterns. Hideous materials. Ill-fitting pants. These are all stuffed into giant bags destined for…donation.
We had a plan to meet up for a visit. My good friend, Irma, and I. Easy enough, she eats at 4:00 p.m.
Admittedly, I scheduled our visit like she was another appointment in my busy day. Get the kids to school, jog, conference calls, dentist appointment, and client meetings, then meet up with Irma. I was to visit my “adopted grandmother” at her senior living community. I drove like a maniac in traffic.
I arrived late. The white-haired crowd had already dispersed from dinner. Dishes were clattering, as the bussers wiped away dropped napkins, rolling peas and spilled iced tea.
A friendly woman, named Barbara, walked me to Irma’s apartment. Apparently, all of the residents know her. How can you resist Irma’s charming smile, funny stories, and kind words? The door was unlocked, as always. I knocked and called out, “Irma! It’s me!” I didn’t want to startle her.
She wasn’t there. Her place was quiet and tidy. Silk flower bouquets. Hummel figurines. A loud ticking clock, marking the seconds. An afghan to cover cold legs.
I left the chocolate chip cookies I had baked on the table, with the lace doily. “Oh, you sweet Darling. You always do such nice things for me,” I imagined her saying. I wanted to hug her frail, ninety-something-year-old shoulders. And see her twinkly eyes and her dangly earrings. The pair I gave her a decade ago. Now, far too heavy for her drooping lobes.
Where was she?
She always showered me with encouraging, complimentary words. I needed my “Irma fix.”
I navigated the maze hallway, down the elevator, and outside to her raised bed garden. In the hopes that she would be tending her delphiniums. At that same moment, Irma was meandering the maze hallway, up the elevator, looking for me.
The delphiniums were a lovely shade of periwinkle blue–though a bit weathered through the heat of summer–and were staked up. With the hopes to stay strong and perky another month. Hopeful.
Circling. Searching. I must have passed the white-haired trio of women sitting on the bench gabbing and enjoying the evening air, four times. They gave me a perplexed look.
An hour later after I had left and was driving down the freeway, Irma called me with her sunshiny voice, “Hello, Dear! I am so sorry. I took a walk and checked my flowers and got caught up talking to one of my friends.”
Of course she did. That is just so Irma.
I smiled, “It’s OK. It was my fault for being late.” (And I mentally kicked myself.) “Let’s plan another visit in a few weeks.”
And I knew that when I said that, that I had better prioritize Irma in my over scheduled life.
Because friends should not be treated like appointments. And Irma, much like her beautiful delphiniums, will not last forever.
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First off, congratulations on your little ditty, Whistle, getting more than 107 million views on YouTube. I wonder how many of those viewers are girls under 12?
And, wow, Whistle was a top 5 single on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100. I wonder how many tweens are singing along, on their iPods?
Whistle plays on rotation on the Z100 radio station. Z100 pulls in an audience of five million daily. Many of them are like the girl pictured below. Isn’t she sweet and innocent?
Golly, you are reaching millions and millions of kids, with songs that are totally degrading to women. I am sure your Mama and Grandma would be proud!
Just keeping it real,
Pippi
Oh and here are the lyrics, so that you and your young daughters can, uh, sing along togehter in the car.
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, let me know
Girl, I’m gonna show you how to do it
And we start real slow
You just put your lips together
And you come real close
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, here we go
I’m betting you like people
And I’m betting you love freak mode
And I’m betting you like girls
That give love to girls and stroke your little ego
I bet you I’m guilty, your honor
That’s just how we live in my genre
Went to hell and paid the Rottweiler
There’s only one Flo and one Rida
I’m a damn shame, order more champagne
Pulled a damn ham string, trying to put it on ya
Bet your lips spin back around corner
Slow it down baby, take a little longer
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, let me know
Girl, I’m gonna show you how to do it
And we start real slow
You just put your lips together
And you come real close
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, here we go
It’s like everywhere I go, my whistle ready to flow
Shorty don’t even know, she can get any by the low
Tell me she not a pro, it’s okay, it’s under control
Show me soprano ’cause girl, you can handle
Baby, we start something, you come up in bar clothes
Girl, I’m loosening, my Bugatti the same road
Show me your perfect pitch, you got it my banjo
Talented with your lips like you blew out a candle
So amusing
Now you can make a whistle with the music
Hope you ain’t got no issue, you can do it
Give me the perfect pitch, you never lose it
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, let me know
Girl, I’m gonna show you how to do it
And we start real slow
You just put your lips together
And you come real close
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, here we go
Go on girl, you can perk it
Let me see your whistle while you work it
I’ma lay it back, don’t stop it
‘Cause I love it how you drop it, drop it, drop it on me
Now, shorty let that whistle blow
Yeah, baby make that whistle blow
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, let me know
Girl, I’m gonna show you how to do it
And we start real slow
You just put your lips together
And you come real close
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle, baby, here we go
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Can you blow my whistle, baby?
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Whistle baby, whistle, baby
Who knew that at gymnastics class
The other Mom would behave like an ass
When I tried to sit down
She responded in frown
And said “Seat’s taken” (you unworthy lass)
Yeah that.
I’m not sure who gave Moms the right to treat fellow Moms so poorly. What?! Your purse sitting on the empty chair–as a place-saver for someone else, who obviously is not here?? How am I supposed to watch my son climbing the rope, as he looks over to wave at me, so that I can wave back and give him a thumbs up?
From a standing position, by the door, obviously.
I felt like young Forrest Gump as he boards the school bus with his gimpy leg, and no one lets him sit by them. Except Jenny.
A tip to that Mom: the next time you are in a crowded waiting area, try to be more like Jenny and less of a “seat’s taken” kinda person.
My good friend invited me out to dinner with two of her friends that I didn’t know. A table for four, please.
I hesitated at first, because my Saturday nights are kinda sacred and are usually spent with my family, a movie, and a giant bowl of popcorn.
One of her friends was a delight. The other was a hater
I wasn’t prepared to spend my free time with a salad, hater on the side. I got flustered.
This one was skinny. Her hair in a sleek bob. Clad in a cashmere sweater, she pursed her lips as she looked me up and down with her x-ray vision.
I was 10 minutes late. I showed up in some dumb chunky sweater. My hair still wet from my shower. The three women were already buddied up in a booth. “A Blue Moon on tap, please,” I sang to the waiter, and squeezed in next to the cashmere-bob-pursed-lips one.
You know the awkward moment when the other women order appetizers as their dinners AFTER you order the Alaskan salmon and mashed potatoes and salad, with ranch dressing please. Yeah that.
My booth buddy (not) ordered an appetizer Caesar salad for her dinner. And couldn’t finish it. (When I told this to my real buddy Scott, @DiaperDads, he tweeted, “I just can’t get past fake-ass personas. Like we don’t know there’s a stop at Dunkin Donuts planned after eating salad.”)
Over dinner, I was explaining a project I was doing at work Miss Cashmere interrupted and sneered, “You WORK??!!”
As if working is a strange, new phenomenon.
“Uh, yeah, you DONT??!!” I wished I had retorted. I usually think of witty comments like two days after the fact.
“Another beer, please,” I nearly pleaded to the waiter.
The sauce on the salmon was delicious. And those mashed potatoes were perfectly buttered and garlicked. I envisioned licking the plate.
When the table got quiet, I felt the need to fill in the quiet with gab. So, I talked about my blog. My kids. My recent clothes purchases and returns. My latest recipe. My silly stories. I blathered. Did Miss Cashmere have any clever stories? No, but she sure seemed interested in putting my stories down.
When it was time to gather our coats and purses, my purse strap got tangled. I yanked it, flinging my purse to the floor, spilling its entire contents. Coins scattered and rolled every which way. Was this a metaphor of how I felt exposed?
Miss Cashmere was quick to smirk and eye roll.
I quickly collected my coins, wallet, receipts, gum, pens, bag of almonds, phone (and my dignity)–and shoved everything back. I smoothed out my chunky sweater over my full belly and gulped down the last of my beer. I stood up straight, smiled a fake smile, and uttered, “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for inviting me.”
I got the hell out of there, relieved to feel the Winter night air cool off my flushed cheeks. And I made it home in time to still score some late-night popcorn.
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I often wonder if I have enough friends. Enough of a support network. Enough pals to pal around with. Enough people to share stories with. Enough friends to connect with.
Yeah, I’ve got friends. Friends I knew since I was in school. Soccer friends. Family friends. Parents of my kids’ friends. Family. Facebook friends. Twitter friends. Neighbor friends.
But there are few friends that I can really talk to. About real stuff. When you need someone to listen. To be supportive. To share.
The other day, one of my friends and I hung out while our kids played, giving us lots of time to talk. Really talk. About raising our kids. About our spouses. About weight. About juggling and balance. About problems and challenges. About life.
It made me think, how many friends do you need?
Sometimes you just need one.
Here is one of my all-time favorite songs (I know this is not the original, but it’s the one I know):
I energetically mother three children: 14, 10, and 8, am married to my college sweetheart, and have two dogs. My life is full of laughs. eye rolls, love, and laundry. I'm friendly and genuine and blog about my bumbling life.
