Living in the country has it’s perks.
I don’t have to close my blinds when I change my clothes. I can burn crap in my yard.
I can even shuck my shorts and pee in my backyard.
Not that I would do anything like that cause I’m a lady and all…but I could if I wanted too.
However, living in the country has it’s downfalls and you can run into the majority of them in one November week.
Yes, people. A snake…in November. Is it ever safe?
This made me pee on myself in the backyard.
This is one of the reasons I married my husband. ‘Cause he ain’t afraid of snakes.
And I am afraid of snakes.
The other reasons I married my husband are:
1. Parallel parking.
2. Killing wasps.
And for those times when I go out to feed the farm cats in my screened in porch during the wee hours of the night and scream hysterically, he comes running with a flashlight.
And when he hollers for a gun and I bring a pistol, he doesn’t laugh but patiently explains which rifle he needs…
So he can shoot a rabies infested critter in my porch without shooting the gas grill tank and blowing up our house…
Yes, I married him because he’s a sharp shooter who can kill raccoons on my porch.
There, I said it.
And because he will clean up all this after the massacre…
He married me ’cause I’m FABULOUS.
DISCLAIMER: IF I AM YOUR CHILD OR MARRIED INTO YOUR FAMILY, THE FOLLOWING POST MAY BE TOO EMBARRASSING FOR YOU TO READ. IF YOU CHOOSE TO CONTINUE, PLEASE DO SO AT YOUR OWN RISK OF EMBARRASSMENT.
MY MOTHER READ THIS IN ADVANCE AND ASK THAT I NEVER REVEAL HER IDENTITY OR WHEREABOUTS.
So, I know it’s been awhile since I’ve graced your presence with my witty nonsense. It’s not that there’s not been anything to share, I mean I have been out to eat at on old elementary school that has been converted to a restaurant AND consignment store…that also included live entertainment by a one arm country singer…it’s just that I’ve been somewhat under the weather.
However, this tidbit is simply to good to pass up.
Last year for Christmas I was gifted with a gift certificate for some laser hair removal treatments and because I am a grateful person, I decided I needed to partake in this thoughtful gift…because if someone wants me to be less hairy, then maybe I should take the hint.
Anyhoo, the laser hair removal package consists of 5 treatments that all have to be used within a year’s time. After much consideration, I decided having my bikini area treated would be my best bet seeing as I go to the beach alot and shaving down there really is a pain in the…well, you get the idea.
Earlier in the year, I had the first three treatments completed and the experience was tolerable. It wasn’t something I would want to do everyday but in the bigger picture of things, it wasn’t that bad.
But the thing about laser hair removal is that with each treatment, the laser gets more intense.
Moving right along to last Wednesday when I scheduled my fourth treatment.
One on hand, it was a beautiful day. 70 degrees. Sunshine. Three hours without my children. HOLLA!
On the other hand, I have to get completely naked from the waist down and lay frozen peas on my nethers for 15 minutes to numb my skin.
So far…so good.
Next the aesthetician puts freezing cold jelly on my hoo-haa with a tongue depressor and engages me in senseless small talk.
Still…no kids for three hours. Not that bad.
Then she explains to me that they will increase the laser for this treatment and it may be a little “hot” and just to let her know if it’s too much for me to handle.
“OK, but I had my last baby without anything…I think I can handle a little laser….”
Holy Ritz Cracker.
My lady envelope got hot…and not in a good way.
This was hot…like frying bacon in a cast iron skillet hot. Like jalapenos in your eyes hot. Like snorting Frank’s Red Hot.
No wonder hair won’t grow down there cause there’s no freaking skin left.
I mean, it got to the point that I could no longer take it and I ask her to stop and she just giggled and said, “I’m almost done.” Really, like I care at this point if I have hair on my poochie poochie.
Upon leaving, I texted Rico and said: It is on fiiiiiirrrrrreeeeee. Sweet Jesus. I dun burnd my lips off….ohmygaaaaa!!!!
His reply, “I will be home tomorrow. It better be working.”
Happy Birthday Love.
I can’t believe you’re three.
Wait, yes I can. I haven’t slept for three years.
For the last 1,095 nights I have been up and down, kicked and thrashed. I have been flooded with pee. I have run up and down the steps all hours of the night getting you bologna…peperoni’s….Kool-Aid….ANYTHING that might give me twenty more minutes of precious sleep.
Dazed, confused and waking up with dried pepperoni’s stuck to my head. You never gave in, all those nights, seeing me suffer.
Then I finally said to myself, “You know what, she may never sleep all night. She may never sleep in her own bed but at least I’ll know if she’s late for curfew when she comes home from a date…AND IT’S OK. IT DOESN’T MAKE ME A BAD MOTHER!”
I’ll give it to ya kid, you’ve got stamina.
A week after your third birthday, you decided I’d been punished enough. You slept all night in your own bed. 10 WHOLE HOURS.
Now that we know you can do it, if you don’t repeat it again tonight we’re gonna duct tape you to the bed.
Happy Birthday Chicken Little