Number 194 on Whitney’s Rules of Life: Never attempt a home bikini wax.
I’m all about do-it-yourself beauty. I happily do my own highlights, pedicures and eyebrow shaping. I adore those facials-in-a-box they’ve recently started marketing. But I should have drawn the line at home waxing.
I can’t even remember why I thought I needed a bikini wax. Razors have been working just fine for me for the past twenty-odd years. And it’s not like I spend my days lounging around in a bathing suit.
But for some reason, I decided It Was Time. And rather than booking an appointment at a salon, like a normal, sane person would do, I picked up a box of Sally Hansen extra strength wax at the drugstore. Yesterday, once George took Sam off to the library – I did think this through enough to decide that waxing would be difficult and messy enough, without adding a preschool audience to the ordeal – I got down to business.
I have had a bikini wax before, although that was nearly twenty years ago. I vaguely remembered it being painful but not unbearable. And since than, I’ve dealt with pregnancy and a Caesarian, so I figured the pain would be well within the threshold of what I could bear. After all, if Paris Hilton could do it – and she takes off way more than I was planning to – I could certainly handle it.
After heating the wax in the microwave, I spread some on the top of my thigh, slapped down the waxing strip, patted it, and without pausing, RIIIIIIIIP.
I didn’t wait for the pain to register. I soldiered on. Wax, strip, RIIIIIIIP. Wax, strip, RIIIIIIIIP.
It was after the third attempt, that the pain started to sink in. And it suddenly occurred to me that ripping large sections of hair off a fairly sensitive area of my body Really Fucking Hurts.
Keep going, I told myself. You can do this.
So I bravely slapped down another section of wax, patted on a strip . . . and completely chickened out. By this point, the already waxed areas were burning, red and bruised. And I had a long, long way to go before I was done. Yes, it was probably less painful than having a c-section . . . but I’d somehow forgotten that when having the surgery, they give you a spinal and numb you from the waist down. And then provide lots of nice, strong pain killers afterwards.
This was a bad idea, I realized. It was time to abort the mission.
But there was still that last strip to rip off. The only thing was, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, now that I was aware just how much it would hurt. Finally, I slowly peeled it off, which had the desired effect of not ripping out any more hair . . . but also left a huge section of now-drying wax stuck to my upper thigh. I picked at the wax, and rubbed it with the removal oil from the kit, but it wouldn’t budge. It took another half hour of scrubbing my already raw skin to get the damn wax off. And then after I put my jeans on, I realized – as the fabric stuck to my legs – that I still hadn’t gotten it all off.
But I’ve learned my lesson. No more home bikini waxes for me. Hell, no more waxing period, unless I can somehow talk the salon into giving me a nice spinal first. Or maybe a few shots of Tequila.
And if you ever find yourself thinking, “If Paris Hilton can do it . . .,” STOP RIGHT THERE. Trust me on this one. It’s not a good path to wander down.

So this is my day so far.
It begins early . . . although not as early as it would have begun, had I actually remembered to set my alarm clock. And then when George finally persuades me to get up – by turning on all of the lights and siccing the small child on me (“WAKE UP, MAMA, WAKE UP!”) – I realize I only have about twenty minutes to get said small child off to school. Commence frantic Eggo toasting, tooth brushing, child wrangling protocol.
Once child and husband are out the door, and I’ve ingested enough coffee to function properly, I pour myself a bowl of cereal. Proceed to eat half the cereal, before realizing the milk has gone sour. Dump cereal in sink, and gag repeatedly.
Bravely set off for the Florida Department of Highway Safety & Motor Vehicles to register my new-to-me car. Am told by the snippy woman sitting behind the information desk that George didn’t sign the title in all of the places that needed signing. Ask if I can just sign for him – citing spousal privilege, community property, etc., etc. – and Information Woman accuses me of attempted forgery. Leave with car still unregistered, wondering if the DHSMV goes out of its way to hire assholes, or if it’s just the inevitable result of employees coming into contact with the general public day after day.
Return home to learn that all of the reader reviews for MOMMY TRACKED on Amazon have mysteriously disappeared. Wouldn’t be a problem if they were bad reviews, but these were all 5-star ones. And poof . . . now they’re gone. Wonder if this is what Jane Green meant when she said looking at your Amazon reviews is like drinking from the poisoned chalice.
Discover small child has drawn happy faces in ball point pen on all of the throw pillows in living room.
It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, right?

I do not know why I continue to subscribe to Lucky magazine. Reading it always makes me feel (a) fat, (b) old and (c) cheap.
I page through the magazine, looking at pictures of skinny girls with glossy hair and expensive clothes, and instantly start channeling my grandmother:
“These girls, with their eight hundred dollar shoes! Eight hundred dollars! My first car didn’t cost that much. What do these young girls today think, money grows on trees?”
This month, Lucky featured an article on how to apply false eyelashes. Yeah, now there’s a skill I need to acquire. Between working at home and sitting in the car-line at Sam’s school, it’s a rare occurrence if I take the time to swipe on some mascara, much less to glue on a full set of fake eyelashes.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that no one in their thirties should ever wear false eyelashes. Not unless you want to look like Bette Davis playing Baby Jane or a drag queen. (Unless you are a drag queen. And even then, you might want to rethink the eyelashes.)
Honestly, this is why I prefer interiors magazines. Looking at pictures of pretty houses never makes me feel fat. Poor, yes . . . but not fat.

ME: How was school, pumpkin?
SAM: Good. I did show and tell!
ME: How did that go? Did you show your friends your dinosaur puppet?
SAM: Yes.
ME: What did you say?
SAM: I said, “This is my chicken. He is yellow.”
ME: But . . . he’s not a chicken. He’s a dinosaur. And he’s green.
SAM: [giggles]
ME: Everyone in this family has to be a comedian, huh?

I wrote an essay for mommytrack’d.com about the friendships that spring up between moms called “Mothers In Arms.” Check it out here.