Burning Daylight

I have a confession that may cause me to lose friends or at least miss out on some social invitations. There’s a condition called “social anxiety disorder.” There are prescription drugs for it. (I’m not a pharmacist, but I play one at home.) I clearly don’t have a full-blown case of it because I’m comfortable speaking in front of large groups, I’ve been known to be the life of the occasional party, and I would tell my deepest secrets to the old crack whore in line next to me at a convenience store. However, when it comes to certain events (not only attending them but simply contemplating attending them), I can empathize with the unfortunate victims of this disorder. Here’s why:

I would prefer never to attend the following: daytime receptions, tea parties, banquets, buffet dinners, office parties, baby showers, wedding showers, children’s birthday parties, and parties where you feel obligated to buy jewelry, candles, or kitchen paraphernalia. Each type of gathering gives me a somewhat different yet equally uncomfortable level of social anxiety. Mostly because they make me feel like I’m burning daylight. Like I could be doing something more productive with my time such as cleaning out a closet or organizing a junk drawer or alphabetizing my spices again.

When my kids were younger, I dreaded play dates for the same reason. I would take my kid to the cluttered house of some homely woman (often a neighbor or acquaintance) with whom I had nothing in common except for the fact that our kids were the same age and perhaps attended the same Mother’s Day Out program. The idea was that the kids would get a chance to play off some energy while the burned-out moms could sit and commiserate as they chat over coffee about what brand of diapers they use, their harrowing labor and delivery experiences, or how to manage to take a shower before their husband got home. So there I would be, sitting at some sticky kitchen table, drinking bad coffee with someone I didn’t click with, and trying to shift the conversation toward something funny or interesting while her kid is shitting his pants, eating boogers, and drooling all over my kid’s sippy cup. I would surreptitiously glance at my watch and think that time must have stopped. My stomach would churn and burn as I thought about all the things I needed to be doing at that very moment and throughout those few precious hours, such as laundry, or dishes, or napping, or the rest of the laundry. I would tune out the dronings of this bedraggled mother as I imagined her sharing her boring anecdotes and bratty gripes with prison inmates or psychiatric patients. Just as I would think I was going to implode with the anxious ennui closing in on me, my toddler would start crying or otherwise need tending to. I would then use the child’s alleged “nap schedule” as my excuse to run screaming to the solace of my car. I would no doubt then heave a sigh and perhaps utter some obscenities as I peeled out of her driveway.

Sure, they say we should stop and smell the roses and that it’s good for the soul to take time out of your busy day to just relax and enjoy a cup of tea or read a book or perhaps engage in some sort of useless craft activity. I’m sorry, but I’ve got shit to DO. I don’t sleep well; I work 40 hours a week (more or less) except when I’m driving kids to and from their appointments or events. I go to the grocery store, the gas station, the carwash, the cleaners, and the post office. I drop crap off at Goodwill; I pick up prescriptions at the drug store; I get the car’s oil changed; I think about going to the gym. I visit my chiropractor, my dentist, my hair salon, and my psychiatrist. When I do have free time, I like to spend it making lists of what I need to do the next day. I don’t have time to dilly-dally or lollygag at some social gathering. Does this make me anti-social? I don’t think so. There are plenty of other settings that do not make me want to have diarrhea. Such as my office, my bathtub, sushi restaurants, shoe stores, and most bars.

I’m not sure what makes me think the details of my daily life are more important than spending time with a few friends and several strangers at celebratory gatherings. I don’t know why I start shaking at the sight of a punch bowl or why seeing an order form at a “party” makes me want to shoot someone in the face. I can’t fathom what it is that compels me to avoid interaction at these events by taking leisurely strolls to the bathroom and then lingering in there until someone bangs on the door to check on me two hours later. And I know it’s rude to ignore perfect opportunities for small talk by pretending I have important business going on in my phone. I guess I just can’t fake enthusiasm as well as everyone else.

When I get an invitation to any of the aforementioned events, the first wave of anxiety is all about the RSVP. Great, I think. The person who has been kind enough to include and invite me has also been so cruel as to impose an impossible deadline upon me. I used to be great with RSVPs. It never bothered me at all to look at a calendar and call or e-mail my regrets. Now, probably because of my children, I usually lose the invitation somewhere between the mailbox and the house. And e-mailed invitations get even less attention.

If I must actually attend one of these soul-sucking time wasters, and if a gift is required, then my next wave of stress comes from the gift selection process. I have been known to spend a good hour and a half agonizing about choosing the perfect toy for a kid in my daughter’s class whose name I have forgotten and whose parents I don’t even know and who is probably a spoiled little asshole. When it comes to baby or wedding shower gifts, one might think that the registry lists are helpful. And they are; don’t get me wrong—at least they give me some guidance. But the problem then becomes finding something on the list that is within your budget. If I want to spend $50 on a wedding gift, it’s inevitable that the registry will only offer up items well above that price or a plethora of suggestions so far below it that I end up buying the happy couple a $20 knife, a $15 saucer, a $10 set of dish towels, and a $5 pot holder. If I want to spend $30 on a baby gift and run into a similar dilemma, I opt for a gift card and hope that the new mother is able to go shopping either before or after she finds herself housebound with a screaming infant, leaking breasts, and a torn up vagina.

When it comes to the contrived parties that are actually shopping-by-peer-pressure, I get a whole nother form of angst. I feel like I owe it to the hostess to buy something to compensate her for all the trouble she went to, what with the veggie tray and fancy napkins and box wine and all. I see all the other women oohhing and aahhing over this necklace or that gadget or this baking stone or that potpourri. I scan the catalog for something affordable that I also might not mind having. Of course, the things that are affordable are useless and would end up in my next garage sale. The things I wouldn’t mind having cost much more than I wanted to spend, seeing as how I didn’t really intend to go shopping that night. I usually end up spending too much on something I would never buy under any other circumstance, even with a gun to my head. As I turn in the order form, I feel instant remorse and regret. Along with an urgent need to empty my bowels. When I see the charge on my credit card bill a couple of weeks later, I suffer a flashback of that same remorse, regret, and urgency. Then, when the dreaded item arrives about six weeks later, there I go running with my angst to the bathroom again.

The bottom line is: If given the choice between attending one of these events and staying home, I would always prefer to stay home. And eat shards of broken glass. I might even rather sit through another Lord of the Rings movie or endure some opera or Broadway musical than subject myself to this slow torture. Will this diatribe decrease the number of invitations I find in my mailbox? I doubt it. I may spend two hours in their bathroom, but people still want me at their parties. Mostly because when I go, I buy something.

The 11th Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

When the rapture didn’t happen back in May, I began to dread gathering material for this annual update. Unfortunately, no major illness, injury, or humiliation befell any of us this year, so this letter will no doubt leave a gaping hole in your otherwise joyous holiday season. Feel free to send it back for a full refund. First, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the late Amy Winehouse for making a mockery of her blood-heroin content in my 2008 letter and to express my regret to those who were offended by last year’s inclusion of the words douche and testicles. Won’t happen again.

As a nation, we witnessed the last space shuttle mission, the death of Bin Laden, and Oprah’s final show (only to have her turn up on an entire network). Our country endured disasters like earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, wildfires, and heat waves, not to mention Weinergate and the Kardashians. As a family, we survived a road trip to Colorado where the age-old mayonnaise/Miracle Whip debate threatened to cut the vacation short. (The only casualty occurred when a slingshot-wielding Luke accidentally killed a bird. Then our dog, in a dazzling display of the circle of life, ate it.) For us, 2011 would have been embarrassingly uneventful if our dishwasher hadn’t broken and forced us to hand-wash and dry dishes for a harrowing three weeks. This low point left us feeling uncomfortably Amish. Rather than make the best of the tragedy and enjoy the extra family togetherness while teaching the kids about responsibility, we simply engaged in a bulk purchase of Solo cups and Chinet. The high point of our year occurred when the government shutdown was averted the same day the IRS cashed our tax payment check. You’re welcome, America.

In terms of providing me with useful material, the kids have been a colossal disappointment. Frankly, they’re getting older, less cute, and (in spite or because of my usually good-natured insults) more sensitive to what I say about them. (The public school system’s anti-bullying campaigns have really worked to my disadvantage around the house.) They have allowed me to tell you that their race to puberty continues to heat up. In fact, Luke laments: “Katy has more armpit hair than I do.” For a spring break trip to Dallas, they took their first flight without parents. For them, a Southwest Airlines ticket was just as effective as (and much cheaper than) a trip to Disney World. They spent the summer suffering sporadic bouts of catastrophic boredom between attending as many camps as we could afford to send them to. After a week at a Christian camp, Katy couldn’t wait to play some AC/DC on her iPod for the drive home, and Luke’s first movie choice when he hit his room was Blazing Saddles. Could be worse.

Luke started high school this year and recently turned 15. He had a wisdom tooth pulled and was disappointed the tooth fairy didn’t leave him a big payoff. He’s over six feet tall and weighs all of 120 pounds. Kind of like a supermodel. His grocery consumption has forced us to petition the government for a bailout, and what little spare time I have is spent replenishing his school lunch account. He can put away a large deep-dish four-meat pizza on his own in under half an hour. Then have a tureen of ice cream for dessert. After a group of girls started sitting with him in the cafeteria, he complained, “Now it takes me forever to eat lunch because I have to focus on using manners.” He helped his track team win district again this year after spending six weeks in physical therapy for Osgood-Schlatter disease (a scary term for growing pains). He has managed to stay out of trouble except for the time he and some other track team members went for a run off campus down the highway to a nearby taco stand. He’s still active in Boy Scouts and was surprised to be elected patrol leader even though he ran unopposed. After scout camp this summer, he said, “Dude, forestry class made me feel like such a hippie. I was like, one with the trees.” He spends his free time working on the 1971 Chevy truck he got last year. One highlight was finding almost two dollars in change when he pulled the seat out. His advanced creative writing skills are only matched by his sharp wit. He suggested that I color my hair blonde so I’ll have a good excuse when I do dumb stuff. When Mike told Katy not to be friends with adults on Facebook because they might say inappropriate things, Luke said, “Then she probably shouldn’t be friends with Mom.”

Katy started middle school and turned 12 last month. Her tweens have hit us even harder than her toddlerhood did. My heart swelled with pride when the first week of school brought a dress code violation and necessitated a marathon fitting room session the likes of which I had not seen since The Exorcist. We wear the same shoe size, and she wonders why I won’t let her borrow my high heels. She wants to wear make-up, and hasn’t yet learned to apply it after she gets on the morning bus like I did at her age. We made the mistake of getting her an iPhone. In less than three days, she maxed out her data plan, and within a month, let the phone get stolen. Her recent birthday gave her another chance, and we are pleased to report that phone probation has not yet led to any bloodshed. In the spring, she played basketball and was glad she was finally old enough for a league that keeps score. She was named school district student of the month and received a bumper sticker to advertise it. She didn’t even seem to mind that I refused to put the sticker on the car. She dabbled in Girl Scouts and has continued to sing with the band at church. At scout camp this summer, she got her wish for air-conditioning when she had to move to safety after her cabin was attacked by wild hogs. She’s a first chair trumpet player and can already play Taps, the Star Wars theme, and Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. Growing up has not been without its disillusionments for Katy. She discovered that her American Girl dolls were made in China. I told her it doesn’t get more American than that. And at seeing Elton John on a magazine cover with his partner, she said (loud enough for everyone in the checkout line to hear): “Wait…Elton John is gay?” Her quote of the year: “The word jugular isn’t really about boobs.”

Mike’s year included trips to Knoxville, Tucson, Seattle, and Nashville as well as Dover for another NASCAR fly-by. He also spent yet another spring break weekend of drudgery at the coast for the Confederate Air Force airshow. He started playing guitar with the church band and at his debut performance, entertained the congregation with some Stairway to Heaven. His high point was a promotion to 149th Fighter Wing Operations Group Commander. Advancement to Colonel is pending congressional approval. (Maybe they’ll do something right for a change.) Mike managed to destroy his truck’s grille when he met up with one of our neighborhood’s more suicidal deer. Such a waste of good meat. Speaking of killing animals, Mike took Luke out of school for opening day of dove season. Skipping school to hunt? It just doesn’t get any better than that for a teenage Texas boy. While Mike will be celebrating another birthday later this month, he still shows no signs of slowing down. His only speed bumps occur when he has to stop and look for his reading glasses. This is why he went to Costco for a multi-pack and has them scattered within arm’s reach in places like his tool box, barn, RV, motorcycle, vehicles, desk, living room, kitchen, and of course, bathroom. Mike and I spent a week in the Dominican Republic for our 20th anniversary. I made him proud when I won a poker tournament, and he impressed me by not snoring too loudly during our couples massage. In an amazing show of restraint, he only commented once on the number of pairs of shoes I packed. In return, I agreed to try to keep my closet from looking like an episode of Hoarders.

I was nearly electrocuted in January when we painted the kids’ rooms. Turns out, those switch plates are there for a good reason. For my birthday, I carelessly invested in a lighted magnifying mirror that Bed, Bath & Beyond wouldn’t let me return without a better excuse than I just didn’t like what I saw. Mike was kind enough to tell me, “You’re not a spring chicken anymore.” I told him neither are people who use the term “spring chicken.” Not to be outdone, Luke asked if he could take me to school for show and tell on 80s day and Katy quoted something from what she referred to as, “this old show called Friends.” Business took me to Dallas, Indianapolis, Austin, and New Orleans, as well as St. Pete Beach, Florida, where I was re-elected (without resorting to bribery that anyone can prove) to another three-year term on the Board of Directors of the National Organization of Veterans’ Advocates. After speaking at a few seminars, I found out that a good handful of tasteless references goes a long way to entertain a crowd and disguise a lack of knowledge. (Perhaps Rick Perry should try that at his next debate.) In other news, because one road kill per year for this family isn’t enough, I ran over another one of the stupid deer that wander our streets like drunken overgrown squirrels. The only damage was some blood on my license plate, but I did almost spill my drink and drop my phone. The rest of my year was wasted trying to figure out what the big deal was about that royal wedding.

For next year, we have high hopes that Luke will learn to turn lights off when he leaves a room and that Katy will stop leaving wet towels on the floor. We plan to teach them better bathing and deodorant-application techniques so they don’t smell like Occupy Wall Street protesters when they get home from school. I will try to finish writing my book before I get too old to take it on tour, and stop buying Groupons that expire before I get around to using them. And Mike vows to improve his relationship with Siri on his new iPhone. Luke will spend the holidays shooting his new rifle while Katy busies herself with music downloads and friend requests. Mike and I look forward to taking full advantage of the new water heater we were forced to get each other for Christmas.

May you all spend the holidays and 2012 happy, healthy, safe, and strong. And if the Mayan calendar is right, you won’t have to sit through a letter like this again. Life is short, so don’t let it be shallow.

Love, Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz

The View From 45

I’ll never forget (for as long as I’m young enough to remember) a conversation I had with some girlfriends over 10 years ago. Most of them were about five to seven years younger than I was. One was lamenting her upcoming 29th birthday. In all of my sage wisdom, I replied, “Try 34.” Oh to be a nubile 34 again.

Last summer, at an overpriced concert concession stand, a 50-ish guy at the register was giving me my change. He counted it out: “five, six, seven, eight . . . .” Then he goes, “Schlemiel, shlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated . . . .” I laughed as I had not heard that song since probably 1983. The guy nodded at me with a wink and said, “Yeah, you know that song, don’t you?” I smiled knowingly and sang back, “Give us any chance, we’ll take it. Give us any rule, we’ll break it . . . .” Then we shared a good laugh like old folks do when they get all nostalgic. As I walked away, I thought, What an Asshole.

One dark day not long ago, Margaritaville came on the radio and I mindlessly told my kids, “I had the 45 of this song.” Both, in unison, asked, “What’s a 45?” (Now it happens to be my age.) Soon after the Margaritaville incident, I watched my daughter open an envelope of disposable camera pictures. I told her to be careful with the negatives. I knew before the words had left my mouth that I would hear her ask, “What are negatives?” I then realized what my grandmother must have felt like when I asked her what a milkman was, or why she called the refrigerator an ice box. While I wasn’t looking, a whole shitload of time had been passing and leaving a dead vocabulary in its wake.

Why are we so afraid of aging? Because, as a friend once told me on my birthday, “I hope you enjoy it. You don’t have that many left.” Now I’m beginning to understand those “middle-age crazies” I heard about when I was a kid. I wouldn’t necessarily refer to this “midlife” feeling as a “crisis,” but it is a sort of second adolescence. Again, I feel uncomfortable in my body. Not so much awkward as unwieldy. When I was awkward, I knew I would eventually catch up with myself and get it. Now (in this body that is out of sync with its brain), when I try to turn flips on a trampoline or roller skate too fast, for example, my body tells me that I’ve lost it (and not just mentally). My chiropractor says, “Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.” For those who are unfortunate enough to examine their advancing lives, there is a sort of cognitive dissonance that hits at around age 40. According to the results of my one-minute Internet search, the Swiss psychologist and philosopher Jean Piaget (not sure if he's related to the watchmaker, but if he were, that would be somewhat ironic) coined the term cognitive disequilibrium to describe the experience of feeling a discrepancy between something new and something already believed or known. I think that applies to people in their 40s. We believe we can still hula hoop, for example, but our new (older) bodies rebel. I remember when my parents were my age. I thought they were so mature. Now that I'm there, unless I am an aberration (which is a distinct possibility) I realize that most 40-year-olds are just “extreme” teenagers. There’s nothing like having the ability to make a sophomoric sexual reference against a backdrop of a post-graduate education and a little extra life experience. There’s nothing more satisfying than being old enough to have the money to buy something completely impractical and frivolous. What sucks is wholeheartedly thinking you are still capable of that round-off/back handspring, and then your body betrays you when your bones don’t cooperate. What sucks is having an advanced case of hypochondria. Now the conditions I used to dream up could really happen. What sucks is treading that fine line between cougar and pedophile. Now that I’m old enough to use my age as birth control, I see that it’s a good thing I never became a high school teacher. Otherwise, I might have ended up in prison and pregnant. They (whoever “they” are—average pathetic people my age, I imagine) say 40 is the new 30. Does that make gray the new blonde?

At various points in our lives, we take steps from wondering to forgetting. In college, we wonder who we are. After college, marriage and children make us wonder where the hell we (and our keys) are. In our 40s, we’re afraid we have forgotten (or will soon forget) who we are (or were). What do we have to look forward to? Diets, arthritis, prescriptions, mammograms, colonoscopies, college expenses, grandchildren? Not to mention tending to aging parents (who will no doubt be difficult and noncompliant with their medications). At a certain age, do we realize that it’s too late to live the dream we gladly set aside 20 years earlier for kids and family? Sometimes I feel a mix of guilt and envy when I look at those I saw as selfish back then. The ones who went their own way and ignored the plan society expected of them. Are they happier? Probably not. I imagine they regret some things they didn’t do as much as others regret some things they did. This is not to say by any means that I think a person’s 40s are filled with misery and regret. I don’t know anyone who would trade their family for a chance at a do-over. Maybe the midlife crisis is a myth and most 40-year-olds never experience a fleeting, disconcerting, who-is-that-person-in-the-mirror? feeling. I submit that those who never wonder what happened to them while they were going about their lives are lucky, blissfully ignorant bastards.

They (whoever “they” are—people who have never had an STD, I guess) say it’s better to regret things you’ve done than things you didn’t do. I generally agree (except when it comes to things that could give you an STD) but when the opportunity to do what you didn’t do has passed you by, somehow, the fact that you can’t do it now hurts much worse than the fact that you could have chosen not to. I could do that round-off/back handspring. I just choose not to. Because my bladder might fall out.

If 50 is the new 40, does that mean another decade of looking at a stranger in the mirror? Or does some form of acceptance come in our 50s? Does something shift from “where are my dreams?” to “where are my glasses?” The disequilibrium of the 40s must subside after it scars our psyches and gives us early dementia. Do we really need those 10 years to prepare for the second half of an average lifespan? I think so. Otherwise we would see more 50- and 60-year-olds trying to hula hoop. And that is just dangerous.

Period Piece: Three Charming Menstruation-Related Anecdotes

One day not long after my daughter learned to read, I took her to a movie at a rather old theater. Because that’s probably where they were showing the bargain-priced matinee of whatever boring animated kid movie it was that she had been nagging me about. When the movie was over, Katy woke me up and then followed me to the restroom. After we washed our hands, we realized there were no paper towels, and the hand dryer, useless as they always are, was broken. As I used her shirt to dry my hands, she asked me for a quarter. I thought she wanted to play a video game in the theater’s arcade, so I told her I didn’t have any. Then she pointed at the rusted, vintage maxi-pad machine on the wall and said, “That’s too bad, Mama, ‘cause we can buy napkins from that thing for just 25 cents.” I had to explain that those were not napkins for your hands. She looked at me disapprovingly as if I were talking down to her, which I was. As I searched my mind for an appropriate response to the questions neither of us was ready for, she let me off the hook with, “Let’s go get ice cream.”

Going out in public with my daughter did not get easier. A couple of years later, I made the mistake of taking her to Walmart. I try to avoid that place, but I think I needed to stock up on WD-40 and duct tape. I also try to avoid Walmart restrooms. I live by very few rules, but one of them is: Don’t go potty in public if you can help it, especially at places with questionable clientele. But on this particular day of marathon shopping, I had to bend the rule. So I took Katy with me into a handicapped stall. (The stall itself was not handicapped, but you know what I mean.) I used that one, not only because there was more room for me and a kid, but because one toilet was occupied and another was occupied with a full bowl of a man-sized dump. While we were luxuriating in there with the dirty hand rails, I heard some other women enter the restroom. I hoped none of them was actually handicapped. Then I might feel a little guilty about hogging a toilet. When I realized people were waiting, I tried to hurry. Hurrying is not easy when you have to hover. I’ll admit, I am not such a germophobe that I won’t sit my bare ass down on a public toilet, but I do have standards. And this Walmart restroom did not quite meet my rather low criteria for seatability. So as I hovered over the seat, Katy craned her head down to witness the tampon string I had hanging out of my vajayjay. In front of God and everybody in that Walmart restroom, Katy yelled, “MOM!! There’s a string in your butt! There’s a string in your butt! Get it out!!” I shushed her as I pulled up my pants. “Why didn’t you get it out?” She demanded. “Don’t you feel that string in there?” Again, I scanned my thoughts for an acceptable answer. I couldn’t say that is was not a string, because it was. So I said, “It wasn’t in my butt.” Then I’m sure she figured it was coming out of my pee-hole, and I couldn’t let her go on thinking that, so I said, “It’s in my Tinkerbell. I’ll explain later.” The restroom’s audience seemed less than impressed with the way I handled it. Not even a golf clap. Perhaps they expected a more graphic explanation with proper terminology. Sorry, but I have standards.

Fortunately for Katy, she is not the only one who has tried to embarrass me with this uncomfortable topic. A few years ago, on a business trip to Washington, D.C., I found myself in a hotel gift shop stocking up on two-dollar bottles of water to keep me from drinking the five-dollar ones tempting me in my room. I also tried to discreetly purchase a small box of tampons. [I realize I just split an infinitive there. Poetic license.] As I stood at the register with a few people in line behind me, the clerk (a pretty Indian girl named something like Gupta), held the tampon box up and said (in an unnecessarily loud voice), “I always jus’ use de pads, de Stay-Free, d’jou know?” I nodded politely and hoped she would leave it at that. But NO. As a small crowd gathered in line behind me, she shook the tampon box like a curious child with a wrapped gift and asked, “How do dese work?” I was mortified. I glanced at the folks within earshot, smiled uncomfortably, and quietly said, “Well, you just take the wrapper off and use the applicator and stick it up in there.” (I'm sure I was even gesturing rather lewdly.) I heard some chuckles from those who had been pretending to study the souvenir shot glasses nearby. The clerk huffed with a half-smile and said, “No, no, no. I mean, how good are dey for de job?” At that point I realized she was asking for a quality rating rather than a how-to lesson. “Oh, you meant, how well do they work? Fine, I guess. This isn’t my usual brand, but they get the job done.” She apologized and said that maybe her English “weren’t too good.” (Neither was her command of English grammar.) I reassured her that it was my mistake. Then we shared a brief moment of international female bonding when we both smiled and rolled our eyes as if to say, “Well aren't we just a couple of idiots?” Especially her.

Sometimes I think the only thing regular about me is my period. I’ll cling to that until menopause hits, then find some other bodily function to embarrass myself about.

Landscaping the Nether Regions

Ever since I first had to deal with pubes, I always wanted to keep them under control. I think every woman owes it to herself and her significant (or even insignificant) other(s) to keep the shrubbery from going all disco and hanging down to her knees. With all the nastiness that goes on down there, topping it with a curly bouffant or a puffy ‘fro or even a feathered shag just magnifies any unpleasant poontang activity. Contrary to what the douche commercials used to advertise, it’s not always a fresh summer’s eve in a gardenia garden down there.

This vagina monologue has reminded me of a cute little anecdote borne out of a scrapbooking retreat for only the most mature of women. I thought about sharing this story for possible publication in Chicken Soup for the Scrapbooker’s Soul, but soon realized that (1) They rarely publish stories about pubic hair, and (2) I would give away one of scrapbooking’s most treasured secrets: When otherwise mild-mannered creative women get together, they can seriously talk some trash. About, inter alia, genitalia.

So my girlfriends and I went to this bed and breakfast for a weekend of drinking, er, I mean, crafting family heirlooms. Having arrived first, our group garnered the choice spot on the third floor. A private area with lots of natural light and better chairs. We had no idea that by staking our claim to that area we would engender animosity the likes of which we had not seen since Tom Selleck talked about guns on the Rosie O’Donnell show.

After we got settled, a group of small-town schoolteachers arrived. They were, for the most part, a good 10 to 20 years older than our group. A couple of them clambered up the stairs in hopes of snagging the best room in the house. The look of disappointment on their wrinkled and winded faces portended the crass disrespect we would soon fall victim to. Their clan was stuck on the main floor with poor lighting and rickety chairs. “Snooze you lose, bitches!” We cheered as we high-fived each other.

The main floor housed the common area where we would often be forced to interact with these hags if we needed to use a certain paper cutter or shop for the perfect accent piece for our likely-to-be-wine-stained books of family treasures. On one particular occasion, my friend Kathy was there minding her own business cutting some no doubt lovely textured card stock. I descended the stairs to get something and overheard one of the bitches tell the others, “No not this bleached blonde, one of the others.” Kathy overheard this and thought, “Oh noooo she did-n’t. This lady has no idea who she is dealing with.” I turned to the perpetrator and asked, “Can I help you?” She lowered her glasses down her nose to get a better look at me and said, “Tell me somethin’ hon, when you bleach your hair, do you do a little batch for the snatch?” I did not hesitate to respond, “Of course. With all the videos and photo shoots I do, I need my snatch to match. You should have noticed last night when you were doing my bikini wax. Is there anything I can get y’all from upstairs, like some manners?” The ringleader’s gal pals laughed as she said, “I like her.”

So that’s my near-legendary Batch for the Snatch scrapbooking story. It’s also a perfect example of how I like to win friends and influence new admirers. Sometimes a good insult is pure tension-relieving gold.

Anyway, speaking of bikini waxes, I think a good genital-waxing should replace waterboarding as the military’s controversial torture of choice. Of course, being the one forced to smear hot wax on some terrorist’s tangled greasy infested man mound would no doubt be a new cause for any average soldier’s PTSD. Torturer’s mental trauma be damned. Wax those fuckers, I say.

A few years ago, I decided that shaving the nether regions was taking too much valuable time from my otherwise busy and generally productive day. I had always had my eyebrows waxed with little to no pain, so I thought I could handle putting my dainty vulva through the same process. I made an appointment with a stocky German woman a friend had recommended. She asked me what kind of wax job I wanted. Since “Brazilian” was the only kind I had heard of, that’s what I made the mistake of asking for. She guided me into the procedure chamber that was cleverly disguised as a peaceful spa enclave with a massage table in it. I assumed she would leave me alone to undress, but no. She proceeded to take a seat in the rattan chair in the corner and wait for me to get naked. I felt not a little awkward disrobing as Helga watched in bored exasperation. She then ordered me up on the table. I felt like I was starring in a fetish film. (Not that I have ever seen any, mind you. Really.) Before I knew it, my lady parts were being bathed in hot wax. My pubes were then ripped from my crotch with all the grace of a rugby scrum. Every last pube. Every single hint of a pube. Even future pubes were aborted. I knew that my stuff would never be the same and that naked I would look like an overgown six-year-old for at least a month.

I decided to try to keep the Brazilian a secret at least until the redness subsided. Father’s Day was coming up so I thought if I were stealthy enough, I could surprise my husband with it as a gift in case I forgot to get him a card. The day after the bush brutality, I went with the family to look at land. We had been planning to buy a lot in the country and build a house on it, so our weekends had been taken over with nature walks on for-sale properties all over the county. My husband searched for a good homesite area while our kids scouted the best treehouse trees. As my poor fortune would have it, I found myself needing to pee so bad I was crying yellow tears. With my family scattered across three acres, I saw fit to squat behind a bush (no pun intended) to relieve a little pressure. Of course, as soon as I exposed myself in broad daylight, my husband’s naked-wife-radar started chirping its alert siren that only he can hear. Sort of like a dog whistle for deprived men. As I broke the seal on my bladder and wondered if I could get it completely emptied in one sitting, there he stood. I did not realize how flexible he was until that day. He folded himself in half at the hips and craned his head unnaturally to see what was left of my hoo-ha. “Are you . . . BALD?!” he asked. From my weak squat, I looked up guiltily and muttered, “This isn’t exactly the big reveal I had in mind.” Before I could pull up my shorts, he had the kids buckled into the truck and ready to go home. As if the physical pain wasn’t bad enough, now I had mental anguish to deal with as well.

And it only got worse. A few days later, my daughter (who was probably five years old at the time) wandered into the bathroom as I bathed in our open shower. Before I could turn away, she yelled, “Mama! What happened? Your Tinkerbell looks just like mine!” Never again, I thought. Bring back the bush, I begged. A few weeks later, I found myself in be-careful-what-you-wish-for mode. The only thing as uncomfortable as the hairs being ripped out was the experience of the timid and traumatized hairs attempting to re-emerge. For the first time, I think I may have had some understanding of jock itch. Maybe I’m too sensitive down there, but that waxing and all the trouble it brought was more painful than childbirth. I would only do it again with an epidural.

One might think that the Brazilian experience would make me swear off removal of unsightly hair, but one would be mistaken. After the bravest pubes grew back, I was ready to try a new deforestation measure. That’s when I decided to see what laser could do for my nether regions. I made an appointment at the local laser hair removal “salon.” These places are like a hybrid hair studio/doctor’s office. Like a medical clinic with aromatherapy. A spa with needles. I signed in and filled out all this paperwork and these medical history questionnaires as if I were preparing to donate a kidney. Then as I waited for my name to be called, I perused a three-ring binder of drawings meant to depict their various service offerings. Of course, I could have had my armpits or upper lip done, but shaving my pits has never been much of a burden, and I don’t have a mustache yet. I considered having my legs done, but thought I would use my beaver as guinea pig first. In the tastefully-titled “Bikini Area” section of the menu book, there were diagrams of assorted shapes one might have their hedges trimmed into. There was, for example, the Wedge, the Mini-Wedge, the Heart, the Landing Strip, the Hitler, the Soul Patch, the Cabbage Patch, the Groucho, the Fu Manchu, the Cornrows, the Dreadlocks, the Smiley Face, the “Your Boyfriend Was Here,” and of course “Slippery When Wet.” Words cost extra, obviously. I decided to go with the tasteful yet trendy Landing Strip for my maiden voyage.

My name was called and I nervously approached the perky young assistant who would guide me to a “treatment room” where I would wait for an “aesthetician” to “prep” me. I was instructed to undress from the waist down and cover up with a giant paper cocktail napkin. I sat on the cold vinyl table and tried to decide if I had time to run to the restroom after I had told the guide girl that I didn’t need to go. My mind raced with philosophical thoughts such as: Why am I here? Why do we want to remove a naturally-occurring phenomenon? Why is genital hair a naturally-occurring phenomenon? Is it really a phenomenon or was it one of God’s little jokes? He probably thought, I’ll make these parts really ugly and then cover them up with . . . HAIR! Mmmwahahahahahaaaa! How much am I paying for this? Why didn’t I use the Internet coupon? Now it’s really too late for me to find the restroom. . . .

My philosophy session was interrupted by a rattle at the door. In barged a woman in a white lab coat and another in festive scrubs. I thought, Wow, this is more serious than I thought. Then Lab Coat introduced Festive Scrubs as a student/tech and would I mind if she “observed”? What was I supposed to say? “Sorry, Festive Scrubs, I want to be alone with Lab Coat if you know what I mean.” Having been born without a modesty chip, and having had my ability to feign modesty stripped of me completely after giving birth in a military teaching hospital to an audience the size of a community college, I said, “No problem.”

Lab Coat then had me recline on the table as she pulled what looked to be a purple Sharpie from her pocket. She glanced at my chart’s “Landing Strip” choice and verified that it was indeed my intention to have that shape lasered onto my vulnerable vulva. She took the Sharpie and marked the outer boundaries of the areas to be “treated.” I had no idea that “Bikini Area” encompassed such a vast range of real estate. From the navel to the upper and inner thighs, I was a marked woman. She then instructed Festive Scrubs to “prep” me. “Prepping,” it turns out, is a rough dry shave with a cheap disposable razor. As Festive Scrubs began to insult what was left of my dignity, Lab Coat said, “Wait a minute, her hair is pretty light. I need to see if we should increase the settings.” I was all like, “Excuse me?” Lab Coat took off to get a supervisor. In the meantime, Festive Scrubs explained that the laser zeroes in on the pigment, so the darker the hair, the more effective the laser will be. Great, I thought. Now they’ll have to crank up the zapper so it can see my unwanted hair. I could hear God cackling at me as he rolled his big eyes: “This is what you get for messing with nature, you doofus!” Just as God was about to mock me again, in walked Lab Coat with her supervisor, Badge Ribbon. Badge Ribbon’s nametag sported a red flag with gold lettering that proclaimed her to be an “Aesthetician Supervisor.” As I reclined with a purple perimeter drawn on my abdomen and thighs, half-shaved, Badge Ribbon bent over to get a closer look at my pube pigment. She shook her head at Lab Coat and Festive Scrubs, “This is a tough one. She has some light hair. We should probably set it pretty high, but I want to confirm the numbers. I’ll be right back.” At that, Badge Ribbon left me alone with Lab Coat and Festive Scrubs. We made small talk about the weather and our children while we waited awkwardly for Badge Ribbon to return. After ten minutes that seemed more like an hour and a half, here comes Badge Ribbon with another supervisor. Mind you, my bladder was about to burst at that point. This other supervisor, Sensible Shoes, had to take a look. I never actually saw her shoes as my being splayed out on the table left me no good footwear vantage point, but she looked like the type that would wear sensible shoes. You know, a husky woman with no make-up who might have been described as “handsome” back in the pioneer days. She just looked like a gal who would never waste her time with cute shoes. So anyway, Sensible Shoes examined my beav and concurred with Badge Ribbon. But since Festive Scrubs and Lab Coat were in there too, Sensible Shoes went the extra mile and used me as a teaching opportunity. She manhandled my muff as she showed the three poon gazers what she was talking about. “See,” she offered, “This is what we call an extra light brown. Not as dark as we usually see. The lighter the hair, the harder the machine has to work. Let’s use the highest setting for best results. It may be a little more painful, but we have no choice.” Sensible Shoes gave my pubic bone a reassuring pat as she bid farewell to the party. Badge Ribbon made sure that Lab Coat knew what to do, then took her leave as well. Lab Coat probably enjoyed a bathroom break while Festive Scrubs finished shaving me clean.

After the shave and before the procedure, I finally had a chance to relieve myself. I passed another client in the hall as I scampered barefoot toward the ladies’ room wrapped in the napkin skirt. She must have seen the angst on my face. She said, “The first time is always the worst. You’ll get used to it.” Get used to it? I thought. Was this some sort of cult? As I sat on the toilet and relaxed for a minute, I wished I was anywhere but there. I hadn’t even been lasered yet and I was already discouraged. My pubes were not the right color; I was marked with a purple Sharpie; and my nether region was shaved bald. I was wearing a paper sarong. My purse and keys were in another room. There was no turning back. Suck it up, I told myself. Maybe the worst is over.

I returned to the prep room where Festive (we were on a first-name basis by now) led me to the procedure area. I was placed in something not unlike a dentist’s chair. Oh how I wish I was just getting a root canal with no novocaine, I thought. Lab Coat arrived shortly, clearly anxious to try the machine on its highest setting. We donned the little goggles to protect our eyes from any errant laser beams. I felt like I was in some sort of futuristic porn film. Like Festive was going to put on some mood music and pour me a glass of Champagne before taking off her scrubs to reveal six-inch stilettos and a black leather bustier. Lab Coat would of course tear her eponymous starched white jacket off to show us that she was really an android nymphomaniac with robot laser-guided nipples. These are the kinds of thoughts that plagued me as I was about to be violated. Lab Coat gelled me up and explained that I would feel a tiny sting followed by puffs of cold air to numb the area. She turned on the machine that clattered as loud as a riding lawnmower. (Which ironically, is kind of what it was doing.) Festive watched intently through goggled eyes and, much to my relief, never made a move on me. The pain was soul-scraping, but still not as bad as the wax job that had scarred my psyche a few months earlier. I thought for sure she was about to wrap it up when she announced, “Now I just need to finish your labia.” “Labia?!” I thought. Did she really have to use such a technical term while performing such a barbaric act? It was like kicking a guy in the balls with a steel-toed boot while gently saying, “I’m almost finished sculpting your testes.” So incongruous. Then again, the whole experience was an out-of-body affair.

Festive helped wipe me up as I took the goggles off to see Lab Coat’s handiwork. I beheld the aforementioned Landing Strip surrounded by reddened skin and wondered why I paid so much for the pleasure. Lab Coat handed me an ice pack and explained that the hair might grow back sooner because of the nature of it and that I may need to come back more often for more treatments. I thanked her for her patience with my recalcitrant and inappropriately-colored hair. Sure enough, before long, the fearless fluff began to reappear. Are you kidding me? I asked my defiant crotch. Seriously? But I paid a lot of money and went through pure hell for this. Even a full-body epidural could not have numbed the pain.

So I traded laser for razor and never looked back. But if I ever decide to brave the laser, at least now I know to do a dark little batch for the snatch first.