And We Danced and We Cried and We Laughed and Had a Really, Really, Really Good Time

My father-in-law was diagnosed with Stage 4 lymphoma in September. Just before he started Chemo treatments, my husband offered to shave his head to look like his dad, but only if his co-workers could raise $1500 for the oncology department of the local hospital.  

I offered to promote it on my Facebook page (because I have amazing friends that are always looking for a reason to show their awesomeness)  and the promotion quickly went from a simple Husband-head-shave to include me in the balding process-- only not my head. This past weekend, my husband did his part of the bargain, as did I. What did I have to do? Oh, I had to have hair loss, too; a Brazilian was the order of the day.

I feel like Tom Selleck after he shaved his moustache: the smile is the same but there's no barrier between it and the outside world.

I arrived at my 5pm Brazilian Day (B-Day) appointment a half-hour early; I was too nervous to continue driving up and down the street for another 30 minutes trying to get up the courage, so I parked and called my Dad.  Not that he knew what was about to happen, but, whenever I have a life changing event due to occur, I call my Dad and pick a random topic to dissect quickly and absolutely.

It's handy because we can get into neat, compact mini-arguments that come out of nowhere, lead to nowhere, and last roughly 10 minutes. Everyone should have someone with whom they can argue philosophy instead of hyper-focusing on events looming on the horizon. Especially if that person will argue but not fight-- an argument is just opposing views, not screaming, yelling, name-calling. (it can be, but that's not exclusively what argument means, according to my Phil 101 teacher from back in the day).

We argued, if you care, about the state of Frankenfish (some crazy mutant Salmon that grows non-stop and will eat everything and turn into whales or something) and how we can't just genetically modify food and not expect it to catch up with us and autism and ADD and allergies and The Future. I'm pretty sure we even got talking about Cat Fish and their whiskers, although I'm not certain because I was trying really hard not to think about my impending de-whiskering.

Trying not to sweat in soon-to-be-public body spaces, I hung up with my father and walked inside the spa.
The receptionist let Waxy Louise know I had arrived while I sat down. I made sure to remember the comfortable feeling of sitting down, because I was sure it would be the last time I did so for the next 48 hours.

Waxy Louise collected me and we chit chatted while I stood there wondering whether I should be taking my pants off or not. I, like a virgin on her wedding night, was nervously shifting my weight from foot to foot while she, the more experienced of the two, tried to assure me that this is totally normal and everyone feels this way.

"Wow, this is what Fantine, from Les Misérables, must've felt like when she turned her first trick."

In retrospect, that was probably NOT the best first-thing to say to a professional waxer, but things barf out of my mouth when I'm nervous.

To take my mind off my nerves, I started to do some stretches. I pulled my left leg up to my chest and pulled.  I did some lunges (which are difficult to do in jeans) and pulled my calf up to my butt and held it. I wasn't gonna pull a muscle in the middle of Waxy Louise pulling off other stuff.

What a hairless vagina might look like, if it
were floating in a pool of  wood shavings. 

I'd heard, for example, that I might have to lay on my back with my legs above my head, to get a Brazilian. I'd also heard I might have to be on all fours, like a dog. I'd heard there might be some straddling, some plucking of missed bits, and other... creative unpleasantness.

Despite all that, the thing I was most looking forward to, though, was being a part of some hairless underworld.

After I announced to my Facebook world that I would be taking the plunge and getting a Brazilian if that same Facebook world would raise $2000 for the oncology department of our local hospital, the messages started rolling in: I had no idea how many of my friends are walking around bald as an eagle. No, bald as a baby parrot... but cuter. Well, I assume they're cuter than a baby parrot: baby parrots are damn ugly, and no one sent pictures.

However, what I was NOT expecting was for the whole process to be enjoyable. Waxy Louise was, like, Normal. It was more like she was waxing my eyebrows than my Junk. We chatted about how exactly I ended up in her chair, talked about her 25th wedding anniversary and my 10th (coming up this year! Say what?!?) and all sorts of completely normal conversation while she removed every trace of puberty from my lower half. Well, from my Censor Box anyway.

When I went to leave we hugged (like everyone who has just waged war on something and defeated it does) and she said I could see her in 4 weeks.

"When a waxer says "4 Weeks" that is code.
When you spell "Vagina" on this box, you open it to
find the original wax strips used by Mary Magdalene.
Her shop was beneath the glass pyramid at The Louvre."

4 weeks? I'm gonna be free of all maintenance for 4 weeks? That's awesome! And then, like the flashback in your favourite movie, I realized all the women I'd ever seen leaving with the waxer saying "See you in 4 weeks!" It's the CODE!

The next day, Husband and I were out getting groceries and ran into a couple that we know.

Lady: I see you're walkin' funny. (shouted from two fruit stands over)
Me: Huh? (shouted back from two aisles of a very full grocery store over)
Lady: (glancing at my crotch and nodding suggestively)
Me: HA! Yes. I, uh, just got finished horseback riding. From Florida.  (now everyone is looking up to see if we're talking about what it sounds like we're talking about)
(we giggle while our husbands nervously shift their weight from foot to foot)

I forget that what women tell each other is waaaaaaay more than men cover.

And then I realized that Husband might not WANT the world to know all about my ... donation in the name of science. And then I realized that maybe other husbands might not want to know about my donation in the name of science, either. And then I remembered that not only are there people my age on my Facebook page, but there are ex-students of mine. Many ex-students. Of both genders.

Dear GOD.

And then, I got a text from a friend of mine saying, "Hey, I didn't get a chance to donate-- I'll cover your next appointment."
To which I replied, "How do you know I'll be going back?"

And then the baby parrot came up again. She (and a few others) suggested that the regrowth would be so itchy that I will be begging for another one. That I'd ride my bike all the way to London, in fact, just to not have those feathers coming through.  Now, I understand the many reasons exotic pets are banned in Canada.

Exotic pets, exotic dancers and exotic grooming are more than just a one-time-deal. You can't just keep a tiger for a day. You can't invite a stripper home and expect life to return to normal when the sun rises, and you certainly can't think that ripping ones pubic hair out by the roots could end in any other way than me riding my bike for 3 hours in the middle of winter to give cooling comfort to the hair pushing its way through my skin.

If you need me come Valentine's Day, I'll be tuning up the ol'Schwinn for the ride of a lifetime.
Or I'll be having an argument with my father about Plato's cave and whether or not reality is True or a Dream before meeting up with Waxy Louise for a second time.

Either way, my father-in-law is now in remission.
Score one for the crazies.

How Sweet It IS to be Loved By YOU

Sophia Bush (pun intended) when she found
out what the Thong part of a Brazilian is. 

First thing's first: When my husband agreed to shave his head if his co-workers could raise $1500 for the oncology department where his father is undergoing treatment for stage 4 lymphoma, I was really unhappy.

Yes, I know exactly how crap that is: chemo is much worse than a bald husband, and plus, who cares? Hair grows back. Nonetheless, I was horrified and silently praying the goal would not be met. However, due to a guilt complex that is ... complex and a bit of an overachiever I began feeling like a real DB for being so superficial and unsupportive of all the good that would come from the monies raised.

So, in classic me-style, I posted on Facebook that I was willing to do something crazy insane if my peeps got the total to $2000. Knowing Husband's donations had been hovering around the $800 mark for around a month, I was quite confident that, no matter what the crazy thing turned into, we'd never, ever make it to $2000. Like, ever.

And so I got an instant message from a friend.

Friend: Hey, so what ARE you gonna do for $2000?
Me: You make it sound dirty.
Friend: Haha. You know what I mean.
Me: I dunno? Shave my legs? lol That would be a lot of hair to donate to Locks of Love.
Friend. Gross. Hahaha. What if you got a brazillian?
Me: Have an affair?
Friend: har har. No, like, wax your snatch.
Me: (horrified silence). <----- which is exactly what I typed
Friend: What? It's not that bad. I've been doing it for years!
Me: (horrified silence) <----- which is exactly what I typed
Friend: Seriously, raising money for cancer always comes down to someone's junk-- Movember is all about balls, October is all about tits. Why not the crotch?
Me: Um. (horrified silence) Um, because how would anyone know I had it done? I'm NOT posting a picture of the aftermath. Or the pre-math. Or the during-math. There will be NO math posted.
Friend: You can post a picture of Husband smiling.
Me: Seriously. I'm unfriending you. Defriending you. Whatever.

But then I got to thinking about it, and figured Husband needed a boost to get his numbers to $1500 anyway. I mean, it was after Movember -- so people who usually support crazy hair growth/removal for Cancer have already donated and it was getting closer to Christmas so people who usually support a good cause will be tapped for present buying and all that.

I'm incredibly fortunate to have amazingly supportive friends; friends who enjoy helping a good cause and don't bat an eyelash at my craziness are the only way I get through this crazy thing called life.
...

And that's how I ended up on the phone with the spa, booking a treatment.

Lady: Hi, Waxy Spa. How can I help you?
Me: Uh, hi. Well, I uh, need a procedure.
Lady. Ok? What's your name?
Me: Uh. Uh, um, Regina Filangi.
Lady: Regina?
Me: Yes. Filangi.
Lady: Can you spell that?
Me: Uh. F-I-L-A-N-G-I.
Lady: Have you been here before Regina?
Me: Yes. Er, I mean no. I, uh, have some questions, too.
Lady: Well when can you come in?
Me: Uh, next Saturday? But I need to know how long it takes to get a Brazilian.
Lady: Oh. Uh, well, I don't know.
Me: Well, that's the procedure I need done.
Lady: Ok. Well, the woman that does them, Jody, isn't here right now.
Me: And I also need a Thong.
Lady: Ok. Well usually you wear that yourself. We don't provide them.
Me: No like, a Brazilian and a thong. A thong. THONG. Like up the back?
Lady: I uh, you want to book a Brazilian?
Me: Oh. So should I just book the Brazilian now? I need a Brazilian and a Thong.
Lady: Well you will work all that out with Jody.
Me: Oh. Ok. Uh, I just need to book a ...
Lady: I don't know what you're saying.
Me: Like, a BRA-Zillion and then also the other side.
Lady: She's not here.
Me: No, like, book one. I need to book the procedure. And I have a few questions about it.
Lady: Look, Regina. I don't do the procedures. I don't know what happens, I don't want to know what happens, and I can't book you because she's not here anyway. Can you please, please, please call back tomorrow?
Me: I really don't think I can have this conversation twice.

...

The other reason I figured I'd go for the "Full Monty" of waxing is because there would be no way to prove or disprove I'd actually gone through with it. I could walk all cowboy-style and get some pictures taken of me crying or stunned and call it a day. $2000 raised for cancer and no snatch-attacks for yours truly, but everyone would think I'd done it. Win-win-win!

Then, with no warning, my lovely neighbours got on board and within seconds, not only had we reached our (my) $2000 goal, but one of them also wonderfully, heroically offered to pay for the Brazilian as her "donation" since we'd already reached the goal by the time she'd heard about it.

How. Sweet.

How. Incredibly. Sweet.

The face I made when I realized we were over $2000
and I actually must go through with my end of the bargain. 

For Crying Out Loud! Part 2

At 4:34  Boxing Day Morning, I awoke.

I was sweating, I was having heart palpitations and I was fairly sure the monster from my dream was, in fact, still underneath my bed.  I calmed myself down, rationalized that nothing is wrong and the monster is NOT waiting for me to get up and go to the bathroom so he can do all sorts of scary things (like folding the towels incorrectly, or leaving dirty dishes on the counter for months until they're glued together in perpetuity).

I'm sure the monsters in your dreams do much more terrible things than mine.

If they do, I'm really sorry-- misfolded towels is all the horror I can handle; anything more and I'd die of fright in the middle of the R.E.M. cycle.

As I sat there trying to stop the panic from again rising in my chest, I realized the reason I was having that nightmare.  See, it all began yesterday during our lovely, wonderful Christmas Morning.

In case you're have watched neither
Scooby-Doo nor Wayne's World. Ever.  Lame-o.

Santa left out a massive Thomas the Train set for Kiddo #2, which occupied him to the centre of his being. For Kiddo #1, however, he left out a beautiful necklace. It was one of two necklaces she had fallen in love with-- Santa had sent me on the lookout for things Kiddo #1 would like. Gave me to go-ahead to purchase her one gift, should it be revealed to me, and he'd compensate me accordingly-- sent word through Candy Cane Jingle Girl, our Elf on the Shelf, so I know the message was legit.

Kiddo #1 wanted either a marble necklace (which is a necklace that holds a marble in the pendant, and said marble can be switched out to be any colour in the world (probably), but the marbles cost extra and I figured Santa would be cool with getting necklace number 2 instead), or (necklace number 2) a gold chain and pendant handmade by a local artisan. Don't get me wrong, Santa was making his one gift count with either necklace, but I figured if Kiddo #1 loved them both, then she'd be happy with the one that didn't include dangerous (easily lost or choked on) marbles.  I sent word back to the North Pole that the second necklace had been purchased and was waiting in my studio, with the skirts he was picking up for other girls all over the world. Win-win.

Santa left the necklace out with his reply letter and a half-eaten cookie, on Christmas Eve, and Kiddo #1 was so happy. She was so happy! She put the necklace on and wore it and had lots of fun opening all the gifts for herself, and her brother who was so obsessed with his trains that he barely glanced up from the tracks to see what she was opening for him.

And then, after Christmas was done at our house and Christmas 2 was done at Husband's parents (my family Christmas was the weekend prior, in case you're wondering), on the way home, just before she fell asleep in the car, she half-whispered to Husband, "Daddy, I love my necklace. I really wanted the marble one. Do you think Santa thinks I wasn't a good enough girl to get the marble one?"

I nearly drove off the road. The shame was so deep it was tangible. Here was my amazing, thoughtful, wonderful, happy, smart, baby girl who works hard every day to be the best Kiddo #1 she can be, and she's  sitting there wondering if there's something she could do differently so Santa would get her the #1 gift, like he got her brother.

Oh, yes. I did.

We put her to bed and I began cultivating a peptic ulcer trying to figure out how I can fix this. Not gonna lie: I had no intention of NOT fixing it. I know kids get disappointed and that kids need to learn that they can't have everything they want. Guess what? That is not going to happen this Christmas.  I can go on and on about how amazing my daughter is and you'll either think I'm delusional or honest, and either way, I had to fix this for her. So, for you, I'll skip the paragraphs and get down to brass tacks.

Grandmas D and S, please forgive me for not expounding on your perfect grandchild.

And now you're caught up to the monster under my bed. 4:34. But I realized that the place that happens to sell that marble necklace opens for Boxing Day; Boxing Day is the Canadian equivalent to Black Friday in the States.  Only, instead of people shooting people in Walmart, in Canadia on Boxing Day, we stand in long line-ups in parking lots outside our favourite stores and take numbers to enter a giant boxing ring and pummel opponents for discounts.  It's easily the most brutal thing Canadians do (besides segregating our aboriginal peoples and slutting off our natural resources to look cool), but trust me, when you're having your clock cleaned by an old lady in a blue felted hat just to get 50% off something, you don't care. Boxing Day: national shame and economical redemption.

At any rate, I slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom where I began brushing my teeth and devising a plan. While I lived in America, stores opened at 4am to accommodate Black Friday shoppers; I got my boxing gloves out of their box, grabbed a coffee and drove to the store.  5am I pulled up and realized that the store wasn't going to open at 5am as there wasn't a light on besides my headlights.

I sat there playing Bejeweled and Draw Something with the local radio on hoping to hear a commercial that might tell me when the store would be opening.

At 5:15 my squirrel-esque attention span told me nothing would open until at least 6 and I went to a Tim Hortons' for a tea.

At 6am, it was apparent that the store would not be opening as there wasn't a light on besides my headlights.

I'll cut to the chase and tell you I was essentially "casing the joint" until the store actually, really did, open at 9. In between, I came home to a still sleeping house, put together the easel they got from Grandma S, did some dishes, and added 10 thousand tiny beads to a friend's wedding dress.  Yes, I can get a lot done when I am running on tea and a peptic ulcer.

She took out her teeth, put them in her purse,
and then beat the hell outta me.
Boxing Day: turning old ladies into  
trained killers since 1867. 

At 8:55, I returned to the store for the 5th and final time.  I turned off my car, put on my boxing gloves and headed to the front of the line. There were a couple of old ladies in front of me (one doing Matrix moves that scared the bejeezus outta me), but luckily I called my forest friends with my sweet singing voice. No old lady can resist something warm and fuzzy on their laps.  Once I had them sitting, it was a one-two knockout.

Into the store I marched, got the necklace (at 50% off, since I'd won the boxing match) and returned to the car feeling like a frickin' Ninja. So thrilled was I, that I called my mother in triumph!

Me:  MOM! I got Santa's marble necklace!
Mom: Wow! What does that mean? What time is it? What are you talking about? Is it really 9:30?
Me: Yes. The necklace. Mom! It's 9:34. And like, I'm talking about the necklace Kiddo #1 really wanted the best.
Mom: What? Oh. Yes. (yawn) But didn't she get that? Oh the marble necklace. Great. But how are you going to get it to her without her becoming a brat?
Me: Well. I hadn't thought of that.
Mom: It probably won't happen. You can just give it to her from the family.
Me: No. Santa said he'd reimburse me. This has to be from him or she'll think she's not a good kid.
Mom: Oh no. No bueno.
Me: Yes. Should I hide it in the tree?

That bitch bought the last marble necklace! 

Mom: Well, yes, but then she'll always be looking in the tree to make sure something wasn't left behind.
Me: Lord. What was I thinking? I beat up two old ladies to get this damn thing and now I can't even give it to her! It's like that movie, Not Without My Daughter.
Mom: Um. Not quite.
Me: You know what I mean!

I was annoyed that, out of a dead sleep, my mother couldn't come up with a ninja way for me to finish fixing Santa's mishap. I hung up the phone and put the car in drive. I started toward the house and realized exactly what I had to do: I got a tea for me, a coffee for Husband and two chocolate timbits. I texted Husband to alert him of my plan (and to get him to keep the Kiddos away from me while I covertly snuck back into the house.  Whether that text was ever recieved I'll never know because when I opened the backdoor, there stood Kiddo #1 beaming.

Kiddo #1: Guess what mom?
Me: Um. Uh, like. Um. What?
Kiddo #1: I've been playing trains with Kiddo #2 and we delivered some lumber to Brendham Docks!
Me: Oh. Yes! That's fantastic. Can you go to... the neighbours... and get... some ... sugar?
Kiddo #1: Yes. But why?
Me: Um, I mean, go to the basement and find... a train that... uh, can you find James train?
Kiddo #1: Right here! He's in my hand!
Me: Yes! I meant, uh, Hiro. Yes. I need Hiro and 4 trucks or shuntings or whatever those things are.
Kiddo#1: Ok! Sure!

And while she thumped down the stairs, I silently ran to the stuff she got for Christmas, wrapped the gift in some fabric (Santa brought us fabric to wrap with every year. It's super eco-friendly, way cute and luckily, all in one piece the next day for ninja moves like mine) and barely got the box put under her stuff when she reappeared with the 10 thousand things I'd requested.

See, that's another reason I think Santa needed a second chance this year.  She's just so dang nice.

Anyway, I said, ninja-style, "Let's get cleaning up. Kiddo #2, Kiddo #1, come get your stuff and take it to your rooms."  I picked up some of her things and ... poof, out dropped the little fabric box.

"What's this?" I asked quizzically.
"I dunno." she said.
"I don't see a tag. Must be Kiddo #2's." I said.
"Guess so." she said.
"Or, did you maybe just not open this one?" I asked gently.
"I don't know?" she said.
"Well, why don't you open it. I guess we'll know whose it is when we see what it is." I offered.
"Ok. Sure."

...

"MOMMA! I knew I was a good girl! I knew I wasn't naughty! Santa DID bring me the marble necklace! Oh Momma! I'm a good girl after all!"  And she hasn't taken the thing off (except to shower) since.

Yep. If you're not crying, you're not having Christmas at my place.

For Crying Out Loud! Part 1

I awoke at 7:40 Christmas Day, by myself. Somehow, amidst the various crashing of DNA that occurred within my children, they did NOT get my penchant for getting up seconds after Santa makes his exit, to begin Christmas Day.

I'm not sure I'll ever really understand how anyone can sleep in on Christmas Day, what with the anticipation of amazing gifts wrapped in Christmas fabrics but I've spent the last 15 years literally trying to sleep until 8.  I've made slow and steady progress; my initial goal was 5AM. 

Husband, furthermore, not only sleeps in as late as he can, but he also insists on taking a shower- A SHOWER!- before beginning our festive feeding frenzy. It's almost enough to drive a woman mad. 

When I rolled over and glanced at the alarm clock to read 7:40, I was quite proud of myself. Then, I was pouty that the children (one of whom had his head in my armpit and legs draped over Husband) were still sleeping and what the heck?

My parents were able to come for the opening of gifts this year-- and true to form, they rolled up around 7:42 (they had to leave Amherstberg at like, 5am on the 23rd to get here -- quite the commitment). The three of us marveled over what Santa brought the children-- Kiddo #1 had asked for a "marble necklace" which is a necklace that holds a marble in the pendant that can be switched out to match whatever you're wearing. Kiddo #2 had asked the big guy for "Thomas trains.  ... And tracks."  

Per the polite requests, Santa left out a pretty, pretty necklace for Kiddo #1 (that story is for another blog) and on the (large) living room coffee table, Santa spent upwards of an hour assembling a rather elaborate mini-Sodor for Kiddo #2. In the dark. So the kids wouldn't wake up. And, every few seconds, any of the battery-operated, motion-detecting parts would shout out "Welcome to Brendam Docks!" or "Ding! Ding! Ding! You're a really useful engine!"  making Santa grab the offending part, run with it tucked under his shirt-- er red coat, into the kitchen curse-praying the kids wouldn't wake up. Oh Santa! 

Once Grandma and Grandpa arrived at 7:42, the three of us began (noisily) making breakfast. After about 15 minutes of passive-aggressive clanging that brought dead relatives back to life in beautiful sugar-skull costumes, I finally gave up and went directly into my bedroom and gently (not so gently) shook Kiddo #2 awake. He rubbed his eyes and said, "Bunny? Why you wake?"  I said, "Well, Kiddo #2, Santa came last night."  

His sleepy eyes searched quickly for Poochie while his body propelled him onto the floor. He pounded his way to the door of the bedroom while I said, "Kiddo #2, what did Santa bring you?"  

Unbeknownst to me, Grandpa (Kiddo #2's best friend) was standing in the hallway looking at him.  Kiddo #2 squealed with joy and yelled, "Grandpa, Grandpa! Santa bringed me Grandpa!" and raced into Grandpa's arms. 

Cuz if you're not bawling at Christmas, you ain't at my house.  

So we all reached for the nearest tissues while Grandpa said, "Hey Kiddo #2. Let's look around and see if Santa left you anything."  And that's when Kiddo #2 saw it; a Mini-Sodor is possibly the only present that could possibly drag him from my father. 

He ran up to the table and screeched to a halt. He bent right down to look at the tracks, to peer at the various trains, naming them without reading. He walked the entire table stretching up to see in further, and squatting down to check out the different levels of track Santa had created. After about ten minutes of (mostly) silent observation (while I awoke Princess Aurora from her deep slumber) Kiddo #2 looked Grandpa in the eyes and said, "Grandpa, you play with me?"

And the crying started all over again. I mean seriously, it's a wonder there wasn't a flash flood on Sodor that morning for all the touching words Kiddo #2 didn't realize he was saying.

While all the crying and waking was going on, I (in classic Me fashion) was cooking breakfast burritos on High in the kitchen. I wasn't cooking them On High, like in biblical terms. I was cooking them using Max power (aka the only heat level that exists on my stove. Off or Max. Commit to cooking or just have an apple, I say)

Did you know that getting kids up, making old people cry twice and incredulously pouting that Husband is actually, for real, taking a shower on CHRISTMAS DAY!?! can really distract a person from the potatoes she's cooking on the stove? Did you know that a wok gets super hot, super fast? 

The next group-cry that occurred happened because the billowing clouds of smoke got in our eyes before I could put the wok out the back door.  Charred potatoes make for some naaasty smoke.

Searching for life through the thick smoke, Husband appeared from the bathroom in his towel and said that if I just wanted to have Cherrios and apples for breakfast, I could've just said that instead of burning all the other options first. He's quite the comedian.  Kiddo #2 appeared in the kitchen with Belle and Flynn, the two fire engines on Sodor, and told me to hook up their hoses, "I help you Mommy!"  Apparently, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

For the rest of the morning, Kiddo #2 played with his Thomas trains. He literally opened nothing else-- anything unwrapped with his name on it was done by Kiddo #1 while he glanced away from the tracks to see what was inside. It's not that he's ungrateful, it's that he couldn't imagine he could possibly get anything else. 

And on Boxing day, which is the day after Christmas Day, a whole other Christmas went down...