Girl Scouts - The Second Oldest Profession

Girl Scout cookie season has come and gone, and here I sit at the computer with a fresh muffin top rollin' rollin' rollin' over the top of my pajama bottoms.  Effing Girl Scouts and their irresistible crack in a box.

Let's get in the Way Back machine and talk about the root of my initial bitterness with the Girls in Green.

When I was of Brownie age, I wanted to sign up.  I mean, please.  Who wouldn't want to belong to something called "Brownies"?  I would join a group TODAY called Brownies.  Perhaps I will start a club.  It will be open to women over the age of 30, and we will earn badges in things like "100,000 Taxi Miles on Minivan/SUV" or "Fastest Drink Maker" or "Least Conflicted Children" or "Best Camoflauged Eye Bags".  We'll call ourselves something snappy like "Shrimp Cocktails" or "Mocha Lattes" or "Post-Bloody Marys", and once a year we'll sell fellatio tickets to our husbands/boyfriends.  Who wouldn't give it up for a good cause?  The cause  - a Group Retreat somewhere sunny next to a pool.

Time to get off the Tangent Train - the Brownies wouldn't let me in.  The story was that I lived too far out of town, but I think it had more to do with the fact that I looked like Laverne DeFazio.  I was crushed.  No cookie sales for me.  sniff.

Fast forward past years of therapy to deal with my non-Girl Scout life, and I've just given birth to my first child.  We've been home from the hospital for about 48 hours, and the hormones are out of control.  I'm standing in the kitchen, weeping and looking at my Play-Doh post-baby stomach, when someone knocks on my door.  It's a little Girl Scout, with the 12 boxes of cookies I had forgotten I ordered.  Current Husband came home from work, and I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, holding the baby, with an empty box of Shortbreads and another empty box of Peanut Butter Patties.  I had ingested about 10,000 calories, and I don't believe I've known a moment of satisfaction like that one since. 

All was forgiven, Girl Scouts. 
You saved me in my time of need.

I've never looked back.  I cannot resist a Girl Scout cookie order.  I used to tell myself it was because I support the Girl Scouts, and that I just can't say no to a girl with a green sash at my door with an order form.  This year, however, I realized that I did not order ONE BOX of GS Cookies directly from a Girl Scout.  All 22 boxes (seriously), were ordered from adults.  Parents of the Girl Scouts, who were sent out by their little dictators to sell! sell! sell!  For this reason, I am suggesting that the Girl Scouts change their cookie badge to a Pimpin' Badge, because little sister is sending out her girls (and men) to bring home the money.  They sit at home playing Wii and waiting for their stable to bring back the goods.  My proposed Pimpin' Badge will look like this:

Yo. Here's your boxes of Thanks Alot.

Because those cookies?  Are full of Flava.

God Bless you, Girl Scouts.  You are the epitome of the American Way.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 33

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.


Today's topic: Summer Hair Management.

I'm sort of a slacker mom.  Granted, we've been pretty busy so far this summer, but I took my kids to the pool for the first time last week, and their summer break is halfway over.  The kids have been to the pool - they've been in swimming lessons, been with friends, and went with our local park board.  But I, the Wife, had not stripped down for the community at the local pool until last week.  Preparing for my pool trip made me realize what a hairy woman I have become in my old age.

 Actual photo of me at pool, playing water guns with kids.

Every woman deals with this issue on some level.  Honestly, I don't shave my legs much between Thanksgiving and St. Patrick's Day.  Why bother?  Current Husband isn't going to turn me down because he doesn't have a girlfriend yet and I am his only option.  Besides, it keeps me warm.  But in the summer?  You don't want even one little unsightly hair poking out of anything.  Let me break it down for you from head to toe:

 Me at PTA event in May.

I think the flower in my hair is a nice touch.

Eyebrows

I am a total Freda Kahlo.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every few hours, I will grow a Bridge to Terabithia between my eyes.  Now that I am over 40, some of those hairs are gray or white, and much harder for me to see with my reduced vision.  I always seem to notice those little buggers about 10 minutes before I'm ready to walk out the door.  Last night is a great example - CH and I attended a John Deere Classic Golf Tournament dinner with some friends.  Nice event.  I wore a dress.  But as we were leaving home, I noticed a few stray eyebrow hairs, and I had to pluck them.  HAD. TO. And of course, I got huge welts on my eyebrows.  I told people I was hit in the forehead by a stray golf ball on my way into the event.  Kenny Parry got me an ice pack.  Zach Johnson suggested cucumber slices from the salad.

 Kids!  Let's get some ice cream with Higgins!

Mustache

There is nothing hotter than a mother of three with a fluffy 'stache.  Again, over 40, darker hair, more prevalent.  What is that all about?  I didn't have a mustache in college!  I had very little unsightly hair before I was 25.  It's like God WANTS you to get pregnant before you're ready.  I get that bad boy waxed every few months, but I have to be sure not to schedule anything in the afternoon, because when the Tom Selleck is yanked off my face, I get a huge pink Hitler for a few hours afterward.  They even douse me with witch hazel or vodka or something, and yet, I sport the FemiNazi until dinner.

 It appears that Alec Baldwin and I 

share more than calling our 

children names on their voicemail...

Nipples

Oh, you heard me.  I said it.  Nipples.  And I know lots of women who get stray hairs around their nipples, so don't EVEN try to tell me this is shocking in any way.  Fortunately, my nipular hair level has not reached shaving level, because I never want to say to CH, "Hey, wanna get it on?  I just shaved my tits."  I'm a plucker.  A mother plucker.  So hot.  Speaking of hot...

I'll pluck yours, Rob, if you pluck mine...

Stomach

Yep, here too.  I've heard this called the Dirt Trail, but Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday, says that is actually a disgusting fecal issue, so don't take my word for it.  I had a friend in high school who was plucking dark hairs from her navel to her dealio, and I thought, "Wow, that sucks".  Now I think of her as a pluck those stray bad boys, because she has a terrific job and probably gets hers professionally done while sipping a Mojito and reading "W".  Touche.

Bikini Line - really, you don't want an image here.

I am not brave enough to wax yet, so I am a shaver, despite warnings from my OB-GYN friend from high school who says to be careful with the razor because she has put stitches in a LABIA (cringe) from someone doing their own bushwhacking.  And let me tell you, it is hard to be thorough for swimsuit wearing.  I was very conscious about leg placement at the pool, because honestly, I am getting old and not as bendy as I used to be, and I was a little concerned about being surrounded by hairless teens in small bikinis.  Enough said.  As for Brazilians, let me just tell you that my pain tolerance level is quite low, and until they are giving epidurals with Brazilians, I will not carry a passport.  No travel to Brazil for me.

I look just like this, 

if you add three pregnancies, 

loads of spider veins, 

hairy German bloodlines,

and 15 boxes of girl scout cookies.

 

Legs

I always shave my legs in the summer, but I notice there are spots on my knees that I miss, which is weird.  I also occasionally notice longer dark strays on the back of my thighs a few inches above my knees, like there are a couple of hairs that seem to duck whenever I am shaving, and suddenly they are an inch long and showing off my German heritage.  I guess I'm married, so who gives a shit, but really, it's more about the principle.  I used to have great legs, it was my favorite feature, but then I had kids.  Some families pass down sterling silver or china.  Some families pass down stock or ownership in companies.  My family passes down the chin gobbler, Alzheimer's, and varicose veins.  Thanks, ancestors!  Now I have a map of Toledo on the backs of my legs, so really?  The hair can stay.

I get my pedicures done in Middle Earth with Frodo.

Toes

My big toes have hair on them too.  I also had five wisdom teeth, so it's like my people really haven't evolved that much from the apes.  I've been known to shave my big toes.  It's like my razor sees me coming and goes, "Oh Christ, really?"  I think I just need an all-over waxing.  Wax on, wax off.  Just like the Karate Kid.  But hairier.  And sadder.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble people, but I'm not too sexy for my shirt.  But I may be a little too hairy for it.  I know.  Current Husband is one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Keep on waxing and have a great weekend!  St. Joseph story to come, he couldn't fit into Whoreticulture Friday, Sunday seems a little more appropriate.

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 21

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Celebrity Marriages.

"I always just hoped that, that I'd meet some nice friendly girl, like the look of her, hope the look of me didn't make her physically sick, then pop the question and... um... settle down and be happy. It worked for my parents. Well, apart from the divorce and all that!"

- Tom, Four Weddings and a Funeral

I'm sorry, men, but in the words of the poet Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name.  Celebrity husbands?  I'm talking to you.  Is it a particular plague among celebrity husbands, or is it just that no one cares enough that Phil McCracken of Dubuque, Iowa, is screwing around to put it on the cover of People?  Does Joe Blow screw around as much as your average Hollywood husband or wife?  This question, coupled with my obsession with Girl Scout cookies and therefore acid reflux, is what keeps me awake at night.  (Really, it's the cookies.  I know lots of people cheat.)

Sandra Bullock is only the latest Hollywood wife to discover her husband has been burning the coal in someone else's furnace.  Before her Brad left Jennifer for Angelina and Reese caught Ryan with Abbie and Sadie caught Jude with Sienna (who caught him with the nanny) and Uma caught Ethan with Ryan (who was the nanny) and Halle caught Eric with everyone.  Let's not forget Elin or Vanessa Bryant in sports or Elizabeth Edwards and Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford and Mrs. Larry Craig and Mrs. James McGreevey and Mrs. Bill Clinton....Really.  I could go on forever.

Famous women caught cheating on their men...um, maybe Madonna and A-Rod?  Farrah left Lee Majors for Ryan O'Neal?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

To right this wrong, I have developed a simple multiple choice test for women to give their famous husbands.  Answered honestly, I think it will save some heartache.  You're welcome, Hollywood.

1.  You ask me on a date.  You:
a) Ask me if I want to stay in or go out.
b) Take me to In 'n Out Burger.
c) Say you'd like to screw my sister.

2.  While dating, I have to leave town for work.  You:
a) Read Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility"
b) Take a class in sensitivity.
c) Watch the porn movie "Scents and Spankability"

3.  We decide to marry.  You propose:
a) In Paris.
b) On the beach.
c) an open marriage.

4.  As a hobby, you:
a) drink screwdrivers.
b) like carpentry.
c) screw everything.

5.  When you text me, you sometimes:
a) send me links to funny videos.
b) tell me you love me.
c) call me the wrong name.

6. Your favorite drink is:
a) A daquiri
b) Whiskey, neat
c) Beer bong between the stripper's tits

7.  Your biggest personal problem is:
a) Organization
b) Communication
c) Herpes

If he answers A to most of these questions, he might be gay.  Best to keep him as a movie or shopping date for a while.  If he answers C, YOU fail for keeping him around this long.  Jesse James?  You had me.  You were the poster boy for not judging people by their looks, or their tattoos, or their porn-star ex-wives.  You start playing around with tattooed biker chicks for a little fun, and next thing you know:

 You're guilty conscience is forcing you to make bad fashion choices.  

That's right, Jesse.  You earned those overalls.  Perhaps regular pants irritate the sores.  Even Larry the Cable Guy is saying, "Hey man, just because we dress alike DOESN'T mean we have anything in common!"

Perhaps what these men really need to do is not get married.  They aren't doing women any favors by marrying them.  Honestly?  Sandra Bullock has other options.  And who wouldn't want to be with Jen?  (Hmm.  Okay, bad example.  But she seems like a really fun girlfriend!  Take ME to Cabo, Jen!)  But Reese, Uma, Halle, Elin, heck, even Hillary could hook up with someone else.

I understand that good people cheat.  I completely see how people get from Point A to Point B.  I get it that if you're feeling down and troubled a la James Taylor, and someone approaches you at just the right time and tells you how amazing you are when your partner doesn't seem to notice, you will be tempted to stray.  But as the child of a marriage with adultery, can I propose that if you can't be loyal and true, then don't stay married.  Period.  And if you do get married, and then repeatedly cheat, I hope you get potato salad in your pants.  You may still be a good person, but you deserve the itches.

And Jesse?  I hope you really enjoy your time in the garage, because I think you're going to be tuning your own engine for a while.  Let me suggest another quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral for your next relationship:

"Charles:  Let me ask you one thing. Do you think - after we've dried off, after we've spent lots more time together - you might agree *not* to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?
Carrie:  I do."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!
EIGHT HOURS LATER:  When God gives you a gift, like Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzaling, and you don't use it?  Well that's just a crime.  I will discuss the hiring of someone to vajazzle you on Monday.

Every Tuesday is Fat Tuesday in My Pants

February is the month of love.
And I love food.

(For those people who say, "Uh, Julie, it's Wednesday!"  Yes, I get that.  I write late at night because the full, coherent sentences come after the children have been bedded.  But perhaps in my world it is Tuesday every day.  Perhaps this is Julietopia, where I am queen, and days and time have no meaning and everyone gets sugar cookies and there are no taxes, or laundry, and it is always May and Starbucks delivers.)

This morning I sat down at my computer with my large, steaming cup of beige coffee and a bagel, and read with amazement that today is Fat Tuesday.  "Huh," I thought as the bagel crumbled out of my mouth and past the cream cheese on my t-shirt, "I thought every Tuesday was Fat Tuesday".  But maybe it's just MY pants that celebrate.

A friend in Mount Vernon, Iowa owns and cooks in the best restaurant on the planet, The Lincoln Cafe.  I'm not biased.  It is really the best food ever.  Ask anyone.  It's crack on a plate.  It's an unexpected check from grandma in college and summer camp and kids gone for the weekend and Girl Scout cookie delivery day and John Cusak holding up the Boom Box in Say Anything all run through a chopping mechanism with mango and cumin and some other wacky ingredient you don't recognize like bison or quail or quinoa (Matt just said via Facebook that he was repeatedly beaten with a box of quinoa as a child, and would prefer "eggplant" instead) and presented on a nice white plate.  And then it's a taste explosion in your mouth, like the best fireworks ever or Gourmet Pop Rocks on your tongue.  Matt's motto is "Honest Food" and they have t-shirts (like the one I was wearing with strawberry cream cheese on it) that say "Food Is Important".  I see that shirt and I think, Damn Straight.  And I don't care if the food isn't honest.  Lie to me, food.  Say you're negative calories.  I won't kick you out of bed.

Have I mentioned I love food?  So for all of you wanna-be poseurs who celebrate Fat Tuesday once a year, I give you my 52 Fat Tuesdays.  And you should see what happens on Merlot Mondays and Wasabi Wednesdays and Thigh Thickener Thursdays and Deep Fat Frydays.  Delicious.  And then it's on to Weekend Food!  Yay!

However, I am a realist, and know I will be killing myself by inches if I succumb to my gluttonous instincts.  The days of waking up on Saturday morning in the sorority and eating donuts and drinking 64 ounce fountain Mountain Dews to chase away the residue from a night of 10 beers and Taco Bell or Quik Trip microwave food after the house dinner of Starchy Crisco Ground Beef Casserole with Oreo Mint Dessert are officially over.  (No disrespect, Suzie, it was all delicious, every last starchy fat bite.)  The day of my 35th birthday my metabolism said, "Well, my work here is done," and it took off, leaving me with a 3000 calorie a day latte habit and no exercise ethic.  That was five years ago, and I'm still drinking lattes.  Action needs to be taken.  Literally.

I did a brief stint at the YMCA, and actually made friends with an elliptical machine and got in shape, and then I stopped going, because who wants easy success?  It should feel like a struggle, right?  CH was doing MediFast, and wanted me to try it, and I was all, "you take your pyramid scheme diet plan and I'll stick to the Whitey's malts", but soon he was down 35 pounds and I was lactose intolerant.  I caved.  I got on MediFast.  And I lost 25 pounds pretty quickly and have kept it off.  So my jeans will zip, but my heart and cholesterol didn't get the memo. 

I am still lacking in the cardio/exercise department.  On Monday, when the girls were testing me switching rooms, I found a pedometer, and decided to put it on.  By the end of the day Monday, I logged 3500 steps.  Hey!  That's good, right?


Uh, NO.

I Googled how many steps I should be taking a day, and it told me some vile stat that said I should be taking about 10,000 steps a day to stay healthy.  WTF?!?!  I consider myself somewhat active, but I guess writers who sit in front of their computers all day are actually in the Michael Moore/Marlon Brando/Kevin Smith Institute of Health.

"Monday was an anomaly," I thought.  "I'm more active than that!"  Today, I got up from the computer, carried loads of laundry up and down the steps, and walked laps around the house while on my weekly call with one of my freelance clients.  Then I took the kids to their piano and cello lessons and to a playdate...but that was driving, which oddly doesn't show up on the pedometer.  So here I sit, with 4090 steps.  Crapola.

Apparently my dog is getting fat as well, as neighbors are starting to comment.  George the Superpet lays around all day with me, and to make matters worse, he gets his lattes with whole milk.  Since OUTSIDE still resembles a weather station in Antarctica, I'm going to give myself a pass for another few weeks, get my Girl Scout cookies in and eaten, but as soon as it thaws out there, I'm going to have to leash up the dog and get out in the hood.

I love food.  I hate exercise.  My dog is large and energetic.  I, sadly, am aging and bitter.  But I ordered 15 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and I want to eat a big dinner at the Lincoln Cafe soon.  Lonely Nikes, I will be with you soon.  And baby, we were born to run.

p.s. Happy Birthday Matt!  I'll trade you a birthday cake for a pulled pork sandwich....

 

The Sixth Food Pyramid Part 2, Resolution #11

Again with the eating.  And we had a mini-blizzard yesterday, which forced me to make chicken tortilla soup and eat half a bag of sour cherry balls.  That's right.  I said balls.  

So back to Type 6 Diabetes.  Type 6 Diabetes, a lesser-known form of the disease, happens when you leave the traditional five food groups and exist solely on the Sixth Food Group Pyramid, which looks like this: 

I revert to the pyramid when I am cold and uncomfortable, having a bad day, or am celebrating something.  So kind of all the time.  Let me explain how the pyramid works.  Today is Part Two in a three part series.

 The Middle of the Pyramid is about Weekend Eating

The other day, Mocha Grande asked about fats and salts.  This is the roux, or the base, of weekend eating.  When Current Husband and I were living in sin, we would come home from work on Friday, pull a futon mattress on the floor in front of the TV, and eat chips and dip, pizza rolls, Chinese food, Taco Bell, and drink beer.  And play Sega.  We'd stay up until 2 or 3 a.m., and catch an episode of Star Trek:  Next Generation, because we are cool like that (You must assimilate with the Borg!  Number Two, you have the bridge!  What is this emotion...love?  I am unfamiliar with this term.). 

On Saturday, we'd wake up at about 10 or 11 a.m. and start watching college football/basketball, and then run out to get more Chinese/Mexican/Italian food and rent some movies.  We'd watch Saturday Night Live, and then get another movie in, and go to sleep around 2 a.m.  Sunday morning felt like a good time for some doughnuts from the grocery store a block away, and then we'd eat leftovers from the previous 36-hour gorge and prepare ourselves for the work week.  Oh my Sweet Lord, how I miss those days.  Back when we had minuscule amounts of debt, responsibility or spawn, and ginormous metabolisms.  We never stopped eating like that on the weekend, but CH and I have both experienced a noticeable difference in our metabolism levels since we were in our 20's.  Now we have debt, obligations, offspring and fat.

Here is who I blame:

That's right.  The Girl Scouts of America. 

Why, Julie, why?  The Girl Scouts are wholesome.  They're helpful.  They wear jauntily perched chapeaus.  They sell delicious cookies!"

Let me tell you why.  Because those bitches wouldn't let me in.  That's right.  I, Julie The Wife, am a bona fide Girl Scout Reject.

There are obvious reasons they wouldn't have me.  I'll give you a moment to compile a short mental list.  (OKAY, that's enough!  Stop!  I get it!)   The reason they gave my mother is that we lived too far out of town, and therefore did not fall into their region of 'City Girl Troop 345'.  (Of course, the reason 4H wouldn't have me is that I lived too CLOSE to town, and could not raise livestock.  But hello!  I was NAMED after a COW!  I should be a 4H legacy!)  I lived on a lake in no-man's land, nine miles from town and five miles from a farm, where I could not earn a badge that would train me in the invaluable skills of feeding a family healthy food.  This is the badge that keeps me from my dreams of Domestic Servitude today:

The unattainable, therapy-inducing Family Living Skills badge.

And, as one can easily discern from the badge, this is also why I am not good with housekeeping, laundry, or money.  The badge I HAVE earned:

And this is tattooed on my back fat.

So not only do the girls in green reject me and refuse to teach me how to plan and cook a proper healthy meal for my family, they then undercut any real effort I make to BE healthy by coming around every year in the dead of winter to push their crack-laced cookies.  Which I eat on the weekends.  After my soup, chips, and Taco Bell.

RESOLUTION #11:  Punch the next Girl Scout I see.

Sour cherry balls!  Sour cherry balls to every last one of you and your jaunty berets!

Next:  Part Three in the Sixth Food Pyramid series, on Desserts From Friends.

UPDATE - 10:30 p.m. Tuesday.  Just ordered 10 boxes of Girl Scout cookies from my darling niece.  Punched her mother, who is a Troop Leader.  All is forgiven.