Oh…. my… lordy. I read this story from a fellow GYNA Gal, Holly, and busted my button laughing… well, the Big Mac for lunch could have helped with that bursting button…. but let’s just fault laughter by request from my gut and ass. This little story brought me back to the days when I first moved to Chicago and I was so poor, I had to cut and color my own hair. When I finally had the money to go to a professional, she blasted me for two hours about how my last stylist was so bad, they shouldn’t have a job. I kept saying .” I know, she was awful, that’s why I came to you.” That statement was not a lie…. the fact I went to a professional was, but, whatever, I didn’t want to do hair anyway!!

For those of you, and I know there are a ton of you out there, including my mom AND my sister, that have tried to cut your child’s hair, you will love Holly’s little hiccup:

I was recently laid off because of the down economy. My husband and I have been cutting costs in every area possible trying to soften the blow of my salary loss. When I realized my four year-old needed a  haircut, I thought, how hard could it be, I’ll do it myself and save $20. It was a disaster. I kept trying to even out his bangs and I ended up cutting them to his scalp!! He has a huge forward like my husband so he looked like Herman Munster, but with much shorter bangs!! I thought about shaving it, but once I spiked his hair, I THOUGHT it looked okay, until, I dropped him off at preschool and his teacher asked if he had gotten hold of my scissors and cut it himself. I was so embarrassed, I just said, “yes.” 

About a week later, my son brought home a gift certificate to a local salon. I called his teacher to ask where it came from, she said Zach (my son) had told one of the mom’s that we didn’t have money for a haircut so I had to do it myself  and messed up his hair.  The mom felt so bad, she went and got a gift certificate so he could get a good haircut!!! I was mortified, especially because I had let the teacher believe my son had done it and I was caught in a lie! I took my son to my hairdresser, had his head shaved and returned the gift certificate with a “thank you,” and an explanation. If I have to give up cable, I will never skip on a haircut for my kids again!

Common American thinking of anything vanilla is something plain, classic, sweet and innocent. All the women in my family add vanilla to ANYTHING to make a food more sweet and comforting. The southern lady in the video below bitched slapped the purity right out of vanilla when she got down and dirty with some vanilla extract.  I had no idea there was such a high alcohol content in the flavor solution! No wonder my mom always said, “Just a drop… that’s all you need,” when I added it to batter. She knew I would’ve made a drunken pancake baby between vanilla extract and Bisquick if I had known… hmmmm…. a thought…

After drinking two bottles, it landed this woman on a street curb and in the slammer. Lindsay Lohan, if you’re reading this, stay away from the extract, you crazy little jail monkey.  Girl, you’re not alone if you’ve received a DUI from a substance your sweet Grandma uses to make cupcakes.

Give me developing hormones, a cracking voice, a pony of a penis, Justin Bieber shag-do…. I would hurl myself at the chance to be a 12 year-old boy who can bitch slap Lady Gaga all over her own song.  By now, everyone has seen Greyson Michael’s performance omnipresent on the Internet, talk shows and little girl’s screen savers. I wasn’t going to,  but I just had to post this! He’s crazy talented at such a young age with a surprisingly deep voice for pre-puberty.  Did his parents do a little experiment with Annie Lennox’s eggs and Justin Timberlake’s sperm? I’m wearing a white polo shirt with red stripes right now… I’m single-white-tweening him…… that sounds very weird coming from a 33 year-old woman.. perhaps illegal… let me rephrase….

Girl, you’re not alone if you wish to give to birth to a kid that has this type of talent. I could see myself being a psycho stage mom if this were my kid… although, I would insist on being the back-up singer/dancer/ tambourine player on his world tour hence ruining the child’s career…. so this kid could never happen to me in a healthy parent-child relationship kind of way.. this dream is dead.  Perhaps one of my nephews will grow a passion for the piano and singing.. they both love my rendition of “Bushel and a Peck,” ….. Aunt/Manager…. this could happen.

Anywho, if you have a kid with talent like this…  or know someone who does…. I just want to see it! Send it to me!

12 year-old boy that sings better than Lady Gaga, you just might NOT be alone.

I live in a five story building in Chicago. It takes about a good six minutes to get from the shut of my car door to the shut of my apartment door. It’s often that I leave work and decide to wait for the restroom at home. By the time I actually get to my restroom, I’m crawling and praying to make it to the toilet. It’s quite dramatic actually. You would think I got shot down in the middle of gang battle, dragging my wounded limps to safety and crawling as fast as possible out of dangers way.  It’s like a clip from “Good Fellas,” except my escape vehicle is the toilet. Nope. I just forget I’m an adult sometimes and hold it so freakin long that the pee pee dance can’t sustain my bladder! It’s cute when you’re little, but when you’re over the age of 11, holding yourself and gyrating to the bathroom… it’s a little weird… inappropriate… disturbing really.

When I received the email below, I sympathized with Lisa (and suddenly had to use the restroom.) In a bladder crisis, getting to the actual toilet is the focus, shutting the bathroom door is frivolous.  Here’s Lisa’s story:

I’m not going to lie and say this hasn’t happened before. How many times do we do something inappropriate and don’t learn our lesson until we’re caught? I was at a client’s office enduring a very long meeting. After the first 30 minutes, I had to use the restroom. An hour and half later, once the meeting closed, I was scared out of my mind that if I stood up, my bladder would lose control and run down my leg. I was in pain. We said our good byes. I carefully, without breathing, exited the conference room and asked for the ladies room which felt like a mile away. Once I got to the restroom, I was throwing my things on the floor and unbuckling my belt before the door closed behind me. Oh, and I forgot to mention that this was a public bathroom shared by the east end of the office floor. I ran to the stall, peeled everything off and finally was able to breathe.

Seconds later, I heard the bathroom door shut and footsteps walk toward my stall. Not to be graphic, but no one likes to sit on public toilets these days, so in my suspended position over the seat, I was looking down the entire time. I heard someone yell, “OH, EXCUSE ME!” I looked up to meet eye to eye with my client while in mid-stream. In my frenzy to reach the stall, I forgot to close the door after me. I was embarrassed and extremely uncomfortable. One minute I’m going over court papers and the next minute I’m staring her in the eyes with my pants down. My pants were zipped, hands washed and I was bolting toward the elevators before she could get out of her stall. It gives a whole new meaning to being caught with your pants down.

If I had a quarter for every nipple attack that’s upstaged a cute top I’ve owned.. I’d be playing shuffle board on my personal yacht right now.  However, that’s no longer the case as after I turned 28 years old, my size D’s started the Great Battle with Gravity and continue to lose. Going braless is not even an option for me unless I want my boobs to have a playdate with my belly button. I have to wear double-duty bras with ropes for straps and thick cups that give me Barbie boobs and no cleavage. I know…. too much information, but just an objective introduction to understand my alliance with the featured post today (wow.. I said a lot of big words in one sentence. I’m smart.)

Anywho… we can all high-five this post by Stephanie Dolgoff, author of the blog Formerly Hot  and the book  “My Formerly Hot Life”   which is on pre-sale now (the book officially launches in August, but you can buy now by clicking on the book title!)

Here’s to rebelious nipples. Enjoy Stephanie’s story!

“Girls Gone Mild”

All I can say is that they didn’t have “nipple petals” when I was at an age where I could even consider going braless. Or if they did, I didn’t know about them.

I’m talking about those little adhesive flower-shaped thingies you stick on your breasts, presumably to prevent your headlights from showing through your top. (The banner above is from YourNippleCovers.com). I do remember being embarrassed when that occasionally happened–like when someone told the kind of story that also made my arm hair stand up–but I could never figure out why I should be embarrassed, precisely. What did the phenomenon really betray about me? That I was secretly aroused? That my mouth said no, but my nipples said yes? Not hardly. It usually happened when a cool breeze blew through.

So I’m in this store, Pookie & Sebastian, on Third Avenue, and you can’t wear a real bra with almost any of their otherwise adorable dresses. That’s a problem for a gal who is feeling the effects of gravity, has nursed twins, and, well, probably should never have gone braless in the first place. And probably should never have walked into Pookie & Sebastian in the first place, but of course I have to do that at least 30,000 times before I finally get the message.

Today’s excursion beat it into my head pretty good. I held up a cute little strappy number, and then thought aloud, “Oooh, can’t wear a bra with this.” The very blonde and tanned salesgirl, whose back was to me as she stacked skinny jeans on a high shelf, thought I was speaking to her. Without turning around, she chirped, “No, you can’t, but we have these really great…”

At that moment, she stepped down from the stool she was on, and swished her hair around to face me. Her eyes landed on my boobs.

“…nipple petals,” she said flatly, as if she wished she could inhale the words back into her throat. It was clear from her expression that she felt my nipples were beyond petals. Potential protrusion was the least of my problems. Any nipple issue that I might have if I were to go braless would be overshadowed by the fact that I was braless, and the effect that would have on onlookers. I don’t think I need to paint a picture.

She pulled her eyes from my breasts, up to my almost 43-year-old face, and smiled with a mix of sympathy and embarrassment. “Have you seen this blouse?” she said, holding up a loose, flowy peasant number. “It’s really great because you can…I mean…”

“You can wear a bra with it. I know,” I said, putting her out of her awkward misery. I felt bad for the girl. It was not her fault that I insist on fantasizing about wearing clothing that no longer looks good on me. She didn’t mean any harm.

It was clear, however, that she couldn’t fathom that someday, perhaps, she, too, might need supportive undergarments, even if, like me, she’s not particularly large. It never occurred to me when I was her age. I usually wore a bra, but if I didn’t want to, I could get away without it.

“It’s really not so bad, having to wear a bra,” I said. “It happens. I don’t mind. And if you get one that’s lined, no nipple-itis.” She smiled gratefully. I even bought the top, in a fit of wanting to prove to her (or perhaps myself) that there are other attractive ways to dress that don’t involve nipple petals, and that I’m OK with it.

I’m going to return the peasant top, though. It’s nothing special. Not like a strapless underwire bra that didn’t hurt or wind up around my waist by day’s end would be, if such a thing existed. “Nipple Scaffolding.” Someone’s gotta invent that.