It's the name of a musical

So my blogging window is limited because we're totally stealing internet access from our neighbor's because the router we bought was bad.  We only get a sliver of a half of a fraction of a percentage of a bar and only if I place myself precariously on the side of my craigslist mattress which folds in the middle like a cheese sandwich, and aim the computer towards the window.  I don't think our neighbors would mind because they are listening to country music as they work in their yard and anyone who listens to country music are good people.  I know this. Anyway, I have to blog fast before the sliver of a half of a fraction of a percentage of a bar becomes nil and void and poof! vanishes into a world wide web graveyard from which no one ever returns.  Dead zones follow me.  It's weird.  I'm like those people who can't wear watches because they're magnetized or some such thing.  Luckily, good ol' blogger saves what I'm writing every few minutes.  They're good people too.  Except when it comes to allowing people to leave comments and then they twirl their handlebar mustaches and tie those comments to the railroad tracks where I never get to see them again.

I've been a little obsessed with hair lately.  Not the stuff on my head, which is just irritating beyond belief and going gray at the speed of light, but the other stuff.  I bought a new razor, spurring my budget conscience obsessed husband to say sweetly,

Hey, honey, could you quit spending like a drunken sailor?
 
I almost felt guilty for my shiny new green razor all perched pretty like on my shower wall, but only almost.  It had been almost six months since I had a new one and I might as well have been shaving with construction paper for three months of that time.

May I remind you that I am a pale-ish white person with nearly black hair?  I am not one of these lucky duck blonde girls who only have to shave bi-annually: we're talking daily in the summer and even then I sport a five o'clock shadow on my ankles by dinner time.

I know, I know.  This is really more than you want to know about me.  Be quiet.  I'm sharing my soul here.

So I refused to feel guilty about my splurge and I even didn't care about the cut on my shin bone that almost made me bleed to death.  It was the sign of a freakin' good razor!

But sadly, the whole purchase came back to bite me in the tushie.  Late last night a huge, we're talking ginormous, crash rocked through our sleeping house.  I tend to suffer from what is called Emergency Situation Tourettes Syndrome which basically means I cannot be held responsible for what I say when confronted with ginormous crashes in the middle of the night,  loss of blood,  scary movies, or scary movie previews.  I also suffer from Pregnancy Tourettes,  which means I can't be held responsible for what I say when confronted with smells, bad drivers, empty cupboards, or toilet paper commercials.  But I don't have that malady currently, so no worries.

Great.  Now I want a baby.

But back to hair.  The crash from my bathroom made me jump to the logical conclusion that mutant alien zombies were coming through the window.  But it was only the new razor falling off the shower wall where it was SUPPOSED to be hanging nicely from its included-at-no-charge shower wall hangy thing.  I still suspect mutant alien zombies.

Mutant alien zombies with suspiciously smooth legs to boot...

The second hair story that's been on my mind because I recently shared it on Facebook (like good anti-social people do who avoid real relationships but talk freely online) is about when I was pregnant with Gianni, a scant four years ago.  Confession time:  my belly button gets a little fuzzy when gestating humans.

That rustling sound you just heard was the sound of all males leaving their computers in disgust.

Okay, now that it's all women here, let's dish!

I grow a tummy like a cute little fuzzy peach.  Or a kiwi.

So, I get this brilliant idea while eight months pregnant to use this hot wax thing I've had in my bathroom cupboard for like, ages.  This seems super dooper logical to someone whose braincells have recently leaked out their ears and onto the floor.  What?  Your brain cells don't do that when pregnant?  Huh.  Interesting.  Well, anyway, I smear the hot wax all over my sasquatch belly and poor little Gianni, who is swimming around inside, all fishy like and bouncy and practicing his own stunts.  I wait until it hardens.

If you've never waxed. it's a painful procedure, but heck, at least it's fast, right?  All I had ever done at this point was my eyebrows, and that's like, a centipede worth of skin you're messing with, so who cares.  You can do it!  Grit your teeth and it's over in two seconds!

Well, not so much with a giant belly that holds an eight pound sumo wrestler and all the baggage and furniture and supplies said wrestlers carries.  We're talking major real estate.

Needless to say, Pregnancy Tourettes reared its ugly head.

I did finally get all that wax off, but it was not without tears and begging for my life to be spared to the Waxing Gods.

If ever I become with child again, I will embrace my kiwi belly, for it is beautiful and round and furry like a kitten.  And who doesn't love kittens?  Ummm, no one.  Everyone loves kittens.

Now that I think about it, no small wonder poor Gianni was bald.