Only Skin Deep

I couldn't decide. Should I make lollipops or remove unwanted hair?

Both required similar ingredients. Decisions, decisions...

Was I in the mood to eat something tasty or to, essentially, pull hair off my legs?

I decided on the latter.

You see, making lollipops does not provide good blog fodder. Sugaring Hair Removal?  Endless possibilities.

You’re welcome.

I found the Sugaring Hair Removal recipe online. Although it included only 3 ingredients (sugar, lemon juice and water), the recipe had 6 pages of directions.

Holy cow! No wine during this experiment.

I studied the directions. Basically I'd be cooking the mixture over a hot stove, stirring for 25 minutes.

Holy stinkin' cow!  I hoped I had sufficient stamina.

And that was just the beginning! There were 9 pages of directions to removing hair:

"You're now going to apply sugar to hair in the OPPOSITE direction of growth firmly allowing the paste to spread. You need to use some pressure and feel like you're pressing the paste against the skin for it to stick.

Sugar the hair off holding skin taut with your free hand using a fast flicking motion with your hand and removing the paste in the SAME direction of hair growth."

I kept reading, remembering how much it hurt to remove that bacon bandage from my face last year.

"You will not only be pulling your precious hairs out by their follicles, your will be removing skin, muscles, and chromosomes from the bones beneath your skin. You will cry like a baby."

Okay, I made that up.

But you won't believe what happened next.

I had an epiphany. I realized that writing about Sugaring Hair Removal would be a disservice to my readers.
 I have standards.  Very high standards.  My readers expect better of me.  

Sugaring Hair Removal?

How utterly shallow.  Beauty is only skin deep!

(I was in the mood for a lollipop, anyhow.)

Disappointing Barbie

I have completely out done myself.

And it's all because I was frittering.   Frittering around the internet.

I happened upon a scholarly video tutorial on YouTube entitled "How to Make Miniature Toilet Paper for Barbies".

My heart quickened, for I've always wanted to make miniature toilet paper for Rollerblade Barbie!  (You see, my toilet paper is way too big for her. In fact, she told me it would be like me using a bath towel to... sorry, I won't go there.)

But could I really learn how to make miniature toilet paper for Rollerblade Barbie on YouTube?  It sounded too good to be true.

I watched the video. It was gripping...riveting...inspiring! I watched it again, taking copious notes.

And like that Little Train, I said, "I think I can, I think I can.." as I walked down the stairs.  By the time I got to the bottom I was Maria in the Sound of Music singing, "I have confidence in me!"

I got out my materials and went to work. 

It took all the focus and dexterity I could muster, but I was determined to succeed.

And I did.  I made two adorable rolls of toilet paper for Rollerblade Barbie.  

See?

Thank you.

But they were so damn cute I wanted to show them off!

That's when I had my scathingly brilliant idea.

Sorry, Barbie.  I can't help it if I'm a stinkin' fashion genius.  Have a bath towel.

Cultivating the Cranium

If you're anything like me, you are very selective when picking out toys for children. I prefer educational toys and games, which will help develop the minds of children in my life, and prepare them for success in their graduate studies at Harvard or Yale.

But there are so many educational toys on the market to choose from: LeapFrog systems, GeoSafari, Rubik's Cube. (Let's not forget the Doggie Doo game: http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2012/07/developing-young-minds.html.) 

It's difficult finding just the right toy to stimulate those brain cells and help peak a child's interest in learning.

OMG! I left one off the list. Please forgive me. How could I possibly have forgotten My Cleaning Trolley?

According to the advertising materials: Make chores feel like child's play with this fully-stocked cart featuring a real working vacuum cleaner with electronic lights and sounds! The set also include a broom, mop, hand brush, dust pan, bucket and real working water sprayer.

Sorry boys. This is not for you. Check out the box. "Girls only". 

Holy cow! I just remembered another toy missing from the list: Pole Dancing Dolly.  This toy helps enroot a foundation for Geometry. Dolly not only goes up and down the pole, but around and around.

But what the heck! I must not have taken my Procera AVH Brain Booster this morning. I left off the most educational toy of all. The one that helps youngsters cultivate eye-hand coordination in order to become future surgeons of the world:  You Can Shave the Baby Doll.

Actually, I did some research and uncovered the startling fact that You Can Shave the Baby Doll is not a real doll!  It is a piece of art from the collection of Zbigniew Libera, a gifted prodigy from Poland.  

OMG.  I just had a scathingly brilliant idea.  

Since there's only one version of the You Can Shave the Baby Doll in existence, I can make my own. 

I just need to go to the Dollar Store.  Get me some dolls and some glue.  I have plenty of dryer lint at home.

The Seran Smile

It was so predictable.  So very predictable.

Let me step back.   

At the risk of appearing vain, I decided to bleach my teeth a few days ago.   I wanted them to be sparkly white.  But I couldn't find my bleach tray.   

 

And It wasn't one of those cheap "minute rice" molds.  You know the kind...where you dip a hunk of plastic into boiling water for several seconds and then transfer it to your mouth just in time to scald your lips, gums and tongue.

I got my bleach tray from my dentist.  And talk about a process!  The hygienist made me bite into a bowl of cement and stay put for an hour or so while she made a model of my teeth.  

And it was nowhere to be found!

I considered having another impression made, but after a millisecond of serious consideration, I came up with a better idea.

All I needed was some saran wrap a little solitude.

Linda was at work and Dave was watching the Brewers game in the family room.  I was safe.  Completely alone in the bedroom.  

I cut a piece of saran wrap, folded it a couple times, injected some bleach, and stuck it in my mouth.  Clunky but functional.

Then I lay back on my couch and commended myself.  I was a stinkin' genius.  And in a couple hours I'd be a stinkin' genius with sparkly white teeth. 

Then Dave entered the room, and attempted to engage me in conversation.

Ah, yes.  So predictable.

"Blah blah blah blah...." he said, not noticing my protruding upper lip. I nodded, in agreement.

"Blah blah blah blah..." he added.  I nodded again.

It went on like that for a while until he said, "Do you have rehearsal tomorrow?"  I nodded.

"What time?"

I said, "7:15"  But it sounded more like "basdjfljat gjlaetobhip papsef."

"What?"

I repeated my answer, as the saran wrap slowly loosened its grip from my bicuspids, making articulate responses even more impossible.

"How many glasses of wine have you had?" he asked.

"Not enough," I said, although it came out "salkdjfaoetgj ghiag" 

He wouldn't give up.

"What time is your rehearsal?"  he asked again.

I surrendered, ripping the saran wrap out of my mouth. I spit the bleach down the drain and screamed, "7:15!!!!!"

"You don't have to get so huffy about it," he said as he walked out of the room to watch the remainder of the baseball game.

That's OK.  So I wasn't a stinkin' genius with sparkly white teeth.  

I was still a stinkin' genius.

The Slapshot

Everything was going so well.  I was on my way to Wednesday lunch with my theater peeps. The sun was shining.  The birds were singing!  Happy, happy, happy!

And it was going to be a fabulous Wednesday Lunch!   We were trying out a new pizza place downtown.

Life was good! 

I was on time for once!  And I found a parking spot in front of the restaurant!  I even had change for the meter!

Certainly a trifecta of good fortune!

I was singing a happy show tune as I jumped out of my car and headed toward the parking meter, unaware that my Blackberry (actually, my employer's  Blackberry), had tumbled out of my purse. 

Allow me to shift gears for a moment.  Have you ever played Foosball?  I've never been particularly good at it.    

In fact, the only time I manage to get a ball into the slot is when I am playing defense, and I accidentally kick the ball backwards into my own goal. 

I was good at Foosball on that particular Wednesday.   

Imagine my cell phone as the ball.  And the opening in the curb, that leads toward the bowels of Columbia, SC as the goal.

The slow motion instant replay would go something like this:   I kick something with my foot.   I look down in horror, just in time to see my phone slide toward the goal, about to score 2 points.  I scream.  

H-O-L-Y-S-T-I-N-K-I-N-G-C-R-A-P! 

C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K!

I tried to follow the phone into Never-never-land, but I could only get half of one foot into it.  I knelt down and looked in.

It was very dark down there. 

I imagined rats.  Rats with friends in China making long distance phone calls that would be charged back to my cost center at work. 

At work!  Holy Crap!  What would I tell my boss?  "I've got some bad news and some good news...and some bad news.  I lost my Blackberry.  But I know exactly where it is.  Under Gervais Street."

No.  That would not work.

At the risk of dragging out an already long blog, let me just say that I noticed a Columbia fireman leaving the pizza place.  His name was Michael.  Strong, handsome, Michael.  Did I mention Michael's muscles?  

I took Michael to the scene of the debacle.  Strong, handsome and resourceful Michael borrowed a crow bar from the driver of a pick-up truck parked across the street, used it to open a man hole, and jumped in.   

Did you hear me?   

He jumped in.   

And he disappeared under the street. 

The next thing I saw was a hand poking out of the manhole, holding my Blackberry.  Then he rose out of that manhole like he was Mary Stinkin' Poppins. 

Now if I had climbed into a manhole, I would need an elevator to get out.  Or a pogo stick.  And it would not be pretty.   I would be covered in dirt. My clothes would be destroyed.    

There would be blood everywhere.

But thankfully, Fireman Michael came to my rescue. Strong, handsome, resourceful, sweet Michael.

 I thanked him profusely.

  

And asked him if he would carry me to my car. 

Not Heaven for Kevin

Lou needs to have her head examined.  What was she thinking?

She wanted to send me to camp. Camp Bow Wow. 

Bad idea.

I am certainly not Camp Bow Wow material. It's like sending Paris Hilton on a shopping trip to Good Will!

Lou talked up this place like it was some kind of Shangri-La.

It's not.

Plus, I had to pass some kind of entrance exam. And Lou was very apprehensive about my interview. She actually coached me on the drive over: "Listen up, Kevin.  Limit your butt sniffing to 45 seconds, no growling, and most importantly, look cute."

Whatever.

My interview lasted less than a minute. (Barely time enough for a good sniff.)

I wish the SAT had been that easy.

Then they took me back to the "camp", and I'm using that term loosely. It was an empty room with a cement floor.

"Excuse me," I said. "Where's the hot tub?"

Then they closed the gate and left me alone. 

 I looked around, stunned. It was completely barren.  Stark. Not a couch in sight. No pillows to be found. No windows to look out. 

And no toys.

"Hey you!" I yelled. "Bring me some socks to chew! I'm getting desperate! I don't ask for much....please... a puzzle piece? a plastic bag? a used Kleenex?"

Nothing.

I shook my head. Did they seriously expect me to lie down on cement? Who do they think I am?

"I'm a star," I howled! "I played Cheeky in Anything Goes! Bring me my trailer! And a tampon to chew on..."

Finally, Lou came to her senses and decided that I wasn't a good fit for Camp Bow Wow. 

I think she's considering hiring me an au pair.  

She better be cute. And have lots of toys.

Becoming Yapper

SHHHHHHHH.

I've got the biggest secret.

Ever.

(I read about this in The State newspaper, so it is probably going to remain a secret.)

My secret is about the Bloods street gang. Apparently, they have their own secret lingo!

Don't tell anyone, but "wisdom" means crack cocaine. And "white girl" is powdered cocaine.  Please keep this to yourself.


And here are some more secret Blood words:

Purple: type of marijuana

Yappers, or yaps: Ecstacy pills

Zip: one ounce

The river: Broad River Road/Bush River Road area

Lick, or fox: A robbery

Do a ghost: leave the area

What a goldmine.

With this information I can be just like June Cleaver in Airplane!  You know, her famous “I speak jive” scene?

Next time I hear someone say, “I need to get me some zips of white girl at the river and do a ghost”, I will know exactly what it means. 


I will smugly smile, and nod my head knowingly.


And if the person he's talking to says, "Say again?" or, simply, "Huh?", I'll be able to help!   I will step up to them and say, "Excuse me. I speak Blood." 


How cool is that? 


Wait a stinkin' minute.  If the Bloods have their own lingo, why can't I?


I can invent my own nerdling lingo! Here's a start:

Wisdom: wine

Zip: a bottle

Zap: a bag

Orange Dog: Cheetos

Licking fox: Cast party

Slammer: grocery store

Yapper: Esctatic

Let’s try it. 

“I need to get me a zip of wisdom and a zap of White Dog at the slammer for the Licking fox.”

OMG. I am so yapper!  Pass the wisdom.