Band-Aids and hair removal

So here I am on the Amtrak, headed towards Portland Oregon with friends and Logan to see a play tomorrow. It’s frankly a relief to be away for a couple of days, it’s been a hectic and stressful couple of weeks. One thing I told my husband from the death of my friend recently. I told him that under no circumstances whatsoever is he ever allowed to die before me. He must survive me, which is harder than it appears since he then has to suffer me for many, many years.


I know it shocks you that I am difficult to live with based on your knowledge of my sweet and docile nature. Scott, honey, don’t choke, you know it’s true. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, in truth I’m only a little sweet and docile (when I’m sleeping maybe. There is a remote chance that’s true and since I have no idea I’m going with that.) Poor Scott, his fun loving, fly by the seat of his pants nature is stifled by my incessant need to have a well ordered cleanly existence. I like excitement, really I do but it must be well executed. Scott plans like he drives, with his own, odd direction, too fast, and about five minutes late.

On a totally different tangent, this morning I was in the shower in the hotel room, with the lovely hard as rock little hotel soap and my pink razor shaving when I slipped and cut myself. Have you ever cut yourself shaving? Maybe your legs if you’re a girl or your face if you’re a boy? Yeah, well that hurts doesn’t it? Try cutting yourself between your private parts and your ass. Remember my previous log where I mentioned what would happen if I didn’t shave, pluck, wax or maintain? Well that of course means everywhere. If I didn’t shave I’d look like a Wooky. Well I would suggest not doing it in a hotel shower with the industrial soap. Not only did I remove a chunk of skin but I’m pretty sure I missed the hair completely and got skin around the hair.

So now not only am I still sporting a beard, every time I move my ass my jeans rub the raw spot beautifully. When I got out of the shower I did look for a Band-Aid, thinking the idea of ripping the Band-Aid off when the bleeding stopped would be two fold (would hurt like a son of a.. but would do). I sadly couldn’t find a band-aid, although I thought I had in Tracey and Bill’s toiletry bag, which would have been a bit hard to explain why I had a breathe right strip stuck to my ass. It’s a good thing I knew what they look like (I have sinus issues and wear them to bed sometimes; Scott thinks they’re SUPER sexy). Although when farting I would have much better breathing (or my ass would have).

Another thing I loved about the hotel bathroom was the giant mirror which angled on two of the walls directly across from the bathroom. When I happened to look over my shoulder this morning as I was getting into the shower I got a panorama view of the back of me, which was great. I needed to see my big ass, my back boobs and the rolls gently rolling downward. Not to mention the lovely chunks of cottage cheese fat on the back of my thighs. Talk about depressing!

The hotel we were staying at had a continental breakfast included with these very cool waffle machines where you pour the batter into the waffle iron, close the lid and flip it over. It counts down 90 seconds then beeps to let you know it’s done. Well when we got down to breakfast Logan goes over to that table and says “cool waffles” and proceeds to place his giant paw on the top of some ladies waffle that was sitting on the table while she went to get utensils. Needless to say she was not impressed and decided not to eat that one. I don’t blame her, I KNOW where his hands have been.

Logan has a love of his penis. He likes to touch it any possible chance he can get, which means he “adjusts” himself a lot. In fact, in Kindergarten his teacher, who was about a hundred, asked that we call her one day. When I called her she explained Logan wouldn’t stop touching himself in class. We did explain to Logan the appropriate times he can touch himself and when he cannot but it’s really hard for him. It’s just dangling there between his legs, a perfect handle for his hand. Needless to say any future notes that came home I made Scott call. He’s getting better or more likely I’m just not seeing him do it as much, although it is not an unusual thing to say “Logan, hands out of your pants.” Truthfully though, haven’t you seen plenty of grown men “adjusting” themselves in public? I don’t think they ever outgrow it. Logan discovered his penis as a very young infant and probably will die an old man with one hand on his handle.

If I had a direct pipeline to my pleasure zone so conveniently available perhaps I would be the same. Perhaps not. Now you will all leave this blog post wondering though...