I thought I was an expert mom, maybe one of the savviest in the Kingdom, but this week I failed Pre-Teen Toiletries 101.
Parenting is complicated, but generally when you tackle a topic you know what to focus on. If you’re purchasing a book for a child, you make sure the subject matter is captivating and of the appropriate age level. Drew loves The Magic Tree House books; Porter prefers Geronimo Stilton and books about inventions. When it’s time to buy clothes, you account for each boys’ personal idiosyncrasies. Finn likes layers. Drew disappears in white. Porter wears anything soft.
All boys (or at least those I smell) begin to reek within moments of stepping out of the shower. My job when buying their toiletries, particularly with eleven-year-old Finn, is to identify the products that will maintain his clear complexion, enable his shaggy hair to look cared for, prevent his pits from smelling, and reduce the overall stench that inevitably adheres to him. He’s a lot like Pig Pen without the visible dust clouds.
Several months ago I wigged out when small bumps were visible underneath Finn’s skin. He started using Cetaphil, then Clearasil. The bumps remained and one small blemish formed. As Bill pointed out, it was only one pimple, but at the time Finn was two months shy of eleven, mighty young to be breaking out. To me the zit was a harbinger of years of festering sores marring his appearance and preventing him from dating, finding a wife and moving out of our house so I can turn his bedroom into a walk-in closet. I was hell bent on saving his skin.
I invested in a fancy-schmancy cleanser which he proclaimed “girly.”
I invited him to the computer where I showed him pictures of his future self if he refused my cure. He shuddered, ran for the Neostrata and the acne was gone within two weeks.
His Pert shampoo gave his hair shine and body, the Right Guard vastly improved his body odor, and once I hid his glasses he started wearing his contacts on a regular basis. You can see why I was pleased with my mastery of boys’ hygiene.
My only complaint was that the soap kept falling on the floor of the shower and melting. It was wasteful and I was pretty sure Finn wasn’t bending down to dip his washcloth into the puddle of softened soap and scrubbing his body like he should. That’s why I was fired up when I went to CVS and found huge bottles of Axe shower gel on sale for $1.99. I dimly remembered that Axe is “How Dirty Boys Get Clean.” With three dirty boys at my house, I loaded up my basket.
Finn was equally thrilled with my purchase, so much so that he started taking extra long showers that depleted our hot water supply and left the twins howling in dismay. But it was almost worth it. He emerged smelling studly and the spicy odor clung to him for several hours.
Yesterday as I cleaned his shower, I picked up his bottle of body wash to clean the mildew on the tile behind it. As I did, the back of the bottle caught my eye.
I’m a writer, not a photographer, so I’ll tell you what the text says:
EXPERIENCE THE AXE EFFECT
The Axe Effect may result in, but is not limited to, unrelenting female attention and/or late nights.
I assume you can see the silhouette for yourself. A gray male figure has his arms around two females.
I was stunned. Finn’s shower soap was encouraging him to lather up in the hopes of scoring a menage a trois. I would never let Finn go see a movie that sent that message, but at least I’d be warned; the movie would have a rating. There’s no parental guidance for shower gel, and frankly, I never knew I was supposed to focus on anything other than cleanliness when cruising the soap aisle.
What’s next, Double Duty Dental Floss? “It’s perfect for removing food particles AND tying up that special someone!”
Remember how smug I sounded when I bragged about how we try not to let the boys watch much TV? That pretty much came back and bit me in the ass. Maybe if I’d been tuning in rather than reading, I wouldn’t have bought R rated body wash.
Maybe Oprah would be surfing and laugh about “The Naked Baby Kidnapping Caper” and she’d show it to Stedman, and then Gayle, and next thing you know everyone in America would be tuned in.
In Which I Multi-Task, Announce Exciting News, And Open The Floor For Questions
The closer I get to forty, the greater my ability to multi-task. Yesterday between four and ten I colored my hair myself and added highlights, made oatmeal bread, kept up with the Anna Nicole debacle, paid bills, gave each boy individual attention, prepared dinner, washed and dried three loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen and caught the results of American Idol.
It wasn’t always pretty, but sometimes you must sacrifice beauty for efficiency.
An experienced colorist/baker feeds the children and applies the first layer of color while the loaves rise, then rinses and paints on highlights while they bake. A skilled photographer would have made this a more focused picture, but surely you can see the toothpaste-like streaks of white bleach in my hair as well as the unbleached flour dusting the aromatic loaves.
Many of you may be surprised to know that I didn’t intend to be a blogger. In fact, when I wrote my first entry a little over two years ago, my goal was simply to force myself to work on my writing. My hip LA friend assured me that a blog would provide an outlet for my writing and could lead to bigger and better things.
He was correct. I’d only been writing for five months when iVillage contacted me and asked me to be one of their original five bloggers. Publishing columns twice a month for a wide audience was fantastic practice and immensely satisfying.
I now have another exciting event coming up. I’ll be one of the speakers at Writing Today, a well-known writers’ conference at Birmingham-Southern College. Gay Talese is the Grand Master and all sorts of interesting journalists, poets, novelists, agents, and so forth will be speaking. You can click on the link to see all the information about the speakers, registration, and the impressive list of past Grand Masters.
I’m clearly the low woman on the totem pole, but hell, at least I’m in the tepee. I’ll be talking about blogging and using a blog to work on and market your writing.
If any of you plan on attending and have particular topics you’d like me to address, please put them in the comments or email me at anneglamoreATgmailDOTcom. Similarly, any readers who have wondered about the history of the blog or have questions you think attendees would like the answers to, chime in.
I’d love to hear from you. Let the questions begin!
I’m a spa novice, so when Bill booked us for massages this weekend as a Valentine/birthday extravaganza I anticipated a memorable experience. Bill had told me to take full advantage of the facilities– to shower, to take a steam, to soak if there was a jacuzzi.
We checked in well ahead of our appointments and a woman led us down a short hall. She pointed at a candlelit room and said, “When you have changed into your robe, come rest in the Serenity Lounge where your therapist will meet you. You can enjoy our four teas, representing fire, water, earth and air.”
I raised my eyebrows at Bill, who nodded approvingly, and we padded down the hall and parted ways at the locker rooms.
The room had showers, toilets, a steam room and lockers. The counters were lined with immaculate rows of pastel-colored bath products: turquoise body wash, pea green shampoo, lilac conditioner and buttercup lotion. Investigating further, I found styling gel, razors, deodorant, brushes and combs. For a product whore like me it was heaven. I smelled every concoction and eyed the steam room.
I was about to enter it when I realized I had not asked Bill about proper locker room etiquette. I’d stripped down and put on my robe and had a towel in my hand, but I couldn’t decide how much of that should accompany me into the room and how much should remain outside. I thought back through all my years of schooling and all the traveling I’ve done, but it was Sex and the City that came to my rescue. I distinctly remembered a scene where all four girls were in a steam room with towels around their waists and their breasts exposed. So that’s what I did.
Later Bill and I met up in the Serenity Lounge.
“Are you wearing underwear under your robe?” I whispered.
“Nope,” he said gleefully.
“Me either,” I said, pleased that I’d gotten this part right. We snuggled closer and sipped our tea.
I had barely tried all four teas before a squatty man with an eerie resemblance to John Belushi came to the door and said, “Anne Glamore?” I followed him down a twisty hall until we arrived at a room and he said, “I geev you minute to change, theen I come een for the massage.”
I panicked. Bill had made the reservations, and I thought he knew me well enough to know that I’d want a female masseuse, or at least one that wasn’t quite so hairy. This guy looked like the perfect man for fixing your transmission, but not for stroking near your lady parts.
I dawdled as I took off my robe in case there had been a mix up and Squatty John was actually Bill’s masseuse. Bill had ordered a deep tissue massage which I understood requires a lot of muscle. Squatty John qualified. Surely a female or a gay man was headed to my room, ready to rub me with aromatic oils.
I got on the table and the door opened. Although I had removed my glasses and left them on the counter, I could see instantly that Squatty John and not his sister or effete co-worker would be my therapist. I squeezed my eyes shut and resolved to make the best of it.
Squatty John started by rubbing my back on either side of my spine. I tried to pretend that he was Rupert Everett and not to think about the zit scene in Animal House. I was only marginally successful. As he rhythmically kneaded my shoulders I relaxed a bit. I’m a big fan of feedback, so I started to murmur, “That feels great,” but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to sound like I was expecting more than the standard massage. I thought about moaning a little in appreciation, but the sound I contemplated might be construed as orgasmic. I considered an “ooh” or “mmm” but even that felt unfaithful to Bill.
And so the hour passed almost in silence. Once Squatty John said, “You want me to work your heep?” and I nodded. Later he told me he’d leave the room briefly while I turned over and covered myself up again. Even when he was hitting a nerve by my scar that’s been tingly since my surgery, I couldn’t force myself to say, “A little to the left,” because it sounded too much like sex, not a business transaction. The massage felt good but the personal interaction was awkward.
After a long time, Squatty John left the room again, saying, “I come back een a meenute.”
I was puzzled. Was it over, or was he readying for the grand finale? I couldn’t see a clock anywhere. Certainly a massage would have a definite end point, and so I lay on the table, perplexed but relaxed. Maybe he’d return with champagne and we’d toast to a massage well done. Perhaps he’d wrap me in rosemary scented towels before I was forced to face the outside world. I closed my eyes and sighed in delight.
The door opened. “Yer done,” Squatty John said sharply.
Oh.
Squatty John led me back to the locker room where I showered, put on my robe and stood at the sink working styling get through my hair and faced yet another conundrum: should I re-dress in the bathroom stall and risk looking prudish, or bare all in the locker area as if I were used to women seeing both the huge scar on my back and my tiny breasts?
I peeked at the woman beside me and saw a naked backside punctuated with a thong. Question answered.
I had no idea that an afternoon massage, which sounds so carefree, could be fraught with such obstacles. I learned a lot about proper relaxation, including the importance of a masseuse who inspires comfort and confidence, rather than thoughts of “Toga! Toga!” running through your head.
For the youngsters who don’t get the zit reference and want to be hip, check this out:
To Use the Pickle Player: Click the show you want to hear, press play, sit back and enjoy. To read the show notes click HERE.
In "It's Natural" I will tell your kids about the birds and the bees, but YOU must stay in the room and perform the coital finger movements.
I read this ten years ago and am reading it again. I want to read *Stargirl* but must avoid the library until Porter locates lost books.
The Boys Are Loving
Hooray-- there's a sequel to the original Diary. The guys are snarfing it up.
Porter finished all the Harry Potter books so I started him on A Wrinkle In Time, and he's enjoying it. I bought the whole set so he'd have plenty to read for the next few months.
After finishing the Harry Potters, Drew turned to the Hardy Boys. He can't tell a story "in a nutshell," so I've heard all about the missing jalopy, and the red wig. Solve the mystery already!
