moosh in indy.

I sometimes wonder if my parents ever sat down before they brought my sister and me into the world and had the hereditary possibility discussion. I wonder if my dad ever mentioned to my mom that somewhere along the ancestral lines somebody fell hard for somebody with some very strong Greek features. Okay, by Greek features I mean nose and body hair. According to my aunt this Greek tryst took place generations ago and yet we still haven’t been able to shake the nose or the body hair. (At least my sister and I haven’t been able to.) To get to the down and dirty of the genetics on my mom’s side however one only needs to go one generation back. My grandparents are small, small people. And for those of you who know me know someone must really be small if I call them small. If my mom and dad had the “how goofy could our kids end up looking” conversation I’m not aware of it, because we could have ended up goofy looking. (I’m not saying my parents are unattractive people, they’re actually quite lookers, but if certain features of one or the other had gone in the wrong place, eek.) Cody and I had the conversation. If his brow bone had parked itself above my nose on our kid’s face, whew, let’s just say we’re glad that didn’t happen.
I preface with this because today my genetics landed me in a very awkward predicament. Both my own genetics and the genetics running around my house wearing a purse as a fanny pack because she knows it annoys me. Cody and I have a hot date coming up on Saturday night. Being the hairy monobrowed beast that I am I decided to give the ol’ ocular caterpillar a wax. I was confident in may waxing abilities because I have done it multiple times to myself with satisfactory results. (Unlike this woman.) This is also the part where I tell you that both my parents have had Lasik, meaning I was destined for bad eyesight. Twice legally blind without corrective eye wear to be exact. Put my horrible eyesight together with my vertical challenge and I have to lean very far over the sink to be close enough to the mirror to assure that I don’t go waxing off my eyelashes. Eyebrows came off without a hitch. I’ll also add in here that the moosh was running around putting diapers on anything that wasn’t nailed down while I was in the bathroom ripping out any misplaced body hair. I did such a ripping good job on the brows I decided to brave waxing the ’stache. It’s not much of one, unless the light is juuuuust right, that’s when my Mediterranean heritage shines through in the form of a moustache on my outer upper lip. I was leaning in far to get the beast as precise as possible because, good lands, I didn’t want to have to do this twice. Just as I was ready to yank the moosh came running up behind me with a wipe shrieking “I WIPE YOU! I WIPE YOU!” and since my mouth was pulled taut in every direction in preparation for dozens of hairs to be ripped out of my face all at once I wasn’t able to yell “STOP!” Right as I yanked in one quick upward motion the moosh shoved a wipe, a cold wipe, up my bare butt cheeks. (Yes, I was waxing fresh from the shower and was bare butt naked, something we do a lot in our house and always seems to make stories more interesting.) Before I had time to react the the double whammy from both ends of the spectrum the moosh yelled “THANK YOU!” and ran back to her room. I must have stood in amazement for a while because she was back in no time with another wipe to take care of wiping my other bum, “THANK YOU!” she shouted as she ran off, pleased with a job well done.

If my husband were a lawyer I woudn’t have had to wax myself.
If I weren’t 3% greek I wouldn’t have had to wax.
If I were a bit taller I wouldn’t have had to lean so far leaving my bum so exposed.
If I hadn’t been blind I wouldn’t have had to lean at all.
If I had never had a kid I could have waxed naked without fear.

But really, where’s the fun in that?