Sex and Suburbia, Tweezers and Vasectomies, What?!!!

Sex and Suburbia, Tweezers and Vasectomies, What?!!!
By Julie Stankowski

So, what should I write about today? Here’s what’s on my mind: tweezers, vasectomies and why I think God created Sundays.

Tweezers. A fantastic invention. For 40-somethings with hair growing out of the oddest places, this invention is right up there with the light bulb, Tivo, cabernet, Haagen-Dazs and babysitters. Without tweezers, you would be astounded by how many women would be strolling by you in Target with a 5-inch hair growing out of their chins. Seriously. I thought I was the only weirdo that kept a tweezer in my car. It was a secret, like I had some bizarre habit I couldn’t tell anyone about. But I got sick and tired of driving down the street, opening my little lighted mirror to put on some lip gloss and then being mortified by what I saw making its way out of my neck (ummm, why didn’t any of my friends mention this to me?). So, I decided to keep my secret weapon in my glove compartment (like purses and bathroom cabinets, I think women’s glove compartments contain a lot of personal information about them). Now, you will never see me at the grocery store with an unwanted goatee. I pull out of my garage and, in the sunlight, armed with my invention of the century, pluck away until my skin is entirely hair-free. I decided to come out of the closet and admit I’m an automobile-hair-plucker because in the last several days I have come to learn of four other women who are as a crazy as I and they too carry the same secret weapon in their glove compartments. So nice to know I’m not alone. Enough about tweezers.

Vasectomies. Another fantastic invention. That is, if your husband will even contemplate some surgeon messing with his special package! If your husband has had one, kudos to you. You are a lucky, lucky woman. But if your husbands are like mine, the second they hear the word, “vasectomy,” they get a look on their face as if they were being attacked by aliens, bitten by snakes and handed an extraordinarily high AmEx bill, all at the same time. They don’t want any more kids, but they refuse to have sex wearing a raincoat. As someone recently said to me (can’t remember who, but she must be one of my very smart friends), “It’s two damn days with a bag of frozen peas and you’re done!” Have we women not endured enough physical pain down there popping out 7+ pounds of flesh per baby to warrant us asking our husbands to spend two days with peas? They can mentally block out the peas and watch ESPN, Turner Classic Movies and do continuous mock baseball drafts on the computer. And for two full days they can be waited on hand and foot by their oh-so-appreciative wives. But I don’t think this stubborn group will budge. And once again, we wives have to take charge and deal with the preventing pregnancy thing. And explain to our grown-up husbands why the pull-out method doesn’t always work!

Moving on, let’s talk about Sundays. And forget religion. This has nothing to do with what religion you are. I believe God created Sundays for nutty, over-scheduled and exhausted moms. I believe that soccer games, baseball games, birthday parties and every other Sunday happening should be banned. I believe moms should have an absolute right to stay home in their pajamas on Sundays and do nothing but watch sports (or HGTV and the Food Network), read the L.A. Times from cover to cover, slave over the crossword puzzle, nosh and occasionally doze off. Yes, I know we’re not single anymore and I know we have children, but hey, even a mom deserves one day! One day! That’s it. Can’t we have a day?

Here’s how it goes. The fact that we moms must constantly “chit-chat” with other people is exhausting in and of itself. When you bump into someone you know, doesn’t matter whether you are at drop-off, pick-up, the grocery store, the gym . . . the routine is the same, “Hiiii! How are youuuu?” “Oh, I’m greeeaattttt! What’s going on with you???” Can you imagine what would happen if you deviated from the routine and when you saw another mom at drop-off, you completely ignored her because you weren’t yet awake enough to move your mouth and make sound come out? And when those moms saunter over to you and say, “Good morning, how are you, what’s new?” I’m thinking it may be considered gauche to reply, “Hi, well actually, I’m tired and cranky and I just don’t feel like ‘chit-chatting’ right now. I have a million things on my mind, my kids had what appeared to be a world championship wrestling match this morning which left both of them crying, I have to go home and clean-up my dog’s throw-up, I feel fat, ugly and bloated and like a big crab-apple that’s about to pop, and at this moment quite frankly, I don’t give two flying hoots about how you are or what’s new with you!” No, we cannot say how we really feel or what we really think. That would be rude and obnoxious. And someone would report us to the manners’ police. And we’d probably have no friends. And wind up on the preschool Black List. So, we must keep the smile pasted on our no-longer-wrinkle-free faces and provide the expected response, “I’m good, you?” Exhausting, I tell you. Simply exhausting.

I believe God knows this. And I believe this is why God created Sundays. A day where we moms should not have to dress and put on make-up. A day where, left alone with our families, we can say exactly what’s on our minds and not pretend to be Happy-Happy-Happy, La-La-La, 24/7. A day where we can sit on our butts and not feel like Lazy Lucys. A day where we can order in Chinese and not cook. A day where we can casually play with our kids and not have to rush off to ballet class or football practice. A day where we have all the time in the world to take advantage of tweezers and vasectomies.

Thank you, God!