School lunch orders will never be the same again

Where I grew up,

Fandangle was not a word that you'd think of -or want-
associating with children's icecream.

I am guessing that Peters' marketing gurus didn't grow up where I did.

Hairy bits.

(www.drewdahlman.deviantart.com)

Please believe me when I say that when I got up this morning,

I had no thought to write a blog post 

that was going to mention pubic hair.

Pubic hair in soap no less.

But wandering the supermarket aisles this morning,

my mind wandered,

and the posts about how I miss blogging,

about how sad I am at the passing of Phillip Seymour Hoffman,
about how grumpy/sad/ I am that John Barrowman is coming to Australia
but not to Adelaide,

and the one asking how many other people drive and walk around

and imagine what their neighbourhood would be like post-zombie apocalypse

just evaporated when I started to think about hair.

I have spend the last two years freaking out about the amount of hair

migrating to life in the drain every time I wash my hair.

Mr Boozle has been lamenting his every increasing male pattern baldness for years

but, at the end of the (not-as-much-gender-equality-that-we-would-like) day,

just like grey hair,

it is easier for a man to carry off the thinning hair look than a woman.

Ah, the cycle of life...

We are born, hair on our limbs but maybe no, or little, hair on our heads.

We grow, get hair on our heads.

We get hormonal and there comes the fuzz in our armpits and in our nether regions.

We enjoy a full body of hair for a while,

albeit apparently shaving/ripping off/dyeing a good amount of it 

for the sake of fashion/comfort/heck knows why else.

(My GP friend says that by the time our girls are teens,

they will be fashionably hair-free in the you-know-where.

Hands up if you haven't had a Brazillian?

I am not into pain and I am not into looking like a 

pre-pubescent kid so I haven't been there

and have no interest.

I am not too worried about my pink bits being out and proud 

for necessity of health and in the privacy of a doctor's room.

After 3 pregnancies and natural childbirths, I've lost count of how many people

have eyeballed the area and I are comfy with the idea.

However, someone standing there with hot wax

and no necessity towards my health and life prospects

does not make me want to ask my va-jay-jay to be out and proud)

Anyhow, I digress.

Then we start to lose our head hair.

Well, actually it relocates to the face for older women

and the ear canals and nostrils for older men.

The word hirsute no longer means a hairy chest or back.

Any hair left at this point turns grey and starts to grow at awkward angles.

So through our lives we pluck, we shave,

we wax, we dye...

Human beings are weird, really.

I am not really into makeup

and can often head into summer without breaking open the fake tan lotion

but I don't like hairy armpits.

Parental influence? Teenage peers? Comfort?

The media? Partner's preference?

When do we make that decision

to shave that bit or dye that bit?

My folks are pretty laid back when it comes to most things when I was growing up

but my mum was an oppressive fascist tyrant when it came to her teenage daughter's beauty regime.

(OK, maybe she wasn't quite that bad but I was a teenager at the time

and that's how I remember it)

I was not allowed to get my ears pierced till I was 16.

That I could take with good grace.

Nor tweeze my eyebrows.

Taken with not such good grace

but accepted as I didn't (quite) have a monobrow.

But I wasn't allowed to shave my legs either.

When I was growing up, my mum bought into a lot of those old wives' tales...

sucking lemons will dry up your blood...

break a pin off in your splinter dig and it will go into your bloodstream and kill you...

shaving your legs will make the hair grow back faster and thicker...

(www.flickr.com)

So picture me,

the slightly dumpy, bespectacled, academic brunette nerd,

who may have also had a haircut resembling a mullet,

bleaching her leg hair through high school.

It wasn't enough for me to be dumpy, nerdy and wearing glasses.

I had to give the bullies a bit more fodder.

The only consolation was that my mother insisted on me wearing my school dress

at a hideous, longer length 

so that less of the bleached leg hair was showing.

That and the fact that the girl with the shortest dress in school 

had orange legs from fake tan 

so that diverted some of the attention,

more than the short dress alone attracted.

So I look at my 6 year old daughter

who has daddy's colouring so isn't a brunette

but has hairy legs all the same

and I think about the big decisions...

When will we give her the sex ed talk?

When will her boyfriend be able to sleep over?

When can she shave her legs and tweeze her brows?
When do we discuss pubic hair etiquette?

Mr Boozle and I,

like most partners, I am sure, 

follow the unspoken rule that head hair left on the soap is fine

but pubic hair is not.

Soon we will have 3 teenagers sharing one bathroom,

one shower

and quite possibly one cake of soap.

It does my head in now when the word "mum" is turned into 3 syllables...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, I can't find my hat"...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, he hit me again"...

But I should enjoy it.

I suspect that I will find that preferable to hearing it turned into 4...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, someone left a pube on the soap again.

I'm not touching it.

Can you come and get it off please?

...

...

Mu-uuu-ummmmm?

...

...

Muuu-uuuuu-uuummmmmmm? "

Of course, if my GP friend is correct,
we might not have to worry about it.

Sex Ed. Or why 249 million sperm have to die.

(www.healthewomb.co.uk)

My mother is not a great communicator,

especially when it comes to emotional issues.

I remember calling her from University, distressed that a friend had died,

and her response was "Well, that's not very good, is it?"

When I had reached puberty, she handed me a book.

That was how I learnt about menstruation and other rather significant changes 

that were happening to my body.

In grade 9, if our parents had ticked the appropriate box

and signed the appropriate form,

we were herded off,

girls to Mrs Smith in this room,

boys to Mr Brown in that room,

where Mrs Smith and Mr Brown somewhat uncomfortably

enlightened us on the nitty gritty of the birds and the bees

and how not to have baby birds.

Grade 9.

I can't imagine most kids these days getting to grade 9

without teaching their parents a thing or two about the topic.

Last week, I took my 3 off to the "Where did I come from?" session at school.

I nearly bailed when, in the car ride there, my 9 year old son was explaining to his little sister

that you can't have babies unless you kiss someone or get really close to them

and you have to be married.

Did I really want to ruin that innocence with one graphic sentence

in the school hall?

The seminar had a nice turn out of 5 to 9 year olds

and their parents

and the lady in charge was obviously well practiced

in saying words like "penis" and "sex" to a hall of kids
without showing any evidence of weakness to the pack.

There was a universal "ewwwwww" (from the kids)

when it was explained that the actual way that those sperm cells from daddy 

get to the egg in mummy

is by daddy putting his penis into mummy's vagina.

(My, my. What a difference 10 years will make to that reaction)

Friends had taken their children to a similar seminar

and this got explained as a"special hug" between mummy and daddy

but you know what?

The little kids accepted this new fact about life and went with the flow.

There was a universal titter (from the adults)

when kids were yelling out their household's pet names for female pink bits

and some little one yelled out "trapdoor".

At the end of the evening,

the message that hit home to me was that the kids

took the facts on board, 

processed them and moved on.

We as adults can choose to be embarrassed or vague or deflective

when we get asked those uncomfortable questions that are going to come.

I don't want to hand my kids a book and tell them to read it.

I know that a book should at least be giving the correct information

and I might read that book with them

but I need to be there

to make sure that they are coping OK.

It is important stuff and, heck knows, at times it will be emotional stuff,

especially when they reach the next seminar,

"What is happening to me?"

There are a number of disturbing things about the "Gangnam Style" song

(OK, yes, it is catchy)

but the one that is the top of my list

is seeing 5 and 6 year old children

doing the dance and singing "se-xy la-dy".

We have explained to our kids that sexy is not an appropriate word for them to use 

at their age.

After this talk, they do now have a little understanding about the can of worms

that words like "sex" and "sexy" are opening.

My oldest was a tad non-plussed about the fact

that both sperm and wee came out of the same place in a willy

but was super excited that sperm looked like tadpoles.

My youngest loved the cute pictures of the babies
and took in the information that made sense to her.

Only my 8 year old,

my beloved, sensitive boy,

seemed scarred by the whole evening.

He had already decided that he didn't want to be a woman
because he didn't want to go through the birthing process.

But he was devastated to learn that only 1 of the 250 million sperm

racing for that egg would make it 

and that the other 249 million plus sperm would curl up their toes.

Oh, boy.

I think that puberty and hormones with him is going to be a roller-coaster ride.

So do you like your vulva?

(recision.wordpress.com)

I don't know about you but I find that one thing suddenly might start
cropping up all over the place in my life.

Last year, for example, it was zombies.

Telly shows, movie, books, dinner conversations, kids' video games...

It seemed that every time I turned around,

there was the walking dead.

This year, for a complete change of pace,

it is labiaplasty.

Yes, you heard right.

Labiaplasty.

L a b i a p l a s t y .

Besides being one of those words that looks more weird the more time you write it,
it is a word sure to make a girl shudder and cross her legs in the same protective way

that blokes do if you mention a body blow to their goollies.

A friend recently chose to have the elective procedure done

while under anaesthetic for another necessary surgery.

Then, a few weeks back,

Mr Boozle and I watched a British documentary called "The Perfect Vagina".

(Yes, technically it should have been called The Perfect Vulva)

Now, even after I had started writing this post,
an article has arrived in my in-box.

Let me state right from the outset quite clearly that this is a procedure 

most definitely not on my bucket list.

In fact, it is probably on the Top Ten Things that I Don't Want to Do before I die list.
Somewhere between jumping out of a plane and eating a bowl of pea soup.

I am not willing to consider anyone approaching my va-jay-jay with hot wax on a blunt stick,

let alone a sharp scalpel blade.

Apparently it is a procedure that is becomingly increasingly common.
In Australia the surgery may covered by Medicare
and has been performed on girls as young as 14.
(and remember that this would require parental consent)

I do understand that some women have abnormal labias.
Abnormal to the point of them wanting surgery
and believing that this will improve their quality of life.

But this is a surgery that can result in complications
such as infection, decreased sensation and scarring.

What I don't get is a young girl thinking that she needs surgery down there.
What is that about?
Who are girls comparing themselves to?
(Or who are their partners comparing them to?)
Naked women on the internet?
Porn?
Women in the porn industry would have more "attractive" vulvas
in the same way that their breasts are going to, no doubt, have to meet a certain "porn standard"
Obviously they are not going to represent the normal population of women's bodies.

As a heterosexual woman who is not  involved in a profession that exposes me to women's genitals,
I can say that I don't have a lot of experience with women's vulvas.
The documentary surprised both Mr Boozle and myself
with the range of "normal".
There is a huge amount of variation out there.

And as far as wanting your vulva to be "perfect"...
I don't even really know what that entails.

While I am preparing myself for talks with my daughter
about peer pressure, smoking, birth control, hairy legs
and maybe tattoos,
I can't say that the idea of needing to discuss her self-esteem in the same conversation
as her genitals ever occurred to me.

Yes, the human body is beautiful and should be loved.
But I've got to be honest.

I don't think any pink bits are pretty.
I am not going to call a penis handsome
and I don't think a vulva is what you'd call classically beautiful either.
But it doesn't mean that there is anything wrong with them.

But seriously, our society is going off the rails
if our young girls are wanting artificial boobs and shaved off labias in order to feel good about themselves.

And even worse, if parents are agreeing with it.

Out of the mouths of (growing-up-oh-so-quickly) babes

(www.wordsfromwillow.blogspot.com)

My oldest child is nearly 10.

A really awkward age when he (mostly) knows how to throw an insult out there
but often doesn't know how bad it is
or even what it means.

In the past 2 days alone,
thanks to assorted friends and books,
he has managed to offend practicing Christians ("for the love of Jesus Christ"),
elderly people (his grandparents are"fossils")
and pretty much anyone in between.

His best to date, however,
was to tell his little brother that he had a big dick.

A teasing fail firstly because his younger brother didn't even know what the word "dick" meant.

And secondly...well, for obvious reasons.

It proved very difficult during the parent-child talk about not using adult words
to restrain myself from explaining why this wasn't actually an insult
and why, one day, he might be praying desperately that someone might say it to him.

50 Shades of Reality

(pinterest.com)

As you may know from a previous post,

I have been reading the 50 Shades trilogy.

I am now wading (a good description I think) my way through the last (and definitely the least) book.

I can honestly say that I have realised a few things about myself from reading the books.

I have learnt that I never want to be so wealthy and self-absorbed
that I would expect my housekeeper to clean my sex toys or bondage room.

I don't find the thought of someone feeding me wine via their mouth
after they have been eating cold dolmades
at all titillating.

I have realised that my favourite tie of my hubby's is the one that I bought him years ago
and is still his favourite,
even though he has never used it to tie me to the bedhead.

Someone, somewhere, may be enjoying multiple orgasms multiples time a day
just from having their nipples tweaked
(I should be so lucky)
but really, as a mum of 3 kids and with a hubby working full-time,
I can't see it happening here any time soon.
Christian and Ana Grey may be able to fit repeated frequent sex romps
in to their busy, billion dollar empire
but I know that I can't.
I doubt I could even if I was 20 years younger and child-free.
Even a quiet night in front of the telly or a game of pool for them
ends up horizontally.

As much as I love and adore Mr Boozle,
he is never, ever going near my pink bits with a razor.
Ever.

(And I am sure that as much as Mr Boozle loves and adores me,
he would never, ever want to go near my pink bits with a razor either.
Ever.)

(mimosanthemorning.com)

But the thing that I have realised most is that
reading books with so much full-on sex in them is not necessarily a good thing.

It is like repeated exposure to violence.

You get desensitized.

Apparently repeated and frequent exposure to hot, graphic, perfect sex

has the same effect.

At the end of a reading session,

the last thing that I want is nookie.

Not what Mr Boozle was hoping for when he found out that I was reading them, I might say.

(welovedhere.com)

Sending out an SOS...

Mr Boozle turns 41 this week.

For the first time, I think ever,

in our almost 22 years together,

I have nothing.

Not a little something set aside.

Not an idea.

Not one thing.

Zilch.

What do you buy a turning-41 year old veterinarian

who can whip up a mean paella and sushi,

has the occasional long stray eyebrow hair

and has a passion for bike riding?

Mary suggested a knitted willy warmer.

At the moment, I may just be desperate enough to whip one up...

I have never yet resorted to socks and jocks.

but I think a knitted willy warmer would not strictly speaking fall into this category.
...and after all, he does complain on those cold winter mornings
that his testicles have retreated so far up that he might never see them again.

There would be the issue of measuring up.
Sizes as you can see are only in Large, Extra large and humungous.
(do you think that this pattern was written by a man?)
When is the best time to measure?
Before or after a very cold ride?
What room for...fluctuation is there?
And 3 inches is large, isn't it? (That's what I've been told)

Anyone got any ideas?

Or will anyone (obviously my male readers)
admit to having worn a willy warmer

and having an opinion?

Or know someone who has?

I think Mr Boozle will thank you from the bottom of his heart

(which is about the same location as his freezing testicles apparently)

if you can offer something which protects his pink bits

from possible carpet rash or claustrophobia.