"There is no such thing as natural beauty..."

This morning I looked in the mirror and my Dolly Pardon was looking back at me. The Dolly Pardon I remember in 1987. And while I love Dolly, I'm being perfectly candid when I say that no one wants to look like Dolly Pardon in 1987.

I am a disgrace to Southern women everywhere.

So I rushed to my nearest Target (since the closest Piggly Wiggly is an hour away) and left with an armful of things to get my pretty back.

Crest Whitestrips (on sale!)

Nair (shudder. winter legs.)

BORN BLONDE hair dye

Then I called my sister and on-call beautician to ask how to dye just the roots of my hair. She got all complicated and started using chemical terms like "toner" and "overprocessed." I kind of lost her at "don't overlap the dye with your already bleached hair. Because it might fall out if you do." Whaaaa?? You mean I can't just slather it on like shampoo???

Carefully pulling out the directions, they said to start in the back of my head. Which I can't see. That's when I knew that they contained nothing helpful and tossed 'em in the trashcan.

So here I sit. My teeth are so sensitive after half an hour of whitening that I feel like I'm biting down on a frozen creamsicle. I smell like a chemical refinery, but at least the hair is gone from my legs. And based on the tingling coming from my head, I think I might have put Nair on my head by mistake.

Am I pretty yet????

Unedited Life: Pad Rash is not a Thai food.

I have a standing joke with a bunch of my good friends about a thing called "Pad Rash."

You don't want to know. You really don't. But let's just say that I discovered it after a rather embarrassing post-baby visit after I had my second baby. (Nothing like an OB/GYN saying "Oh wow, you've got some pad rash going on down here" to make you want to crawl under the nearest rock in your tissue-thin exam gown.) But you really should know that there IS a difference between synthetic absorbers found in Stayfree or Always and those super-expensive organic cotton "feminine protection" products at Earth Fare.

I'll give you a second so you can file that bit of information away for future reference in your Gee Whiz Fact File. You're welcome.

Chafing. One of the bains of a chubby girl's existence.

*It is at this point that I excuse all of my slender(skinny) friends and relatives from reading and invite you to go find something to eat in your fridge. Hopefully you have some chocolate or cheese handy. Please. Do it for me.

Now that it's only us pudgy girls, we can be frank. I went to the beach a couple days ago and had a lovely time building sand castles and playing in the surf, but in that mere 1 block walk back to the beach house, I had to encounter that evil monster: chafing. Chafing is why fat girls shalt not venture to run. Or bare their thighs at all. Because, I think we can all agree, that it is NO FUN to go buy Gold Bond Medicated Powder or walk around like a Texan just off a cattle drive for several days.

Which brings me to my real point: why do women get all the trials in this life? Seriously?! Let us compare:

WOMEN

• Middle School Girl's Bathrooms.
• Periods.
• Bosoms. (Or appropriate euphemism.)
• Pregnancy. (The hurling! The crying! The exhaustion! The weight gain!)
• Birth.
• Postpartum. (Two words: stool. softener.)
• Pap smears (What is a pap? Why do they smear it?)
• Mammograms. (I'll take cancer for 100, Bob.)
• Menopause. (Will the injustice never end???)
• Female Fat Cells.
• Placenta Brain.
• Chafing.
• Skirts.

MEN

• Ummmm....
• Seriously?
• Can anyone think of anything??

Guilty as Charged

Making mom breakfast.

I hear a lot of talk, around Mother's Day, from people saying things like "Don't let yourself feel guilty" or "There are no perfect mothers--don't compare yourself"... things like that. People give talks in church, and talk about how their moms always said that they felt so guilty on Mother's Day.

But, here's the thing, my "post secret" if you will: I don't feel guilty on Mother's Day. I have no guilt whatsoever. In fact, it's probably the one day a year when I don't feel guilty about my mothering abilities, or lack thereof. And this lack of guilt is making me feel kind of guilty.

Why don't I feel guilty? Because I need Mother's Day, darn it. I need one day a year when everyone is spouting off how great moms are. I know there are single women aching to be married and have kids. I know there are women wrestling with the demon infertility and Mother's Day is about as pleasant as a cleat in the face. I get that. But I'm over here covered in graham cracker goobers and no makeup because I was too busy searching for my kid's shoes to apply anything but lip gloss. My bachelor's degree is rotting in the cobwebs of my mind, and I'm losing any and all people skills I ever had. By the time we pull into the church parking lot, we are 5 minutes late, and one child has fallen asleep so that means I get to carry a big bag, a baby seat, AND a heavy toddler into the church building without losing either my skirt or my temper. This is not the time for political correctness. I need to hear how fantastic mothers are.

So, yay yay yay for us! Yay for moms! Yay for grandmas and aunts! I heart mother's day!