Tag Archives: Pink Moustache

Mo Dick, Mo Problems

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So I’m Skype texting with my girlfriend, Grayce, whom we girls call, “Gray,” because her life is all sorts of 50 Shades, and I’m telling her how the latest guy to catch my attention, Joe, is, predictably, an asshat.

Me: Girl, WTF? Why are men such douche canoes?

Gray: Because they have fool tools.

I added a flower, so it’s not crass. Yes, you can buy this at The Pink Moustachery. I’m all about customer service, web dwellers.

Me: The bigger the fool tool, the bigger the douche canoe.

Gray: Sounds like my ex. Total fool, but what a great fucking tool.

Me: Seriously. Your ex should come with a warning label: Mo dick, mo problems.

Gray: LOL!! OMG, girl, that is the TRUTH!

Me: At least a big dick is a good distraction, if you don’t let it distract you from how big a dick its owner is.

Gray: OMG! We need to put that shit on an e-Card.

Me: Too much work. I’ll just blog it. And I’ll call your ex “Moe” on the blog just because that shit’s funny.

Gray: I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna wake up my kids.

Me: Men are good for killing bugs, lifting heavy shit, and sex. In that priority order.

Gray: Truth.

Me: It’s all shit I can do myself, but I’d rather have it done for me.

Gray: E-card. E-card. E-card.

Me: If prostitution were legal, I would buy a man whore to kill my bugs naked.

Gray: That is a GREAT idea.

Me: The guy would be naked, not the bugs. I mean, the bugs are naked too, but that’s not the point.

Gray: Are you drunk?

Me: And then, after he killed the bug on my wall, I’d be all, “Bitch, go get a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Mama can’t cum with bug guts on the wall!”

Gray: Must. Document. On. E-cards.

Me: If I ran shit, I would make it mandatory for sex ed teachers to explain to guys WHY a woman should cum first. Divorce rates would plummet. You’re welcome, Entire Fucking Planet.

Gray: So true!!

Me: You want her to do that thing? With the thing? Like you saw on YouPorn? Make sure she cums first.

Gray: LOL!!

Me: And yes, YouPorn is a thing. Thank you, Northman.

Gray: OMG. I can see you lecturing teenagers. You’ll write books.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be “researching” for my book and going, “Not now, baby, Mama’s browsing YouPorn.”

There is so much wrong with this.

Me: Seriously, if they spent half as much time explaining to teenage boys why it’s better for a woman to cum first as they do telling teenage girls not to have sex at all, all would be right with the world. Because you know, when mama’s not happy, nooooobody’s happy.

Gray: So fucking true. Luckily, I’ve never had a selfish lover. They all love making me cum.

Me: Fuck you.

Pause with no response from Gray.

Me: You’re googling YouPorn aren’t you? Admit it!

Gray: Me? No.

Me: No, you’re just on Zazzle or something ordering tee-shirts with “Mo dick mo problems.”

Gray: I was not! I wasn’t!

Me: ….

Gray: I was gonna do it tomorrow.

Me: There it is.

Gray: Well, it’s true! Mo dick, mo problems! Moe was so big, I couldn’t fit that shit in my mouth.

Me: That’s too much dick. That’s like having GGG tits. More than a mouthful is wasteful.

Gray: He is huge. The sex was awesome. Too bad by the time things ended I didn’t want anything to do with his thang.

Me: Dude. If you divorce a man that big, vaginal rejuvenation surgery should be part of the divorce settlement. Be like, “You broke my heart. Fine. But my pussy you have to fix.”

Gray: That could pass here in California. You may be onto something.

Me: Damn straight. Shit. They ruin our tits with pregnancy and nursing. You don’t wanna pay alimony forever? Tack the girls back up where they belong and turn this hallway of a pussy back into a straw. Level the damn playing field a LITTLE.

Gray: That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Ever.

Me: My brain is all sorts of fucked up, girl. And I know what you find funny, so it’s easy. Mostly it’s the same shit I find funny, because you’re awesome. Obviously. I don’t hang with non-awesome women. They’re intimidated my awesomeness, and they get all clingy and offended by my cursing. I’m like, “You have given birth, woman. And you think some f-bombs are going to scar you?”

Gray: Omg! You are seriously awesome and so fucking funny.

For Gray. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, you e-card demanding bitch who’s never had a man not help her finish first.

Me: Please. Come see my vagina if you want to see scars. C-sections do not make for good vajazzling canvases. As if it’s not enough to wax it, now it has to fucking sparkle?!? I’m not a vampire.

Gray: Dying. I’m dying.

Me: If a man needs your pussy to sparkle to be into it, he’s gay. Duh.

Gray: Where do you get this shit?

Me: This is my stream of consciousness. Something is fundamentally wrong with me.

Gray: Yeah, but we’ll make BANK on the tee-shirts.

Me: What’s this “we” business?

 

The Pink Moustachery is Open For Business!

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Gooooooood morning, web dwellers! By insanely, incredible, inconceivably popular demand, I bring you (da da da daaaaaaaa) The Pink Moustachery! Yes, it’s your home for every possible piece of Sexy Mom merchandise you absolutely positively do not in any way need but still really, really want to buy because it’s just so freakin’ awesome. How awesome, you ask? Here’s a little peek…

Oh yeah. You need to see this every time you pass the fridge. Yum!!

Having your girlfriends over for a True Blood marathon? Remember to take a shot every time Bill says, "Soookeeeehhhhh," and every time Sookie says, "Well..."

Did your girlfriend win The Pink Moustache Award? Did you? Order a few and send them to your friends who win, and keep one for yourself because you're awesome. 🙂 Rock on, web dwellers!!

This makes me laugh every damn time I look at it. I need this one.

Remember: Every dollar you spent is about 3 cents I can save toward my visit with Northman. Kidding. It’s 10 cents. So stock up on the products above and check out the rest of this awesomeness at The Pink Moustachery on CafePress!! Also, remember to send in your ideas for new products! I’ll do my best to make them for you! 

 

P.S. There’s a permanent link to the store right over there —-> 

Elf Porn: A Tiny Obsession

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Yesterday was pretty interesting. Here I was, just going about my sexy mom business, tweeting and posting and Facebooking for you crazy people in between doing some work I actually get paid for, when all of a sudden, our very own Mr. Northman texts me that he’s made me a new video. A six-part series, to be exact, this custom-made-for-Cathy epic was porntastic, featured every bit of ink on Northman’s rockin’ body, and was complete with a soundtrack including some vintage 70s metal. I could not download this thing fast enough. I started watching the first segment before the other five were even done uploading on his end. Oh, bless you, Mr. Coffee, for giving us the gift of rapid file-sharing software.

Oh yeah, I'm going straight to hell. But so is Northman, so I don't fucking care.

Northman rang me up on Skype so he could enjoy seeing my response to this, his latest foray into sexematography, in which he repeatedly changes camera angles to suit each phase of the scenario, gives some out-fucking-standing product demos I hope he’s getting royalties for, shares his thoughts on threesomes and some positions I’m going to have to start doing yoga to ever attempt, and finishes off with a grand slam of a finale I simply cannot wait to see recreated in person. After about 5 minutes, I was so damn grateful for: A) choosing to work from home for the day and B) having wifi and a laptop so I could move to the bedroom without any disruption.

I tried so hard to watch this whole thing, y’all. But seriously, I was so distracted watching Northman on Skype and seeing how much he liked seeing my (obvious, excessive, feral) reaction to his videos and watching my reciprocal performance as the videos were playing that when I watched it all again alone last night, I realized I’d missed quite a lot of it. What a flippin’ bonus. Holy fucking mackeroley. Y’all, if Our Dear Sweet Heavenly Mr. Coffee is in any way opposed to any of this, I’m sorry, but I am going to hell in gasoline panties. And it’ll be worth it.

When I recovered my ability to speak and had taken a really, really long shower, I got back to work for the day and was on such an endorphin high that I buzzed through the rest of my afternoon like some kind of Tasmanian Devil if those guys could, you know, type and make phone calls. Once the minions were settled in for the night, I checked in on the COASM Facebook page (which Northman says as “Co-as-um,” so it rhymes with “orgasm,” and now that’s stuck in my head because it’s awesome), and y’all were in rare form talking about the list of search terms I’d posted on the blog yesterday. These were the terms people had used to get to the blog via search engines over the past three months, and one of them, “Elf Porn,” was the clear frontrunner for funniest fucking thing I’ve heard in a damn long time.

This lead to a crazy conversation on a couple of posts’ threads (which you can see on the “co-asm” FB page) about cock rings, yo-yos, and elf porn. It also spawned requests for both a post from Northman himself and for COASM merchandising. Because I don’t have enough to do without designing dirty tee shirts and douche-canoe- and elf-porn-themed coffee mugs, right?

I'll post to Facebook and Twitter when the store's open, so be sure you're following the feeds! Links are in the right-hand menu here!

Well, web dwellers, ask and you shall receive. The Confessions of A Sexy Mom Zazzle.com store, aptly titled “The Pink Moustachery,” will be up and running and fully stocked by Monday. If any of you have design, text, or product ideas, bring ‘em on. If anyone wants to help? Yeah, bring that shit on, too.

But the big news is that, while at least one person will be disappointed that he’s not going to write any elf porn, our very own Mr. Northman will be writing a blog entry for y’all. What will he write about? Any fucking thing he wants. You know why? Because he’s effin’ Northman! According to you crazy people, he’s like MacGuyver or Jack Bauer or fucking Chuck Norris. He’s effin’ Northman, and he can do whatever he wants! And, Sweet Jesus In Birks, last night, after that crazyass day, he showed me that what he really wants to do…is me.

 

 

 

 

 

Northman Was Right (But Don’t Tell Him That)

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Oh yeah. I win.

Northman blew my damn mind last night. If I were a 70s cartoon, smoke would have come out of my fucking ears and my eyes would have spun around like some kind of million-dollar-spewing Vegas slot machine, landing squarely on two bright red cherries. As Penny would say, “Holy mackeroley, people.” It’s been 12 hours and I’m still catching my breath. I’ve had many an in-person encounter that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as that Skype. Sweet Jesus in Birks, web dwellers. Cathy is a happy camper.

Yeah, he makes me want to purr. Feel free to insert totally inappropriate pussy jokes here.

There is something so primal and instinctual about my completely naked lust for Northman. Sometimes, the man just fucking looks at me and half of my blood supply floods my cheeks while the other half heads south. Quickly. Talking about him at dinner with my girlfriend, Harmony, last week, I stopped for a moment and pulled my hair up off my neck, fanned myself, and realized I looked like I was having a damn hot flash because I kind of was. My hormones just kick into some kind of purring-Ferrari high gear when I think about Northman. What can I say? She was asking about him, I was talking about him, and the next thing I know, I’m … I’m really grateful I didn’t go commando.

Dinner with Harmony was interesting. We hadn’t had a chance to get together much prior to that because one of us always has a sick minion or a client who’s being a pain in the ass. So we were catching up, and she was asking about Northman, and she wanted to know how much of what I put in the blog is real and how much is embellishment for shock value. A fair question, if you ask me (which she did). So I told her: Everything I’ve written about Northman is completely true.

At this point, she looked at me with that same look I assume she gave her teenage daughter when her hormonal minion claimed to have no knowledge of who left an empty box of tampons under the sink, leaving Harmony a bit undersupplied at a crucial moment last month. And not at a time when you’d really want to fuck with her. Pun intended. The look said something like: You’re full of shit AND you better spill it right now.

So, even though I wasn’t full of shit, I did spill. I told her how feral and instinctive my attraction to Northman feels. It’s a very possessive feeling, but not in a jealous way. More like, I just really and truly have to have that man, y’all. Failing to get naked with Northman, at, ahem, great length,is just not an option.

All he did was talk, and I felt like this. And I probably looked pretty similar by the time he finished.

And last night, during our Skype chat, I did get naked with Northman, and it was just unreal. I started telling him a sexy story, and as I got to what I thought was a pretty good part, he stopped me and said, “Nope. That’s not how it happens.” I was intrigued, and I cocked an eyebrow at him, saying, “By all means, then, have at it.” And he did. He picked up the story about thirty seconds prior to where I’d stopped, and he took it in an entirely different direction.

After, even though he was so far away, I honest-to-Mr.-Coffee felt like this.

How can I explain this? You know, part of what Northman likes about me is that I’m a smart woman and I’m usually both confident and right when I speak. Well, Our Sweet Holy Mr. Coffee, web dwellers. Last night? I was so completely fucking WRONG when I told the story, and Northman was RIGHT. After hearing his version of the story, I admitted I was wrong, and then I agreed with him. Strongly. Repeatedly. And with a pillow between my teeth.

So, some of you’ve noticed I’m on Twitter. I know, I know. You can’t believe Twitter’s made it this far without me. Anyway, turns out there are some damn funny people there. Come join the conversation: @SexyMomBlog –> There’s a link over there —>

I Am Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise

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Every time I think I have a pretty good bead on who Northman is, he blesses me with another little fact nugget I enjoy chewing on until our next conversation. Yesterday, he told me he collects knives, carries more emergency supplies on his person than I do in my car, and is pretty handy with a spear, although he doesn’t get as much practice as he’d like because his homeowners’ association is run by some assholes with an anti-spear agenda. Bigots.

There are guys I know who could tell me they collect and carry knives, and that would pretty much be the last conversation we had. Or the last one we had alone, anyway. But Northman is different. His status as a machirologist was completely no surprise. He’s not the creepy dude in the corner carving a wooden voodoo doll of the homeowners’ association president. He’s basically a survivalist, and he takes seriously the importance of being able to provide for oneself and one’s family in the event of an emergency, large or small. He can fend for himself, and he looks out for the people who are important to him. I dig it.

That's some great fucking marketing.

The fact that Northman could live off the grid and, I don’t know, do some sort of MacGuyver crap making a shelter out of wet bark and a spare paperclip does not say “bomb-shelter-stocking paranoid conspiracy theorist” to me because he’s not living underground, stockpiling camo and ammo. It says, “If a hurricane knocked out power to his town for a month, this is a man who can take care of himself,” and that, as we’ve discussed, is incredibly attractive. I take care of minions, clients, family, friends, pets, plants, colleagues, numerous inanimate objects, and myself every damn day. Having someone important in my life who absolutely does not need me to take care of him but just wants to spend time with me? I don’t think MacGuyver could top that if he had Jack Bauer and Chuck Norris lined up behind him.

Fortunately for me, Northman doesn’t expect me to be a survivalist. I’m no stranger to camping and getting dirty, mind you, and I actually really enjoy that. But if you dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, I’d die. Maybe not in the first hour or anything, but you know, soon. Unless Northman were with me, in which case I’d do whateverthefuck he told me to and we’d be happily living 30 feet above the ground with our recently tamed pet lemur, Marla Singer, in some kind of expandable bamboo tree fort that Northman carries in his back pocket by the time you came to check on us 48 hours later.

So even though Northman is just full of new and absorbing information about himself, none of it truly surprises me. Maybe it’s because I’m always genuinely interested when Northman speaks, or maybe it’s because each new factoid just fits in with all the rest, but I can honestly say he has yet to surprise me with anything except the depths of his unsurpassed sex drive.

Northman and I were discussing sex drives the other day, and he said mine is quite unusual for a woman, because in his experience, basically, men want sex more and women want it less. He’s consistently impressed by how active my sex drive is and how important a part of a healthy life and strong relationship I find it to be. It was a pretty interesting discussion, and we came away from it with two conclusions.

First person to post all the Fight Club references in this blog post to the Confessions of A Sexy Mom Facebook page wins the Pink Moustache Award.

First, Northman said he hadn’t ever been involved with a woman whose sex drive came close to matching his. Except me. I’ve had the same experience with the men in my life; I have always outpaced them. Personally, I’m all for daily sex, if it’s good sex, and I don’t think that’s unreasonable at all, particularly in a young relationship. I’d say, in a long-term relationship, 20 days a month would be good for me. You know, a couple of days off for sick minions (no sex when someone just barfed in your hair), a couple of days off for business travel (phone sex or Skype sex maybe), a couple of days off for those times when your schedules are just out of sync (late meetings, girls’ nights out, whatever), and a couple of days off right at the beginning of my period because, damn, even I don’t want to be around myself those two days, so I can’t reasonably expect him to want to get within clawing range.

I told all this to Northman, and he said that’s just not typical for a woman, again, in his experience. In mine, however, it’s completely typical. Many of my girlfriends tell me their spouses want sex much less frequently than they do and that their libidos are, overall, more intense than those of the men in their lives. So, I think maybe two things are happening here. First, men lie to one another as adults as much as they lie in high school locker rooms. Even grown and married, they feel the need to maintain the illusion of sexual prowess among other men so they’re seen as virile, dominant, and strong. But a lot of these men are lying if their wives’ claims are true. Not to say all the lying is done by men. I think women lie to one another too. I just think it’s more likely that the gals who really, really enjoy sex (like Penny, who is a polo-shirt-wearing, pleated khakis and white Keds soccer mom by day and hyper sex freak by night) are telling the truth, and the quiet ones who just smile and nod at girls’ night out without commenting about their own sex lives are just lying by omission, implying they have sex when that well has run really freaking dry. So, we all lie, just differently.

Society also tells us women don't like violent movies. Bullshit. Every straight woman and gay man on the planet wants to fuck Tyler Durden. I mean, LOOK AT HIM, people.

This makes sense because the cultural memes are such that we as a society expect women to want sex less and men to want it more, women to refuse and men to demand (or beg, depending on the relationship), men to enjoy it and women to frequently “take one for the team.” I didn’t say it was ok for us to expect these things, just that it seems like that’s what we see most often in our society.

So, everybody lies. Ok, House M.D. would be proud that we acknowledged his mantra. But there’s another part to this, and that’s the fact that Northman and I are in our 30s. If our introduction to gender differences in sexual desire comes in adolescence and young adulthood – and of course this is a generalization because there are always exceptions to the rule, but these are pretty common experiences – we get initiated into sex when young men are reaching their sexual prime, which is said to be around age 18. I personally think it’s in their early 20s because most 18-year-old guys are all stamina and no technique, but that’s just my opinion. It’s also not exactly something you kick one of them out of bed for, especially when you’re also around 18 and don’t have much technique either.

On the flip side, women reach their sexual peak around their mid-30s with the average woman reaching that great Promiseland at age 36. So, in my mind, I wonder … in our mid-30s, have the guys slowed down and the women sped up so much that we’ve actually switched roles at this point? What kind of sick fucking joke is that? We are finally on pace with what they’ve wanted for the last 10 to 20 years and now they’re peri-menopausal? What the fuck? Is this nature’s way of making sure women realize they’re running low on chances to procreate while telling men to grow up already? I’m not sure. But it does seem like maybe this is why men actively lie to appear as though they’re having as much sex as they did a decade age and women lie because their partners don’t enable them to “keep up” with the exploits of their girlfriends. As for Northman and me, I think he was so unbelievably oversexed to begin with and I’m so (apparently) hypersexed now, as we meet up in our mid-30s, I think we’re actually sexual equals. That’s some kind of sex kismet right there.

So, what were those two conclusions of our conversation I mentioned above?

Number one: Any 12-hour period Northman and I spend together that doesn’t involve some form of sex is a tragedy and an epic slap in Karma’s face.

Number two: He is really fucking lucky to have me.

Side Note:
Web dwellers, remember to share the blog on your social media streams and “like” our Facebook page. The more people who read, the more people who comment, the more fun this is! Ya’ll rock, and I love the crap out of you.
-Cathy 
 
 

The Pink Moustache Movement

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I found this bit of awesomeness on Etsy and you can see the whole image if you click above. Kudos to Karolin Felix for being awesome enough to create this. If you hadn't already sold this, I'd buy one for every woman I know over 35.

So, this sucks. I have a lady ‘stache. And if someone is reading this to you and you can’t see the spelling of that, I don’t mean I have a stash of ladies ready and waiting for awesome girls’ nights out. I mean I have a little mini moustache that would make a 14-year-old boy jealous, complete with chin hairs, or, as I think of them, upper lip fuzzies with poor senses of direction. Because otherwise, they’re beard hairs, and while I will admit to requiring upper lip waxing, I fucking refuse to be the bearded lady. 

I know I’m not alone in this, or there wouldn’t be an entire shelf in every market dedicated to facial hair removal for women. Nor would there be a listing for “upper lip waxing” on the price sheet for every single decent salon, plus some of those places where the ladies only speak Vietnamese and you spend the whole time wondering if they’re talking about how out of control your lady ‘stache is or discussing the socioeconomic environment in Greece. On the plus side, from what I’ve read, and it’s on the internet so it must be true, having a little excess facial hair, for a woman, means you have a decent level of testosterone, and that contributes to an overall rockin’ sex drive, making the whole waxing routine seem like a fair price of admission.

So, while it sucks that I have lady ‘stache in that I fucking hate it (and why do those little dark hairs grow so much faster than all the others???), it’s actually a good thing in the long run. The trick is to make sure that I stay on top of the fuzz phenomenon so I can have the sex drive it implies without driving away potential partners by looking like a dude. You know, as in, “Dude looks like a lay-daaay…” Ok, wait, that doesn’t work because I’m not a dude. That would be, “Lady looks like a dude,” unless, well, no, go with me here a sec. Yeah. See, if a dude looked like a lady, maybe he’s not a dude, maybe he’s a lady with a crazy lady ‘stache, so he looks like a lady because he is a lady, but he’s such a hairy lady that he looks like a feminine dude. Wait. Whatever. That makes no sense but I’m leaving it in because that Aerosmith line is a mondegreen, and any time I have a chance to throw in some word nerdiness, I’m all for it.

I'm a nerd, so that's freaking funny.

Right. Back to the ‘stache at hand. So, the closer to 40 I get, the more often I find I have to deal with my lady ‘stache, and I also find that my girl curls are getting harder and harder to remove by conventional means. Those are some stubborn bitches. On a not-unrelated-note, while I did shave the vertical smile a while back to surprise Northman, I still refuse to shave the horizontal one, which really doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense if you think about it, because putting a razor against your face where you can see it is a lot smarter than putting one against the Notorious V.A.G. Especially if you’re vagazzled, in which case I’d think you just have to do laser. How does that work with the crystals and the glue…? Anyway…

So then a couple of weeks ago, one of you web dwellers emailed me a blog after reading my rant about shaved pussies. I apparently deleted the email and I can’t remember the name of the blogger, so if you know what I’m talking about here, leave a comment and give credit where it’s due, web dwellers. Anyway, this blogger went all sorts of fucking hilarious on this exact topic of being a less-than-hairless lady. She went on to say that her girlfriend, when approached about her own hair-removal routines, proudly professed to using a razorless head-shaving cream for black men on her nether bits. Well, shit. You can’t use Nair there, it says so on the bottle, and if you’ve tried Nair, you know that just holding the bottle will make your skin sting, so why anyone would even think of putting it near their bearded clam is way the heck beyond me.

This was the best damn news I’d heard in ages. I told Penny about it, and she said, “Hell no, I tweeze,” to which I said something appropriately adolescent, like, “Oh, hell to the no the hell you don’t.” But she does. I’m not going there. I’m just not. But she did think the bald black man cream was probably a good idea for me if I want to razorlessly maintain my “lady parts,” as she says. So then I said, “I wonder if I can use it on my face. I mean, the face is not nearly as sensitive…” And Penny, always so matter-of-fact, said, “Good rule of thumb here. If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.”

Well that’s good to know.

Mr. Coffee, please rain down your blessings on the crafty bitches at Etsy for making a PINK MOUSTACHE MUG!! For now and forever more, let it be known that the pink moustache is the obscure reference point for letting people know you read this blog without having to fit "Confessions Of A Sexy Mom" across your tits on an overpriced tee. Plus, this shit's way funnier.

So I went to SuperTarget last week, because they have everything. And I was wandering around the hair care section, looking for the depilatories, and the cream wasn’t there. And then I thought, duh, it’s probably in the section with the special shampoos and creams and whatnot for black people’s haircare, because it’s for black men. Not being a black man myself, I had no freaking idea where this was, but it couldn’t be far, so I walked around and sure enough, I found it. And that’s where I was when this overly helpful stockboy stopped to ask me if I needed help finding anything, probably not because he wanted to help but because he wanted to admire my lady ‘stache which was, sorry kid, much more impressive than his because I’d given it free reign for a few days in preparation for this experiment.

“Yeah,” I said, “Do you have any of that cream for bald black men who aren’t naturally bald but want to be bald so they use cream to remove their head hair?”

I’m not really sure what was going through his head right then, but I’m pretty sure I managed to distract him from my upper lip haven for wayward chin hairs, as he just kind of stood there for a moment before saying, “Let me go ask the manager,” and walking away so fast that he was either holding in diarrhea or he was trying really hard not to actively run from the crazy lady. Either way, tough day for him.

So I found the cream, and I bought it. The checker was a grown woman, so she didn’t ask, but I bet you she Googled it when she got home. I would have.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to try out my ethno-, gender-, and body-part-inappropriate hair removal cream for a few days because seriously, it’s not easy for a single mom to find time to lay on a towel in the OB/GYN position for 10 minutes without any risk of minions walking in and asking why I’m painting my vagina and my tushy button white. And don’t say, “Why not do it at night?” Those little buggers wake up. You think I want to have to wrap a towel around myself to check on them while I exceed the recommended application time on my razorless bald dude cream only to find I have some sort of vomit emergency to deal with? No, thanks. I waited until they were in school last week, and then I painted my vagina and my tushy button. And my lady ‘stache. And you know what, web dwellers? Penny’s right: If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.