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Not that I’ve ever had a problem in this arena, but I don’t remember “manscaping” being such a popular topic in years past.

Now we have products to keep a man trimmed, smooth, and powder-fresh. Even major, blue chip companies are jumping on the bandwagon.

Philips, the 117 year-old company that manufactures Avent baby bottles, Sonicare toothbrushes, and the Norelco shaver, has a promotional video on its website entitled “Second Puberty And You: An Illustrated Guide About What To Expect.”

It’s worth a watch, with a funny tongue-in-cheek presentation. (Thanks for forwarding, Miguel!)

The video represents a brilliant marketing approach; they made it funny so guys can pretend they’re watching it for comedic value rather than hanging on every word.

You know that when a product promises “an extra optical inch,” guys are paying attention.

New products are now addressing personal odor, as well as appearance. No longer content to just wash and go, some men are taking deodorants to the next (lower?) level.

According to the sample literature, NuBoss is a “deodorant created especially for a man’s genital area…with a light refreshing scent for a man’s private area.” Guaranteed to work for 24 hours, NuBoss is 100% natural, but without the offputting natural penis smell.

As the tagline says, “When you allow your woman to get this close, you had better be straped [sic] with NuBoss Deodorant Jock Spray.”

I love the photo of this obviously satisfied couple. They’re both enjoying the NuBoss scent wafting up from below. You can sense the woman’s pleasure and gratitude.

NuBoss is available in Cool Breeze, Lust, Savage, and Vanilla fragrances. It’s alcohol free, so you can use it even if you’ve just nicked yourself with your personal groomer.

I would show you a picture of the sample can that I had, but one of my male friends swiped it. Seriously, we were joking about it and the next thing I knew, it was gone.

I guess he wants to be straped in case his woman gets that close.

One word of warning: you can’t really buy groomers and genital deodorants as gifts. I’m guessing that nothing kills the mood like being told that you’re repulsively hairy or that your privates smell so bad that your partner actively sought and paid for a product to mask your funk.

Please note that I’m not complaining about this increased attention to personal hygiene. I’m already on record as being opposed to funk. I‘m just love that a new industry can sprout up (!) around an issue that has traditionally been solved by soap and water.

God Bless America.

I’m very excited to present my new blog design!  Come see me on www.SuburbanFizz.com.

If you’re already using the “SuburbanFizz.com” domain, the transition should be seamless; it’s just a redirect.

I’m now using Blogger instead of WordPress. I’m doing this for technical reasons. WordPress has great features but very little flexibility. The switch hasn’t been easy; I miss many of the WordPress features and I’m still working on pasting my old posts into the new site.

Please excuse the occasional glitch as I’m getting up to speed. I’ll continue to update the WordPress site for the time being.

Big shout out to Goofy Girl for helping me with the redesign. She is fabulous!

I hope you like it. Let me know what you think!

Thank you so much for reading! Your support makes writing so much fun!

The bangs were teased up and the sides were shellacked back with hair dryer-hardened hairspray.  On “casual” days I would pull it back into a high, tight ponytail secured by a scrunchie, barrettes, and even more hairspray, gel, or mousse (or, more likely, all three).

It’s nice to know that this is still around…in modern gymnastics.

1991 lives on in women’s gymnastics.  Scrunchies abound and the hairspray is flowing.   Multiple Goody hairclips are apparently a requirement (pieces of flair?).  No wonder the Chinese did so well; as my sister-in-law pointed out, it looks like a Claire’s store exploded on their heads.

If not for the leotards, these girls would look right at home in my high school cafeteria.

The makeup is just as bad.  Heavy eyeshadow combined with little mascara and pale lips give the gymnasts an eery “I got into my mom’s makeup and didn’t know what to do next” look.  The turquoise and purple eyeshadow alone should be a red flag that the Chinese gymnasts might be underage; anyone over fourteen should know better!

Make no mistake, this isn’t a case of athletes concentrating on their sport rather than their looks.  These aren’t swimmers who just put on a suit and jump in the pool.  These women spend ample time on hair and makeup before their big events.

You can’t blame a particular gym, coach, or country for this anachronistic style, because the look is pervasive.   You can’t fault Nadia or Mary Lou; they predated this trend and they both now look like lovely, modern adults.

So where did it come from?  Who is both influential and outdated enough to orchestrate such a style?

I’m just saying…

Earlier this week I finished teaching for the day and headed to the bus stop. I got in the Loudoun Connection line, which serves multiple destinations.

My bus approached the stop, and my fellow Dulles-bound passengers and I stepped to the left and headed for the bus doors, thus leaving the Leesburg passengers in line. Both the Dulles and Leesburg riders maintained their queue order as the lines split and compressed.

Unfortunately, about a dozen of us Dulles passengers stepped out of line only to be turned away from the standing room only bus. I followed the group as it swarmed to the back of the line, which now contained both the Leesburg passengers and several newcomers to the queue.

This made no sense.   Why did we go to the back of the line?

The injustice of the situation started to settle in and I started to get antsy.

Was there some “all or nothing” clause in the bus line rules that dictated this practice? Or were we all misguided lemmings who feared ruffling feathers by standing up for ourselves?

If nothing else, I wanted answers, so I started to ask around. Was this standard practice? What was protocol in this situation? I tried to sound curious, not angry; I simply wanted to know. My neighbors greeted me with looks that ranged from shared confusion to blank stares to fear.

Suddenly, from ahead of us in the line came my answer.

My deus ex machina appeared in the form of “Army Guy.”  Unbidden, Army Guy came up to our group and said “Hey, if you don’t get on the bus, you don’t have to go to the end of the line.”

Army Guy was a nice, uniformed fellow who had helped me before when I’d had a bus rules question, so in my mind he was a resident expert.  Also, he appeared to be carrying a sidearm, so I guessed other people would respect him and he would have my back if this thing came to blows.  His word was good enough for me.

“Hey guys,” I hollered to the swarm, “We don’t need to wait a the end of the line! Let’s go!”

Not much of a Pied Piper, I only got two other people to join me. As I think back now, they were the ones who initially looked scared, so they may have only come out of fear for their personal safety from the crazy yelling lady.  Based on what came next, I feel bad about that.

As my new friends and I headed to the front of the line, the Leesburgers who had been in front of us started to mumble.

My friends and I chatted loudly as we waited, so as to encourage each other and explain ourselves to the line.

“Sure was a long line when we waited the first time!” and “Can’t go to the end of the line after your bus is full like ours was or you’ll spend your evening in line!”

Still, the indignant mumbles were getting louder, and the stares were getting dirtier. Old ladies who looked so sweet just moments ago were now angrily mumbling like Milton griped about his Swingline stapler. “The line starts over there,” they muttered just over their breath. They followed our lead and started talking loudly to themselves so we would overhear.

Tempers were starting to flare. If this had been a musical number, it would have been either an angry ensemble number for the passengers (think Sharks vs. Jets) or a pleading solo for the wronged ingenue (think Fantine in LesMiz or Tracy Trumblad in Hairspray; be easy on her, she’s just misunderstood!)

Either way, it would have ended in a dance-off.

I tried to explain what had happened to a few people, but they looked at me with closed expressions. They saw me walk up to the line, and they weren’t taking my crap. Things were headed south, fast.

Luckily no one had a torch or pitchfork.

Finally another irritated but more communicative woman explained we should be in line behind the original Leesburg line, since some of the buses go to the same destination. If we stood behind the person we were originally behind, we’d be all set.

My two friends and I followed these directions as best we could and got back in line.

The next bus eventually came. It was Dulles only, so we hopped out of line and past the Leesburgers again, but this time we got on the bus, and we got the hell out of there.

I felt bad on the way home. Between Army Guy and me, most of the passengers now thought that my poor “friends” and I were either idiots or a-holes. And it’s not like I was subtle about it. I’m 5’10″ in heels, my red hair looks like a Bozo beacon in the sun, and I had on a shiny bright blue dress.  So much for blending in!

Oh well; the bus line to hell is paved with good intentions.

That night in bed I tried to explain my debacle to my husband. He listened nicely for a few minutes, then admitted that he couldn’t follow anything about my story and told me to get over it; it’s just a bus line.

Good advice, but that night my bus line drama morphed into a nightmare of biblical proportions. I swear to God, as my alarm went off the next morning I was dreaming about fellow bus passenger Ralph Fiennes as Lord Voldemort screaming “Unleash Hell!!!” (a Gladiator reference, but obviously I’m not a cinema purist in my sleep) from a fiery pit at Hogwarts castle.

I decided to take the metro.

Fine.  I can swallow my indignation and strike a positive tone.

Top 10 Nice Things to Say About John Edwards’ Affair

1. Boldness points for lying about it repeatedly on camera.  Looked them right in the eye and lied like a rug; now that’s a man with balls of steel!

2. Creativity points for having a staffer come forward to claim paternity of the mistress’ baby.  I’m still trying to get my head around that one.  Either that guy is really taking it for the team, or he’s got major chutzpa for dating the boss’s ex-girlfriend.

3. The giddy anticipation about what type of excuse he’ll choose.  Will he play the repentant sinner?  Claim that his wife knew about it?  Blame the stress of the campaign and his wife’s illness?  Did he not understand the questions when he repeatedly denied the affair?  I wondered about this with SJ, who, with disturbing speed responded, “Wide stance.”

4. We can pat ourselves on the back, thinking that we always knew he was just too handsome.  A man with hair like that should never be trusted.

5. We’ll have something to talk about besides the Olympics.  Michael Phelps, blah, blah, blah!

6. His lies weren’t under oath, thus sparing us a messy perjury trial.

7. President Bush is thrilled that he’s looking good by comparison

8. Bill Clinton, ditto.

9. At least Edwards met his lover at the Beverly Hilton, which is a major step up from the Quality and Days Inns that NY Governor David Patterson took his “dates”

10. He isn’t president.  Yes, the affair and the lying are troublesome, but the image of Edwards running away from photographers and barricading himself in a restroom like a little girl just isn’t dignified.

Unfortunately, what remains in my brain wasn’t filtered in order of importance.  Important things fall away, while worthless information settles in with a sense of entitlement and disregard for the cramped conditions therein.

Useless trivia is like Aretha Franklin in the ball gown of my mind.

This morning my toddler Bennett is wearing two left shoes, one bright green Croc and one open-toed brown sandal.  Open-toed sandals are not allowed at his daycare, and this particular one is a full size and a half too small.

I noticed the shoes while putting him in the car this morning.  I went back in the house to get his other Croc, but apparently I fetched Colin’s swimsuit instead.

When I arrived at school, I saw that Bennett was still wearing crazy shoes, and Colin already had a perfectly good swimsuit in his cubby.

I also forgot that Serena needed more spare underpants and that today is Sunglasses Day in Colin’s class.  I tried to lend him my Jackie-O style pair, but that plan was shot to hell when he tried them on and a classmate shouted that he looked like a girl.

Yet while my brain is forgetting important things and neglecting to cross off already-completed tasks, it happily takes in worthless trivia.

I now know that poor Leonardo DiCaprio’s grandmother, Oma died.  Don’t feel too bad, though; she lived to be a robust 93!

I’m also pleased to report that Paul McCartney and his new girlfriend are going away for the weekend and that Gwen Stefani just went shopping!  Yay!!!

Now ask me what I’m supposed to bring to Colin’s class on Friday.  It’s Crazy Hair Day, or Sports Team Day, or some such celebration, but although I’ve read the sign on his door three times it just won’t stick in my brain.  I’ll probably try to cross-dress him again and add to his growing list of emotional scars.

Luckily, though, I’ll probably bring him another swimsuit, so he’ll be totally covered there.

My sister, Kaye, and I were excited to score bulkhead seats on our full flight.  As we boarded the plane, Kaye settled into the window seat and I sat in the middle.  A few moments later our aisle seat neighbor arrived.

He looked harmless enough.  Quiet, recently showered, and politely positioned on his side of the armrest, he seemed to be everything I asked for in a plane neighbor.

Then he proceeded to breathe.

Admittedly, I’m sensitive to smells, but my neighbor had stunningly bad breath.

My neighbor had breath like he had died a month ago from severe halitosis only to be resurrected just in time for our flight.

Every few minutes he would sigh and I would swoon, struggling to retain my composure (and consciousness.)  It got worse after he fell asleep; with his mouth agape, his dental musk flowed freely to the surrounding area.

Trapped in my adjacent seat, I didn’t have much recourse.

I turned my head.  I positioned my fan to blow towards him, but this was laughably inadequate.

I tried to physically distance myself from him; I’m sure that the flight attendants thought Kaye and I were a romantic couple since I had my face buried in her shoulder for much of the trip.

When my neighbor declined a glass of water, I almost started to cry.

What could I do?  Politeness and a language barrier (his English was apparently minimal) prevented me from directly registering my complaint.  He wasn’t American, so I was pretty sure he wouldn’t take a stick of gum were I to offer.  Subtle hints and passive aggression obviously weren’t working.

I pondered his situation.  Based on the odor of decay emanating from his mouth, this wasn’t a short-term issue.  All of us have our bad breath moments, or even days, but this was clearly the result of a lifetime of dental neglect.

He appeared to be traveling with his family; had no one ever thought to pull this guy aside and suggest a trip to the dentist, or a least a Tic Tac?

After putting up with hours of my complaining, Kaye agreed to switch seats with me. Once she got to the middle seat, she realized her tragic mistake and wanted to switch back, but there was no way in hell I was going there.  I had enough to deal with, since I was pretty sure I was showing early signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Somehow we made it to LA.  We bolted off the plane and hurried toward the fresh air of the parking lot.  We soaked up the palm trees and admired the beautiful white teeth of the passers-by.

I had never been so glad to be in a place that valued outward appearances.  Viva la superficialite!

I’d made it through the flight, and I learned a valuable lesson: I will never, never fly mintless again.

Taking the kids to Michigan seemed like a good idea at the time.  SJ is busy with work, so I decided to take the kids to visit my parents.  They’re too young to make the 10-hour drive with only one adult – Bennett still requires a lot of hands-on supervision – so I opted to fly home.

The flights went remarkably well,  but things went downhill fast once we got to my parents’ house.

Looking back, there were plenty of signs.  Bennett seemed warm, wouldn’t go to sleep, drooled constantly, and was uncharacteristically fussy and clingy.   Only two things would pacify him:  me and Dora the Explorer.

I finally realized what was going on once his “diaper rash” spread to his knees and I noticed sores in his mouth and on his hands and feet.  A $90 trip to urgent care confirmed what I already knew:  Bennett had a raging case of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.

If you aren’t familiar with this charming disease, your child probably isn’t in daycare, where it spreads like wildfire.  By the time you see the sores, the child has already contaminated everyone within a ten-mile radius (sorry about that, fellow plane passengers!)

As you can imagine, those were dark, dark, days.  Sick baby + tired mommy + unfamiliar setting + new routine  + no daddy = an equation for chaos and destruction of which we will never speak again.

Luckily we turned a corner on day four; Bennett felt much better, and the rest of the week was remarkably fun.  Michigan is gorgeous in the summer, and there were plenty of things to do and friends to visit. If it weren’t for the tragic loss of my hard drive on the flight home, it would have been perfect.

Four days after we returned from Michigan, my sister Kaye and I headed to Los Angeles to celebrate our other sister Melissa’s engagement.  We saw the sights, co-hosted an engagement party, and just hung out.  It was great to spend time with them, and it was a special treat for me to have four days of uninterrupted adult time, with nary a diaper or a runny nose in sight.

That said, I missed the kids and SJ terribly, and I was thrilled to sneak into my sleeping house after my red-eye flight this morning.

I walked past the “Welcome Home Mama” sign and up to my bedroom.  I looked for SJ amongst the duvet lumps in the bed as my eyes adjusted to the dark.  As I reached the nightstand, a smaller lump of blankets moved and Colin popped up.  He threw his arms around me, then ran to get the other kids.

I don’t know if they were more excited to see me or to get their trip presents, but our reunion was sweet, and soon there were five of us happily huddled together.

My trips were fabulous, but normal is even better.  Turns out that I don’t even have to get out of bed to be where I want to be.

It’s good to be home.

There were plenty of opportunities for its senseless murder.  Bennett watched several unsupervised episodes of Dora the Explorer on it, and frankly, the kid’s a bit shifty.  You’ve got to keep your eye on him, especially since one of his favorite games is “fun with gravity;”  he loves to throw and drop things just to see what happens.

My laptop was also frequently jostled during our trip home from Michigan.  We had a two-flight trip with a two-hour layover in Detroit.  I was maneuvering three kids (aged 1, 3, and 5), three backpacks, a stroller, and a wheeled carry-on all my myself. Often there were so many things hanging on the back of the stroller that it would topple over when Bennett got out of his seat.

Again, I’m blaming my one-year-old.  If you think that’s poor form, you don’t have young children. As long as I delete this post before he can read it, I’ll avoid long-term emotional scarring, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be illiterate for another four years.  Anyway, I’m kidding. Mostly.

Maybe it was just the hard drive’s time to go.

SJ tried to fix it, but no dice.  He took it to some hardware ninjas at work, but they confirmed his diagnosis:  my hard drive was dead, dead, dead.

The cruelest part of this tragedy is that SJ backed up my laptop earlier this year (I bought him a fancy new backup drive for Christmas.)  I hooked it up this morning, and sure enough, he’d backed up my PC in March.

Unfortunately, he backed up the wrong file. I have absolutely nothing created since 2005.  Everything I’ve written, created, downloaded, and saved since 2005 has vanished.

I don’t blame SJ.  He was trying to help me out, and he feels *really* bad.  I could have backed it up myself, but didn’t.  Believe me, I will next time.

Now I’m going through the Kubler-Ross grief stages for a playing card-sized piece of metal.

I’ve stopped crying now – sobbing, at least – and I’m taking stock.  A lot is lost: address lists, all my papers from grad school, pictures sent by friends, budgets, ideas for books to write, software, my archived emails.

The most important things are recoverable; I can download my blog posts, much of my email is available on the web, my resume and expense reports are attached to recently sent emails.  Our family photos are on another computer.

I’ll get over this soon enough.  It’s just a thing.  A thing that literally encapsulated my work for the past two and a half years, but still just a thing.   I’m going to send it away to see if someone can recover any of the data.  It’s a slim (and expensive!) hope, but it’s allowing me to extend the denial stage and soften the blow.

Anyway, there’s an obvious moral to this story.  Please don’t let my hard drive die in vain.  Back up your computer.  NOW!