wax on, (how the hell do I get) wax off

I just spent the last 45 minutes Googling "removing wax from hair" and "how to get candle wax out of hair" and "is it possible to remove wax from hair" and about 600 other variations. Why? Because, despite the ultra-calm, under-control, unflappable, smile-in-the-face-of-chaos, Pollyanna demeanor that radiates from my very being, I can't get my shit together. (Translation: My brain has stopped functioning. Totally. As in, "Lights are on, Nobody's home", "Elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor", "A few crayons shy of a box".) Buckle up. Here comes the explanation.

We decided to look into a not-so-tree-house-esque house. Long story short, I'm tired of chasing LG up and down the stairs. Waiting for him to decide that yes, in fact, it is time for him to come up the stairs whilst I carry two (or seven) rice-paper thin grocery bags full of milk, bananas, canned vegetables, and a 600 lb bag of potatoes has become a bit of a bore. Cleaning said milk and bananas (which smashed under the weight of the canned vegetables and 600lb bag of potatoes) because LG doesn't yet get the physical impossibility of two solid objects (read: me and him) occupying the exact same space at the exact same moment (read: Mama stumbles back a step or two, looses her footing, drops the rice-paper thin grocery bags full of milk, bananas, canned vegetables and the 600 lb bag of potatoes which then follows her descent down the stairs to land on the one foot that managed to find a solid hold on the stairs, steps quickly with the other foot to regain her balance, and discovers that the bananas have all been smashed under the afore mentioned weight)has lost its charm.

Back in January we started looking for a place with fewer stairs. We were thrilled and delighted to discover EXACTLY what we were looking for, just blocks from our present digs. To the point that if we were to sit down together and draw out plans of the house we want, we could just about superimpose our drawing over the blueprints of this place and not know the difference. Except for the price tag. Tree-houses, apparently, are a steal these days (read: We paid just over half the list price of the new place for our current tree-house two years ago. And we choked and sputtered and rent our garments in twain for at least a day or so before we were convinced that we could handle the mortgage payment without wearing sack-cloth and eating ashes for the ever and ever amen.) (So I'm feeling a bit Biblical. So sue me.) (Please don't sue me. I really, really, really want the new place and a law suit is not going to look good to potential lenders.).

BG crunched the numbers and came up with a figure that would let us begin to dabble in "what ifs" and "imagine whens" and we put the tree-house on the market. The new place will take 4-6 months (in construction-eese. That translates into "The rest of your God-forsaken life and possibly well into the lives of your great-grandchildren." for laymen.), so we've got a bit of time to test the waters and see if we can find anyone interested in taking the possibility of holding two/three mortgages off our hands (one for current place, possibly a first and second for the new place. Did I mention that it is perfect? That the sun shines 365 days of the year through the finger-print free picture windows in the patent-pending spot-free and self-cleaning kitchen? The automatic vacuum/butler system? Who could question the reasonableness of a second mortgage on such a place? WHO?). Today was such a day of testing.

Our realtor held a "realtor's open house" today, inviting as many of her cohorts as were interested in the ginormous platter filled with four (4!) different types of sandwiches, pickles, olives, tomatoes, and a partridge in a pear tree. Oh, and cookies. Mounds and mounds of cookies. But I digress. She invited them all to come and check out the lofty heights of our tree-house for themselves, lacing the cookies, no doubt, with magic powder that will induce them to wax poetic for weeks and weeks to their clients until our place is the hottest property on the market and a bidding war begins and we walk away with money stuffed into our ankle socks because we simple do not have anymore room in our pockets for all of it. And then the perfect house will be ours for the asking and for some of the money stuffed into our ankle socks. And possibly for a song. Maybe not the song. Okay, definitely not the song. Where was I? Oh yes, wax.

The tree house was in tip-top shape. Vacuumed! Polished! Dusted! Plants watered and not wilty, couches de-cat-haired, beds made, toys stashed, dishes done, laundry folded and put away, week-old cream of wheat scrubbed from the floor. Ready for visitors. But I, I could not rest until the air itself was as pure as its surroundings. So I lit a candle. Not just any candle, mind you, but my ultra special this house smells so wonderful that I will buy it on the spot and bake a double batch of double chocolate chip cookies with just a hint of vanilla frosting drizzled on the top Scentchips burner. Shit together so far, right?

Pop-quiz: Your realtor is due to ring the doorbell at any minute, bringing with her ginormous trays of four (4!) different kinds of sandwiches (et al), soon to be followed by a parade of hungry, eager Realtors who have been invited to look at your house. You are 30 minutes late leaving for the gym, having remembered 30 minutes ago that the comforter cover for your bed is still in the washer and the blanket on the bed (a)doesn't quite fit and (b)has a hole in it that looks like it could be a cigarette burn even though you bought it new and no one in the house smokes. Shit so not together.

But that was 30 minutes ago and you have just finished smoothing the (still slightly damp) comforter cover on the bed, skillfully hiding the odd shape and cigarette burn hole. You grab LG, a bag of garbage, and the 14 other bits of minutia that are sitting on the banister to go to their respective homes on the way down and head downstairs. Realtor rings the doorbell. You unlock the door, pop LG into his stroller and remember that you've still got a candle burning. And it's sitting on the banister, perfectly positioned to be knocked over by the first swinging realtor bag to come through the door. Do you:

a) Blow out the candle and ask your realtor to move it once the wax has had a chance to cool and harden.

b) Blow out the candle and finish packing up the stroller, giving the wax a chance to cool and harden, then move it yourself.

or

c) Blow out the candle and move it, full of melted wax to the only spot in the entire house that requires you to reach directly above the stroller that you just put LG into. Think "This is stupid. What if it spills?" and decide to take the wax holding bowl off the top of the burner while still leaning over LG's stroller. Carefully place the burner on top of the shelf directly above LG's stroller, followed by the rounded-base bowl containing the melted wax. Watch in horror as the bowl tips on its rounded base, spilling melted wax down the front of the shelf and all over the stroller. Catch the wax just as it reaches LG's hair and just before it has a chance to reach his scalp or face, then try to pull it up and out of LG's hair, recreating the famous Cameron Diaz look of "Something About Mary" fame.

There's something heart-wrenching about pulling your baby's hair as you try to comb out the hardened wax that you just poured over his head. I got enough of it out for us to go grab a bite to eat (the four (4!) different kinds of sandwiches weren't ours until the realtor parade left the premises) and hang out at the park for a bit. Frantic phone calls to my mother and my sister elicited snorts, giggles, and some advice (fine tooth comb, olive oil to help break up the residue, hair dryer to warm it enough to wipe out with paper towels) which we will try when he gets up from his nap. Google has all sorts of entry for "wax hair removal" or "removing hair with wax" or "removing hair removing wax", but not much in the "how do I get wax out of my kid's hair" category.

How do you think my 18 month old will look with a buzz cut?


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2 comments:

The Curmudgeon said...

He'll recover from the buzz cut. As will you.

Great story.

And to add to your stress, I tagged you this morning with a music meme.

Hope you do it.

susan said...

Buzz cut averted, narrowly. Amd the meme is in the works -- thanks for the trip down memory lane!