This isn't boring, I SWEAR.

Leah has started standing recently. She's been pulling herself up in her crib for some time, but inspiration struck one day when she realized most furniture is good climbing fodder, and since then she's been climbing everything. Child development is amazing, how it can be both sudden and slow.

No one really wants to hear you go on about your baby though. A friend who is a boy even mentioned yesterday that all women talk about are kids and babies and it "must be a girl thing." I politely disagree, since this isn't the first time I've heard that complaint, but it's the first time I've heard it from a non-woman. My friend Heidi refers to children as "The Worst STD." I choose not to dissect this statement, because I think it's fucking funny. Being a parent does not mean losing your since of humor.

I understand where baby-complainers are coming from, though. I feel the same way about people who drone on about their pets. They are a huge part of your life (as are babies) and you're going to mention them, and I won't mind, especially if it's genuinely interesting or funny, until half an hour later when we're going through the inventory of dead knick-knacks your schnauzer ate.

I try not to bore people outside of my obviously interested family and immediate friends, but I do like to mention Leah's developments here and there. I'm around her constantly, I don't have much else going on in my life. The thing is though, every moment is precious to you as a parent, but all babies start crawling. All of them start walking. It does not make them exceptional. Not trying to downplay the loving feeling I get from Leah babbling at me while propped up on the couch as she is now, but other people aren't going to find that remarkable. Her 6 of 10 total teeth coming in the last 6 weeks have been more Hell than awesome, but damn, am I proud of her for doing what her body is programmed to do that she has no conscious knowledge of. That does not mean everyone else thinks it's cool.

That said, I would like to share some more humorous advancements Leah has made in the last few weeks:

Dancing. Hot Damn, does that kid love to dance. At anything. Lapping dog water gets her hips shaking.

Fear of the vacuum cleaner. Hysterical. Probably not for her, but it's usually brief. I have friends who've gone on and on about their pet's fear of household appliances, so I'm allowing it a few sentences.

Screaming with manic delight at the sight of cats. She gets that from me.

Beast Mode Affection Attacks. Leah will hurt you from hugs and kisses, like a squeezing, spitting machine of unstoppable love. Painful and adorable.

She can say "poop."

-----------

After writing about how people don't like it when you talk about your kids, followed by me talking about my kid, I think this was a successful hypocrisy blog.

The post only makes sense if you read the last post.

Shaving the pants has been fitted with a definition by none other than Pilar herself.

"Shaving the pants immediately made me think of drunk dancing at a club/bar when some random dude grinds his erect penis all up on your jeans."

10 point for Gryffindor! (Or whatever Harry Potter house Kylie is in. I think it would be Ravenclaw actually.)

In contrast of my feminist ranting, here's a tip on smooth shaving!

If you are like me, you're entire body is covered in hair. At least it's mostly blonde hair, but still. I'm like an Aryan sasquatch. "Pilar" means "covered in hair," and that would be my name if the Beatles had written a song in Spanish instead of French (real name: Michelle.) Pilar was actually Kylie's name in Spanish class, and I went with the more stripper-tastic Claudia, (I was sick of Margarita) but I digress.

My razor budget takes up a bigger chunk of my non-existent income than I would prefer, and I was internetting the other day and discovered a nifty trick I would like to elaborate on: Sharpening cheapo razors.

Shave per usual with a new razor.

Take your now slightly dull razor before next use or after initial use; just make sure it's dry.

Take out a piece of sturdy denim. Maybe it's jeans, maybe it's a vest with a Slayer patch poorly ironed on the back. Your call, so long as it has six inches or so of denim at least razor width in...width. Lay it on a flat surface, smooth it out. Applying slight pressure, run the razor in reverse direction on the denim about a dozen times, swiftly. Remember, opposite direction of how you actually use the razor, don't shave the pants. "Shaving the pants" will become a dirty dance or sexual maneuver once I think of something appropriate to go behind it.

If your razor is completely dull to the point of cheese-grater like horrors, fear not. Swiping a good 50+ times will return it to nearly new quality. That sounds time consuming, but I did it today and it took all of 30 seconds. I also shaved, and it fucking worked like a dream. I'm so excited and mad at myself at the same time. I could have saved so much money over so many years.

Further info: This process works by evening out any slight bending that occurs while shaving (and consequently catches on your skin and misses hairs) more than it does any actual sharpening, but it does that as well.

Also, if your razor has a moisture strip, consider a funeral service first. It's toast, but if you lotion before and after you should be fine, and just be sure to use ample amounts of cream/gel/soap/whatever.

For razor bumps on the bikini line, consider washing the area with an acne cleanser containing an active ingredient, like sialic acid or benzoyl peroxide, before and after shaving.

I hope you've been inspired to be less hairy. Or not.

Good News, Everyone!

I got a star on Gawker/Jezebel for worthwhile commenting, which is weird because I've posted something maybe dozen times, barely anything compared to people who comment on every article, every day. Certain starred commentators seem to appear at the bottom of every article. I almost never even bother logging in. Half the time I can't even get it fucking work anyway. I noticed one day I was "approved" by one of the writers, and had no idea what that entailed, or cared. They did directly answer one of my "Ask a Guy" questions which was also a featured comment. I was pleased, but it was such a generic question about male anatomy, I assumed it was a coincidence and that other girls had probably asked something similar. Either way, I logged in today to discover I'm valuable in the eyes of quasi-feminist bloggers. Hurray!

As previously mentioned, I can rarely get the log in to work, and right now is one of those times, despite the fact I had no problem an hour ago. I am determined to make this work, since I wanted to share my question in this humble blog. It's brilliant guys, just brilliant, riveting stuff:

"After every guy I know eschewed the idea of what I call "The Snakebite Handjob" of twisting hands in the opposite directions over the dick, I no longer trust Cosmo. That being said; What do we do with the balls? I know it supposed to be something, but what?"

Balls, man. Anyway, half a dozen dudes were surveyed and they answered this with a paragraph or two of personal experience. I cannot find the article after five minutes of trying. I am a terrible, lazy blogger. I do not deserve a star. You don't need to read it anyway, since long story short was "Eh, don't worry about it."

Upon reviewing my comments a minute ago, the real reason I think I got a star is because every other post is about 30 Rock. The New Yorker feminists of Jez love them some 30 Rock. Most feminists simply love Tina Fey, and I am one of those, for sure.

While we are on the subject of sexy feminists, My friend Erika has a wonderful blog about lady issues you should really check out. I was very close to posting a blog about the Manic Pixie Dream girl and her evolving role in the media, but she beat me to it. Her feelings match mine on the subject, and I have a comment on that particular post that's probably longer than this post right here. The whole blog is good stuff, and thought provoking. Plus, Erika's a total babe.

------------

I wanted to part from this rando-post with a song I happened to catch on Pop-Up Video the other day. God, I love Pop-Up Video. I also love this song, and Dizzy Up The Girl was the first actual CD I bought with my actual money. It made me all but forget about the Wilson Philips cassette I pilfered from my mom. The entire album is late-90s alternative gold, and I still love it to this day. Warner Bros has the actual video blocked from embedding, but I recommend it if you dig the nostalgia like I do. I was 10 when I fell in love with Johnny Rzeznik, and I pretty much owe him for kicking off puberty.

This video has the lyrics at least. Enjoy.