Anne Nahm

I am feeling completely lost this week.

While watching with my kids yesterday evening, it sunk home that Beauty & The Beast is full on Disney’s Ode to Stockholm Syndrome.*

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Some parents won’t let their kids watch movies they feel have questionable morality tales. But sometimes, I rent them anyway. And then heckle from the audience.

I figure it gives the kids good critical thinking skills. Add some popcorn and discussion of 1) why we never trade freedom for a parent in this house and 2) how to use Lumiere** as a defensive weapon (possible discussion point: The beast is covered in hair), and that is good bonding indeed. Or I dunno, the lifelong memory for my children of their mother arguing with the T.V. and a generalized fear of commitment.

I also just finished Harry Potter, which is the end of a 6 month long bonanza of reading them start to finish. Feeling kind of lonely, like my passport to Awesomeland just got revoked. Hold me.

* Which was kind of disturbing since it was my favorite of the singing Disney cartoon chick flicks when I was 15. Back then, I guess I was all, Oooh, I like the idea of taming all that sexy rage or something. Now, I can only picture them in Beauty & The Beast II: Marriage Counseling. My imaginary scenario has varied quite a bit in the last 12 hours, but always ends with the counselor and Belle sharing a secret eye roll and Belle’s all, “what can I do? I’m his prisoner.” and The Beast muttering something under his breath about her being his prisoner just like he keeps herpes his prisoner.

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** Holy crap – I was looking up how to spell Lumiere, and the voice was Jerry Orbach! You know… Dirty Dancing Dad? Lenny from Law & Order? Be our guest, be our guest, put our hostage negotiation skills to the test!

Ok, you guys just have to stop being so funny, because it was too damn hard to pick a winner for the hula girl contest and you made me cry big tears of stress because so. much. funny. I love them all. Picking one is like the Sophie’s Choice of Wacky Fake Addresses.

And in the end, I narrowed it down to Jezer and Maria with Jezer having the wining edge. But then?

There was some pretty wacky cloud formations following my decision, and so maybe Baby J was rooting for Maria’s fake address. And I fear wrath of all sorts, so I am including her address as well. And thus probably narrowly avoiding (yet again) being struck by tiny bolts of baby lightning.

Long story short: Jezer, please pick hula girl or peaberry coffee and whatever you choose, I’ll send the other to Maria. Please both send your address info to: anne [AT] annenahm [DOT] com.

Thank you for all your great submissions everyone!

So the other thing that happened in Hawaii was that I realized I was hiding stuff from you. Again.

Yes, I know. I am a slow learner. I am also like one of those people with hoarding disorders, but with all these little secrets crammed under my bed instead of more traditional hoarding items like chicken bones or money.

So here it is: I went in for my yearly with my OBGYN (and here is where you should take heed and stop reading if you don’t like things that involve Cootersville, Population: Me) and I mentioned to her that I continue to have small and painful cuts in Anne Land. Or, in more grown-up speak, on my labia.

I don’t think I am into the whole Lifetime Channel Testimony Mode about getting the diagnosis of Lichen Sclerosus, but you can read about it by clicking the link. And then proceed to wash your eyeballs and bitch slap me for taking TMI where TMI should not tread.

All I can say is that for me it is not itchy or terribly bothersome except that about every six weeks or so it is stingy like a paper cut. I have not taken any medication for it since it was previously diagnosed approximately 4 years ago because I was breastfeeding or pregnant or breastfeeding again or consumed with attending to the Cheekbone Implant of Horror.

Also back then, I did not have the diagnostic name so that Dr. Google could tell me about possible scarring. The treatment is super steroids in topical form. I am on the fence about taking them. I mean, you put that stuff on your cooter and you are all happy about the non-pain-non-scarring. The next thing you know, your labia is winning gold medals with Marion Jones.
But eventually? There is an accounting to be had for revving up your twat on hormones. And then it either mugs someone whilst holding a tiny gun*, or you are dragging your cooter to Celebrity Rehab and it looks like Chyna’s little sister. No one wants that to happen.

Also, the doc said if the steroids don’t clear it up, they take a biopsy. Of my labia, people. The process was described to me pretty much like this:

(picture of hole punch used to be here)

1. Insert labia

2. Punch

I am taking recommendations for where to buy genital jewelry if it progresses that far. I ain’t wasting that hole.

And hell, since we are in confessional land, I will say that this puts off baby making for another month until I can make sure of the diagnosis and rule out biopsy. Baby making being just on the horizon of our thinking, and a whole ball of Nucking Futs with which to deal. Because you all may remember how well the last baby’s infancy worked out for me. My husband is totally cheerleading that we will have an easier time this time. Because the future is not predicted by past events, but rather by some grand equation in which a post partumy depressiony year last infancy will be evened out with flowers and sunshine this time.

* Getting back to that whole Lifetime Channel Testimony – it would almost be worth it to be able to see the dramatic recreation of my ‘roid raged labia pistol whipping Tori Spelling in the Lifetime Original Movie, Mother, May I Sleep with Cooter?

ETA: More things you should know about my undercarriage – it does not look like the google images (those must be the most severely afflicted case scenarios). But thanks for making me double check, internet!

Contest closed.  Thanks everyone!

Aloha, sweets! I’m back. I missed you sooooo much!

I took this picture the first day we were there. Everything in Hawaii looks like a postcard. All beautiful and peaceful and stuff. Take a picture of dog poop on the sidewalk in Hawaii and the picture comes out with big puffy words: Greetings From Dog Poop! Wish You Were Here! Is ridiculous. Enough already with the beauty!

See? I took this one too, but looks like I just got it off a brochure or something.

I have to admit I was totally bummed to open my bags and find nothing but half a bottle of whisky and a very green looking teddy bear. Duuuuuuude. Where were you?

I brought you something anyway. I didn’t know what you wanted, so here’s your choices. And also, now you’ve gotta win it. Because Hawaii hath no fury like a scorned, hung over teddy bear. Or something.

Anne Went All The Way To Hawaii & All She Got Me Was This Lousy Booby Prize Contest

If you win, I’ll send you one of these terrific items! I get to chose which item. Because I am Anne Overlord over here is why. …What?

*This notice of inspection letting me know that National Security means some guy pawed through my underwear (by hand! Not just with x-ray specs!) and it is not his fault if he broke my lock. National! Security! Please Cooperate! Also? National Security saw your Hello Kitty Panties and is not afraid to use this information to protect everyone else.

*The strange rash I brought back that won’t seem to go away. Itchy!

*The Sunburn on my left boob. Why? They do not seem uneven when I look at them – why is righty always in the shade somehow?

*A Small container of 100% Peaberry Kona Coffee (which hello, is like 35 bucks a pound) (So I am totally not sending you a pound of it. It’s one of those individual serving packets). (Not included: the thirty minutes of my life I’ll never get back going on a tour of a coffee factory). (However. I can now tell you why Peaberry Kona Coffee is 35 bucks a pound. Is magical. Just tastes like regular coffee. And does all the things you would expect a cup of coffee to do to your body. But! Do not be fooled. Magic. Al.)

*The ticket I’ll probably get from this lava/coral grafitti we did the last day by the side of the road. Tip to fellow graffiti artists: Don’t leave a forwarding address for tickets.

All the other kids were doing it. Don’t look at me that way. Plus, it was a huge fail from the road anyway:

*The heart attack I nearly had when we were driving home at midnight on the 101 freeway and an old Ford truck came down the freeway going in the wrong direction. He just passed us like we were on a two lane road while our kids slept in the back seat and I said to my husband after a moment of silence between us: Wow. We could have just had our whole family taken out. Thanks, God, for keeping us from being a smear on the pavement outside of Gilroy, Ca.

*The secret to Hawaiian culture: I’m pretty sure “Mahalo” really means “you idiot tourist”.

*The underwear I won off of Sawyer in a game of Beer Pong. Turns out he also likes Hello, Kitty too

He begged me not to show you. But a prize is a prize.

*This genuine Hula dancer. Still boxed and in pristine Hawaiian wrapping (assuming my kids don’t find it before I get it out to you).

Oooh! Street value:

OK, Anne, what do I have to do to win your crappy hula dancer prize?

Glad you asked. Here is what I want: Federal Regulations require I send a package with a return address. I’m somewhat irritated with the Federales ever since my Hello Kitties have gone amissin’. So send me your best fake address (name and/or street address) and if I chose it, not only will I send you something? I will try to use your cleverly fake return address on the very package I send you.

Also, you have to be in the U.S., because I’m a stupid American who doesn’t know how to send things abroad. Submit up until… Oh, I dunno. Let’s say 9:00 PM Wednesday night, Pacific Standard Time. Yay!