My poor mother...

When I don’t feel good, I always want my mother. I'm a big girl now, and its not a skinned knee I'm usually seeking her comfort for. Sometimes I'll call her late on a Sunday afternoon, after I have been hugging the toilet all day: “Mom, I'm hungover…” and just hearing her voice makes me feel a little better.

Well, I called her the other night and I kind of feel bad for the bomb I dropped on her.

“Hi, sweetie” she cheerily greeted me.

I unloaded in one long breath,“Mom, I got laser hair removal today and I feel like my vagina is sunburned, I am very uncomfortable right now, had to take off my panties and free-ball it the rest of the day, each individual hair follicle feels like there is a freakin' tree growing out of it for some reason, probably because they were essentially set on fire, they were getting caught in the fabric of my under wear that has never happened before, I shaved just yesterday, but seriously Mom, I had to peel the cloth clinging for dear life from each pube!”

“You what?!” she said after a considerable pause. "Honey, why would you do that?”

And I threw him right under the bus: “S&P wanted me to do it.”

Oh god. What child talks to their mother about A) the maintaining of their pubic hair and B) their boyfriend being the grand master in requesting the whole thing?

I guess I just felt better by saying it wasn’t my idea.

The Brazilian

I wish I was talking about a dreamy, dark-haired, mocha-skinned fellow from close to the equator. Instead, I’m talking about the life altering experience that took place in a room yesterday, as I lay with my legs in the good old butterfly position.

I had called my girlfriend the night before for some last minute guidance on what exactly happens when you are getting a Brazilian. She has had a few over the years, and I was really nervous about someone spending that much time with my vagina, who hasn’t been to medical school, nor is giving me pleasure.

I am quite sure the technician told the receptionist as soon as I left that she dreads my next appointment. I was a willing participant, I walked in happily with my print-out for 6 sessions of laser hair removal that I’m finally redeeming. And yet I acted like I was in a torture chamber once she started electrocuting my privates. It would be like going to get a tattoo and then kick and scream the whole time. Hello?!? You know that shit is going to hurt! And by the way, that is exactly what it felt like, getting a tattoo right on your bushwah.

I was doing the Lamaze breathing and every few breathes would yell fuck. My back went into spasm from tensing so incredibly much. Then the part I was exceptionally panicky about…. “Turn over and pull your butt cheeks apart.”

This was plain awkward, and I made it even more so by saying, “You must see a lot of butt holes, huh?” To which she replied, "You have no idea".

I wondered if she was in fact calling me one. But then the pain brought me back to my breathing.

Thank God it was quick. The entire thing took about 4 minutes. I can only imagine the power one must feel when they are holding a tube that is shooting a hot laser at someone else's crotch as the recipient wriggles in pain. I mean really, that takes a special person.

Go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah!

Last weekend I took a ride with S&P to Pep Boys. He needed something or other for his bike. I parted ways with him immediately to peruse all things Hello Kitty: key chains, floor mats, steering wheel covers, Hello Kitty-shaped strawberry scented air fresheners, etc. My search was exhausted in roughly five minutes and I soon became bored. I went outside and sat on the curb by the bike. Soon thereafter he came out saying the part was not in stock. As I stood up from the curb, I felt a tiny little something crawling just below the waistline of my jeans. I looked back to the curb and saw a trail of red ants. I started smacking my butt, hips, and thighs to try to kill any unwanted invaders.

S&P told me I should take off my pants...

It wasn't being in a parking lot in broad daylight that was my main concern with doing that. It was more the thought of peeling off my skinny jeans, after taking off my knee high boots, coupled with feeling quite moist, as it was a very warm day. There was just no way undressing in that moment was going to be graceful.

"I think I got them all," I told him, as we sat idling at a light. And then one squirmed into the depths of my crack. I bounced vigorously on the bike trying to squish it. Soon, we were at his friend’s home. I felt like everything was under control. I began to think maybe I had tricked myself, like when you scratch your head when you hear of a friend’s child coming down with lice. Just then I felt something move.

I grabbed my crotch and yelled, "oh God they are moving around again! Can I please use your bathroom?" As I ran down the hall, I realized these people surely think I have crabs.

I dropped my pants and saw a handful of very angry red welts. Sure enough, the next day I woke up to the typical puss-filled bite marks I'm accustomed to getting on my feet. The bite about a pencil eraser distance from my butt hole was the worst to deal with. I never realized the friction that takes place daily as you walk, but I was surely aware of it last week. Those bitches covered some serious ground. One got me on the back of my mid-thigh, while another got me right where your vajay and leg meet. Finding subtle ways to rub myself to relieve the itch over the next few days was humiliating, to say the least.

pfffft

I have moved in with S&P. It’s lovely to come home every night and sit down to dinner, to unwind on the couch before bed, and to wake up to a snuggle and kiss every morning.

The only downside is, I am living in a fart cloud. He let his guard down early on in the relationship, as most men do, but with the increased amount of time I am in his presence, I rarely feel like the air I am breathing hasn’t been tainted.

Right before his last business trip I told him I would really appreciate it if, upon his return, he were to bring a new habit home, which is either, a) suffer through the gas in silence, or; b) take a walk down the hallway, step in the spare room for a moment, and then let loose. This never happened. In fact, the situation had only exacerbated itself over the next few weeks.

He basically stopped acknowledging I was even in the same room. My eyes got wide and filled with fury when I realized the couch cushion vibrating under me was due to wind breaking in the next seat over. I asked him to please excuse himself after he rips the highly audible explosions. It’s just common courtesy. It says you are 3 feet away, and farted, and are sorry.

Well, I got what I asked for. Now, more times a day than I would care to count, I hear various mini apologizes for the flatulence. I have created a monster. I hear him in the next room where there is no way I am subject to any fart cloud fall out, excusing the unheard disruption. Half the time I am laying right next to him, didn’t hear a thing, but I do hear, “ I'm sorry baby.” Only then am I alerted to the fact I am laying in his fart dust.

Now I think I'd rather not know.