I haven't blogged in a few days because I really didn't want to blog about what happened Saturday. I have tried to sit at this keyboard every day since then, and the only thing that wants to come out is this story. I can't blog about anything else until this speed bump, nay, gymongous pot-hole of a post is published. It's an embarassing tale. It's got waaaay to much information. It gratuitously uses the S-word. And it involves my cootchie. So if any of this offends you, just skip this post. Move along.
The only function this story serves is that it is drian-o for my brain-o. And it's funny, in a sick-and-twisted sort of way.
So last Saturday JeepMan took Plato to the local Collegeville basketball game. That left me with Lulu for some girl bonding time. As it turned out, she wasn't in the mood to bond, so she ended up in bed rather early. I decided to make myself useful, so I tackled the under-sink cupboard in the bathroom. I'm a product-junkie (in denial), and at least once a year I need to get rid of as many partially used, dust-encrusted products as I can convince myself to throw away.
As luck (read: misfortune) would have it I ran across a tub of wax and waxing accessories in the bottom of one of my storage bins. I used the stuff like once, a loooong time ago, in a botched attempt to wax my legs (a misadventure that, had I recalled of it, might have saved me from having to write this post at all!).
Idea! The oft-unlit lightbulb over my head glowed brightly and somewhere in my mind trumpets were playing fanfare. Why let the wax go to waste? Here in my hands was a lavender tub of opportunity. I could even score a two-fer: I could try something I have always been curious about AND shake things up in the bedroom, hurrah! And so it happened that I entered into the Brazilian Wax Debacle.
For those of you who don't know what a Brazilian Wax is, check it out here real quick. It's necessary for the full appreciation of the story to follow.
Anyhow, I have a friend who told me she does Brazilians (the procedure, not the people) and her man loves it... so does she for that matter. Says it makes her feel sexy all the time. She does it at home, and has done so for years. Interestingly, she always has her eyebrows waxed at the salon, as she is afraid to screw them up.
Heeeeey...I wax my own eyebrows! I also have a relatively high tolerance for pain. So it stands to reason that doing my own Brazilian at home should not be a problem, right? Right?
You bet! I ain't a-scared!
Tragic flaw #1: attitude is everything. And mine was waaaaay too cavalier.
Tragic flaw #2: research is everything else. And I didn't do any.
So I forged ahead, enchanted completely with this idea and the sexy romantic surprise that JeepMan would get later - woo hoo!
I quickly gathered up my supplies and dropped my drawers. Putting on the bikini wax wasn't quite as ergonomically easy as doing eyebrows, but fortunately precision is not key. One foot up on the sink and a carefully placed mirror, and I was moving right along. The wax is supposed to be put on, then covered with a cloth strip; the premise being that the wax will want to stick to the cloth more than you, so when the cloth is ripped off the wax and everything embedded in it (i.e. hair) will come with it. It seemed to make sense to get the most bang for my waxing buck, so I slathered the sticky stuff from all the way back to all the way front and carefully applied the 10-inch cloth strip.
Took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and YANKED for all I was worth.
Then soundlessely screamed obscenities as I fought the growing black spots and tried to stay upright, what with my eyes rolled back in my head and one foot up on the sink and all.
As I was slowly sucked back into the here and now, my first thought (after "HolyShitThatHurt!!"), was that I still had the other side to do (shitshitshit), followed by the incremental comprehension of a steady "drip, drip, drip" sound...
I looked down in that slo-mo state that often accompanies shock and trauma, and after a few seconds realized that the "drip, drip, drip" was synchronous with the red spattery droplets appearing on my white linoleum floor. It took a few seconds to process, but the end result was a simultaneous realization that I was bleeding and vague recollection of a secondary (decidedly more fleshy) ripping sensation during the wax removal.
Oh my god, I ripped a genital artery!!
Exacerbated by the final, horrifying realization that the cloth strip had very little wax and absolutely no hair on it.
For anyone who has tried waxing of any nature, you might see where this is going. For wax virgins, here's the deal: wax does not come off easily. Soap and water? No way. Washcloth and friction? Mmmm - nope. Repeated attempts to remove wax with cloth strips and further rippage may work but I wasn't about to go there. That left solvent. I used the entire bottle of wax solvent that came with that stupid kit. It worked but whoa-momma-yeowza!! Burn baby burn!
As I was rubbing the stinging solvent into the obstinant wax, the nurse in me was pondering: how many morons present to ERs every day with stories like this or worse?
"Hi, I just tried to wax my vagina at home? By myself? Yeah, anyway I think I ripped out a vulvar artery or something. Well...my labia are waxed together, so it's hard to tell...the point is, is there anything you can do about it? Oh, you have a waiting list...okay, I'll just penguin-walk over to this chair and try not to hemorrhage to death while the ingrown toenail patient goes ahead of me...No, no, it's my own stupid fault. Just make sure they bring out some kind of spatula or wax solvent when they're ready for me to come back, 'cause I'll bet you dollars to donuts I'm gonna end up stuck to your nice waiting room chair..."
After I was cleaned and bandaged (Hell's Angels couldn't have dragged me to the ER for something this asinine!), I got this brilliant idea to RESEARCH brazilian waxing, how to do at home (hindsight being 20/20 and all that). After I sorted through the porno results of Googling "Brazilian Wax" and found some educational stuff I found that every single website said the same thing: "This shoud be done by a trained professional!! Don't try this at home!!"
Okay! I get it, I get it. The hard way, but I get it.
I even came across this powerful video. It's a must-see.
And No, JeepMan didn't get any that night, or the next, or the next.
Maybe I can talk him into a Men's Brazilian sometime though.
It's called a "Back, Sack, and Crack." No Shit.
Ok, so that is out. I feel like I just popped a monster brain zit and it splatted all over this page.
Gross, but man does that feel better.
Thanks for tuning in...until next time.
"It could be that the purpose of your life is only to serve as a warning to others."
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