My plight has been a long one, fraught with contortionism, shyness,

extreme thoroughness, blood, sweat and yes, tears.

 

I do this mainly for myself…although the hubs does greatly enjoy it.

I have been doing it for a long time however not for anyone else but me,

especially not this guy.  For this guy I would grow the dang thing out so long it would be coming out of my pant legs if I could, just to turn him off.

 

Myself…contortioned into a pretzel all flush and sweaty with wax dingle berries mocking me to go ahead and try to rip them off.

 

The J Sisters NYC Salon, lacking any and all dignity and not that great I must say.

 

Other people who aren’t even willing to look at what they have done and then demanding thirty bucks for it.

 

And then there is Tracy.  She does my toes and my god what a great pedicurist she is. So I venture into the waxing and the first time it was a very thorough, lengthy and somewhat painful experience (as it should be unless your box is made of steel) but in the end well worth all of it and only for 40 bucks. A price I was willing to pay if I didn’t have to spend those two hours of hell in my own bathroom flinging wax all over the place.

 

About a year ago, I was going on a bachelorette weekend and decided to get waxed the day before…why you ask for that kind of weekend would a girl need bald girl bits…I was told they had a heated pool so I couldn’t go there all fluffy just coming out of winter hibernation now could I?

 

As I was leaving for my appointment my hubs says, so I guess there’s no sex until you get back and I’m like don’t be silly, silly we will tonight, it will be fine.

 

Famous.  Last. Words.

 

This process at some places takes like 10 minutes (jsisters) and in others take and hour or more. (Happy Nails, notice the name doesn’t say Happy Nail’s and Hooches…yeah) So here we go and she starts getting in there waxin’ on and rippin’ off, ouch owwwwee and then it happened. 

 

 

OOOOOWWWWWCCCCCHHH,

 

What the fuck, it’s like a searing hot burning ripping pain that won’t stop. Gahhhh.  Breathe deep, or something I don’t know. Then I catch a glimpse of her face, all red and flushed and her hands, filled with cotton and back in she goes but not before the warning “Dis gon hut”. Well Jesus H. Christ, if you pour everclear on an open wound and then set it on fire…it is gon hut. Is gon hut real bad!  To her credit she worked very hard to stop the major bleeding out of the minor labia but whoa, that hurt and then she still wasn’t finished she had more to do.  Did I mention she is very thorough and not shy at all?

 

After all was said and done she didn’t charge me but she was so sweet and apologetic that I did tip her and she also gave me one of the best pedicures I have ever had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But my husband was right no sex that night…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wouldn’t even look at it until four days later after the Bachelorette weekend. (by the way I am more like ‘lets get drunk and smoke cigarettes and they were all like, ‘lets talk about the benefits of ashtanga versus bikram yoga!’ so that was fun.  Oh and on top of that, the heated pool was empty.) 

 

So on Sunday night I finally looked and couldn’t really take my eyes off of the train wreck that had become my vagina…I just had to show my husband.  ‘Honey you now are the proud and loving husband of a chick with a scarred hooch’ and as he so sweetly put it ‘Oh my god, eeeeshhh, what the hell, your hatchet wound has a wound of its own.’ All the while cringing at it existence.  Seriously, this is called *lifting* as in your skin has been lifted off, leaving behind an inch and a half long by 1/8 inch wide patch of gore.

 

 

 

 

But once healed, boom chicka wow wow, a  positively pretty primped pussy.

So, I had my second mamogram ever on Tuesday at 9:45 am. On Wednesday I had my third mamogram ever at 9:15 am.  In between those two times I had one whole xanax at 6: 30 pm followed by a 1/2 percocet at 7:30.  All I really wanted was to sleep on a white fluffly cloud that was surround by a pretty irredescent glittery bubble. (which even with the help that didn’t really happen until 2:00 am) 

I work until 6:00 pm and usually arrive home between 6:30 and 7:45.  My day went  well, although I was a little stinky because you can’t do anything to make your self smell pretty before a Mamogram. (honestly I probably smelled like onions, for some reason that is what my BO smells like even though I don’t eat them, in fact I hate onions, although I will cook with them.  Me not liking onions is something we don’t talk about in my family, since my father grew up as an onion farmer and “Oh the horror and shame of having a son *AND* a daughter who hate onions, and to add insult to injury SHE went and married another Anti-Onionist.’ So why on earth would my body odor be that of anOnion?) <—Tangent. 

I go through my day in complete vapid blondeness, working….tweeting…putting on lipgloss….selling clothes at way too much of a discount, but generally happy and go-lucky.  Not thinking anything really at all…So when I get home my loving husband tells me the hospital called twice…WHAAAAA ?  I listen to the message and it is from 3:fucking thirty, saying I need to call today by 6:oo pm or tomorrow between 7:30 am and 7:00 pm.  Um, ‘Why’ I think to myself  ‘on the day I get the message at 6:30 are they there only until 6:00, and the next day they are there until 7:00?’ Then I ask my husband why he didn’t call me to let me know?  And then I think to myself, ‘Why didn’t they call me at work where I was when they called the house BOTH FUCKING TIMES’  So I’m all, um bewildered and trying not to panic, or, ooohh I don’t know cry or pour a Martini and smoke a cigarette. Trying to talk to my husband about it and well he is just looking kind of angry and I ask him if he is mad and all he says was ‘It’s not my fault’ (meaning that I didn’t get the message)…WHAAAA? I explain that I am not blaming him for not getting me the message, I am just a hugely little concerned because  typically they only call when something looks abnormal, while most likely nothing is wrong, they see something odd.  So once explained he tells me that what ever it is , whether it is something or nothing we will work through it together. I do love my husband.

So I spend my night in my little glittery bubble floating on my fluffly cloud, tweeting and watching Millionair Matchmaker and I still can’t figure out if I like the hostess (host?). Is she funny, cute, manish…just confused by her and the show, it was my first time and I had made myself a nice little cocktail of pharmaceuticals  (I am still in pain from my root canal over my root canal which is why I made mixed a cocktail for panic and pain.)

I drifted off to sleep about 2:00 am and woke up at  8 they said come by 9:15 stay for an hour and then go home and cry and rock back and forth.  So I get there and I’m in the waiting room in my gown AGAIN, stinking again. And reading about how Tara Reid is finally  happy with her body, and thank fucking God or else that would have kept me up until two am again. So about this time I start become a Buddhist and try to stay equanimous and let go, and then you know I become all Roman Catholic and say I will never smoke another cigarette, Please God let it all be okay…then My True Self enters the conversation and say’s ‘You know what you should do regardless, you should go buy a pack of Lucky Strikes, go home, pour a big fat martini up, dirty, with olives and go sit on the deck and enjoy your life!’  See this is why I am just not religous in the organized sense of things.  My true self will always win…and then we all got interupted by the tech who brought me into the room and said its your left boobie we are looking at. Well of course its the left one because that is the one that I have been thinking may have something going on ( and I don’t mean in the ‘There’s a party in my boobies and you are invited’ kind of way.)….for about 8 months now so lets just get rid of it, oh no I didn’t just think that I am not ready to not have ma boobies, ma boobies are rocking. I know I am an idiot to ignore these things…just stupid, but that is how I roll.

So on we go with more x-ray’s. ( I think I have had about 12 in the past two weeks on various parts of my body) But, I swear to God, Buddah and My True Self that this technician was trying to pop what ever it was they were trying to look at or she was trying to force it out with the evil machine of boobie destruction (knowing me the exray will reveal a hidden nipple or some other oddity). Owwwww it hurt, just way more than was necessary. Then she was done… and then she came back and did it again, Bitch!

Any way…I am more than happy to say that after all that everything is fine, which I pretty much knew but there is always that chance…and I get so mad that I let my self get caught up in negative thoughts like, ‘Oh god, what would I do with out my boobies’ or  ’well, geez… what kind of new boobies would I get if I survive?’  And then I think how thankful I am to be healthy and live a blessed life. And I am grateful.  As is my husband, he is quite fond of my boobies, even the evil left one!

So instead of the martini and lucky strike thing I went home, made myself  smell pretty, put on some lipstick and went to work and didn’t complain about anything. (except for the pain in my tooth…) 

 

A Sante! Mes Amis.

 

 

(said with a very fine french accent holding a beautiful glass of Dom)