Leg Hair 101

(*Author's note:  TMI, but whatever.  Apparently, after 3 months of unemployment, I have no shame.)


Back in the day, before I was broke and unemployed, I was a fanatical daily leg-shaver.  Didn't matter if I was going to be wearing long pants, knee socks and boots... the legs, they were smooooov.  It was a matter of pride and principle.  Considering how often I fall down, the risk of breaking my ankle or foot is a constant threat, so if I wound up on a stretcher with hard bodied paramedics cutting my jeans off, they would not find King Kong under there.  (Priorities, y'all.  Our mothers insisted on clean underwear, I insist on a tidy brazillion with cleanly shaved legs.)


About a year ago, my friend Wendy and I went to a woman's retreat.  She was there to do waxing and facials and I was there to do massage. When we first arrived, we all went out to do yoga together and to what to our wondering eyes should appear but 20 women who had never owned a razor.  


Never.  Owned.  A RAZOR.


There was leg hair up the wazoo.  There was wazoo hair up the ying yang.  Don't even get me started on the pit hair, the sideburns, and the lack of interest in deodorant.  As nipped, tucked, enhanced, augmented, waxed, primped, and pruned relatively shallow girly-girls, this was definitely our first rodeo.


We went in with hot wax steaming.  These women lined up like it was their last meal and let Wendy rip all of their excess body hair from every crack and crevice while I massaged their hairy legs as they waited for their turn.  


Pluses:  We made bank.  Also?  I have the memory of one woman screaming, "My labia!  My labia! Don't rip off my labia!" while Wendy gave her a bikini wax forever burned into my brain.  (Seriously... fucking hilarious.  Every once in a while I have to fight back the urge to randomly scream, "My labia!  My labia!")


Negatives:  I had to touch a lottttttttt of hairy, undeodorized bodies and naked, saggy boobies, yo.  Because these girls?  Did. Not. Care.  And since we were sharing a room for our spa services, I had an up-close and personal view of all the waxing while Wendy was treated to all the total nudity of my massage victims.  (Me:  "Can I give you some privacy to get ready for your massage?"  Hippy Women, one and all:  "For what?" as they dropped trow and plopped down nekkid on the massage table.)  


But I really can't complain because while I did have to touch hairy women, Wendy is the one who had to rip out their pubes, and her up-close and personal was wayyyyyyyyy more up-close and personal than MY view.  Nuff said.


(Sorry for throwing you under the bus there, Wendy.)


Anyway, here I am one year later, unemployed and suddenly unconcerned about what's going on with my leg hair.  I'm not wildly hairy, thanks to my father's Native American roots (I was going to say Indian but I'm nothing if not PC, yo) but I'm not a platinum blonde Swede, either.  So after much studying and some trial and error, I have determined that I can go 4 days without shaving my legs.  


Day 1:  Smooth and moisturized!  Can wear shorts and flip flops in public.


Day 2:  Can feel but not see the stubble.  Still wearing shorts and flip flops.


Day 3:  Prickly and definitely not smooth... time to switch to Capris.


Day 4:  Definite leg hair, could probably sand the finish off of my coffee table, still in Capris but walking a fine line between middle-aged woman in Capris and disgusting hippy who thinks women should totally rock their leg hair.  If it wasn't so damn hot I'd definitely be rocking jeans, socks, and boots.  


If I suffer an injury, I'm screwed.  Paramedics would definitely be grossed out by disgusting leg hair.


Day 5:  Must shave legs because a) I'm grossing myself out and b) I refuse to leave the house until I do.


I still keep up with the pit hair because let's face it... pit hair is gross.  (I have my standards.)  


I had way less time to keep up with the hair removal when I was working but now that I'm unemployed and have alllll the time in the world, I don't feel like I can squeeze this in.  Go figure.


(I also am lately wayyyyy more inclined to stick a hat on my head than spend the 5 minutes it takes to do my hair.  Weird.)


I really need to find a job before I say "Fuck it all!" and grow a beard.  True, sad, story.

When Monday Lives Up To It's Rep

(*Author's note:  The following blog contains TMI and the F word.  Read at your own risk.  If I offend you, it's your own damn fault for reading beyond this point and quite honestly, you can bite me.)


It's 12:19 in the afternoon and thus far I have gone to the store, unplugged the toilet, cleaned the house, vacuumed the dog, and baked cookies. 


Productive day, one might say... but I have one thing left on my agenda:


Kill my husband.


I love it when Dan leaves for work in the morning and the last thing he says to me, before he shoots out the door like there's a firecracker tied to his tail, "Okay, baby, love you, have a good day ohbythewayIpluggedthetoilet  BYE!"  


Me:  "Bye baby!  Have a good d... wait, what?  What?"


*VROOOOOOOOM* roars his truck, as he hauls ass down the road.


I turned towards the bathroom with a feeling of dread.  I'm thinking to myself, "Oh no he dittent..." but I know damn well he did.  


"Mother FUCKER!" I screamed, to the dogs, the walls, the ceiling, and most likely to Mr. Awesome, who hadn't left for work yet.  


When you only have one toilet, this right here?  Is a problem.  Especially when it's 7:30 in the morning and you've been so busy chugging coffee that you can feel nature counting down to an inevitable blast off.  


I put on my faded, holey, bleach stained, University of Pink sweats, a black wife beater, Dan's Mets hat, flip flops, sunglasses, and stomp down the stairs and out to my car.  I'm chanting, "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK" to myself (and anyone who crosses my path who might happen to be able to read lips) as I drive down the street to the Big M, where I hold the title of Queen of Bad Ring Tones and Overly Friendly Conversation.  I grab one of their stupid little double decker shopping carts (seriously... what the fuck?  They're like two itty bitty little Fisher Price pretend shopping carts stacked on top of eachother.  LAME) and careen viciously through the store, grab my two purchases and hit the check out.  My toilet is plugged, I have to pee, and I'm really, realllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy angry at my husband.  REALLY angry.  Like turning green and ripping my shirt angry.  


Like running him over with my car then backing up to see what I hit angry.


The evil little old lady who works as the cashier and has never, not once, not even by accident said to hello to me, chooses this morning to pull the stick out of her ass and ask me how I am.


Oh, I don't think so, New York.  You've rejected my overtures of small talk and friendly chit chat until now, this morning, when I'm so irate that I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire?  


NO.


Me:  "It's 7:45 in the morning and I'm buying a plunger and Drano.  How do you think I am?"


Checker:  *dead silence*


She finished ringing me up and said, "Have a good day!"


To which I replied, under my breath, "Bite me."


Long story short, I came home, looked at the instructions on the Drano, and discovered the very first sentence says, "Do not use on toilets."


I plunged my little heart out, to no avail.


I flushed and suffered the consequences.


Finally, after about an hour and a half of plunging, mopping, sweating, and swearing, I went back to my grandmother's old remedy for plugged potties:  Dump in boiling water.


It's a thousand degrees outside and humid as hell but I boiled pot after pot of water on my stove, hauled it into the bathroom, and dumped it into the toilet.


Five pots (and a little crying... okay, a lot of crying) later, everything went down.


I've never been so happy in my life.


Dan has four hours to redeem himself if he chooses to live until tomorrow.  


Also?  He's not allowed to use the toilet at home EVER.  AGAIN.


Mark my words, yo.