Greetings all fellow survivalists! Still hanging in there, I see. Vibe, as predicted, seems much improved. Sounds like vaccines are coming; my parents get their first one this week so assuming that our most-at-risk loved ones will soon have at least some protection from this viral beast. That is good news indeed.
It sounds like it will be April-May for the rest of us in the general population (not at greater risk) so as promised, the end is finally and blessedly in sight. I want my get-out-of-jail card as soon as humanly possible, and I'm sure I'm not alone.
These idiots who refuse to get a vaccine...good riddance. More for the rest of us. My theory is these morons will get weeded out; a thinning of the herd perhaps was in order. Darwin's theory playing out. In this case, the weak might survive but the dummies won't. Sorry if this offends anyone, but I have no sympathy or compassion for such stupidity.
Keeping the lawn maintained
Ok, so I'll probably be tossing in more than my fair share of euphemisms in this blog because the words I want to use might offend or embarrass some...and when I mean "some" I mean my mom.
Many of you are aware that I was married for 21 years. I met my ex-husband when I was 19, married him at 23 and divorced at 46. So safe to say, things in the dating world changed a little during these two and a half decades.
After my divorce, my sister and I were on vacation somewhere and as I was undressing my sister said to me, "You know Barb, you're going to have to do something about that bush. Women don't really have pubic hair anymore." What?
I thought she was kidding me at first, but as I starting polling my girlfriends, many confirmed this horrific fact. One friend, (hey, Laura), was an ultrasound technician, and she said even pregnant woman come for their scans sans hair. I'm not even sure this part of the southern hemisphere was visible to me while I was pregnant. Hell, putting socks on was a chore.
Initially I just tried to fill in the many blanks, like why? I'm going to assume the origins of this particular trend was porn. That or someone—probably a hooker or stripper—decided this was a thing. Didn't French prostitutes invent pantyhose? Another bane to female existence. So then men jumped on board, and then women adopted the herd mentality and followed suit? I don't know the answer but could we have not all voted on this first? I mean because I think I could have made a pretty compelling argument against this rather drastic shift in social norms.
Regardless I was very enthusiastic about re-entering the dating world, and I certainly wanted my "den" to be warm, inviting and not at all hostile so I began to ponder my options. Googled and read just enough about the process of getting a bikini wax to nix that as an option right off the bat. Hot wax and my coochie shall never meet.
Side note: when I have envisioned how the movie about my life (blog > book > movie) would start, this is the opening scene:
I'm sitting in one of the procedure rooms of the laser hair removal center, pretty much buck-naked, wearing just a paper napkin-like panty that is supposed to be salvaging my modesty and is failing miserably.
A stern-looking woman enters. My hand shakes as I hand her my Groupon voucher. She glances at it and then says rather dismissively, "Well this is just for one appointment; the bikini area often requires multiple visits." She then attempts to up-sell me to the "Full Monty" package (my words) for just another $1,500. Considering my initial buy-in to this adventure was only $100, I balked.
I'm so close to just bolting at this point, but considering my rather hefty investment and my outfit, or lack thereof, I decide to hold my ground. This woman, who I call "the closer," then left and laser-weielding Broomhilda came in. I told her my conundrum, hoping for a little sympathy. She said that she could go higher on the setting, which might help, and then asked casually about my tolerance for pain. I said I was pretty tough, and then immediately regretted my decision and started to sweat profusely.
Then, as she left the room, perhaps to get more gas for the laser, she asked (in an eastern European accent), "Are your Greek?" I quickly said no, hoping desperately that it was the right answer. She nodded, seeming to indicate this was welcome news.
Panic was definitely starting to set in and the image of me running through the waiting room partially naked did flash in my mind. Always good to have a mental escape plan at the ready though.
B (we're friends now) asks what style I wanted. What style? I just stared at her. I had no idea what style I wanted. I managed to sputter out, "What are the girls getting these days?" fully realizing I'm now sounding like I'm 80. God help me. She starts listing a few, a landing strip, which sounded a bit like a Hitler mustache but on the perpendicular. She mentioned a few others. I panicked and chose the only geometric shape I recognized: the triangle (hence the title).
I won't lie. It was painful, and the burning smell did little to calm my nerves, but Broomhilda didn't appear to be concerned. Overall not a pleasant experience. And, the hair, of course, grew back. How can I be expected to tend my lady garden on my own? With no idea how to maintain my newly coiffed down-there hairdo, I made the executive decision that since I don't make a living as either a stripper or a hooker, permanent hair removal really wasn't necessary.
And, due to the aforementioned fear of waxing, I turned to shaving, but let's face it: shaving is a royal pain in the ass, and the hair grows back and as it does, it itches like hell. It's like chasing your tail. Constant maintenance.
Fortunately I have been able to negotiate with most guys I've had longer-term relationships on the topic of lawn maintenance, and were able to come to a mutual agreement. Keep it trimmed, everyone's happy. And, on the topic of "manscaping," I think only swimmers and gay men (and only if that's their thing) should be subjected to hair removal. I mean unless it's on their backs. Ew.
Ok, well, I'm glad I got that off my chest...or well you know.
Ciao for now,
Barb
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