If you’re just tuning in, you may want to click here to read the first part of The History Of My Vagina And All Of It’s Hairy Glory.

Amazingly enough I did survive the traumatic bikini waxing experience and went on to greater things. I kept my appointment at the REAL SALON (AKA: not someone’s basement), although you can imagine just how nervous I was after my first experience. I pulled in to the parking lot and the first thing I noticed was that I was heading into someone’s house. Only not really. It USED to be a house. It had been converted to a gorgeous salon and NOBODY LIVED IT. At least, not on the first floor. I didn’t go down in to the basement this time, so I can’t say for sure that nobody lived down there.

I signed in, filled out a questionnaire (Does your vagina prefer classical music or jazz? Red wine or white?), and waited nervously for them to call my name.

My time came and a nice lady with really good hair (On her head. I assume her cooter was hair free. Although I did not ask to see.) and a tan came out to meet me. She shook my hand, invited me to follow her and left me in a sunny room that had been decorated quite nicely. She showed me where I could lay my pants and underwear, gestured to the sheet laying over the table, and told me she would be back in a few moments. They had thoughtfully left a box of baby wipes on one of the tables so I quickly stripped and wiped my crotch down, because I dunno about you but sometimes when I’m nervous my hoo-ha sweats. And boy was I nervous. So, I wiped myself down, because baby scented vagina smells better than sweat scented vagina, am I right?

I hopped on the table, covered up with the sheet and waited. She came back, made small talk, spread my legs and ripped the shit out of my pubic hair. (Um, I do not mean actual shit. I mean that she WENT TO TOWN. Their was no poo in my pubes. That I know of.)

I know that if you have not had a Brazilian before you are waiting impatiently for me to tell you if it hurt. All I have to say is this: You are a fucking moron. OF COURSE it hurt. Badly. It was tolerable though. I didn’t cry or scream, but I wanted to. I had taken Tylenol before I went and would definitely recommend doing that, because if it hurt that bad WITH the Tylenol I don’t even want to think about what it would feel like without. In fact, if you can find someone to drive, you may just want to go drunk. I should also mention that, sadly, you think it hurts in the beginning, but dude, you don’t even know what pain is yet. They start on the outside and work their way in and it just gets worse the farther in they get.

So, yes. Pain. Lots of it.

After she was done ripping all the hair out (which probably took about 20-30 minutes) (also, I should mention that I was “sugared” not “waxed.” Apparently sugaring is better. Do not ask me why. I do not know.), she told me to roll over on to my side so that she could do my butt crack. Oh yes, you read that right. She wanted to wax my butt crack.

I politely declined, but she insisted. “Oh, everyone says they’ll pass on that the first time, but I promise it doesn’t hurt! It’s NOTHING compared to what you just went through.”

All I could think was: Lady? I am not nearly as concerned about the pain as I am about spreading my ass cheeks for you. It is one thing to show you my lady bits, but there is just something about holding my butt cheeks open that makes me want to say PASS!

Obviously, because I am such a strong woman who has no confrontation issues whatsoever, I rolled over on to my side and reached around with one hand to hold my butt cheek up for her. Oh, the humiliation. Happily, it didn’t hurt a bit. (Yes, really. No pain.)

She left the room and I gingerly put my clothes back on and then hobbled out to pay. She asked if I would like to schedule another appointment for the following month, but I chose not to. I told her I would call her later. I wonder how many first timers actually schedule that second appointment right then?

Me and my vagina went home and Cleatus was so excited to play with his special new friend, but unfortunately she was in pain and refused to play. He kept asking to just see it, but dude, you are not a doctor and my vagina has a rug burn. For three days it was too sore to play BUT ON THE FOURTH DAY…well, lets just say that IT WAS ALL WORTH IT.

Seriously. Worth it.

It took about 3 weeks to start growing back and I haven’t gone back. This was all two years ago, so obviously I’m past due for an appointment. The only reason I haven’t gone again is because Cleatus works weird hours and it’s hard to schedule appointments a month in advance. Also? My mother-in-law is my babysitter, so asking her to keep the kids while I go get my hoo-ha waxed is a bit awkward. And I haven’t felt like spending the fifty or so bucks on it.

So, do I recommend that you run out and get the hair ripped from your hoo-ha? Oh, yes I do. Just get a recommendation on a good salon before you go.

It was two years ago this summer when my friend first mentioned to me that she had gotten a Brazilian wax. I was intrigued. I had SEEN Brazilian waxes before (Hello, pay-per-view porn.) and I had heard about people getting waxes before (Hello, internet.), but I had never actually KNOWN anyone that had gotten it done. She probably regretted mentioning it to me, because I immediately began interrogating her. “Did it hurt?” “How bad?” “Did you scream?” “Does it really take longer to grow back?” “Did she make you get on all fours and spread your butt cheeks?”

Happily, she answered my questions and gave me the name of the salon she went to. I called them and requested an appointment. Apparently cooter waxing is big business because they couldn’t get me in for a MONTH. I’m the type of person that has to get what I want RIGHT WHEN I WANT IT. There is no waiting for me. I need instant gratification, baby. That’s totally why Cleatus loves me. Because I am a whiny spoiled brat who stomps her foot and whines when she doesn’t get her way RIGHT NOW, DAMN IT.

I told them to schedule the appointment, but seeing as how my vagina was hairy and I did not want it to be hairy for a minute longer, I started calling around. I found another salon that could get me in that Saturday. It wasn’t IMMEDIATE but it was better than a month away. I told the girl to go ahead and schedule me and then started whimpering from fear. She did her best to reassure me, even going so far as to tell me that the waxer had a special way of folding the sheet over me so that I would never be exposed. That concerned me a bit, because HOW WOULD THE WAXER SEE THE HAIR?

I put the fear out of my mind with the help of some vodka and finished out my week. Saturday rolled around and I put on my big girl pants and headed off to have the hair violently ripped from my girly bits.

I pulled up to the “salon” and immediately noticed that it was actually someone’s house. (SIGN #1 THAT YOU ARE IN TROUBLE: You are about to enter a stranger’s house and allow them to look at you naked and then pull hair from your body.) I reassured myself that LOTS OF SALONS ARE IN PEOPLE’S HOUSES.

I walked in and was greeted by a teenage girl and a group of her friends. Did I mention that her friends were teenage boys? They were. I told her my name and that I was there for an appointment. I did not mention what the appointment was for, because TEENAGE BOYS. CAN NOT BREATHE. MIGHT POSSIBLY PASS OUT FROM LACK OF OXYGEN. (SIGN #3 THAT YOU ARE IN TROUBLE: Teenage boys.) She told me to go sit down and wait.

I sat by some lady who was getting her nails done. In the living room. Which was right off the kitchen. Which happened to be painted purple. The cabinets. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. All different shades of purple. (SIGN #3 THAT YOU ARE IN TROUBLE: Purple kitchens in the salon.)

I sat and waited. And waited. And waited. While I was waiting I noticed the big sign hanging up that listed the “salon’s” services. Funny, but Brazilian wax was not listed. Eyebrow wax. Lip wax. Leg wax. Bikini wax. No Brazilian. Whatever, I thought. They just don’t want to talk about waxing vaginas in their living room. PERFECTLY UNDERSTANDABLE.

Finally the lady who would be doing the waxing came out and told me to follow her. So I did. Through the kitchen to the back of the house. And then down three steps to the landing by the back door. The back door that was wide open. And then down some more steps to the basement. At the foot of the stairs was a doctor’s office type bed. AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. WAS A BED. (SIGN #4 THAT YOU ARE IN TROUBLE: Open back door. Bed. At the bottom of stairs. In view of back door. Back door is open. Bed.)

“Here we are!” chirped the crazy bitch who planned to violate me. “Take your pants off and hop up on the bed.”

I took a couple of deep, calming breaths and looked up the steps to the back door. It was still open. Those teenage boys would probably go walking out of it any minute. Hell, they would probably come down the steps to watch the show. MAYBE THEY WOULD HELP WITH THE WAXING.

That was it. This was too much. I could not be expected to strip in front of an open door in someone’s BASEMENT and then be VIOLATED. This was totally unprofessional and there was no way I was going through with this. I had to be brave and gently explain that NO FUCKING WAY WAS THIS HAPPENING.

“Um…uh…do I need to take my underwear off too?”

Have I ever mentioned that I hate confrontation? I don’t like to offend people. I think that if I was the owner of that house with the purple kitchen and the back door and the medical bed in view of the back door that I would be TOTALLY OFFENDED if someone with a hairy vagina told me that my salon was not up to her standards.

I knew the answer to my question was going to be yes, you need to take your underwear off you FUCKING MORON, but I had to ask, because 1. she didn’t specifically say take your underwear off and 2. she was standing there staring at me and NORMALLY when people expect me to take my underwear off they have the decency to turn around or leave the room and let me do it in private.

“Nope! I’ll just tuck a paper towel along the sides of them so I don’t get wax all over them.” (SIGN #1 THAT GOD LOVES YOU: Your Brazilian wax has just turned in to a not so terrifying bikini wax.)

She did the bikini wax. I bit my lip and prayed that nobody would walk in the back door. That open back door actually took my mind off the pain. I was too busy worrying about those damn teenage boys to care about the fact that hair was being ripped from my body.

When she was done she watched me put my pants back on (WHAT. THE. FUCK.) and we went back upstairs. It was difficult to walk up the stairs while I was on my knees THANKING GOD that I had somehow scheduled a Brazilian wax at a place that didn’t even offer Brazilian waxes EVEN THOUGH the receptionist had told me all about the special sheet folding technique. Or maybe the woman was just confused and thought I was only there for a bikini wax. I don’t really know WHY I made it out of there with my hair still in tact on my vagina, but I DID and for that I was GRATEFUL.

I happily paid my thirty dollars for a service that I never really wanted in the first place and thanked the girl profusely. I acted as though I had just had the BEST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE. What? Like you wouldn’t have done the same.

I then ran home and cried like a little bitch and broke the news to Cleatus that THE VAGINA, IT IS STILL HAIRY.

But, don’t worry, I still had that other appointment scheduled. Could I really go through with it again? Was I willing to risk my life a second time all in the name of a hairless hoo-ha? OF COURSE I WAS.

But I’ll have to tell you about THAT experience another time.

If you are wondering where I have been the last couple of days, well, I shouldn’t tell you. It’s embarassing really. And it only explains where I was last night. Not the last few days. You see, there is this newfangled thing called Netflix? And if you tell them what movies you want they send them to you. For example, you could maybe tell them you want the entire first season of Grey’s Anatomy if you’d never seen it before. And then? They would ship it right to your house! And you could park your ass in front of the television for 6 straight hours and fall in love with Dr. McDreamy.

So that’s what I did last night. I watched an entire season of televison in one night. It was heavenly. And then I woke Cleatus up and made him do me while I pretended he was McDreamy.

On Thursday I went shopping. I love shopping. I didn’t buy any new cameras though. I’m trying to practice some self restraint. I did, however, buy my babies some new clothes. And Cleatus some deodorant and razors. And me some…you know? I don’t think I bought myself anything. I should remedy that. Online shopping!

The only problem with online shopping is that you don’t get all the interaction with the other shoppers. For instance, while I was on my way to the mall I was behind a guy in a big black SUV. We were both turning left and as he turned I could see him in his side mirror. I don’t know why I really even noticed him, but I did. I wish that I hadn’t, because he scarred me for life.

I looked in to his mirror just as he popped his index finger in his mouth for a quick suck and then STUCK THE FINGER UP HIS NOSE. I’m a bit confused about this. Had he already picked his nose and was eating it? And then picking it again? Or was he LUBING his finger up? Was his finger so big it was uncomfortable without a bit of lube on it? WHAT WAS HE DOING?

I can’t stop wondering about this. And picturing the finger going from the mouth to the nose. And then gagging.  Any ideas?  Do any of YOU lube up your finger before shoving it up your nose? Or do you suppose he was just eating a previous find? It really didn’t look like he was eating. I mean he just popped it in and right back out, no chewing or anything.

HALP! What was he DOING?

Also, yes, I do feel the need to share these disgusting booger stories with you. After all, this IS Wiping Up Snot you are reading.

I’m not sure what it was that changed Cleatus’s mind concerning the cost of the camera being SO EXTRAVAGANT AND RIDICULOUS AND ARE WE MADE OF MONEEEEEEYYYY?, but I’m happy that he did change his mind. IN FACT! I’m so happy that I just can’t stop buying cameras!

I ran to Sears the other day to return FIVE of the SIX swimsuits I ordered from Land’s End. You see, I hate trying swimsuits on and dressing room mirrors are so HATEFUL so I decided to just charge a million dollars worth of very expensive swimsuits on my credit card and then RETURN the ones I didn’t want after I tried them on in front of my LESS HATEFUL mirror at home. (It is less hateful because it is not full length. It stops at my thighs. Half of me is better than all of me. Trust me.)

As I was saying, I went to Sears to return the swimsuits and get mah money back. For some reason Cleatus had been hyperventilating every time he saw the box of swimsuits and, quite frankly, I was getting tired of him asking WHEN ARE YOU RETURNING THESE? TODAY? TOMORROW? RIGHT NOW? so I just decided to get it out of the way.

AND SINCE I WAS ALREADY THERE! I decided to stop by the electronics department and check out their cameras. You know, because I have this tree? In my backyard? It grows all this money? And so I spend it. To keep the tree healthy! It’s like dead heading the flowers or something! ITS GOOD FOR THE TREE, I SWEAR!

Back in the electronics department there was one lone DSLR camera on display and a big mess all over the place. I walked up to check out the camera and lo, it was the Sony A100! One of the cameras I was considering when I bough the Nikon! Unfortunately I couldn’t get it turned on, but with the help of Rob, my helpful electronics salesman, I had it turned on and was taking pictures. I wasn’t sure how much I loved it, because it was just so DIFFERENT than the Nikon that I had fallen in love with at home. It WAS on sale though for just $519. BARGAIN!

Rob promptly burst my bubble and told me that they were remodeling and didn’t actually have any Sony A100s in stock other than one that had been returned. He showed me the box and I noticed that it had a price of $489 on it! BIGGER BARGAIN! He didn’t know why it had been returned but assured me that it was working.

I am weak, okay? I am not made of stone. When someone tells me that something is ON SALE I feel that it is my duty to BUY IT! Especially if that something is THE VERY LAST ONE THEY HAVE, THE END. So I told Rob to ring that bitch up, SCAN THAT BITCH RIGHT NOW, ROB! SCAN IT BEFORE CLEATUS REALIZES I HAVE BEEN GONE TO LONG AND CALLS THE BANK TO CANCEL MY CARD! And then I calmly reached for my wallet.

Y’all. I very nearly DIED when Rob told me that OH LOOK! IT RANG UP FOR ONLY $360! Three. Hundred. And. Sixty. American. Dollars. For a camera that was normally around $550. JACKPOT!

But then Rob did something mean. Something very very mean that I was very very sad about. He pulled out a LENS. A real goooooood lens, man. And he told me it was ONLY $220. I looked at Rob. I looked at my credit card. I looked at the lens. I looked at the guy standing next to Rob, staring at me, wondering if I would do it.

“Rob,” I said, “let me get this camera home and see how much trouble I am already in. I’ll come back if it isn’t too bad.”

The guy next to Rob started laughing and making a joke about how I was going to be in trouble.

I looked him in the eye and said “You won’t be laughing if I come back here to return this camera and I HAVE A BLACK EYE.”

Oh, you’re right. I didn’t really say that. But, I wanted to, man. I really did. Instead I just kissed Rob right on the lips, thanked him for my REALLY GOOD DEAL, and got the hell outta there.

Cleatus didn’t even have a stroke. He DID remind me a couple times (by couple, I totally mean FIFTY OR MORE) that I would have to take one of them back. Sooner rather than later. And then he got a paper bag and started breathing in to it all funny like.

Doesn’t he know that all that money is just going to grow right back? DEAD HEADING! It is GOOD for the tree!

Hey Cleatus,

Have I ever told you…

That I hate to see you go…

But I love to watch ya leave?

Because I do. Oh, yes I do.