So most of my day is currently spent sitting around and staring at the walls. Which sucks, because my walls are fairly dirty and looking at the dirt all day makes me feel bad about myself. Instead of staring at the walls sometimes I’ll choose to play on the internet (Stumble Upon is my new lover) and sometimes I watch Grey’s Anatomy and, yes, sometimes I even watch Days of Our Lives. All of these things that I do involve sitting and my ass is getting tired of that.

I’m fat and lazy is my point. And I’m tired of it.

I joined a gym yesterday. With Cleatus. We both joined. The kids even joined although the only thing they are allowed to do is be babysat in the “Kidz Club” which, seriously, I’d have a little more faith in their babysitting capabilities if they spelled “Kidz Club” with an “s” instead of a “z”, but whatever, I’m perfectly happy leaving my children with mediocre babysitterz in exchange for a nice long workout where I can burn calories and build muscles and oh, who am I kidding? I just go sit on the bench in the locker room and read a book in the peace and quiet while my children are looked after by high school kid who can’t even spell the word kids. (I actually did work out yesterday, but it was my first time. I had to work out! Today? I plan on just reading the book.) (Oh, I’m just joking. I’ll work out. Promise.)

I went yesterday for the first time and I’m going AGAIN today. Two days in a row! It’s like I’m some athletic person who cares about their health or something. It’s also like I told Cleatus that if I lost 15 pounds then I was going to buy myself THE MOST BESTEST GYM BAG EVAH.

Kate Spade? I love you.

Cleatus was working nights last night, so while he was at work I emailed him the link for the bag. That didn’t take long and I was bored so I started doing a bit more shopping. I found a swing for our backyard that we need. If by need you mean REALLY WANT. I emailed him that link as well. Then I found a new desk for and I emailed him the link for that. Then I sent him an email informing him that Toys R Us had Nintendo DS games buy two get one free and should I get Eeyore some? And then? Then I priced airline tickets for our trip to Colorado for his cousin’s wedding this fall and saw that the ticket prices had DOUBLED since the last time I checked. So I sent him an email saying “Oh, sorry, ticket prices have doubled, can not afford!” I didn’t realize until he called me from work to say something along the lines of “I am not motherfucking Santa Clause” that I had just sent him links to all these things I wanted to buy and then told him SORRY, CAN’T GO TO THE FAMILY WEDDING, TOO EXPENSIVE! I’m such a winner wife. He loves me.

Oh, and good news, the tickets didn’t actually double. It just turns out that if you price the tickets through the actual airline they are twice as much as they are through priceline or orbitz. So, it looks like I get my wish list and he still gets to visit family. But if it came right down to it? I think we both knew who would get what and his family? Well, they could maybe see him next year. Unless I needed some new shoes or something.

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.

Sometimes I am such an asshole. And sometimes I try to be a nice person and end up being an asshole. Like today.

I have a Netflix subscription that I tend to forget about. I order the movies and we either watch them and I forget to mail them back or we just plain forget to watch them. Usually I’ll remember when I see the charge on my credit card and I’ll get the movies. At that point I have decide if its worth it to actually watch the movies and risk letting them hide in our entertainment center for another month or if I should just cut my losses and stick them back in the mail immediately. Today I chose to just stick the unwatched movies back in the mail. After all, one of the movies was some documentary about Ben Franklin and HONESTLY who wants to watch that? Apparently I did at some point, but that’s unimportant.

I went out to the mailbox this afternoon before the mailman had a chance to get here and I put the movies in the mailbox. I was so proud of myself. I had ACCOMPLISHED something today. Being such a hard worker is so REWARDING, you know?

In the spirit of hard workers everywhere, I decided to help Cleatus out and bring one of our garbage cans back to the garage with me. After all, I was standing right next to them and I could easily bring one back. I certainly wasn’t going to go back later and get the other one, but I could take the one with me on my walk to the house. Hardworking = Me.

About halfway down our long ass driveway I realized that my garbage can was kind of heavy. Like maybe there was still garbage in it?  I slowed down a little, but didn’t stop walking because I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I very casually looked around at the neighbors’ driveways. All of their cans were still sitting by the road.

Our garbage man ALWAYS comes around 7 in the morning. I know this because I am usually still trying to sleep and he is loud. Also, Cleatus used to miss the garbage man all the time because he comes so early. SURELY I WAS NOT CARRYING OUR GARBAGE BACK TO THE HOUSE.

But I was.

And I kept on going. I may have even started whistling, trying to be all tra-la-la, nothing amiss over here, I just wasn’t quite done with my garbage yet.  My neighbors weren’t even outside. Most of them work anyway and it was 2 in the afternoon. But even if they were all outside just staring at me WHO CARES if my neighbors see me take the garbage can from the road to the house and back again? WHO CARES?

Apparently I do.

The garbage man just went down the other side of the road and he’ll be coming up my side in just a moment. Should I take the can back out there? What if someone sees me? What will they think I was doing? They will totally think I’m an idiot. I just can’t do it.

Cleatus is going to be so happy that I helped him out today.

Gawd, I’m an asshole.

A few of you had some good guesses about what I did when I missed my turn to school, but nobody got it exactly right. Leslie was the closest to guessing correctly with her guess that I drove to Canada…or the mall. BlueBella and Elizabeth both guessed that I keyed the car of the bastard who wouldn’t let me switch lanes. Do I look like a vandal? And Angel and JerseyGirl both guessed that I ditched school and chose to either get drunk or smoke pot instead.

What DID I do? I drove to Nebraska.

I was 16 and a half years old. I drove a 1985 Chevette (blue with white pinstripes) named Dick (I LOVED that car). I missed my turn, looked at my friend Dana and said “Now what?” She replied “Lets just keep going.”

And so we turned around (because we decided to head to California. We were starting out smack in the middle of Illinois and were going East when we missed our turn.), passed the school up and started driving. But, first we stopped at our homes for a change of clothes and a toothbrush. We packed very light and I don’t really know why. We had the whole back of the car, you’d think we’d take everything we owned, but we were in a hurry I guess.

We only had about $100 between us, but we were planning to work in little diner’s along the way to earn money. Because thats what they did in the movies and it would have totally worked out JUST FINE.

For lunch we had Tootsie Roll pops to save money.

For dinner we drove through an Arby’s and got 2 Pepsis and some mustard and mayo packets. The drive through guy asked if we wanted the mustard and mayo IN the drinks or on the side. We then headed to a grocery store and bought bread and lunch meat and one of those foam coolers. And THEN! We went to a hotel and stole some of their ice to put in our cooler. We were on a budget, damn it, and ice can get expensive.

That night we parked at what we thought was a hotel and slept in the back of the car. Turns out that it was actually an apartment building, so all those people leaving for work in the morning got to see us snoozing away in their parking lot. I’m amazed the cops weren’t called.

At some point we PICKED UP A HITCHHIKER. Oh, yes, we did. I don’t remember what his name was, something like George or Fred or William or some other TOTALLY NOT SERIAL KILLER SOUNDING name. We had some big story about how we were headed to our grandma’s to live and our boyfriends were there and tra la la it was quite the sweet little story. When we finally got rid of our hitchhiker we both realized that the story? Was fake. And we were both a little saddened to face reality. We weren’t going ANYWHERE. We weren’t meeting ANYONE. Our boyfriends were back at HOME.

We got lost in a not very nice part of Omaha and ended up being chased by a couple of guys. We had been stopped next to them at a red light and started flirting through the windows of our cars. They started following us and motioning for us to pull over so WE DID. In the dark. In some strange city. ALONE. And they kept asking us to follow them back to their house to stay the night SINCE WE DIDN’T HAVE ANYWHERE ELSE TO SLEEP. Oh, yes, we did tell them that we were all alone in a strange city and no one knew where we were. So? Whats the harm in THAT?

After we got back in our car Dana and I looked at each other and said HUH UH and followed them for a second while we worked out a plan to escape. We finally just made a turn when they kept going straight and we lost them eventually. Um, yikes?

I don’t remember for sure if we were gone just one night or if it was two (I’m sure my parents could probably answer that one), but at some point we worked up the nerve to call our parents and let them know we were okay. We were just going to tell them that we were fine and WE WANTED TO SEE THE OCEAN and we MIGHT come home sometime or WE MIGHT NOT. You know, whatever. We were 16 and worldly. We’d be JUST FINE!

Before we made the call we both agreed that our parents would try to sucker us into coming home, but we would be STRONG. They would probably lie and tell us that someone died or some other awful thing just to trick us into coming back. We would not fall for it, no not us.

We called Dana’s mom first, but she was either in the hospital or just home from the hospital or something. She was having heart problems. Damn it. Parents are so manipulative.

We called my parents and told them we were headed home (see above re: manipulative hypochondriacs). They were happy to hear from us, but maybe a leetle angry too. (Mom, how did you realize that we had run away? Did we leave a note or something? What’d it say? Do you still have it?)

We were in Omaha, NE when we turned around and headed back home. We drove for a grand total of 800 miles.

Coming soon: I Never Learn. Unauthorized Road Trip Numero Dos.