Watch out for paper cuts/monkey talk

Some things never change. I still fall asleep on the couch, in those very jammies. The main difference is, I take up a lot more room on the couch and in the jammies now.

And who knew I could poop notebooks when I was a kid? I'm really sorry I lost that uncanny ability - damn, that sure would've come in handy during college.

Of course, sometimes the stuff on this blog comes right outta my ass, so maybe that hasn't really changed either; my ass has just gone high tech.


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Now comes the totally unrelated but completely TMI portion of this post, in case anyone wants to run for cover now while the opportunity is presenting itself.

I couldn't get an appointment with the gal who usually does my waxing (yes, I'll be referring indirectly to my genitals here, just in case you forgot to run screaming yet), and she's the only one at that spa who does a brazilian, so I decided what the hell, and tried a new spa.

Originally, I was scheduled to go in at 6 this evening, but they called and asked if I would reschedule for 8:45 a.m. Oh, nice way to wake up! But I really wanted the appointment, so I agreed. It wasn't such a bad idea when I thought about it - as addled as I usually am first thing in the morning, by the time I knew what was happening, the deed would be done, and I would no longer have a shrubbery in my pants.

The waxer was really pleasant, considering she was about to look my monkey in the face at 8:45 a.m. - I give the girl points for courage. And, for the record, she neither gagged nor vomited during the procedure, so I've come to the conclusion that my other waxer is just a big sissy.

This girl was also a lot more thorough than I'm used to - she was determined that no strays would get by on her watch. At one point, she was doing something, but it definitely wasn't waxing. It felt like she was poking me with a little needle, and that wasn't usually part of the routine. Hmmmmmmm......finally, when I could resist no longer, I blurted out:

"You're not givin' me a tattoo down there, are you?"

She laughed - I really don't think she expected that, especially not first thing in the morning - and said no, she was tweezing that which would not volunteer to the wax. I expressed my relief.

"That's really good," I told her as she mercilessly tweezed, "because if I looked in the mirror and it said BITCH across my crotch, we'd have a problem."

Do you now begin to understand why I can't keep a gynecologist or a waxer for more than one or two visits? There's just nothin' like staring into the Lips of Doom with third-rate comedy patter in the background. I would have to imagine it's unnerving for even a seasoned professional to work under those circumstances.

So, there are your choices for the weekend: whining about my sore back, or discussion of my genitals and removal of foliage from same. Ain't you the lucky ones?