The Cost of Womanhood

I wish I were a man. A large, hairy, unshaven, smelly-breathed, foul odoured man. A man who can burp and fart (at the same time!) and have nobody think less of him. Especially if there is a football game on and a beer in one hand and a bowl of chili in the other. As a woman, and as a rule, burping and farting aren't particularly cute. Unless you are MamaTulip then it is sexy as hell.

But I'm not Ms.Tulip, and if I tried that party trick of hers, I'd have people tossing rotten tomatoes and over-ripe eggs at my head. Not to mention, I can barely muster up a pathetic burp after ingesting a big ole soda with lots of air to spare. Not only can men make odd body sounds and get away with it, they find it funny. Talk about self-amusement!

Nope, as a woman, I'm not supposed to sweat, have bodily functions or find potty humor funny. I make a lousy woman, seeing as I do all of those things. And I'm not going to whine, I mean, mention the horrors joys of pregnancy, childbirth and menstruation.

I love being a woman. Not.

I have a slightly used uterus for sale, any bidders? No? Damn, I don't want it either.

Where is all this coming from, you ask? Alright, I'll tell you. Save poor Roxylynn from having to hear about it when I call her later today. (Who am I kidding, we all know I'm gonna whine about this as often as I can, at every given opportunity.)

Last night, my darling Boo told me he would be home by Monday of next week. Whoo hoo! The dry spell has an end in sight. I can stop buying batteries for my favorite pet ,the Rabbit and focus on meeting up with Mr. Pickle once more.

Yes, I'm a dirty girl...I like having sex with my husband. Which is why I married him. Oh yeah, that and I love him. Can't forget that.

Of course, once Boo gets home, he has other chores to perform, not all of them inside the bedroom. The kids have missed him, so there will be hours of quality video gaming time to be had, wood to be cut (hello! We live in Canada, and it's cold during the winter!), and garbage to be taken to the dump. (I don't take garbage to the dump. It smells up my car.)

But, let's face it, those bedroom chores are very important. Especially after being gone for a month.

In anticipation of our reunion (giggle), I decided it was time to deforest my legs and spend some time down south, trimming the wildlands known as the bush. (Classy, aren't I?) Since he's been gone for ever, there hasn't been much personal grooming needed, other than an occasional shower. I've been growing my hair out in all regions. Legs, pits, and well, you catch my drift.

Since I'm fairly certain my husband doesn't want to be greeted by a Sasquatch, it was time for some serious hair removal. I hunted everywhere for razors, but damn it, my son must have taken my last one. He keeps thinking if he shaves his peach fuzz he will start growing stubble. Won't that be cool, a fully bearded nine year old. I have explained that his father has yet to reach puberty and hardly needs to shave, but somehow it is not getting through the wax in that boy's ears.

I didn't have razors, I was out of chemicals to kill the little hairs, but way back in the corner of the bathroom cabinet was a lone, dusty box of waxing strips. Forgot about those little buggers. Well, I have a week to heal if I rip off my skin, I thought to myself as I blew the dust off the box.

Won't Boo be horny happy when he sees me, I thought.

Now, I have never waxed my legs before, as I have long legs and that just seems like an endless endurance test of torture. But I've had my brows ripped regularly, even my upper lip (not that I needed it...just thought I'd try it, thank you very much!) and none of it hurt all that badly. Besides, I've squeezed out three babies and buried one of them. What could hurt more?

Bravely, I walked to the door, made sure the kids were in bed, and then stripped. I looked at my little patch of paradise and took a deep breath and applied the wax strip. No going back now, right?

After reading the directions, I pulled the skin tight and took a big breath and let 'er rip. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!! I looked down expecting to find my skin attached to that little piece of plastic and wax with blood oozing everywhere, but instead, there were only hairs. A lot of freaking hairs. But still many more hairs to go. How many times was I supposed to do this to myself, I thought.

Never one to be a quitter, I had to try again. I applied the next strip to an already raw piece of skin and tugged again. GEEPERS F%9*KIN* HOLY MOTHER MARY!!! This hurt even worse. Now there was pin pricks of blood appearing and my skin was quickly starting to bruise.

Great, now I had a lopsided, still hairy, bruised and bloody crotch. Won't I be sexy for my husband. But if you think I stopped there, you underestimate my tolerance for self-mutilation and my level of persistence. There is no way I'm walking around with a crooked crotch.

After ripping through all the wax strips in that box I finally managed to even things out. Painfully, might I add. And when I woke up this morning I discovered my bikini area covered in little red scabs and was a pretty shade of blue and green. Aren't I a foxy momma?

Several lessons were learned here. Lessons I feel obliged to share. One should never wax one's nether regions if they haven't a clue what they are doing. People pay money to go to school to learn how to rip and remove. I wasn't one of them, but I now hold these people in the highest esteem. One should always be wary of that dusty box they can't remember purchasing in the dark corners of any cabinet. It can be a tool of the Devil, just waiting to lull you into a false sense of security and then WHAM! Presto, pain!!!

One should always hide their razors from their hairless children (or any child if the adoption folk are reading this) so that this situation should never arise again. One shouldn't be so lazy and let herself grow until she resembles a furry little monkey.

And finally, unless one speaks the language and knows the culture, one should stay the hell out of Brazil and just stick to the North country. It's hairier, sure, but a whole lot warmer and less painful.

I hate being a woman.