Recently, a friend of mine got sick after drinking too much alcohol during our Moms’ Night Away. She was mortified and extremely apologetic. As I held her hair back, I told her over and over not to worry about it and that the experience really just made us closer: LIKETHIS. I also told her that we’ve all been there. Whether alcohol has made you sick or has made you do something really stupid, we really have all been there. (And if you haven’t, why are you even here? No, I’m kidding. Please stay.)
Anyhow, in that spirit, I will share some of my most embarrassing stories related to alcohol.
So you need to have a camera shoved up your ass, huh? Don’t despair—it happens to all of us eventually. Whether you’re fifty, have a family history of something crappy, or have another ailment that requires you to have a colonoscopy earlier, it’s gonna happen.
As luck would have it, I just had one. As much as I wasn’t looking forward to the procedure, I approached it with the same attitude I do everything: “Crap. Do I HAVE to?!” “I’m going to rock this shit.”
And, because I’m nothing if not helpful, I’ve compiled a marvelous list for y’all so you can win at colonoscopies, too.
Over the summer, my 11-year-old (and very picky) daughter announced that she’d become a vegetarian. Except for bacon. She’d still eat bacon. I laughed at the irony. I cried at her ever-expanding-pickiness. And, naturally, I had to tweet about it.
My 11-year-old declared herself a vegetarian. Except for bacon. Nothing like a magical pork product to help you compromise your convictions.
— Foxy Wine Pocket (@FoxyWinePocket) July 12, 2014
They say you shouldn’t get too attached to material possessions. And, for the most part, I believe that to be true. I treasure people and experiences, not things. There are, however, a handful of items that I’ve lost throughout my life that I deeply miss. Like deeply, passionately, I’m-gonna-write-a-bad-poem-or-a-song-about-them miss. In no particular order, they are:
- The issue of Dynamite Magazine that featured my Bummer—my first paid writing piece. I blew the $5 dollar check on candy and now have absolutely nothing to show for my accomplishment.
- My Norton’s Anthology of Poetry from high school. I scratched furious notes all over that book, analyzing each and every word. I thought really deep and profound thoughts when I was a teenager—I would love to crawl inside that mind again. (And then probably retreat very quickly.)
- The judges’ comment slips from my high school Speech and Debate State Quals tournament. I took first place. It was my Al Bundy moment. The feedback from those slips would have set me up to take the State Championships. But those golden slips never made their way to me. I’m sure that’s why I didn’t place in the top 10. I’m sure of it.
- My perky pre-motherhood breasts. (I probably don’t need to say much more than that.)
I’ve thought about all of these items over the years, and I’ve even shed a few tears. But none of them—NONE OF THEM—pains me as much as the loss of my beloved nut bowl.
*pauses to regain composure*
My husband and I have been married for over 17 years (obviously, I was a teen bride—OBVIOUSLY) so it can sometimes be a challenge to keep the spice in our sex life. We’ve used lots of things over the years: lingerie, toys, porn, you know the drill (we have never used a drill).
But my favorite “spice” is pubic hair art. That is, over the years, I’ve shaved various shapes into my pubic region: hearts, arrows, a martini glass, his initial, etc. (My God, I just realized that I’m an artist, and my medium is pubic hair.) If a particular piece doesn’t come out well, I just make it a Rorschach test, and we have great sex anyway.
(I will not be including any of those pictures with this post.)
For my husband’s last birthday, I decided to surprise him with a Brazilian. Now, I’ve never had a wax job on any part of me before, much less one where they remove everything from my hoo-ha. (I know, they don’t actually have to remove everything, but I figured go big or go home, right?) I decided that I could spare some hair in honor of my husband.
I didn’t think much of the whole process when I was scheduling the appointment, but honestly, I was a little nervous when the day came. When the technician arrived, I gave her a frightened look.
“First time?” she inquired.
“Yep,” I chirped softly.
She then proceeded to explain the process and how she was going to remove the most sensitive hair first and then the rest of it. Then she moved the blanket.
“Oh. Uhhhhh, well, first we need to trim the hair back a bit. Quite a bit.”
I guess I had a forest going on there. I silently cursed my Italian grandmother. And the technician proceeded to trim my pubes with teeny tiny scissors (at least she didn’t have to get out a chainsaw), which actually tickled a bit. So I giggled and then got nervous about giggling over someone touching my pubic hair. Because it seemed vaguely inappropriate. (But it felt kinda nice.)
“Okay, now that we’ve trimmed the hair, I’m going to remove the most sensitive area first.”
“I’ve pushed out two kids. How hard can this be?” I pretended to be brave.
“Okay, then, here I go.”
“HOLYMOTHEROFUCKINGSHITBALLSMOTHERFUCKER!!” I screamed in my head.
But what I uttered through clenched teeth was a weak, “I’m okay.”
And then she pressed her hand against my pubic bone (I assume to alleviate the pain).
“Harder! Harder! HARDERRRRR!” I screamed. Only that might have caused some more awkwardness.
After she threw me a weird glance, she assured me, “Well, that was the worst one. It gets easier from here.”
And it went like that for one fucking long session. Time became meaningless. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and not kicking her in the fucking face. Breathe in. Breathe out. Restrain foot. Repeat.
Fortunately, she was right. The first one was the worst. (But the rest sucked pretty hard too.) After removing all of my hair, she applied some sort of soothing salve. It had a name. I don’t remember it. I was kind a hoping for a massage. Or a cigarette.
But the awkward sexual innuendo and the pain are not the reasons I will no longer be getting Brazilians. No, I could deal with those again. There are three other reasons I will no longer be waxing the hooha:
1. After the technician left the room, I picked myself up off of the table. Actually I kind of slid off of the table in my own sweat. I walked over to the mirror to examine myself, and I was horrified. Not because I looked like a prepubescent girl (although that was slightly horrifying). I was horrified because it was at that moment that I realized that my pregnancy stretch marks went ALL THE WAY DOWN INTO MY TANTALIZING TRIANGLE. They looked like grotesque, greedy little fingers pointing the way down. Or lightening bolts threatening to strike any who enter.
Fortunately for me, my husband didn’t seem to notice the stretch marks. He was quite happy with the results. Also, he was too busy noticing that…
2… Without the hair there to provide a buffer, I was horny as hell. Constantly. This became a problem. (My husband didn’t think this was a problem.) It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing, I wanted to attack my husband. Or the waiter. Or the lamppost. Suffice it to say, we had a lot of sex over the next week. But the constant horniness only lasted until…
3… The hair started growing back, and I switched from ecstasy to agony. AGONY. Apparently—and no one warned me about this—I am not a good candidate for waxing. The itching, while annoying, was the least of my problems. Turns out that I am prone to ingrown hairs, and they hurt like a mofo. I started telling my husband I had boils and scurvy and bad, bad shit. I looked like a diseased slave from Game of Thrones. Not even a Dothraki would ravage me.
So, basically, I’m done with the Brazilians. Forever. I’ll stick to pubic hair art to spice things up.
I’m thinking about a chili pepper next.
Photo Credit: ssuaphoto / 123RF Stock Photo