M Is For Muffin

I love me a good joke.  A week ago God played a great one on me.  He arranged for me to have laryngitis on the same as Daylight Savings.  It was a real knee slapper!  It was so funny trying to wake my children from the dead, get them dressed, fed and off to school without yelling at them.  Yep, I pretty much f’ing loathe Daylight Savings.  But a few hours later God and I were on speaking terms again because he arranged for our other house to go under contract.

Now without any proper transition or apologies, I am switching topics because I also recently saw my funny friend Traci.  She told me she had just returned from "getting her muffin waxed."  “Like all of it?” I asked in horror.  “Yes, you don’t?  I think it feels kind of good.”  OMG.  Fuck.  Do you reap pleasure from passing kidney stones too?  I went home to ponder this peculiar phenomenon.

Now, I am a firm believer in taming the disco bush.  No man or woman (depending on your preference) should ever need a machete to chop down a jungle on the way to the temple.   That is just gross, not to mention dangerous.  But my sensible mind suggests that voluntarily exposing your delicate flower to excruciating pain over and over again is foolish.  This is why I elected to just get laser hair removal and experience agonizing, paralyzing, want to throw up, spontaneously developed a severe case of Tourette’s Syndrome -pain just a few times but with permanent results. 

Truthfully, before I knew how unspeakably dreadful this experience would be, I considered getting an “M” for Mike (the guy I am married to, chill) lasered in my landing strip.  Unfortunately, “M” is like the LONGEST letter in the alphabet and now I realize I do not love anyone that much.  I could already see how this chivalrous act of affection would end anyway.  It would hurt too bad, I would yell “Mercy” and be stuck with the letter “I”, “V” or “N” and then I would have to listen to Mike bitch for the duration of my life sentence at what was intended to be a flattering declaration of devotion. Not to mention, the gyno.  What the hell would he think? 

I guarantee, the dude has not seen everything contrary to popular belief and so my annual visit often leaves me somewhat bewildered.  I don’t want to clean it up too much because then I will automatically be checked me for every STD imaginable for being one of “those girls” and insurance probably will not cover it but, I also don’t want to look like I modeled for a 1970’s Playboy Mag.  Usually I stick to the basics and just vagazzle myself before I go.  Ironically, I had an appointment last week and I am currently awaiting my “You Were A Very Good Girl This Year” letter which I will promptly tape to the refrigerator next to the girls’ spelling tests and finger paintings.

Have a swell rest of the week.  XO

Dedicated to Jaime and Meredith who love vaginas more than most.  You are welcome.