I'll Take Mine without Hair

I'm trying to win a $500 Silk'n SensEpil home hair removal system by telling my best hair removal story in the comments of a blogger who actually makes money on her blog. I promised I'd write about it here if I won.  Here's the story I posted. I have a better one, but it's probably TMI even for me. I don't think I've ever written about shaving balls here. Send me luck!

I wish I had back the hours I’ve spent trying to remove hair from below my waist. I hate shaving my legs. The nicks last longer than the shave, blades are expensive, and I feel like a contortionist trying to reach all over my lower half in the shower without washing off the foam before I get a chance to razor it away. A shave with an electric razor lasts about as long as it takes butter a piece of toast. I hate depilatories because they smell awful, take forever and make such a mess. I haven’t tried waxing for so many reasons I won’t bore you with them, I can’t afford lasers, and tweezing isn’t an option.

Don’t even get me started on trying to tame the bikini jungle. Anything I do there leaves painful, itchy red bumps that look worse than the big red bush that grows down there naturally. But as a single middle-aged woman who wants to get laid every once in a while (and that’s always another story, isn’t it?), I shave as close as I can with a little electric razor and practice my “so why do you want to fuck a Barbie?” look in the mirror.

I’ve had the shaving dilemma for decades. Yes, decades. I remember I was so excited all those years ago when the Epilady came out. I really thought it was the answer to my prayers. I wanted one so bad, but it cost about $70 and that was a lot of money. I drooled over them for two years before my husband finally bought me one for my birthday. I could hardly wait the whole week it took to grow out my leg hair 1/4 inch so the coils would have something to grab onto. I dreamed of smooth, hairless legs and a tidy, bumpfree bikini line. My Epilady was my new best friend.

Ready for the Epilady

I took it into the bathroom for some privacy and read the instructions. Seemed simple enough. Hold it next to my leg and the rotating coils would pull the hairs out. After a few times, they wouldn’t grow back, having finally recognized how unwelcome they were. The instructions warned there might be some mild discomfort. Big fucking deal. Couldn’t be any worse than razor nicks or the burning chemicals in Nair. I turned on the Epilady and held it near the side of my calf.

And oh my fucking god it grabbed onto my hairs and chewed them out of my flesh like an Epibackhoe. A little discomfort? I could have taken a weed whacker to my leg and that would have been a little uncomfortable. This felt like a million tiny razor blades whapping against my skin. And the goddamn thing wouldn’t let go. Once my grown-out hairs started wrapping around those coils, it just kept winding them in and tearing them out. Finally I turned it off and threw it across the room. The side of my leg was dotted with blood where about half of the hairs had been ripped out. All that and it didn’t even get all of the hair!

I ran downstairs crying, “That fucker hurts like hell and it made me bleed! What if I’d used it on my coochie first instead of just my leg? I’m bleeding! Look at my leg!”

My husband—who is now my ex and no wonder—said, “What did you expect? It’s rotating coils that pull your hairs out by the hundreds. Of course it hurts.”

“The directions said ‘mild discomfort.’ Look at this blood! Does this look like mild discomfort? Here. Let’s try it on your legs. Give me your leg.”

He declined. I insisted. He declined. I insisted. He offered to get “my” money back if I’d shut up. And he actually did get the money back. He contacted the company and they refunded his money and didn’t even ask for the Epilady back. I threw the fucker away.

Since then, I’ve had no hope for an easy way to get rid of the hair below my waist. I’d almost given up ......

Welcome to the Jungle

I haz your pizzed off right here

My sister's cat, Nike, slinks by and whispers, "I remember you. You brought that poodle into my house. Listen up, bitch, if I even see that dog, this time I'm leading with pooping in your bed. And it's gonna get worse from that. Fair warning. I'm going to fuck you up if I see that poodle again."

Location, Location, Location

Graphic snagged from Nerve.com.

A responsive reader sent me this article* titled "Scientists finally locate clitoris." I got pretty excited about that, although I had to wonder about the missing article (other kind of article) in the title. Did scientists find "the" clitoris ... maybe the mother of all clits and shouldn't that be captialized? Or did they find "a" clitoris .... just a random, lost clit that could belong to anybody, even Cindy maybe? Hard to tell from the title, and the piece is thin on information. For such exciting breaking news, I needed more information.

So like any good researcher, I followed the trail to a badly titled article, "Sex on the brain: what turns women on, mapped out." This article offered more content, but no critical analysis of the study--like asking if we should trust the people who did this study. I forged on. Next I located the abstract for the original study "Women's Clitoris, Vagina, and Cervix Mapped on the Sensory Cortex: fMRI Evidence."** And finally I found some criticism of the study at The Neurocritic's blog, and then found out the study's main author has written some....I'll just say interesting study results through the years, documented by Dr. Petra Boynton on her blog.  .....  sigh ...

Fucking research. It's like the telephone game, only backwards in this case. I just wanted to write about the discovery of the clitoris, per the title of the original article. Turns out the article's author didn't give an entirely accurate or complete description of the study. What's an honest writer to do?

I decided to say fuck the research. I'm going to write about the discovery of the clitoris anyway. Just imagine if you will that the title of the original article is actually true. Let's imagine scientists did just discover the/a clitoris. Here's what I have to say about that.

It's about fucking time. Granted, many of us--both male and female--know quite a bit about the little doorknob to the big O.  And then there are still some men  people who don't have a clue where it is or how to operate it. What's exciting about scientists discovering the clit though is that now so many more men people will be made aware of its existence, so they too can enjoy the pleasure of inciting the O.

The way I see it, this discovery is kind of like the discovery of reservatrol. People have known wine was healthy for centuries, millennia even. Jesus thought wine was so healthy he turned good old well water into wine. Pretty smart guy, Jesus. I suspected wine was healthy back in high school. The first bottle of wine I drank was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I felt great after I drank that bottle of wine. And it made sense that I would. Wine has fruit in it. Fruit is good for you, and Strawberry Hill has two kinds--grapes and strawberries. It simply had to be healthy. I drink it by the box now.

And yet, not everybody drank wine; not everybody knew how healthy wine was. Until scientists came along and discovered reservatrol. And now we know. And now lots of people drink wine for the health benefits. I'm doing it as I type. I couldn't ride my bike tonight because it was raining, so I'm drinking wine to make up for missing my physical exercise. If scientists hadn't discovered the health benefits of wine....well, you can see I might not be as healthy as I am, and neither might you.

But let's get back to the clit. Now that scientists have discovered the clit*** I think a lot more men people will get on that little button and have some fun with it. And everybody will be healthier for it.

What? You don't believe in the day and age of the internet there are still men people out there who don't know how to find the pearl of the female genitalia? It's true. I swear it's true. But thank all that's holy and sexy and juicy, it's not too late. Now that scientists have validated the clit, even those who have heretofore ignored the poor little center of the sexual universe can get in on the real action with just a few simple steps.

My advice to the clitlorn? I'm going to talk straight to you. 1. Put on your big boy pants and let the clit go first. You'll be glad you did. I don't know why you haven't figured this out yet. Maybe you don't care about your partner's pleasure as much as you do your own. Selfish pigs can change though, so don't give up. Maybe you don't know where the clit is, so you bumble around down there and then give up too soon. (Hint: it's not in the vagina. Hint 2: If you're not sure, she didn't.) Or maybe you're like those people who don't believe we landed men on the moon, and you don't think it really exists. Well, now you know for sure. Scientists have proven it. So find it and take it out for a test drive. Just try it once. If you're successful, you could even get seconds.

Yum! Cookie!

2. Start asking the right questions. Women have a quandary when it concerns your sexual experience versus your great and sensitive male ego. What do we do if subtle movements and vocalizations don't lead you to the right place and keep you there? Do we bluntly say, "Hey, I didn't get my cookie. Why did you get a cookie and I didn't?" Should we hope you find the right place and then when you stop too soon say, "Hey, buddy, you're not done yet. Keep at it until you hear me scream"? Or should we just walk away and find somebody who knows how to polish the pearl?

As a single woman who was married all of her adult life, I really do want to know. And I think a lot of women would agree it would be nice if you said, "What can I do to give you a cookie? What do you dislike? What do you like? Better yet, what makes you crazy?" Ask the right damn questions and make sure you get the right answers. Because this is a real problem, and somebody has to find the solution. I'm placing my hope on the scientists, but maybe we can get a head start by communicating.

There has to be a third ..... let me see .... Points one and two assumed anybody who engages in sexual intercourse with a woman will want to find her clitoris and take her to heaven. 3. If you don't care about that, you need to stop engaging in sexual activities with women. That's the hard, blunt truth. You don't deserve that goddess in your bed. You don't even deserve to send her a text message, much less use her sacred woman-ness for your pleasure. Get yourself a pocket pussy and leave the real women to the real men.

OK, that's three. I could go on, but I won't bore you with talk of clitorises (clitori?) and orgasms and those who do and those who don't. But before I go, let's all share one big HURRAY! Scientists have discovered the clitoris. And if you haven't .... oh, please tell me you have! If you haven't, now is your chance to change your life. Get out there and give a girl her cookie. If you owe a girl a cookie, find her and give it to her now--over and over. I promise you two things: it's never too late and you'll be happy ecstatic you did.

* The teacher in me can't help but point out that the author of this first article is guilty of egregious plagiarism right in the first sentence. This writer would not pass my class. 

** I don't think you can read the original article unless you have access to Wiley Online Library or to The Journal of Sexual Medicine through another academic data base. If you're super interested in the entire study or if you have insomnia, I could probably email you the PDF.

*** Fuck me, I can't help myself. They didn't really discover the clit. They already knew where it was and so did their test subjects. What they did was map the response to stimulating the clit, vagina, and nipples in the brains of women. Until now, only men's brain/penis responses had been mapped, and the clit had been assumed to be just a tiny penis. There's more, but the gist is that women aren't exactly like men--not their clits or their nipples.

When They Fly

Stepping off a cliff

Trite as it sounds, life is bittersweet this cool, overcast Labor Day. After a weekend of parties--so many I didn't make it to a couple I planned to attend--this day is for moving Drake and Montana to their their new duplex in a small town two hours away. His lease on his apartment here ran out a couple of months ago, so his worldly goods have been living in my garage while he crashed at his dad's and worked as many hours as he could to save money. I've been spending as much time with him as we could manage--thus the clubbing adventures--but with his 60-hour work weeks and all the other stuff we both have going on, I can't say it's been enough.

Not to put too big a whine on it though. I'm happy for both of them. Montana is going to finish her nursing degree at the small college they'll both attend for the next three years. And Drake will get his national ranger training as well as EMT and some other certificates that involve chain saws and guns and bear wrestling. If they make him sleep outside in a hammock in -10 degree weather, he'll be perfectly happy. I hope they both find their career bliss on this new path they're just beginning. It's going to be a lot of work, and even though they're not that far away, they're not home. One thing I do know is that together they're stronger than ten bundles of sticks.

We've loaded up my van to the roof, and they've gone to get a truck and trailer so we can pack up the rest of the stuff. Waiting gives me too much time to think. Time to think how glad I am that Drake will finally be doing something he loves. All he ever wanted to do was follow in his dad's footsteps in the Air Force. When Drake was growing up, Lt Col Ex was a navigator on KC-135s and EC-135s, a hero in a green flight suit who was often gone more than he was home. Drake was going to be a pilot. And he would have been, except we found out he was color blind, and his dream ended when he was five. To be accurate, we knew it ended; Drake didn't accept it for several years. Color blindness may not seem like a major handicap, but for a kid who only wants to fly airplanes, it's devastating.

He's stubborn. In spite of his many interests and talents--theater, music, history, camping, high adventuring, fixing things with amazing intuition--he hasn't, until now, found anything that could replace flying as a career. I would go so far as to say it broke his heart when he finally accepted that he would never fly. Two years of college didn't spark anything for him so he stopped wasting our money and went to work in the real world. Drake and I homeschooled for 12 years, so I know the patience of waiting for a kid to discover his passions and the drive to achieve his goals. We were never conventional. But I have to say, sometimes I worried that he would never find work that required the best of him and then gave back what we all need in a career--pride in the work, the knowledge that we're making a difference, fun. Above all fun.

My gut, my brain and my heart tell me he's found the career path that will give him all of that. I'm excited for him and proud that he's stepping off the cliff.* I'm delighted that he's found a life companion who is so perfect for him....and for me. This girl was meant to be with my son. I have no doubt of that. I wonder if he wasn't just waiting for her to come into his life and start this adventure with him.

But I'm going to miss him. And I'm going to miss them. I could say more about that but the screen is getting a little blurry. So I'll just leave it at that. I'm proud and I'm excited for them and I wouldn't want them to do anything else....and I'm going to miss them.

*Back in the day, when homeschooling was weird and not many of us were doing it, and the internet was just starting to connect us in our little pockets of aloneness, a friend wrote this analogy: "When we started homeschooling, I felt like I tucked a kid under each arm and stepped off a cliff. Imagine my surprise when I found out we had wings." For our 25th anniversary, Lt Col Ex commissioned a quilt (above) to represent those words and surprised me with it. I cried and hugged him for half an hour before he reminded me I should call my friend who made it and tell her how much I loved it.

Snippet from the Club

My son, an old friend of his and I were standing at the bar at the club. Abby had been laughing about the time she woke up on the couch in my family room, and I was yelling at Drake. She thought it was because she had snuck in early in the morning and crashed there, but then realized I was mad because he hadn't put a blanket over her. Then we segued to another sleepover conversation.

Abby: OMG, and remember that time we were sleeping in Chris's parents' basement and you were on the couch and I was on the floor.
Me: You slept on the couch and made Abby sleep on the floor?
Drake: Why should I sleep on the floor?
Abby: And I was trying to sleep and that girl was trying to get with you?
Drake:  Please don't remind me. She looked like the remains of last night's pizza.
Abby: But she was trying so hard!
Me: She had to try? Why didn't you tap that?
Abby: I was trying so hard to either sleep or not laugh out loud. It was terribly frustrating. You should have just done it.
Drake:  Wasn't going to happen. I couldn't look at her.
Abby: It went on for hours. Why didn't you just do it and get it over with so I could sleep? Pretty rude to make me sleep on the floor and then keep me up all night fending off advances.
Drake:  I just wasn't into her and she wouldn't leave me alone.
Abby: You should have just tapped that.
Drake:  Nope. I checked with the batter but he waved me off.
Abby and Me: Ooooohhhhh.
Drake: Are we done?