Sunday, December 03, 2006

Another Installment of TMI

Since I've moved here to bloggerland I haven't posted a wild and woolly TMI entry.

By which I don't mean "Trainably Mentally Impaired" or "Tolerably Messy Igloo". Usually, when I use it, it means I'm about to discuss my girlie bits. You have been warned.

I recently did something to my nethers, and even as I was doing it I thought "I have to blog about this, because, really, this is funny". Or at least, one day I'll look back at this and laugh. Even so, I was scared to write about it for three reasons.

Reason the first: I wrote an entry about Peanut not wanting to breastfeed, and got hit by a perv off of Google who was looking up "Gumdrop nipples". Shudder. I want to avoid that sort of thing, really, but if I write up a whole entry about my nethers it would seem that I'm inviting it. To this end, I will rely on informal names for my girlie bits, or else I'll use the * for all the vowels in the word. K?

Reason the second: This blog is being written with my grandchildren in mind, and I cannot imagine there will ever ever be a point in their lives when they'll want to hear about Gramma's snatch. That said, there are lessons to be learned from what I've done. I'm just going to have to hope they'll read it if they're ready and skip it if they aren't. Hi Grandkids! Love Ya!

Reason the third: It is weird to discuss this on the net for anyone of any gender to read. I usually pretend that it's just us girls reading this, because mostly it is, but there's nothing that says it has to be. And even if it is just us girls, ummm, it still isn't the kind of thing that I'd normally bring up in polite company. Good company over pinot grigio, totally. With that in mind, maybe you should go get a drinky before continuing, no matter what gender you are.

But this entry isn't supposed to be about whether or not to write an entry, it's supposed to be a story.

So, once upon a time there was a witch. She wasn't too good, and she wasn't too bad. Sometimes she wasn't too bright, either. Actually, the problem wasn't that she was stoopid, it was that she wasn't scared to try new things, even if she should be.
The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad felt a little hairy and itchy in her nethers, and suddenly an idea occurred to her. Why shouldn't she just shave the damn hairs off? The more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed- it would be a nice surprise for her husband.
So the witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad got into the shower armed with only a razor. She thought she could just, well, sort of shave at the bush thingy a little here, or well, maybe if she came at it from another angle it would...

Here's what it would do. First, it would clog up the razor. Duh. At every stroke. Also, maybe not un-surprisingly, it would hurt.

The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad decided a new tool was called for, so she dripped water all over the bathroom floor as she hunted down some scissors. She hacked off most of the hair as short as she dared and tossed it into the toilet, which looked nasty. Nasty! And she thought what a shock the next toilet user would have if she forgot to flush, which is when the first reason not to shave your p*bes occurred to her: What if her son came into the bathroom right at that moment and noticed? How would she answer that question? How would it be asked? Could a more awkward situation be imagined? She decided that since her son tried to give her more privacy than she had ever asked for she would probably be ok. She'd just have to cover herself strategically if there was ever a need, because this shaving was going to happen. Wasn't it going to be such fun to show her husband her naked tw*t?

So she returned to the shower, liberally applied shaving cream and tried again. This is when the second reason not to shave occurred to her. It hurt. It still hurt even with shorter lubed up hairs, and it hurt a lot. It hurt like trying to hump sand paper. And yet, this was going to be worth it, she was pretty sure, so she kept at it.

She imagined her skin would be silky smooth. In practise, she was finding her skin felt like it could be mistaken for shark hide. The problem was that region involved is not flat. It was, at best, curved, and at worst, folded. Picturing men pulling the skin tight over their jaw, she attempted similar maneuvers. If she slipped there would be a nick. She really didn't want a nick. She imagined the hijinks that would ensue when her husband came home and braved the worst.

Oh, if you could have seen her. The little mangled hairs were flying left and right. The shower floor looked like it was made of wooky fur. The hairs ended up on her cheek, her shoulders, her boobs, everywhere but her nethers. Even funnier, when ever she tried to brush them off, she simply planted three more. They weren't hairs, they were hydras. Eventually she reached a state of complete hair entropy- the little buggers were evenly distributed, like a p*be fur coat. The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad discovered that if you suds up enough that the hairs were floating in the bubbles, you could, in fact, rinse them away.

After much effort the hairs were razed, the shower cleaned, the toilet flushed and the work beheld. She decided the effect was, ummm, cute. There was a dimple and a freckle that she didn't know she had. It blew her mind that there were aspects of her very own body that she didn't recognise. She decided the whole adventure had been worth it just for that reason alone.

And then she remembered the last reason not to shave the beaver bald. She had a gyno visit scheduled within the month. Either she'd have to keep this up for a month (the razor rash was already blushing whilst she toweled dry) or she'd have to go with the missus looking like G.I. Jane.

So, in the end, the witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad showed her loving, patient husband what she'd done. He was surprised. Impressed even. And they played with the box the children came in and lived happily ever after.

The end,

Simon the wise says sharp razors don't hurt.

Would I do it again? Nope. Was it worth doing once? Sure.

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