Wax on, wax off.

So it's five days and counting til your favorite obscene prego is made an honest woman in Sin City. (That's on Halloween, for anyone that's doing the math. A picked the date if he promised that he'd stay out of the planning process -- thanks to this deal, we are not having a themed costume wedding or getting married by Elvis.) Being the dutiful almost-wife that I am, I decided that I should give him a wedding gift. Being the oversexed hornballs that we both are (which is, incidentally, how we got to this state), I decided the best wedding gift I could give him would be a full on Brazilian wax.

If you're not familiar with the Brazilian wax, it is essentially having every semblance of hair ripped out of your pubic region. I had never waxed down there. I'd kept it shaven, shorn and well-groomed in the year we'd been together, but never waxed. It had gotten Amazon jungle-esque in the last month or so, however -- out of sight, out of mind. Once your pregnant bump covers things like that up, you just sort of stop worrying about it. Do I still have feet?

Interesting note about my prudent preening: I wasn't OCD about pubic hair until I started dating A. On "the date" that I knew we'd inevitably "hook up," I shaved it all off. I thought I would try to be sexy. Boy, I wish I knew what I was getting into, because after that I thought he thought I was like this ALL the time, so I then had to spend a year of constant shaving and grooming down there so as to not disappoint. So note to girls: if you think you're going to marry the guy, or if there's even the slightest possibility, don't get his hopes up early. Let him see you in all your hairy glory. If he can't handle it, then it wasn't meant to be. I call it the Pube Test. You can pay me for this golden advice later.

Living in the Midwest and trying to find a salon that does Brazilian waxing is like looking for a cleavage shot in Iran. There aren't any salons that do it. It's bad enough that I had to suck up all modesty I had and render whatever courage I had left, waddle my pregnant ass into a salon and ask if they did Brazilian waxes. You get looked at like you're some sort of brazen hussy. So I don't like having hair on my vajayjay, and yes, I am asking if you'd like to rip it out for me, DAMN woman stop persecuting me. So when a stylist friend of mine pointed me in the direction of the only salon in the city that does Brazilians, I ran to the place to make an appointment ASAP. It was like a magical, hairless oasis in a desert of conservative bush. (Great, now that I typed that, anyone looking for political talk is going to come to my blog... sorry, Republicans, I'm liberal AND I preen my naughty bits. How's THAT for a Halloween scare?)

I spent the morning leading up to the appointment debating whether or not I really wanted to go through it. I could just shave like I always do and it's not like he'd know any different. He just sees vagina and goes for it, like any man. And I could save the pain and the $50. I turned the car around once. A told me, "Don't be doing this for me." (No, darling, I LIKE having scalding wax poured onto my nasty bits and having all the hair ripped out, fuck you, this is for me and my sadistic jollies!) So he's got his liability taken care of because he offered that disclaimer. But I decided, you know what, this is my wedding and my honeymoon. If all goes well, this is the only time in my life I'm ever going to do this. I should go all out and get waxed and just, fucking, do it.

So I did. I showed up. Said I had an appointment. Got a lot of sympathetic looks around the salon. And I went to the back room and per the waxer's instructions, stripped down everything from the waist down.

Contrary to the rumors about me in high school, I'm not a slut. I'm not used to having everything out there all laying out for just anyone to see. But my friends who've had the waxing done (and Google) all told me it's no different than going to your gyno. Okay, I've been seeing the same gyno (and he is now my obstetrician) since I was 16. That's a six year relationship. That's a lot of commitment to show up and spread your legs. I have known this woman, WOMAN!, five minutes, and she's about to see everything. If you can be nonchalant about such an intimate moment, you're a stronger (and whorier) woman than I am.

I'll spare you the details. If you want to know, google it. It's how I learn about the world and it has taught me everything. But from the first rip to the last rip over my holiest of holies, I will say this: HOLY. FUCK. I have a strong pain tolerance. I've endured two tattoos, one of which is on the top of my foot which is notoriously painful, and ten piercings (and only five are in my ears, I'll let you start speculating where the others are, but whatever you're thinking, you're probably right.) I've broken my nose, I've sprained and dislocated things, stubbed toes, pounded hammers on thumbs, and I will say: this hurt like I have never known. I saw Jesus. Yes, I saw Jesus hovering above me, welcoming me into his arms as I was having my sinful naughty little hoo hoo waxed and abused by a very unsympathetic woman (I'm overreacting -- she was very sweet, just not when she was ripping hot, dried wax off my crotch). SAVE ME, JESUS, SAVE ME FROM THE PAIN! I AM A SINNER AND A HUSSY AND HOLY YOU, IT FUCKING HURTS! I'M SORRY I JUST SAID FUCKING, JESUS! GOD BLESS YOU, GOD! (Name that last reference, win a cookie.)

She asked me if I wanted to check things out when she was finished after the longest twenty minutes of my life. I told her I was going to need a unique contraptions of mirrors in order to see everything, and just took her word for it that it was all good. I mean, if you're going to be waxing peoples' sin lips, you've gotta have some degree of pride in your work, right? This isn't some sort of Bush administration where you just do things all willy nilly with no consideration to the needs or opinions of the people you're working for.

I waddled to my car feeling violated and liberated all at once. Then I went home and took one of the frozen barbecued chickens out of the freezer and laid on the couch feeling sorry for myself for the rest of the afternoon. (Don't worry A, I kept the chicken in the bag, you'll never know the difference between the regular chicken and the crotch chicken.)

He better fucking realize how much I love him.