link to the good crap:
200 effen 5 
And Will wonders why I
pay the girl at The Coochie Coo to do the waxing for me! The first
thing you should know is that hair removal is not my friend.The
particular talent of removing unwanted hair has eluded me.
All methods have tricked me with their promises of easy, painless
removal-the Epilady, the standard razor, the scissors, the Nair, the
EpilStop,and now .... The Wax. My night began as any other normal
weekday night .I came home from work, fixed dinner for my son and we
played for awhile. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in
my mind for the next couple hours: "maybe I should use that wax in my
medicine cabinet". I set up my boy with a video and head to the site of
my demise, um, I mean bathroom. It was one of those cold wax kits. No
melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the clear strips in your
hand,peel them apart, press it on your leg (or wherever) and ignore the
frantically rising crescendo of string instruments in the background.
No muss, no fuss. How hard can this be? I mean, I'm not the girly-est
of girls but I'm mechanically inclined so maybe I can figure out how
this works. You'd think. So I pull one of the thin strips out. It's
two strips facing each other,stuck together. I'm supposed to rub it in
my hand to warm and soften the wax (I'm guessing). I go one better. I
pull out the hair dryer and heat the SOB to ten thousand degrees. Cold
wax, my ass. (Oh, how that phrase will come back to haunt me.) I lay
the strip across my thigh. I hold the skin around it and pull. OK, so
it wasn't the best feeling in the world,but it wasn't bad. I can do
this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am Sheera, fighter of all
wayward body hair and smooth skin extraordinaire! With my next wax
strip, I move north. After checking on my son and verifying that he was,
in fact, becoming one with Bear and learning all about smells, I sneak
into the bathroom for The Ultimate Hair Fighting Championship. I drop
my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure,
I then apply the wax strip across the right side on my bikini line,
covering the right half of my vagina and stretching up into the inside
of the right ass cheek. (Yeah, it was a long
strip.) I inhale deeply. I brace myself. RRRIIIIPPP!!!! I'm blind!
Blind from the pain! Vision returning. Oh crap. I've managed to pull
off half an inch of the strip. Another deep breath. And RIIIP!
Everything is swirly and tie-dyed? Do I hear crashing drums? OK,
coming back to normal again. I want to see my trophy - my wax covered
pelt that caused me so much agony. I want to revel in the glory that is
my triumph over body hair. I hold the wax strip like an Olympic gold
medallist. But why is there no hair on it? Why is the wax mostly gone?
Where could the wax go, if not on the strip? Slowly, I eased my head
down, my foot still perched on the toilet. I see hair - the hair that
should be on the strip. I touch. I feel. I am touching wax. I look
to the ceiling and silently shout "nooooooo!!" And realize I have just
begun living my own personal version of The Tar Baby. I peel my fingers
off the softest, most sensitive part of my body that is now covered in
cold wax and matted hair, and make the next big mistake - up until this
point, you'll remember, I've had my foot on the toilet. I know I need
to move, to do something. So I put my foot down on the floor. And then
I hear the slamming of the cell door. Vagina?Sealed shut. Ass? Sealed
shut. A little voice in my head says "I hope you don't have to shit
anytime soon. Your head just might pop off." I penguin walk around the
bathroom trying desperately to figure out what I should do next. Hot
water! Hot water melts wax! I'll run the hottest water I can stand and
get in - the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it away, right?
Wrong. I get in the tub - the water is slightly hotter than is used to
torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment. And I sit.
Now the only thing worse than having your goodies glued together is
having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of a tub. In
scalding hot water. Which, by the way, does not melt the cold wax. So
now I'm stuck to the tub. I call my friend, C, because she once dropped
out of beauty school so surely she has some secret knowledge or trick to
get wax off skin. It's never good to start a conversation with "So my
ass and pussy are stuck to the tub. She doesn't have a trick. She does
her best to suppress laughter. She wants to know exactly where the wax
is on the ass "Are we talking cheek or hole, here?" she asks. She isn't
even trying to hide the giggles now. I give her the run-down of the
entire night. She tells me to call the number on the side of the box,
but to have a good cover story for where the wax actually is. You know
that if we were working the help line at XX Wax Co. and somebody called
with their entire crack sealed shut we'd just put them on hold then
record the conversation for everyone we know. You're going to end up on
a radio show or the internet if you tell them the truth. While we go
through various solutions, I resort to scraping the wax off with a
razor. Boy, nothing feels better to the girly goodies than covering them
in wax, sticking them to a tub in super hot water and THEN dry shaving
the sticky wax off! In the middle of the conversation (which has
inexplicably turned to other
subjects!) I find the little, beautiful saving grace that is the lotion
provided with wax to remove the excess. I rub some in and start
screaming "It's working! It's working!" I get hearty congratulations
from C and we hang up. I successfully remove all the wax and notice, to
my dismay, that the hair is still there. So I shaved the damned stuff
off. Hell, I was numb by that point anyway. And then I put the box of
wax back in my medicine cabinet. Never know when a moustache might
start to come in. Tonight, I attempt hair dying.
 MRS. A
OTHERPAGES
PREVIOUS
|
|
"Et Tu, Las Vegas ?
Las Vegas, my friend, my salvation
Meadows where my jackpot leapt from your bosom
then merged with my soul
Where the grotto beyond the spot where the aircraft tires chirped
became the touchstone for endless mending and
flavored interludes with your emissary of sweetness
Las Vegas, where my gaze locks when homeward looks
frequent the distance between red canyons and
the wonder clouds
Where others visit to carry their comped intoxicants
out to the streets lined with volcanic landscapes,
bell towers and monoliths from destinations of
another kind
Faces of awe, of astonishment who are unable to imagine
the comfort of a higher reward
Measured not by buckets of quarters
nor the splendor of decadent quarters, but the realm of
another coin dropped into the basket in
the sanctuary of the nefarious, who now bask
in this new found glory - they who know that the journey
is no longer a search mission, but, instead
A celebration of nirvana
Et tu, Las Vegas?, slayer of yesterday's miscues and
missed beats
Healer of my tattered sores from self immolation
Et tu, my friend
You are my home"
WALK DON'T RIDE or see NOTES below
 Self-actualization...what a pretentious sounding word but what a mark to land on.
I used the Rosario/ Randall McMurphy hybrid to describe a typical day under actualization. Maintaining the enterprise conjures staff work a la laundry, cooking and handyman duties, coupled with pondering a la post-lobotomy stares at sky, trees and the great outdoor. But what makes this actualization is the reality of living in love that strengthens everyday - the real deal...The first three attributes of the real deal is committed - as in won't ever fuck it up. The 2nd is monogamous meaning the historical battle of strange vs. fidelty never comes in to play - it's way past history. The 3rd is what can be focused on the most - devotion to romance and anything that brings her pleasure. The return is staggering, beyond what anyone is capable of describing. It's a part in a two character play, one that keeps adding twists in an environment of affection and laughter. The presence of pleasure is one part of the air we breathe - it never recedes. The balance is skewed way towards me, thanks to that actualization thing. Every day is another taste of the reward. When you feel like you've survived your long tour on the
business battlefields, it is a never experienced
conclusion, directing attention to staying in the moment
and figuring out how to make it into perpetuity. That
leads to getting broken parts into as good a condition as
possible and knocking off the pretensions about seeking
the excitement from the edges. So, no driving while
impaired, no high risk adventures - you have the picture.
Sounds like giving up, maybe? For me, it was completely
unexpected. I never believed it was possible to love one
person so fully that time together with her is
unmistakably better than all the edge times and wish
lists combined. And remakably, healthy living becomes
not only attainable but without much hard work. The
desire to be one-on-one with her as much as possible
makes all stuff about house and household fun beyond
imagination. It's not about relinquishing or avoiding,
giving up stuff that used to be so primary but rather
savoring the pleasure from so many pleasurable
encounters. The conversations looking into her face and
just reveling in all her different expressions while making
all the sense imaginable about people we love and
things that need full attention. All the aberrant behavior associated with adultery gets a zero acceptability looking backward. But in the moment, it's a price factor in getting actualized. Now, I can hear the rant about putting someone out of your life after being with you over half of your life as the aberrant action not the stuff that happened in that period and that's so true to the "you made a series of promises not kept" crowd. But it's the lying to cover up the sexcapades that has morphed into aberrant for me. If I had remained true, then "til death do us part" would have prevailed. But that's like changing a big (if:then) statement about your life and making the presumed outcome different. I am so positive that living with no lies is as refreshing as trampling the truth is enervating. You get clear and centered away from the edges. You get to make notes like this because it's a part of you that's the truth, not just what you're supposed to inflect. Rosario McMurphy with a grin and endorphins.
 The idea of watchful male predator on guard of his mate and offspring comes to mind allegorically to making all things safe for her as possible as prime priority. Selfishly, safety begets relaxation to flip up romance to the top and that's when the best feelings pervade. It's a variation from the not-tonite-headache banality as seen thru the reptilian challenged part of my mind. It's the actual zone, flock - one of the most required places to be that's been discovered. The more time spent in the zone, the finer the loin cut tastes. The evocative consequence of affection is always preferred, pausing only to look at her expressions and continuing with that look illuminating the cerebellum, feather touching thanks to the enhanced muscular coordination. It resonates like the strings beneath Heiftz' fingertips but producing much more ethereal expressions. It's God.
some visionary 
?2003, 2004, and 2005 All Rights Reserved
Will Harper, AWOL minimalistOther writer's Ideas
|
