Women HAHA…Wax is NOT your friend!!
There’s been two stories floating around email that I couldn’t resist reposting here…both are so freakin’ funny I laughed OUT LOUD and had a hard time remaining in my chair! Enjoy and happy bloggin’….but keep in mind…reading these causes sympathy pains for the author!
WAX is NOT your friend
CAUTION: Be prepared to laugh out loud… I laughed till I almost cried as I could just see this happening! (And I feel it too!)
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal- The epilady, scissors, razors, Nair, and now… The wax.
My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: “Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet.” So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom.
It was one of those “cold wax” kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off.
No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I’m not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out.
(YA THINK!?!)
So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. (Cold wax, “yeah… Right!”)
I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull.
It works!
Ok, so it wasn’t the best feeling, but it wasn’t too bad.
I can do this!
Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With me next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back 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 apply the one strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my *hoo-hoo* and stretching down to t he inside of my butt cheek.
(Yes, it was a long strip)
I inhale deeply and brace myself… RRRRIIIPPP!
I’m blind! Blinded from pain!… OH MY GOD!
Vision returning, I notice that I’ve only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP!
Another deep breathe and RRIIPP!
Everything is swirly and spotted.
I think I may pass out… Must stay conscious…
Do I hear crashing drums?
Breathe, breathe…
OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy- a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it.
I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip! There’s no hair on it.
Where is the hair? WHERE IS THE WAX?
Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet.
I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip.
I touch. I am touching wax.
CRAP!
I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which I s now covered in cold wax and matted hair.
Then I make the next BIG mistake… Remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet?
I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down.
DANG!
I hear the slamming of a cell door.
“hoo-hoo”? Sealed shut!
Butt? Sealed shut!
I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself “Please don’t let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!”
What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water! Hot water melts wax!
I’ll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right?
WRONG!
I get in the tub- the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment- I sit.
Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub.. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn’t melt cold wax.
So, now I’m stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain!
God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!
I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It’s a very good conversation starter- “So, my butt and who-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!”
There is a slight pause. She doesn’t know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, “Are we talking cheeks or who-ha?”
She’s laughing out loud by now… I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. YE AH! RIGHT! ! I should be the joke of someone else’s night.
While we go through various solutions. I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better then to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!
By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I’m pretty sure I’m going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace… The lotion the give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point?
I rub some on and OH MY GOD!
The scream probably woke the kids and scared the life out of my friend.
It’s so painful, but I really don’t care.
“IT WORKS! It works!”
I get a hearty congratulations from my friend and she hangs up.
I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice t o my grief and despair… THE HAIR IS STILL THERE… ALL OF IT!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I’m numb by now. Nothing hurts.
I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week I’m going to try hair color…. Now that’s funny…… Notttt.
Coach John saves the day…and THE BABY!!
So as I was driving to pick up my 12 year old “lil man” from baseball practice this afternoon, I began to hear the strangest noise from my front passenger side tire. I’m talking metal on metal grinding with the occasional tick-tick-tick, like a pen being held against the rotating blades of a fan. As I slowed down for a stop light, it moaned…I’m telling you the baby was sobbing. That’s her name “the baby”. She’s no princess, but no one puts baby in a corner.
I gently maneuvered the baby into the middle school parking lot and inspected every inch of the tires. Well, every inch that I could see from my viewpoint, that is. It had been raining and I was in dressy work clothes, so it’s not like I was getting down on my knees to look under the baby. A girl’s got a line, ya know?
Instead, I did what every independent, strong-willed, hardworking, self-motivated Mom does. I walked over to two of the baseball Dads I know and begged for help.
They bent near the tires, poked, prodded, hmmm’d, and hawwww’d, and figured it was probably the rotor. (I just did spell check. I don’t even know what a rotor is, let alone if it’s spelled correctly.) But, they figured it was safe to drive as long as I get it to the shop quickly. One Dad explained although safe to drive, the more I drive, the more damage I’ll do, which just means the cost to repair goes up.
Great. Cha-ching sounds like about $400
During this whole time, the hubby is at his extracurricular job, the one he does every basketball season. He loves to help out with the kids, gets to make a little extra “him” cash, and I keep my big kid off the streets. It’s a win-win. Except when he’s trying to get me to explain the noise over the phone. Umm…click…click..click…gets faster as I drive…grrrrrrrrrr……..grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….gggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrr… I felt like a complete idiot and sounded like one too, I’m sure. Like it matters. Neither of us knows anything about cars but you say something’s wrong with the car to a man, well, it’s like telling us women there’s a new purse outlet opening nearby. What kind? Coach? Prada? Louis Vuitton? What colors? Beige? Black? Blue? Ooohhh Navy Blue??
I then decide it would be more productive if I call the repair shop and see if they can get me in immediately. I was beginning to panic. The baby can’t be sick.
The shop couldn’t get me an official appointment until next week, but the lady who answered was so very helpful. She was not a technician (repeated several times to clear responsibility), but since the noise happened all the time and not just when the brakes were pressed, didn’t sound like the rotor. It sounded to her, the non-technician, like the bearings. Again, not sure if that is spelled correctly and only familiar with bearings in the wheels of the roller skates circa 1988, but it must be kinda like that.
Now my brain is tallying the cost to be near $700.00
But she also agreed it would not be a safety hazard to drive the car. So a little while later, I take lil man to his basketball practice. Yeah, it sounds like he’s over-committed and exhausted, but this is season overlap and two practices in one day hardly ever happen. Don’t judge. It’s been a rough day. 
As I drop him off and have the next hour mentally planned out to include my newspaper, ipad games, and kindle book (hey, an hour is eternity when you’re stuck in a car), I see Coach John across the parking lot.
Coach John is hubby’s best friend and if there was going to be a bro-mance of any kind, it would be with him. Our kids have played sports together for years and these two Dads have coached together for most of that time. Two peas in a pod, peanut butter and jelly, chips and dip, carrots and celery…I think I’m hungry.
Coach John comes over and listens to the baby. Takes out his trusty flashlight and points to the metal piece that has dislodged from the “caliper”…yes ladies, I did say caliber as I relayed the info to the hubby, and Coach John only laughed a tiny bit.
The tire had to come off…no worries baby, it won’t hurt but for a minute.
It took research in the owner’s manual, questions on google, and about 10 swift kicks, but Coach John did it!! He removed the tire, found the twisted metal covering to the brake pad sensor that had dislodged and was scraping against the inside of the rim and voila!! The baby was purring again.
And it only cost me a hug!! Thank you Coach John!
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PS – For all those dirty minded individuals out there, this blog does not own fuzzy handcuffs. 
