or Yeti gets a waxing... you've been warned
Girl Talk, Part One:
Okay, so last week I started to get that old I-don't-feel-so-comfortable-in-my-peepee-region sensation. You girls know what feeling I'm talking about. The one where you have the urge to tinkle a little too often and when you start it kinda burns a little and ultimately your pee hole opening feels like it's the size of a dime and flapping in the breeze.
Yep. You're in UTI Country.
That would make an awesome sweatshirt logo, no. NOT!!
For those lucky bastards who are unfamiliar, UTI stands for urinary tract infection and it's hideous!! Besides having the urge to pee every 10 minutes, you just cannot stop squirming in your seat because absolutely no position is comfortable! Grrrrrrr!!
Sometimes my gal pals and I refer to this as an IRS, or "itchy red snapper". But that term is usually reserved for an issue in a different girlie-girl region, and fodder for a hole different post. I said "hole". That should give you a location clue.
Anywho, I thought I caught it early enough to combat this prickly invader by chugging gallons of cranberry juice and other fluids. But alas, the Emperor E-Coli would not be dethroned without the aid of my regal relative, Auntie Biotic.
So I trudge my irritated ass to the nearest Medi-Fast clinic. Forty-five minutes later I emerge armed with not one, but two drugs to oust this interloper. (P.S.: I can't say enough good things about these clinics. They are AWESOME! Clean, quick AND they fill most prescriptions on site.)
One of the prescribed pills turned my urine completely nuclear. I am not kidding. It was blaze orange. Blaze Freaking Orange!! What's that crap made from? Uranium yellow cake?!? Seriously. It startled me every time I got up from the loo. It was so vivid I actually contemplated taking a picture of it, but then that seemed a little too gross, even for me.
I know! Imagine that. Hard to believe coming from me, right? Who knew I actually had a "too-gross-to-share" line to cross.
I'm happy to say I'm feeling better now. The one-two punch of meds showed that Mother the pavement. My stream is still florescent yellow, but at least it's back to yellow.
Girl Talk, Part Deux:
Okay, so let me just say this: I am a big baby when it comes to pain. A walloping wimp. A complete candy-ass.
That said, a couple of months ago I decided to venture further into the land of crazy-shit-women-do-to-disguise-their-inner-yeti and have my armpits waxed.
Yes. Hot wax. On my armpits. Joy.
I thought I'd give this a go because, as you know I am a Sasquatch, and honestly I'm tired of looking like (to coin a former colleague's phrase) I have Buckwheat in a headlock.
I'll wait a while for that visual to sink in...
So I go to my grooming girl, Ang. God love her. The horrors she has seen... Anywho, she leans me back, loads me wee armpit up with warm, chocolate wax, rubs the linen strip over the wax, warns me again about the inevitable pain to come and with one quick move...
I could not stop laughing. What the Hell? Don't get me wrong. It was painful. Shit YEAH it was make-your-eyes-water, Good-Lord-is-that-blood-splatter? painful, but I could NOT stop laughing. I think I scared her. She probably thought I snapped a twig or something. But seriously, all I could think of was this scene from 40 Year Old Virgin:
I've had two more waxings since. I have to admit, the post-rip stinging kinda feels ... invigorating. Wait... what? I know. Weird, right? I'm sorta scaring myself now. But my skin stays so smooth for so long. It's kind of addicting, especially for a furry femme who goes through razors like Paris Hilton goes through men.
But rest assured. I will NOT be getting my "Betty Ready" any time soon. Those chicks are freaks.