Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.
This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.
It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.
There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.
I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.
The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.
Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.
And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.
All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.
We see a woman with multiple facial piercings walking toward us in the mall- not just several, but every conceivable nose, eyebrow and lip piercing.
Sam, quietly to me (obviously not quiet enough): I wonder what else she has pierced.
Ethan: Her ears.
I don't recall the circumstances, here, but we'll just assume it's a typical day.
Me: Bloody hell!
Ethan: That's what Gordon Ramsey says... except it's beeeeeeeeep.
A commercial comes on television for a show called "Deadliest Warrior: Viking versus Samurai".
Ethan: I think it should be "Something versus Ninja". 'Cause ninjas always win.
We are at a hotel breakfast buffet. Ethan is deciding what he wants to eat, but is disappointed to find that they only have strawberry or strawberry/banana yogurt. He is only a fan of vanilla:
Me: I'm sorry, but most people don't eat vanilla yogurt.
Ethan, with genuine confusion: What do they do with it, then?
Random Other Customer: *snort*
He's not for sale, but perhaps I'll rent him out. (Just kidding, CPS.)
Dear Beloved Reader,
A screenshot from the analytics for this blog. This is from this morning.
Don't do that. Mostly because I was forced to then do that same search. It came up with nothing, by the way. Til now.
Much love and no-seriously-does-this-look-like-the-blog-for-that,
Sarah
Update- which is a term I hesitate to use because who really needs an update about Sam's urination habits? But it refers to that post- the one right down there under this one. I no linky, you scroll- if absolutely necessary. Apparently I did not understand exactly the issue. Probably because [as when a blogger writes too long a post and readers go, "too long. did not read." (like this is now would have been had I left this where it was- as an update on that post except I then pulled it off because it really did make it took long)(thanks, Sam)] I zone out when he talks too long without pauses. The issue, as he just explained it, is that the second button, the one on the inside of the pants, that one is waaaay to much trouble to bother accessing. So it has become time to actually use the flap- but only in boxers. Briefs are bad, regardless. (I taught him that bit. Am I right, ladies?) So yes, still weasling the hand in, just through the zipper. That may stop, though, since I just pointed out that the zipper has teeth. And isn't he worried about the teeth? My own form of Inception. This all still qualifies as eww.
Sam called to say that his new pants... okay, because he's bought all these new clothes and is shocked to find out that people seem to treat him more respectfully and value his opinion more when he is dressed nicer. Out of jeans and into slacks, they are cut nicer and have two buttons to the front panel- thus allowing it to sit flatter against his abdomen. This is more flattering to everyone. However, he's just venturing into this world now. And he discovered, to his dismay, that this means- gasp- that apparently he has to actually use his zipper when going to the bathroom! This is a new thing- apparently. Not that we're terribly modest about such things, but I've never paid much attention before to how he goes about with the undoing of the pants.
I did know that he never used that gap that is prevalent in men's briefs. No man does, I'm told. This is vestigial, I would guess, much like the human appendix, except much more unlikely to rupture for the majority of men.
His complaint came in that now he has to not just undo one but *two* buttons *and* a zipper and then "I have to weasel my hand in there and weasel things back out! It's ridiculous!"
Really?
He's complaining to a woman about this? I actually have to pull everything down to my knees to pee, excepting if I'm in a skirt, at which point I pull that up and hope to god I don't accidentally dunk it in the toilet *or* pee on it. Oh, and, by the way? We have to use the toilet paper *every time*. Amazing, I know. None of this shake-and-dance stuff for us. Thank all the heavens. Because eww.
I was looking at -->something online this morning that reminded me that I have a crush on Wil Wheaton- this is thanks to thebloggess, who, years ago, reintroduced me to the grown-up version of him. It's just more proof that I'm a nerd-boy-groupie. So, there I am, totally immersed in stalkering Wil Wheaton, when Sam calls.
Sam: Hey.
Me: Hey, I'm gonna have Wil Wheaton's babies, if it's all the same to you.
Sam: What? Why?
Me: Huh? What do you mean?
Sam: You want to have more kids?
Me: What the hell? Of course not.
Sam: But... why do you want to have his babies?
Me: So he'd be the one impregnating me? Der. What the hell is wrong with you? (Yes, I do actually use the term "der". Twelve-year-old-pathetic, I know.)
Sam: Uhm, okay?
Which sounds exactly like permission to me.
So then I hop over -->here to find Joseph Gordon-Levitt, ohmyfriggingod, playing a guitar
and singing and, ohmyfriggingod, did I mention I'm also a musician-boy-groupie, too? Hell yes. Just a man and a guitar. And Sam is too stubborn to learn guitar, dammit. I didn't know it could get better than seeing him on this Details magazine cover, which I had propped up on the desk at work as inspiration for not only me, but my coworkers, too. (Because I'm all sorts of generous. What? Most of the guys I work with are gay. And the ones that weren't took one look at the magazine and changed their minds. Yes, they did.) And then Sam took me to see Inception, and then this video?
I can't handle stalkering two people at once. It's too overwhelming.
And that, Sam, is why I didn't clean the house today. It's your fault, really.
