Women of the world - has this ever happened to you? Why do you think I turn on the light every time I go to the bathroom at night? It's not just to make sure I don't step on some dying cockroach taking its last breath in the middle of my bathroom floor. It's to make sure that my tush does not touch cold porcelain!

Only A Woman Could Understand - Part Two

Sometimes you receive those emails that just make your roll with laughter. This was just such a one for me sent by Nancy. And no, this did not happen to me - thankfully! Warning...this may be unsuitable for anyone who is not female and is not old enough to shave her legs and armpits.

My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, and 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. It's 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 my 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 wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching down the inside of my butt cheek (it *was* a long strip) I inhale deeply and brace myself.... RRRRRRIIIIIIPPPPPP! I'm blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!!.....OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!!!! Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP! Another deep breath and RIPP! Everything is spinning and spotted. I think I may pass out..must stay conscious.. 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????

Slyly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip.. It's not!! I touch. I am touching wax. I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake... remember my foot is still propped upon the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. Sealed shut! My butt is sealed shut. Sealed shut! I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do next 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 cemented 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 hoo-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 hole or hoo-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. YEAH!!!! RIGHT!!!! I should be the joke of someone else's night.

While we go through the various solutions, I resort to trying to scrape the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than having 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 they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on and OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I really don't care. 'IT WORKS!!!! It works!!!!' I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to 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!
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This slightly reminds me of the time that I was rehanging mounted (stuffed) bass from one wall to another. My ex-husband, Les, had added a large hook which had hang out of its mouth. To remove it from the wall, I had to stand on a stool and while pushing up to dislodge it from the wall, the hook swung out and actually hooked me on the underside of my right arm. I could not dislodge it, so I had to carefully remove the mounted fish not wanting to stick it in even deeper and step down from the stool while holding onto the fish. This was all done while I had six small daycare children watching and continually asking me what I was doing. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to remove the hook - I really was caught by the fishhook. I thought about calling the local police department or fire department, but didn't want the embarrassment of being "caught" by a fish and being the butt of small town conversation. I thought about walking around my neighborhood trying to find someone who was at home during the daytime, but then thought better of that. I would look like a small parade...me at the head of the parade clutching the fish to my chest, who by the way looked like it was trying to give me a "hickey", and then having six little ones follow behind me. Finally reason took hold and I called the one person I thought should be at home and who wouldn't laugh at me. I was right about one thing, she was at home and said she would be glad to help after I tried explaining to her what had happened to me. But I was wrong in thinking she wouldn't laugh. It took longer to tell her about what had happened than I expected as she kept laughing so loud and long, but promised she'd be right over. She was still laughing when she arrived. In fact, she was wiping her eyes from the laughing which got worse once she saw my predicament. But at least I didn't have to call the police or the fire department. She was able to release me, I used a disinfectant, the hook came out of the fish's mouth and it was rehung. At least I didn't become the topic at the monthly fire department meetings!

Only A Woman Could Understand

I recently received an email about women and public toilets and thought I'd share it, with some added commentary from my own experiences, since it is so true...

When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a line of women (especially at the airport just when your flight has just landed), so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall seems to be occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants!

The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by a Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would wring your neck if you put it on the FLOOR !) down with your pants and assume "The Stance". In this position, your aging, toneless, thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but having not taken time to wipe the seat or to lay toilet paper on it, you hold "The Stance". And, Mom told you to NEVER sit down on the toilet seat!!!

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. Great! In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Carol, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!' Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse (the purse around your neck, that now you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do, so you crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your stall door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Excuse me, but I'm in here" you scream in your nicest voice, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, while losing your footing altogether and sliding down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know that your mother would be just die if she knew, because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get".

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, not just once, but twice, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of water that covers your bottom and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force and you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted and now have sweat forming at the back of your neck. (Also, you don't remember it being this warm when you first entered the stall). You try to wipe with a candy wrapper or a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.

You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this".

As you exit, you spot your husband who has long since entered, used and left the men's toilet and been waiting and waiting for you. Annoyed, he asks, 'What took you so long and why is your purse hanging around your neck? Wouldn't you just love to take your purse and wrap it around his neck until his face turns a bright blue?

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). This should finally explain to men why it really does take us so long to use the restroom. It also answers that other commonly asked question about why women go to the toilets in pairs. It's so the other girl can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex or paper towels under the door.

BTW...my favorite thing to do when I'm in a restroom by myself is whistle "Memories" from the Broadway show Cats and check out the acoustics. Try it sometime. Also, why is it that when someone walks in on our unlocked stall and they say "sorry", we always say "that's okay"? Is it really okay? Heck no, but at least we are showing our good manners, huh? And, if you're a woman and you're laughing, this has probably happened to you.