“Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t want to divorce Drew! Sure, Jackson is nice to look at and he’s a big help, but I don’t want to marry the guy! I love Drew. I just don’t know how to fix this,” I tell her as the tears I’ve been trying to keep inside begin falling.
“Oh thank fucking God,” Liz says in relief. “This, we can fix. We just need to kick Drew’s ass and get his God dammed head in the game. Why the hell haven’t you just told him all of this?”
“I don’t know! I thought he would just get it like he always has in the past. He’s always known what I wanted and needed and after a while, I just started getting pissed that he didn’t. Now that it’s gone on this long, I don’t know what the hell to do!” I wail.
“Lucky for you, I’m here. We’re going to fix this shit,” Liz tells me.
She puts her arm around my shoulder in a very uncharacteristic show of affection for her and we walk back to the classroom to pick up the girls while she plans a strategy.
~
“When you said you were going to fix things, this really isn’t what I had in mind,” I complain an hour later.
We drop Veronica off with Drew’s dad who was already watching Billy for the day, and Liz tells him in no uncertain terms that he needs to watch Molly as well. He calls her ma’am and scoops up both girls in the driveway and runs back into the house before we can even tell him how long we will be gone.
We are currently sitting in the waiting room of the local salon waiting for my turn to get a Brazilian wax.
“Before we can fix your shit, we need to fix your shit,” Liz says with a wave of her hand in the general direction of my vagina. “No man should have to get his penis caught in a jungle of pubic hair.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest.
“It’s not that bad,” I complain.
“The last time you even took a razor to that area was seven months ago. It is THAT bad. The day you wanted me to look at your vagina I could see those things trying to jump ship out of the sides of your underwear. Your twat looked like one of those freaky clowns that’s bald down the middle of its white head with ginormous tufts of hair sprouting out by it’s ears.”
Before I can bitch at her about comparing my vagina to a clown’s head, the receptionist calls my name and we both stand up.
“Are you really going back there with me?” I ask.
“Hell yes I am. Your wish is finally coming true. I will see your vagina. Plus, I really want to see the look on that woman’s face when she gets a peek at your plethora of pubes. Your copious curls, your abundant bush, the wild mane that if it sees a spark will start a forest fire,” she states.
“Are you finished?” I ask irritably.
“I think so. But give me five minutes and I might be able to get one more in.”
“You are kind of dicky,” I tell her as we follow the receptionist into one of the private waxing rooms.
“Yes, and in just a few minutes, a dick will be able to find your vagina without needing night vision goggles and a weed whacker.”
“Okay, Jenny, if you want to just strip down and wrap the towel that’s on the table around your waist, the esthetician will be in shortly,” the receptionist says with a cheerful smile before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
“An anesthetician? Geeze, I had no idea they went to such extremes and the same guy who gives you an epidural during child birth does waxing now. Just how bad is this going to hurt?” I ask as I strip off my jeans and underwear.
“Holy fuck, Jenny! How does that shit even fit in your underwear?!” Liz yells as she laughs and points. “And the guy who gives you an epidural is an Anesthesiologist. I’m going to need a fucking anesthesiologist to numb my eyes after seeing this!”
I quickly turn away from her and wrap the towel around my waist so she can stop making fun of me. I reach for the hem of my shirt and begin pulling it up my stomach when Liz stops me.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Uh, I’m stripping down like the girl told me to do,” I tell her with my hands still on the edge of my shirt and my stomach exposed.
“Do you have hairy tits or something? Why the hell would you need to take your shirt off?”
I huff at her in annoyance that she just expects me to know what hell I’m doing in this situation.
Pulling my shirt back down, I hop up on the table that’s covered in doctor’s office paper, careful to keep the towel firmly in place so Liz doesn’t come up with any more insults.
“Okay, so really, how long does this take? Is she just going to like, slop some wax right on the upper part and then rip it off?” I ask Liz.
“Uh, no. This is a Brazilian. She is going to get all up in your shit from your FUPA to your asshole,” Liz informs me with a completely serious look on her face.
“What the hell is a 'FUPA' and what do you mean, ‘all up in my shit?'” I ask her nervously.
“FUPA equals fat, upper * area. And all in your shit, like, you know, spread you open and get all in there, then flip you over on all fours and clean up your ass.”
Why is she so matter-of-fact about this crap?! And I do NOT have a fat, upper * area!
“They’re going to spread open my folds and wax in there?!”