Any mother-in-laws, Aunt-in-laws, Brother-in-laws, or children who have grown up and are now reading their mother's blog to find out why they're in therapy TAKE HEED. You have been duly warned to halt reading any further if the thought of me as anything other than "Madonna-like" (and I'm not talking about the Material Girl) makes you writhe in discomfort.
You. Have. Been. Warned.
Holy hell. Ever have a brilliant idea that goes a little, um, wrong?
Ok, here's the deal. I don't write about my sex life on this site. I just don't. That's just a little too "open-diary" for me. (Though I adore reading about YOUR sex life! Please! Continue. It's a riot and very interesting. Wink wink.)
ANYway! This isn't about "sex", persay. This brilliant idea was more along the lines of thoughts leading up to the Grand Finale. This BRILLIANT idea included me stumbling upon a red lacy thong in my underwear drawer and thinking "Hey. Haven't worn you in a while. Let's give her a go!" I then remembered that it had been a while since I had, um... (Hey, brother-in-law Mike? Stop reading now, ok? REALLY. ) trimmed it up downstairs, you know? So I marched myself into the bathroom with the only pair of scissors I could find - scrapbooking scissors! I am nothing if not creative.
Snippety, snippety, snip. I was so proud of myself! Making myself more attractive and working towards a healthier sex life. AWESOME! I had great plans of finishing the trim up with a razor and scented lotion, hoping for a certain someone to notice my efforts when OW! Owie! Ouch! Oh my GOD! Holy SHIT like a BITCH!
Never, never, never NEEEEVVVVER trim your hoo-ha without slow and precise movements. Because keeping the pressure on a cut down there while silently crying in your kids' bathroom may SOUND like a fun way to spend a night alone, but I'm telling you: It's not all it's cracked up to be.
(Once the blood stopped, I soldiered on with the razor. And I am currently WEARING THE THONG, damnit. But it appears that all of my pain and bravery were for naught as it is 1:45 on a Monday morning and I am alone and typing about the cut to my privates instead of basking in an after-sex glow.)
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