Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Sunny has double ear infections, and while it’s horrible, and I feel terrible for her, I must admit, cleaning her ears is dangerously satisfying, I’m sorry, it just is. I know it’s gross. I know earwax — canine or human — is pretty foul, and it’s not like I have some sort of earwax fetish or anything, it’s that I cannot tolerate any sort of bodily crusts or byproducts of any sort, and I must eradicate them. I MUST.

Also, she may have had a zit in her ear from all the ointment and I may have mentioned it to Adam and he may have said, rather sternly, “DO NOT POP A ZIT ON THE DOG.” And maybe it was hard for me to admit that yes, the thought crossed my mind, because while I realize it’s gross, I can’t let a zit lie there. I can’t, even if it’s IN MY DOG’S EAR. I may have a problem, and yeah, that may have happened.

Am I alone here? I know I’ve mentioned this before, but if there’s a blackhead in a 10-mile radius, I need to get rid of it. It’s not an option. I need to clear the pores! Freshen the skin! GET RID OF THE SEBUM.

Are you disgusted yet? I am, and I’m sorry, but it’s only going to get worse. Because while I’m at it, I’m going to update you on bikini waxes, but there is a payoff unrelated to my own hoo-ha, I promise. Remember when I said that whoever said that bikini waxes don’t hurt if you get them regularly lied, because they do! They hurt! HORRIBLY!

They don’t. Retracted. I’m on my third monthly wax of the .. more thorough, variety (please note I did not say entirely thorough, and I don’t know why this matters to me, what you think of my bikini line, but it does), and I’ve got to tell you, I hardly felt a thing. Seriously. I mean, there was some vague stinging, but it was nothing like the absolute bald (hee!) terror of the first few waxes, and I’m a regular waxing sort, just not always of the … more thorough variety. And also, as if this wasn’t awkward enough, lying naked on a table while a woman smears hot (HOT) wax in your most intimate areas, and near some very sensitive and intimate-type skin that doesn’t normally see the light of day, my aesthetician (the one with the tattooed face) told me about a class she’s taking next month. A class where she will learn how to dye the nether-hair hot colors, like shocking pink, purple and blue.

I’ll let that sink in for a moment. You know, the DYED GIRLY BITS. Also the fact that we had a thoughtful discussion of how to protect the super-sensitive girly skin from searing dye and peroxide. PEROXIDE, OH MY GOD.

And then I will tell you that she recently learned how to sculpt women’s remaining decorative hair into the shape of a Tiffany box, and how awesome would it be to turn a woman’s crotch into a baby blue Tiffany box? Can you think of anything more fun? Because I can’t. Unless — wait — unless that baby blue Tiffany box was adorned with crystals, which her class next weekend is teaching her how to (oh my God) weave into the landing strip — I mean, Tiffany box.

“I can make a Tiffany box with a diamond! A man could propose to a woman that way!”

Oh, my lovely, not-too-bright waxer. No, he can’t. Because I am pretty sure — just a guess — that the future fiancee might realize her girly bits were being ripped out, dyed and adorned with a diamond ring. I’m just … well, I don’t know.

And beyond that, there’s no point in typing anything else, because I don’t even know what else to say, except I didn’t get the baby blue Tiffany box with crystals, I hope that much is clear. My special lady area, as Emily so hilariously put it one day, remains unadorned.

*Hee! Deep Blue Something. Oh, I’m cracking myself up here. Also, my friend Heather and I once drove from Pennsylvania to Syracuse and back three times during college and listened to nothing but that song, oh my God. But I still have it.

31 comments September 4th, 2007