Los Angeles Wives: We Aren’t Deceptive We’re Just Making Things Pretty (another one for Mom to NOT read)
There’s some strangeness this time of year, my husband leaves for work a few minutes later because traffic is light. That means we have this weird crossover in the morning, where he’s typically he’s been gone and I’m alone to make beds and tidy the bedrooms.
So there’s this moment where we both really want to enjoy the silence of the morning, but it’s clear that neither of us want the other to feel ignored. I say something wifely about him looking great nekkid and he examines the ceiling. Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re looking for up there but you haven’t found it in the last 13 years. Today won’t be the day.
He says, “What are you going to do today?”
I reply, “I’m got a few articles to pop out. I need to make reservations for New York in January, make things pretty, Boston Magazine is calling for an interview, I’m having a lunch with Emily B., kids need books from the bookstore, you know, so they can read in the bathtub without worrying about the library…” as I’m talking I realize he isn’t listening anyhow. We’re both longing for the silence.
The reality of my day is only subtly different. Making things pretty is by far the most exciting part of the morning. Yesterday I was at Bliss and picked up one of these. You see every Mommy Blogger has the bikini wax story, it’s a rite of passage. If you live in Los Angeles it can be a really great story too, since the San Fernando Valley is the porn capitol of the world there are waxing spas that make our hookers blush.
In the process of becoming a mother more people see your vagina than you’d ever believe. I promise you that after 40 weeks of prenatal care breastfeeding in public is no big deal. I’ve had men schedule golf games with a gloved hand near my naughty bits and no one inviting me along. As we shed the baby weight and rejoin the ranks of womanhood we tend to our grooming once again.
The money I spent having my underarm hair lasered away was one of the best investments ever. Guess what goes along with the hair? Offensive odor, not kidding. I wouldn’t joke about that. I had the leg treatment twice, and I’m shaving my legs below the knee every ten days now, but what about above the knee?
I have an isty bitsy shred of dignity left. It’s not much, but it’s mine and I’d like to keep it. That means no one lasers the labia. Yep, if your face is within 12 inches of my girly bits that means you’ve married me or you’ve delivered my children. No. Exceptions.
So honey, when I tell you that I’ll be spending the late morning making things pretty, what I really meant was:
I’ll be spending the time between 11 and noon with a low powered laser attached to my groin. It might hurt like a motherfucker but I’m loaded up on aspirin and I’m not above a shot of bourbon to cure what ails you. So yes, darling, while you’re at work, I’ll be putting yoga to good use and cussing praying a little.
As our friends at Motherhood Uncensored say: Moses aint the only one with a burning bush.