WAX ON, WAX OUCH.

"WELP!" I heard myself blurt out. "THAT'S THE CLOSEST I'VE EVER BEEN TO A COMPLETE STRANGER AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME!"


Instantly, I regretted this remark. Not only did it make me sound like a half-bred lecherous old hick (heeehawwww), but, damnit, it stung when I realized the walls to my room didn't reach the ceiling. I took a moment to get my 'religious' on and prayed to the sky guy that no one in the tiny adjoining reception area of Max Wax (NYC's all-waxing salon) had heard this horridly awkward exchange.  A highly-arched eyebrow and thin snarl belonging to one malnourished, Hermes-purse-toting Upper West Side socialite met me on my way to pay. Clearly, my indiscretion was very audible. Fuck. Could the whole deforestation be heard from out here?

Jesus, Hayzeus. ಠ_ಠ Where were you on this one?

My waxing technician* dipped her head out of the room I'd just come from and called on the next person. Bitch-with-the-bag's face dropped and she reluctantly rose from her perch to follow the technician back into the scene of my "crime."


Ah, there you are, J-money.


While paying, I marveled over how anyone was able to make it through a waxing session. The entire time my leg hair was being abruptly uprooted from its follicles, a silent scream was swelling in my throat, just on the brink of escaping. Rather than make a spectacle of myself, which I would do later anyway, I focused on creating this list...

10 THINGS TO THINK ABOUT DURING YOUR PAINFUL CHEWBACCA-TO-HOWIE-MANDEL TRANSFORMATION:

1. MOJO MAGIC

Pretend you're a giant voodoo doll and each strip of wax is bringing some small amount of discomfort to your favorite FOX News personality. Rip. Take THAT Glenn Beck. You won't need Vicks VapoRub under your eyes for THIS one. Rip. Crybaby. Rip. Ahhh. Rip. I'll show you 'fair and balanced!' Rip. I am a fucking real American heroooo. RIP.

2. MAKE GEORGE BAILEY PROUD.

Imagine that for each patch of hair being savagely uprooted from your groinal area, an angel gets its wings. Rip. You like that pair, angel? Not big enough for you? Rip. There. That pair has GOT to be bigger. Rip. What do you mean you don't want terradactyl wings? Rip. Damnit, for claiming to be a pure and holy diety, you're sure being a picky twat. Rip. Agh, now I'm bleeding, imp! Thanks a lot, you unappreciative dick.

3. APOLOGIES TO THE LATE ALEXANDER MCQUEEN

Every time the waxer rips, picture these shoes:

http://defiantfashion.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/alexander-mcqueen-shoes-2.jpg.

Now, imagine the people stupid enough to wear these horse hoove monstrosities face-planting on the ground multiple times. Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

4. SUPERWHO? I AM...THE HAIRLESS WONDER.

When the pain registers above a 5 on this scale...

...pretend you are a superhero who grows more powerful when someone inflicts pain on you.

Rip. Brace yourselves, jelly jars. Prepare to be de-capped.

Rip. Wow. Watch me curl 400 lbs.

Rip. Hooray. I can stop a train with my pinky.

Rip. KELLY CLARKSON.

Rip. I'll have two Alaskan pine trees and a side of flowing lava, please.

Rip. Orbit shmorbit. C'mon earth, time for a staycation. We're just visiting the next star over, not leaving the galaxy. Chill.

(Warning: self-inflicted pain will not work in this superhero equation, so ripping one's own legs off will NOT, I repeat: will NOT enable you to harness dark matter. Sorry.)

5. COLLECTIVE SPITE

Imagine traveling back in time to deliver a giant smack, on behalf of all present-day women, to whichever marketing douchebags decided body hair was "uncomely."

6. DOIN' IT FOR THE LOVE OF RAY J

Ponder the meaning of life in the context of E! or VH1 channel programming. Marvel at how good you feel about yourself in comparison.

7. YOU NEED TO MAKE A CHOICE, MMMKAY?...BETWEEN ELASTIC...OR SOCK SUSPENDERS.

Picture Dr. Phil naked. Gah! You can't unpicture it, can you? Neither can I. Now, whenever you begin to experience pain, you'll instantly think of black dress socks and bushy moustaches. You're welcome?

8.  SAVING THE DOLPHINS ONE BIKINI LINE AT A TIME

Pass the painful time by figuring out the least awkward way possible to ask the waxing technician for your body hair back. You'll want to ship it to BP to help sop up that teeny little Gulf of Mexico gaffe. teehee Ooooops! ಠ_ಠ Be sure to mail it directly to the home of Tony Hayward.

9. LALALA JUST MINDING MY OWN BUSI--GAAAH! WHAT ARE YOU?

Play this on loop in your head:

http://www.gifbin.com/983202

10. ROYAL PAIN

Think of the Queen.

I found these strategies helpful for me, but somehow all of that latent hurt-y energy built up in my system and exited in the form of terribly embarrassing commentary, with gems like,

"Aargh--err--wow! That's not as bad as I thought it would be! Har har har! ow."

And, "So...do you enjoy your job?"

And, "I dunno...do a lot of your clients go for the pooper?"

It was my lame attempt to act casual and be funny while a sweet, quiet Swedish woman I'd never met before waxed hair I'd never seen before.

Luckily, Swedish lady was steadfastly polite and professional and kept the situation comfortable enough that, with exception of the socialite, I was only vaguely aware of how crass I sounded... that is, until I caught the receptionist smirking at my back in a reflection on the door as I walked out. Damn.

Well, I might not be able to sand wood with my leg stubble anymore, but I can certainly strip the stain off of any deck with this sudden diarrhea of the mouth affliction I have.

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*Is it funny to anyone else that a waxer is called a technician? I mean, it's not like they're building computer motherboards or fixing spaceships. Don't get me wrong, I know there is some serious skill involved in waxing. I just think a more appropriate term would be "waxing warriors" or "saints of taints" or "follicle finessers."

Bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase "dropping the kids off at the pool..."

Anyone driving or walking down Marie Avenue in Akron, Ohio on any given day in 1985 or '86 might have heard the voice of a little girl in an upstairs window calling out...

"MOM! I NEED YOU TO COME WIPE MY BUTTHOLE!"

For those people who know me or my family, I'm sure it's completely unsurprising that some of my earliest memories are about poop.

It seems my family's genetics predisposed all four of my brothers, all four of my sisters, and me to senses of humor and comedic timing centered around the toilet. On what chromosomal pairing does poop humor lie you ask? The missing one.

My first memory of poop was very early. I must have been about a year and a half because I was still waddling around in a diaper and my vocabulary was limited to a couple words here and there.

On this particular day, my mother was in the bedroom, folding "Mount Clothesmore," our not-so-fondly-named perpetual tower of laundry. In her distraction, she didn't notice me leave the room. I had a mission I was dying to complete and I would have done it much earlier if the family would just leave me to my own devices for a change instead of constantly picking me up and setting me down away from the objects of my curiosity. I entered the bathroom and headed straight for it. There it was, gleaming in all of its ivory porcelain glory, its upper deck sweating in the hot summer air. The toilet looked more mysterious and magnificent than ever. I eagerly peered over the lid and, to my delight, a lone floater met my eye. Unsure of what it was, but too young to care, my hand shot straight into the bowl to claim my prize.

With each poke, the turd bobbed elusively away from my dimpled hand and I found myself myself reaching further and further into the toilet. My oldest brother entered the bathroom just as I was about to take a nosedive into the toilet bowl, startling the tiny living shit right out of me by shouting, "MOM!"

In a breath, I was being plucked from the edge of my watery fate and deposited in the adjacent sink, elbow deep in soap suds and trying to make sense of the flurry of angry and panicky words coming from my mother's mouth as she scrubbed me clean. I didn't know exactly what she said, but from her demeanor I quickly deduced that toilets were bad, poop was worse, and both were terrifying.

It wasn't long after that I was potty trained, but with a catch...

I was scared to death of falling in the toilet and even more terrified of touching my own poop. Every time I went poop, I was insistent that my mother wipe my butt for me. She accomodated me for a while, but when it became apparent that my fear was turning phobic, she decided it was time to dole out some tough love and stopped responding to my requests...

...But I was a stubborn kid.

I once sat on the toilet and shouted for her to come wipe my butt for an hour straight, while my family sat downstairs at the dinner table ignoring me.

It must have been a couple weeks of this before I gave in and began taking matters into my own hands. My father spent much of 1986 unclogging massive wads of TP from the toilet and barking, "Whoever's using this much toilet paper is in for it," knowing exactly who the culprit was. I never fessed up. The thought of being forced to use anything less than 5 inches of toilet paper border between me and my poop was too frightening to bear. Luckily, he let it go for a while.

My fear of poop came to a head when I was four or five years old.

My parents had some family friends over and I had been swept up in playing house in the basement with a couple of kids my age. I was having so much fun that I ignored my urge to go until it was too late. I attempted to run up the stairs to the bathroom, only to stop abruptly as my last ditch effort at pinching failed miserably.

Red-faced, I found my way up to my room and shut the door. I was wearing cable-knit tights that day, causing my biggest fear to be nestled tightly against my bottom. There was absolutely no way I was going to let anyone know that I pooped my pants, least of all my mother, who I was sure would be beyond upset. I had to face my fear.

I carefully pulled off my bottoms and quickly replaced them with new ones, breathing a sigh of relief that I made the switch before anyone walked in. I was so proud of myself for taking care of my own business and being within such a close range of a turd-out-of-water, that I marched happily downstairs to resume the fine game of playing house. My fecalphobia was, at last, conquered

Later that night, as I was helping set the table for dinner, I heard my mother yell out in surprise from my bedroom. She was in there picking up dirty laundry when she stumbled across my turd, perched like an egg atop a nest of skid-marked underwear and cable-knit tights. Oops.