Just call us Alimartellable

Since I’m in Lexington, Kentucky, this weekend, at ConFab, I lined up a few guest posters who will do their best to entertain you until Tuesday. First up is Ali from “Cheaper than Therapy”. She’s funny, sarcastic, she can’t poop in public, she loves Michael J. Fox, and she is apparently my Jewish evil clone. Or am I her evil clone?

Last night I went to an after-work work thing and by work thing I mean that the people in the cubicles close to me got together for some food (where I was forced to try things with foreign names like “dirty rice”) and drinks (where I didn’t drink pina coladas because for starters I don’t drink fruity drinks and there’s that whole “I will not get drunk in front of coworkers” thing…shit like that ONLY ends badly) to say goodbye to a co-worker who is leaving to go back to school. After she had several drinks, she went around the table and said what she’d miss about each of us.

When she got to me she said, “I will miss all of your stories. Because, seriously, you have the craziest stories!”

And now, at work, while I’m staring down at my blood-stained white shirt, I realize she is 100% right. I realized that one of the pins on my glasses was loose and so, instead of waiting to get home like a normal person would, I decided to try to MacGyver it myself, with a push pin. And it was all going swimmingly until I pierced my finger and started gushing blood all over my desk and my shirt. I almost wish I needed to make shit up for blog material…but alas, no, it just presents itself to me. Like a little bloody gift.

And when my unable-to-poop-in-public twin asked me to guest post, I tried to think of a story that I haven’t shared with the internet yet….and realized that I’ve never told, well, anyone the story of how I started manicuring my, um, special lady place. Not the Brazilian wax, because that is firmly documented, because, well, because my waxer’s name is Argentina, and if getting a Brazilian from someone called Argentina isn’t comedy gold, I don’t know what is. But, sigh, no, this story takes us way back, to the summer camp years.

Way back when we barely talked about shaving our legs, let alone the state of affairs of our pubic hair…I mean, I went to Jewish camp. We pretended we didn’t even have pubic hair. Denial is the Jewish way. So, let’s just say I was not into grooming back then. I didn’t even know that grooming was “a thing” BUT, grooming became a necessity after, um, a certain boy left me a little surprise in my bush….HIS GUM. I swear to god, I could not get that shit out. I remember coming back to my bunk and having to wake a friend up all “holy crap! [insert boy’s name here] left gum in my pubes! Help!” She suggested ice, which was not a viable option in a camp cabin in the middle of, um, nowhere. Then she suggested a razor. It was a last resort; I had no other choice. So, I cut the gum out. And then I kept cutting. And cutting. And cutting.

And then I stood there, all shaven in my nethers and smiled to myself because that dumbassed teenaged boy had done me the biggest favor he ever could…he introduced me to the world of the shaved pubis.

And I still thank him all the time.