I had a fairly vivid series of dream/wake hallucinations (no, this isn’t a standard blog post about my dreams because, well, my dreams tend to involve eating cheeseburgers and/or marshmallow castles) after The Great Stomach Bug of ‘Eleven, Part II. Those hallucinations were, in part, fueled by the Demerol I’d been given by the ER, but they were fairly important, nonetheless.
See, one of them was all, “Get the fuck off your lazy ass and DO SOMETHING.” And by “something,” my hallucination didn’t mean to build a panic room in my tree. It was telling me to get over myself and go to some of those blogging conferences everyone angsts about.
So I did.
I bought my ticket to Type-A Mom the following day.
I’ve been saying “I’m going to Assville” ever since. I’m certain that the folks down in Assville appreciate that to no end, because, well, I’m sure they’ve never heard THAT one before. I sincerely hope I can get a shirt down there that says, “I’ve been to Assville,” because how classy is that? (answer: VERY CLASSY)
I’m pretty excited about going, actually, Assville or not. I know everyone gets all angsty about these conferences, and trust me, I’ve had my cases of ennui (whatever that means), but I’m really excited to see some of my friends.
Most bloggers spend months preparing for this sort of thing – carefully choosing outfits and coordinating nail polish colors – but me? I’ll be lucky if I pack BEFORE the limo comes to pick me up on Wednesday. Otherwise, I’ll make the driver help.
Nah, the only thing I’m doing to prepare is to get a bikini wax. Because, we all know everyone at this conference is going to see my beav. Or care what it looks like. I barely care, truth be told.
Like microwaving Peeps, it just seems like a good idea.
But I’m going to be dead honest with you, Pranksters: I’m nervous about the waxing. I’ve never done one before. Having some tiny, angry Russian lady pulling chunks of my hair out of my crotchal region sounds like the kinda party I don’t want to go to.
I mean, what if she MOCKS MY VAGINA? Because she totally could. And if I was laying there, all spread-eagled on the table, I don’t think I want someone MOCKING my crotch. I’ve delivered three children through that vagina: I’ve been through enough humiliation. I might cry. And then, I’d bet, because she’s all Russian and stoic and shit, she’d bitch slap me for crying.
Pranksters, OMG, what if the Russian waxer lady BITCH-SLAPS ME and then calls her OTHER waxer friends over to bitch-slap me, too! I’m dying inside just THINKING about it.
But if my dream/hallucination is correct, I must get a wax. I must! Well, okay, so the dream didn’t specify what I was supposed to do with my vagina, but you know, I’m sure that it MEANT I needed to wax.
So if you see me at Type A Mom this week, be sure to compliment my vagina.
Or buy me a drink. Whatever.