It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 65

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.


Today's topic: Hair of the Dog

Okay, not really.  But I never miss an opportunity to promote this up-and-coming band, Nazareth.  My best friend from middle school was so badass that when she would get mad at her parents, she would go to her room and blast this song.  I would sit on her rainbow bedspread, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at her balls.  Her parents would sit upstairs and smoke and drink in silence and watch the clock, because she was the youngest of four and they were basically waiting until she moved out to make her room into the hot tub sex den.



Think about how often these dudes got laid in those outfits.

So, back to the topic.  Sort of.  A few things happened in the past few weeks that made me think of unsightly body hair.

First.  My daughters had a dance recital, and they are adorably talented and while I've seen Oldest Daughter at work and know she is a ballet rock star, this is the first year Youngest Daughter has actually known the dance and didn't just look cute and wander around confused in her $80 outfit.  YD did hip-hop, and did a splits-in-the-air-touch-your toes move, no shit, and I was all, "Who is that kid and why is she flexible and coordinated?" because that is so NOT my DNA.  However, her father is an '80s break dancer, so I'm waiting for "Baby's First Head Spin on Cardboard" to put in her book.

The other 50 dance numbers during the 3-recital gave me time to think about these girls' bikini areas.  Some of these outfits were pretty much bikinis and foot undies, and I prayed, "Please God, for their comfort and that of their audience, PLEASE let someone have told them about waxing."  Let me give you an example:

Much like this, without the pants.

At this point, Current Husband leans over and says, "I'm glad the girls were in the numbers with clothes."  I'm half German, so if I don't pluck my eyebrows every 20 minutes they grow together.  You can imagine what happens in bikini-land, and my vagina tells me it is allergic to wax, flame, or electroshock therapy.  This is why I now tell myself I'm not a dancer.  It's not lack of coordination, it's lack of bush coverage.

Second:  I had a massage, and Chad, my awesome masseuse, was subjected to my pre-game disclosure.  This happens every time, and now he just politely waits until I'm done purging all of my personal hygiene sins.  Sometimes I just don't shave my legs when I should, not because I don't want to, but because I sleep in and then I don't have time, and I go to work and wear pants so no one will know and forget I have a massage and won't be wearing pants.  My philosophy is that if I just TELL Chad that I'm sorry I haven't shaved in four days and I know my heels are gnarly and my varicose veins are worse than the last time I visited and I still have that Eastern German mole on my back, he won't pity me in his head while he is forced to rub these parts of my body down.  I will OWN IT.  But what he's probably thinking is "Julie, meet Wax.  Wax, strip Julie."  Then I just pray I won't get gassy during the massage, because I'm not going to own that.  The problem with gas during a massage is that if you clench, he will see it, or worse, feel your muscles tense up.  Sometimes I think Chad is subject to more torture than my OB-GYN.

Third.  I had coffee with a friend of mine, and she told me she was having dinner with her husband when he said, "I can't take it anymore, I have to pull that" and it was a hair in her mole on her arm.  I told her that while it is a pain that I'm getting more hairs around my nipular region, it sure is easier to pull them now that I can just pick my boob up off of my stomach, pull it up to my face, squint, put on my reading glasses, and pluck the hair.  When did getting older equal getting hairier?

I guess this post has no real point, other than the fact that hair is inconvenient and weird, unless it is on your head.  It doesn't have much to do with whoring either, because who wants to do someone with German bush, varicose veins, gnarly heels, a mole on their back, and nipular hair?

Oh, right.  CH!  Because when you get to his age, your vision is going anyway.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!