Anti-Bush

Hello, and welcome to Too Much Information Theater. I'm your host, Jul Thumbscrew. Over the next hour, we're going to delve into one of the deepest, innermost areas of the delightful Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma, Cloaked in Intrigue, Stuffed with Smoked Gouda and Rolled in Panko Crumbs which is Me. This is an area to which few individuals have been privy... and I've generally made them buy me a drink or two first.

Yeah, that's right. Having already exposed my contused, confused little heart to the entire modem-bearing world, I figured I might as well drop my pants.

Some women are capable of accepting - nay, loving - their bodies' natural, goddess-given state. For example, when viewed from the knee down, one of the teachers at J.Q.'s daycare resembles nothing so much as Robin Williams, if Robin developed a sudden affinity for floral capris and jangly little anklets. Point being, Ms. Doubtfire is unconcerned with societal standards of beauty, choosing instead to be comfortable in her own skin (her furry, furry skin).

She and I could not be more different.

I am ALL ABOUT the stupid societal standards of beauty. I exfoliate and epilate. I tone and condition. I attempt to make certain areas darker (my skin, skim-milky enough to make Casper the Friendly Ghost look like George Hamilton) and others lighter (my teeth, an unfortunate casualty of diet Coke addiction, along with "once-full change jar" and "ability to sit still for more than ten seconds without doing a twitchy, recumbent version of the Macarena"). I have purchased enough Biore strips to de-schwarzkopf Germany, despite the fact that those little fuckers have proven utterly ineffectual in removing anything but $6.75 from my wallet. But more time-consuming than the bleaching, more expensive than the burnishing, more painful than getting Noxzema in one's eyeball... is the hair removal.

Despite being minimally hirsute, I still react to the slightest emergence of fuzz with the balls-out hysterics of someone who has spied a palmetto bug scurrying up their Levi's - i.e. "EEEEAAAAGH! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!", frenzied swatting, etc. From the time I was a wee lass, I was ever-vigilant with the Lady Bic, determined to ensure that my own personal trichological territory never extended below my eyelashes. While it was fairly easy to keep my extremeties as smooth as David's chilly marble ass, other areas required a bit more ingenuity.

Specifically, THAT area. How to put this gently?

Instead of a 'fro down below, I have a Kojack down low, Jack.

I've got a nectarine in lieu of a peach.

My muffin, it has no streusel.

Yes, I could do this all day.

Keeping one's grassy knoll defoliated is more difficult than it might appear. It is a strange, squishy region, riddled with mysterious nooks and inscrutable crannies. Luckily for those of you who might wish to keep Down There delightfully bare, I have tried more or less every method available for de-lichening the ol' glacier, the results of which I am abundantly happy to share. Without further ado (or groan-inducing gynecological euphemism), I present:

Jul's Guide to Turning Your Lyle Lovett Into a Michael Stipe

1. Nair : don't bother. If the idea of slathering caustic goo all over your widget doesn't deter you, the whole "ignited German Shepard" smell which inevitably results oughta do the trick.



2. "Nads" and other goopy preparations which seem like they could also be used as a dessert topping: don't bother. Unless you are the nimble-fingered Zen fucking master of ripping those little cloth strips off, you'll be left with unwashable sugary goo all over your lady-region. At best, this will lead to painful "yanking" sensations when going about your daily routine; at worst, you'll have sucrose-crazed insects dive-bombing your gear all day long, like little exoskeleton-clad Van Halen groupies.
   



3. Shaving : somewhat of a mixed bag.
   
   Pros: quick, cheap, thorough.
   
   Cons: lightning-fast regrowth, which leads to either mandatory daily touch-ups or the singularly unappetizing "scruffy" look (trust me, it looks a LOT sexier on Jake Gyllenhaal than on your hoo-hoo). Ingrown hairs, which lead to scratching, clawing, redness and other agonies.
   
   If you do choose to shave, follow these handy tips:
   
• Exfoliate the hell out of that puppy beforehand. A Buff-Puff is nice. A loofah may be a bit extreme for non-BDSM folks. If you ARE a BDSM folk, then use a black, studded loofah, because that would be hilarious.
  



• Use the cheapest disposable razor money can buy - they tend to be irritating yet effective, like the Marine Corps drill seargants of the hair-removal world. Replace it every week.
  



• Use conditioner in lieu of shaving cream... preferrably the thickest, goopiest stuff you can find. If it's Slurpee-colored and sold in sixteen-ounce tubs at your local bodega, it'll do nicely.
  



• Moisturize every single day. MORE than that, even. Shit, squirt some Jergens down there while you're waiting in line at the DMV. Nothing is more effective at preventing bumps, ingrowns and other horrors.
  



4. Rip It! Rip It Good! Waxing, Tweezing, Epi-Lady... ing. This is my method of choice. It lasts a loooong time and is unlikely to lead to shaving-style dermatalogical disasters. There is, however, the unavoidable pain factor. This - like choosing to de-thatch one's cottage to begin with - is a very personal matter. Do you, like me, fancy yourself something of a pain bad-ass? Do you refuse to purchase "ouchless" Band-Aids on principle? Then this method might work well for you. Are you a more sensitive soul? Do you own an aloe vera plant solely for minor first-aid usage? Does it have a name? God, what a freaking wuss. Ahem... I mean, you might want to give this one a pass.

If you choose the Snatch Yourself Bald method, the following tips may help:

• They're not kidding when they say "hold skin taut". Hold it REALLY taut. Like, Mickey Rourke's face-type taut.
  



• Re: waxing. The Faster You Rip, The Better the Trip. Or, if you prefer: Rip Quick, Neat Trick. Rip Slow... um... To Hell You Will Momentarily Go? You Will Use a Turn of Phrase Much More Vulgar Than "Whoa!"? Run Outside and Dip Your Flaming Crotch in the Snow?
  



• Re: the Epilady. I am not sure if this contraption is incredibly cool or sadistically Kafka-esque. Either way, it's what I use to keep my own field fallow. It was also the inspiration for a new cocktail creation:
  
  "The Owie"

1. Fill sandwich-sized Ziplock bag with ice.
   
2. Top off with adult beverage of choice.
   
3. Bite corner off of bag, ingest beverage.
   
4. Deposit resultant sack of nicely-melty ice atop boo-boo.
   
   I don't think it's going to replace Tylenol 3 anytime soon, but for those of us committed to maintaining a bullrush-free Nile, it's a taste of sweet, sweet victory.