This speaks to me SOOOO much.
Click the link above to see the full graphic!
Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.
I know this because my boyfriend Duncan and I moved from Montana to Oregon last month. But as harrowing as the move was for us, it was nothing compared to the confusion and insecurity our two dogs had to endure.
Our first dog is – to put it delicately – simple-minded. Our other dog is a neurotic German shepherd mix with agonizingly low self-esteem who has taken on the role of “helper dog” for our simple dog. Neither dog is well-equipped with coping mechanisms of any kind.
When we started packing, the helper dog knew immediately that something was going on. I could tell that she knew because she becomes extremely melodramatic when faced with even a trivial amount of uncertainty. She started following me everywhere, pausing every so often to flop to the ground in an exaggeratedly morose fashion – because maybe that would make me realize how selfish I was being by continuing to pack despite her obvious emotional discomfort.
And it gets better after this…
Charity is a mommy to a houseful of five adorable kiddos. Her days are as crazy, busy and fun as you’d expect. She currently feels as though she’s drowning in the toddler phase and uses her blog, Surviving A Two Year Old, to keep her sane.
I did not get married and have kids to spend my day cleaning and picking up after people. Other then The Baby, EVERYONE else in this house is old enough to take on some degree of responsibility when it comes to picking up after themselves and pitching in on family responsibilities. I am completely overwhelmed and disgusted with the state of this house. Every room is dirty and messy. The laundry is out of control- I am one person and am expected to keep up with clean clothes, towels and bedding for 7 people. I have to fight to even get everyone to bring their clothes to the bathroom. It is ridiculous that the towels are not used more then once; we NEVER have clean towels in the bathroom, despite the fact that I do them every other day. The dirty dishes have been like an assembly line, there’s a constant backup at the dishwasher and I cannot remember what the bottom of my sink looks like. You have no problem making yourselves breakfast, lunch, snacks and then leaving all the mess out for me to clean. No one ever bothers to put their dishes in the dishwasher unless I specifically remind them. The entry way is never picked up- put your coats and shoes away! Everything has a specific home where it belongs; I should not have to pick up your stuff every morning, afternoon and evening. The bathroom is repulsive. When you’re done in there, rinse out the sink. If you get pee on the toilet, wipe it off. If you’re a boy, that means you should be wiping the rim EVERY time you pee. Trust me, it splatters.
To My Husband: I know you are working like crazy and so I expected to have to do more around here. However, it irritates me to no end when you do not even bother to pick up your own stuff. You’ve actually had a convention of shaving creams at our bathroom sink because every time you shave you get out a new one, but never put any away. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, do whatever you need to do—and then put it away! Same goes for the kitchen, and your dirty/clean clothes. The doorknobs in our house are not your personal mini-closets, hang up your shirts.
To My Oldest: The state of your room is appalling. We do not live out of U-Haul boxes. If you need shelves or storage space, let us know. You are not 70 years old yet, stop collecting like you are. Take some pride in your personal space and keep it picked up.
To My Daughter: You used to do so well keeping your room picked up, and I know it’s hard because The Baby is sleeping in there, but you never pick up anymore. The dust level is unhealthy.
Little Boys: PICK UP AFTER YOURSELVES!!! Taking things out just for the sake of throwing them around will only get your stuff thrown away. I’m not picking up after you anymore.
I am done setting up chore charts, responsibilities, rewards for work done. Nothing ever sticks or works. It always involves me nagging people to keep up with the current attempt. There are things everyone should be doing on a daily basis with NO reminders. There are things everyone should be responsible for on a regular basis to ease the load on me. Figure it out. Come up with a plan that YOU will make work. Divide out the work. Write it down if need be, but I am NOT coming home until you’ve all figured out a concrete way to make things work better around here.
Call me when you’ve got it figured out then me and the power cords to every electric screen in this house will come home.
This video has me laughing out loud. Literally. WARNING: Some NSFW language.
A store that sells new husbands has opened in New York City, where a woman may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates.
YOU MAY ONLY VISIT THIS STORE ONCE!
There are six floors and the value of the products
increase as the shopper ascends the flights. The
shopper may choose any item from a particular
floor, or may choose to go up to the next floor, but
you cannot go back down except to exit the building!
So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband. On the first floor the sign on the door reads:
These men Have Jobs
She is intrigued, but continues to the second floor, where the sign reads:
These men Have Jobs and Love Kids
“That’s nice, she thinks, “But I want more.” So she continues upward. The third floor sign reads:
These men Have Jobs, Love Kids, and are Extremely Good Looking
“Wow,” she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going. She goes to the fourth floor and the sign reads:
These men Have Jobs, Love Kids, are Drop-dead Good Looking and Help With Housework
“Oh, mercy me!” she exclaims, “I can hardly stand it!” Still, she goes to the fifth floor and the sign reads:
These men Have Jobs, Love Kids, are Drop-dead Gorgeous, Help with Housework, and Have a Strong Romantic Streak
She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor, where the sign reads:
You are visitor #31,456,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at The Husband Store.
To avoid gender bias charges, the store’s owner opened a New Wives Store just across the street.
The first floor has wives that love sex.
The second floor has wives that love sex, have their own money, and like beer.
The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth floors have never been visited.
Of course, I can’t figure out how to write this blog post in Comic Sans, so it takes a little bit away from it, but you can read it in its correct format on the linked page!
I’m Comic Sans, Asshole.
BY MIKE LACHER
– – – –
Listen up. I know the shit you’ve been saying behind my back. You think I’m stupid. You think I’m immature. You think I’m a malformed, pathetic excuse for a font. Well think again, nerdhole, because I’m Comic Sans, and I’m the best thing to happen to typography since Johannes fucking Gutenberg.
You don’t like that your coworker used me on that note about stealing her yogurt from the break room fridge? You don’t like that I’m all over your sister-in-law’s blog? You don’t like that I’m on the sign for that new Thai place? You think I’m pedestrian and tacky? Guess the fuck what, Picasso. We don’t all have seventy-three weights of stick-up-my-ass Helvetica sitting on our seventeen-inch MacBook Pros. Sorry the entire world can’t all be done in stark Eurotrash Swiss type. Sorry some people like to have fun. Sorry I’m standing in the way of your minimalist Bauhaus-esque fascist snoozefest. Maybe sometime you should take off your black turtleneck, stop compulsively adjusting your Tumblr theme, and lighten the fuck up for once.
People love me. Why? Because I’m fun. I’m the life of the party. I bring levity to any situation. Need to soften the blow of a harsh message about restroom etiquette? SLAM. There I am. Need to spice up the directions to your graduation party? WHAM. There again. Need to convey your fun-loving, approachable nature on your business’ website? SMACK. Like daffodils in motherfucking spring.
When people need to kick back, have fun, and party, I will be there, unlike your pathetic fonts. While Gotham is at the science fair, I’m banging the prom queen behind the woodshop. While Avenir is practicing the clarinet, I’m shredding “Reign In Blood” on my double-necked Stratocaster. While Univers is refilling his allergy prescriptions, I’m racing my tricked-out, nitrous-laden Honda Civic against Tokyo gangsters who’ll kill me if I don’t cross the finish line first. I am a sans serif Superman and my only kryptonite is pretentious buzzkills like you.
It doesn’t even matter what you think. You know why, jagoff? Cause I’m famous. I am on every major operating system since Microsoft fucking Bob. I’m in your signs. I’m in your browsers. I’m in your instant messengers. I’m not just a font. I am a force of motherfucking nature and I will not rest until every uptight armchair typographer cock-hat like you is surrounded by my lovable, comic-book inspired, sans-serif badassery.
Enough of this bullshit. I’m gonna go get hammered with Papyrus.
One day my mother was out, and my dad was in charge of me.
I was maybe 2 1/2 years old. Someone had given me a little ‘tea set’ as a gift, and it was one of my favorite toys.
Daddy was in the living room engrossed in the evening news when I brought Daddy a little cup of “tea,” which was just water. After several cups of tea and lots of praise for such yummy tea, my Mom came home.
My Dad made her wait in the living room to watch me bring him a cup of tea, because it was just the cutest thing! My Mom waited, and sure enough, here I came down the hall with a cup of tea for Daddy; and she watched him drink it up.
Then she said (as only a mother would know), “Did it ever occur to you that the only place she can reach to get water is the toilet?”
-More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can’t wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that’s not only better, but also more directly involves me.
-Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you’re wrong.
-I don’t understand the purpose of the line, “I don’t need to drink to have fun.” Great, no one does. But why start a fire with flint and sticks when they’ve invented the lighter?
-Have you ever been walking down the street and realized that you’re going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you’re crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.
-That’s enough, Nickelback.
-I totally take back all those times I didn’t want to nap when I was younger.
-Is it just me, or are 80% of the people in the “people you may know” feature on Facebook people that I do know, but I deliberately choose not to be friends with?
-Do you remember when you were a kid, playing Nintendo and it wouldn’t work? You take the cartridge out, blow in it and that would magically fix the problem. Every kid in America did that, but how did we all know how to fix the problem? There was no internet or message boards or FAQ’s. We just figured it out. Today’s kids are soft.
-There is a great need for sarcasm font.
-Sometimes, I’ll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the f was going on when I first saw it.
-I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I’ll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that everyone’s laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little bit harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I’m still the only one who really, really gets it.
-How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?
-I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.
– I think part of a best friend’s job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.
-The only time I look forward to a red light is when I’m trying to finish a text.
– A recent study has shown that playing beer pong contributes to the spread of mono and the flu. Yeah, if you suck at it.
– Was learning cursive really necessary?
– Lol has gone from meaning, “laugh out loud” to “I have nothing else to say”.
– I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.
– Answering the same letter three times or more in a row on a Scantron test is absolutely petrifying.
– My brother’s Municipal League baseball team is named the Stepdads. Seeing as none of the guys on the team are actual stepdads, I inquired about the name. He explained, “Cuz we beat you, and you hate us.” Classy, bro.
– Whenever someone says “I’m not book smart, but I’m street smart”, all I hear is “I’m not real smart, but I’m imaginary smart”.
– How many times is it appropriate to say “What?” before you just nod and smile because you still didn’t hear what they said?
– I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a dick from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!
– Every time I have to spell a word over the phone using ‘as in’ examples, I will undoubtedly draw a blank and sound like a complete idiot. Today I had to spell my boss’s last name to an attorney and said “Yes that’s G as in…(10 second lapse)..ummm…Goonies”
-What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?
– While driving yesterday I saw a banana peel in the road and instinctively swerved to avoid it…thanks Mario Kart.
– MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. Pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood..
– Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.
– I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.
-Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.
-I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t at least kind of tired.
– Bad decisions make good stories
-Whenever I’m Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who just got the Red Ryder BB gun that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don’t mind if I do!
– Is it just me or do high school girls get sluttier & sluttier every year?
-If Carmen San Diego and Waldo ever got together, their offspring would probably just be completely invisible.
-Why is it that during an ice-breaker, when the whole room has to go around and say their name and where they are from, I get so incredibly nervous? Like I know my name, I know where I’m from, this shouldn’t be a problem….
-You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you’ve made up your mind that you just aren’t doing anything productive for the rest of the day.
-Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after DVDs? I don’t want to have to restart my collection.
-There’s no worse feeling than that millisecond you’re sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.
-I’m always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.
– “Do not machine wash or tumble dry” means I will never wash this ever.
-I hate being the one with the remote in a room full of people watching TV. There’s so much pressure. ‘I love this show, but will they judge me if I keep it on? I bet everyone is wishing we weren’t watching this. It’s only a matter of time before they all get up and leave the room. Will we still be friends after this?’
-I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Dammit!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What’d you do after I didn’t answer? Drop the phone and run away?
– I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste..
-When I meet a new girl, I’m terrified of mentioning something she hasn’t already told me but that I have learned from some light internet stalking.
-I like all of the music in my iTunes, except when it’s on shuffle, then I like about one in every fifteen songs in my iTunes.
-Why is a school zone 20 mph? That seems like the optimal cruising speed for pedophiles…
– As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.
-Sometimes I’ll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.
-It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.
-I keep some people’s phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.
-Even if I knew your social security number, I wouldn’t know what do to with it.
-Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, hitting the G-spot, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey – but I’d bet my ass everyone can find and push the Snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time every time…
-My 4-year old son asked me in the car the other day “Dad what would happen if you ran over a ninja?” How the hell do I respond to that?
-It really pisses me off when I want to read a story on CNN.com and the link takes me to a video instead of text.
-I wonder if cops ever get pissed off at the fact that everyone they drive behind obeys the speed limit.
-I think the freezer deserves a light as well.
-I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.
-The other night I ordered takeout, and when I looked in the bag, saw they had included four sets of plastic silverware. In other words, someone at the restaurant packed my order, took a second to think about it, and then estimated that there must be at least four people eating to require such a large amount of food. Too bad I was eating by myself. There’s nothing like being made to feel like a fat bastard before dinner.
Great email story—who knows if it’s true or not, but it’s certainly hilarious!
So, we had this great 10 year old cat named Jack who just recently died. Jack was a great cat and the kids would carry him around and sit on him and nothing ever bothered him. He used to hang out and nap all day long on this mat in our bathroom.
Well we have 3 kids and at the time of this story they were 4 years old, 3 years old and 1 year old. The middle one is Eli. Eli really loves chapstick. LOVES it. He kept asking to use my chapstick and then losing it. So finally one day I showed him where in the bathroom I keep my chapstick and how he could use it whenever he wanted to but he needed to put it right back in the drawer when he was done.
Last year on Mother’s Day, we were having the typical rush around and try to get ready for Church with everyone crying and carrying on. My two boys are fighting over the toy in the cereal box. I am trying to nurse my little one at the same time I am putting on my make-up. Everything is a mess and everyone has long forgotten that this is a wonderful day to honor me and the amazing job that is motherhood.
We finally have the older one and the baby loaded in the car and I am looking for Eli. I have searched everywhere and I finally round the corner to go into the bathroom. And there was Eli. He was applying my chapstick very carefully to Jack’s . . . rear end. Eli looked right into my eyes and said “chapped.”
Now if you have a cat, you know that he is right—their little butts do look pretty chapped. And, frankly, Jack didn’t seem to mind. And the only question to really ask at that point was whether it was the FIRST time Eli had done that to the cat’s behind or the hundredth.
And THAT is my favorite Mother’s Day moment ever because it reminds us that no matter how hard we try to civilize these glorious little creatures, there will always be that day when you realize they’ve been using your chapstick on the cat’s butt.
Remember, this is a strictly mathematical viewpoint. It goes like this:
What makes 100%? What does it mean to give MORE than 100%? Ever wonder about those people who say they are giving more than 100%? We have all been to those meetings where someone wants you to give over 100%. How about achieving 103%? What makes up 100% in life?
Here’s a little mathematical formula that might help you answer these questions:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
is represented as:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26.
H-A-R-D-W-O-R-K = 8+1+18+4+23+15+18+11 = 98%
K-N-O-W-L-E-D-G-E = 11+14+15+23+12+5+4+7+5 = 96%
A-T-T-I-T-U-D-E = 1+20+20+9+20+21+4+5 = 100%
B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T = 2+21+12+12+19+8+9+20 = 103%
AND, look how far ass kissing will take you.
A-S-S-K-I-S-S-I-N-G = 1+19+19+11+9+19+19+9+14+7 = 118%
So, one can conclude with mathematical certainty, that while Hard work and Knowledge will get you close, and Attitude will get you there, its the Bullshit and Ass kissing that will put you over the top.
Home Builder | Edmonton, AB, Canada
Me: “Good morning, *** Homes.”
Customer with really thick accent: “How much is house?”
Me: “Which home is that? Would you like to speak with a Realtor?”
Customer: “No, how much is house? House?”
Me: “Sir, I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you that without an address––and in any case, you need to speak with a Realtor.”
Customer: “House! How much is house?!”
Me: “More than a couch, less than a rocket ship. Have a nice day!”
What’s scary is this sounds like actual calls we get at our office! -jen
Whatever you give a woman, she’s going to multiply.
If you give her sperm, she’ll give you a baby.
If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home.
If you give her groceries, she’ll give you a meal.
If you give her a smile, she’ll give you her heart.
She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her.
So—if you give her any crap, you will receive a ton of shit.
Love and appreciate all the women in your life.
We are in the BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking activity. When a man volunteers to do the BBQ the following chain of events are put into motion:
- The woman buys the food.
- The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and makes dessert.
- The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill—beer in hand.
- The woman remains outside the compulsory three meter exclusion zone where the exuberance of testosterone and other manly bonding activities can take place without the interference of the woman.
Here comes the important part:
- THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.
- The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery.
- The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is looking great. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he flips the meat.
- THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
- The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins, sauces, and brings them to the table.
- After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.
And most important of all:
- Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.
- The man asks the woman how she enjoyed “her night off.” And, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there’s just no pleasing some women.
There is a new study just released by the American Psychiatric Association about women and how they feel about their asses. The results are pretty shocking:
- Only 5% of women surveyed feel their ass is too big.
- 10% of women surveyed feel their ass is too small.
- The remaining 85% say they don’t care—they love him—he’s a good man and they would have married him anyway.
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal—the epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now…the wax.
My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: ” Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet.” So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom.
It was one of those “cold wax” kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I’m not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!) So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. (“Cold wax”—yeah…right!) I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works! OK, so it wasn’t the best feeling, but it wasn’t too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire. With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.
Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (Yes, it was a long strip) I inhale deeply and brace myself….RRRRIIIPPP!!!! I ‘m blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!….OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!! Vision returning, I notice that I’ve only managed to pull off half the strip. >:XX Another deep breath and RRIIPP!! Everything is swirly and spotted. I think I may pass out…must stay conscious…Do I hear crashing drums??? Breathe, breathe…OK, back to normal. I want to see my trophy—a wax-covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip! There’s no hair on it. Where is the hair??? WHERE IS THE WAX??? Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. >:XX I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair.
Then I make the next BIG mistake…remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. >:XX I hear the slamming of a cell door. Vagina? Sealed shut! Butt?? Sealed shut! I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself ” Please don’t let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off! ” What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!! I’ll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right??? *WRONG!!!!!!!* I get in the tub—the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment—I sit. Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub…in scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn’t melt cold wax. So, now I’m stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain!! God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!! I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It’s a very good conversation starter “So, my butt and who-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!” There is a slight pause.
She doesn’t know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, “Are we talking cheeks or hole or who-ha?” She’s laughing out loud by now…I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box.
YEAH!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else’s night. While we go through various solutions. I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better then to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!! By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I’m pretty sure I’m going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event. My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace….the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on and OH MY GOD!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It’s sooo painful, but I really don’t care. “IT WORKS!! It works!! ” I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair….THE HAIR IS STILL THERE…….ALL OF IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I’m numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point. Next week I’m going to try hair color……