Surprise

Every year Scott likes to "surprise" me by taking me to the lovely little coastal town of Astoria for my birthday. And because I'm in denial about how the passage of time works, I make every effort to forget about my birthday since I've been old enough to drive, vote, and drink for some time now and another birthday is really just about getting older. Which I refuse to do. Scott is smart and he knows this, so it truly is a surprise, each and every time. When you have kids and suddenly find yourself alone with your significant other, something magical happens. And by magical I mean you have absolutely no clue what to do because your life is usually being run by tiny dictators who don't let you call in on sick days, nor do they care if you accuse them of being narcissistic attention whores. They just nod in agreement. Every time we head to Astoria, winding down the two hour drive on Hwy 30, we start talking about all the great things we're going to do once we get there, including climbing the famous Astoria Column, a 125 foot monolith with a huge spiral staircase and a majestic hand painted frieze that circles the exterior. Over 400,000 people visit it every year to take in the sweeping views of Young's bay, the Coast Range and Columbia River, and farther out, the Pacific Ocean. You can't not visit the Column when you go to Astoria, it's almost a moral imperative. We've never even seen it.
Instead, we find ourselves easily amused by simply walking around, reading, and window shopping. Evenings are especially mellow, with our only obligation making sure we're fed and sufficiently plied with wine. And the funny thing is, by playing it this way we almost always find ourselves in situations we couldn't have planned better. One time we happened to book our stay during the Astoria Regatta Festival and arrived just in time for the big parade. The town was swollen with twice the amount of people, and most had staked out their festival seating the night before. We literally had no clue what was going on that weekend so asked a couple of locals where a good place to grab lunch and watch the parade might be.
"Well, you could try Fort George Brewery or The Wet Dog Café but you're not going to be able to get a seat. The parade is just about to start, but hey, good luck!" Encouraged by our lack of planning and consistent good luck we decided to try Fort George, and sure enough, we scored a seat outside right in front of the parade. A couple of sausages and beers later and we were off to the Regatta Queen's Coronation, a concert in the park or the Seaman's Memorial.
Which leads to later that evening when, having showered and spent the majority of our energy, we found ourselves lying on the bed in the quaint Franklin Station Bed and Breakfast "Tranquility Room" discussing the current state of the porn industry. As one does on vacation.
"Babe, what's with all the spitting and swearing?" I asked
"I don't know, it doesn't really seem to add anything to the storyline," Scott grabbed his phone and cued up a few examples.
"I know, right? I mean, I get that the delivery guys' "package" might not have been what she was expecting but she seems kind of into it. Why so angry?" I asked. "And what ever happened to pubic hair? Seriously, remember that huge bush on the woman in Life of Brian? Now a full frontal is like looking at Barbie porn. I'm not sure looking like a 12 year old is cool in this context. "
"Well, they must be on to something......I don't know, what do you think?" Scott is a man who asks for nothing and is grateful for everything, so when I hear things like, "what do you think?" I tend to translate it as "so you're sayin' there's a chance?" And because I love him, I'm usually pretty much up for whatever it is he might be hinting at.
Now, I'm not stranger to waxing, although I typically don't make a habit out of outsourcing it because I'm both handy and capable. I'm "handy-capable", if you will. The one exception was when I was hugely pregnant and about to go to a company sales meeting that involved a pool and a bathing suit. I'm the kind of girl who both loves clothes and would prefer to live without them. And when it's hot, I wear as little as possible. Pregnant or not, a one piece was not an option and tankinis were out of the question. Damn the haters, I would wear a bikini or nothing! The only problem was, I couldn't see past my belly so I had no idea what was happening down there, and being ungroomed held more dire consequences for me than being pregnant in a bikini. I decided to seek professional help and found myself asking a total stranger wielding a popsicle stick and wax heated to 140° F to deforest my nether regions. Since I was new to this game, I asked for a "Brazillian", thinking she'd take a bit off the sides, both top and undercarriage and that would be that. Having gone through 8 months of laying half naked on a table with someone inspecting your lady parts, I wasn't really that concerned about the appointment, until the esthetician poured the searing substance onto my labia, spread it like butter, and ripped off not only hair follicles but a layer of skin. Fun fact: when you're pregnant you're also more sensitive and the pain was far worse than I would have expected. What I didn't know was that a "Brazillian" entailed full removal instead a little tidying up, so imagine my surprise when I heard "Ok, we can give that area a break if you want. Go ahead and roll over, and get on your hands and knees."
What. The Actual. Fuck????
I'm cool with sporting a stark-naked mons veneris but waxing the naughty hole was nowhere in my little plan. Yet there I was, on my hands and knees with my huge belly nearly touching the table while the esthetician peeled apart my lower cheeks and started spreading warm wax all around. Ironically, that part was the least painful and I had to admit, in lieu of a bidet, it kind of made sense. I couldn't get through the rest though, and so when I got home all I could do was sit with an ice pack shoved in my underwear to help the swelling.
So while I fully intended to rise to the occasion for Scott, waxing was out of the question. And since we were on topic and needed more wine anyway, I suggested we pop over to Safeway and I would grab some Nair and give it a whirl.
"Honey, should I get sensitive or extra- strength?" I didn't want to go through all of this and up with a rash or a five o'clock shadow two days after removing my fur-kini.
"I don't know! I've never even been in this aisle!" Scott was no help at all. So I grabbed a bottle of pubic Agent Orange, went back to our little bed and breakfast and started slathering. Five minutes later I was smooth as a baby's butt, and just as hairless. Let's just say it was well received.
When we got back home I thought I might try and keep it up, being the good wife that I am. I still had a fairly full bottle of Nair, so when the dreaded stubble came back I once again defoliated.  Scott was at Home Depot so I thought this might be a nice surprise, but shortly after rinsing, I started to feel a stinging sensation, kind of like when you pour lemon juice over a cut. The stinging got worse, and was soon followed by swelling and what looked like red lines forming along the tender tissue of my underside. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what was going on until I grabbed the bottle, re-read the warning label and realized I have chemically burned my coochie. Apparently there needs to be a mandatory waiting period before you re-engage with a product designed to scorch the earth of your glorious valley of promise. I already knew to reach for the ice packs, but since this was a burn I thought maybe some calendula cream might help. But then I needed a way to keep the cream on my skin so I thought, "Hmm, maybe a band aid will work." I may not have thought that one through but the screaming red canvas of pain was hijacking my higher reasoning capabilities, so I reached into the closet to see what I could find. Did I mention we have two girls? One of them small enough to still enjoy cartoons and stuffed animals, and so when I reached into the closet what appeared in my hand was the one of the most ironic and hysterical bandages I could have found: a brightly colored pink and yellow Hello Kitty Band Aid. Which inspired the following text to Scott, completely out of context:
"OMG HONEY!! I just almost put a Hello Kitty Band-Aid on my labia!!"
Silence. But I heard him laughing all the way at Home Depot.

Because I love him.