things that start with the letter V
It’s that time of the month again. No…not that time of the month…I mean book club/game night.
The usual crowd was in attendance. Mrs. Jones, Miss Congeniality, Mrs. Weenie and her sister Eenie Weenie, and the only man—token Tom.
And about Tom…
I would almost feel sorry for him if not for the fact that most men would actually pay money to be a fly on the wall at one of our book club meetings, and Tom has a standing invitation. He is such a distinguished Southern gentleman and there he is, every month, socializing with a group of soccer moms, housewives, and chatty Kathy’s. A competitive bunch for certain.
Tonight’s opening topic was laser hair removal.
I don’t know how we got on the subject, but there we were. And no one was talking about eyebrows, upper lips, or legs. No we were discussing things that start with the letter V. Two people from our group had recently gone in for a consultation with a laser wax specialist. I didn’t even realize things like this existed. Not the laser hair removal of the nether regions…I was aware of that. I make it my business to know all about the alternatives to the self bikini wax. Not that I’ve dabbled in this method of hair removal. I’m not quite that brave. But I was aware of its existence. What I wasn’t aware of was the extent to which these establishments go to sell their “product.”
Apparently there is a full presentation, completely with full color graphic drawings of the entire “region” in question, (as if we don’t know what our crotches look like, with and without hair, respectively.)
I have it on good authority that the drawings border on Medieval porn.
As it turns out, the pictures are designed to give you an idea of what different “shapes” might look like. So, as I understand it, you can have a permanent cutout of a butterfly, a heart, a star, a Z, or even a dollar sign, carved into your pubic area.
That may be all well and good for a temporary fashion statement, but fashion is fleeting. I could only wonder what one would do if the whole vintage 70s look came back after you’d had permanent hair removal. And honestly, you would surely be pretty embarrassed to be the only granny in the nursing home with a $ carved into your crotch.
Ironically, the game for the night was “The Big Taboo.” Although, we had presumably already tackled the taboo portion of our evening, we teamed up to play the game anyway.
The teams were the same as last time. Miss Congeniality, Mrs. Weenie, and I were on one team. Mrs. Jones, Eenie Weenie, and token Tom were on the other.
It wasn’t planned that way—we split the table down the middle, with a team on either side. If you remember last time, Mrs. Jones was very upset to have picked so unwisely when playing Pictionary, and she blurted out, “I got stuck with these two last time,” before she realized what she was saying. She quickly backtracked before her team devised a mutiny.
Taboo as a game was entertaining enough, but the real fun was in the back and forth barbs between the two teams. We couldn’t help but accuse Mrs. Jones of cheating after each round. Not because she was, mind you, but because she would get up in arms that we would accuse her. There is a certain amount of stress in any competitive game, but as Mrs. Jones assured us (or rather insisted on Googling to prove her right) there are two kinds of stress…the good kind, and the bad kind. The game banter fell under good stress, so surely my blood pressure has been lowered several points tonight!
Remember, Mrs. Jones likes to win, so any time her team slipped behind she would scoop up another chip full of corn salsa, exclaiming that we were, “making me eat!”
I could be here all night enumerating all of the clues that reminded me of sexual acts—most of them were far from it—but I won’t go there. As usual we had a wonderful time, running over the scheduled time by almost an hour. And I managed to be on the winning team yet again. Mrs. Jones may be the most competitive of us, but make no mistake…I like to win too. Especially when I’m on a streak! I wonder what game we’ll play next month. Not that it matters…I’ll win that one too.
Until the next time…I’ll be milking my win for at least a few days.