*Attention: This post contains graphic content and images not suitable for the office, the elderly, the prudish or my big brother Stretch. You’ve been warned, yo.*

This past Friday, after two months of hard labour, my husband managed to break the shackles that keep him a slave to his job and flee the work site. Which meant upon waking Friday morning I had about six hours to run around the house in an effort to kill 8 weeks worth of dust bunnies and fold the mountain of laundry that was heaped in a pile on a couch in our family room so that my husband didn’t realize we live like sloths in his absence.

After my marathon session of house cleaning I flopped down on the couch, panting, and started brainstorming ways to welcome my husband back into the fold of our family life. It was right about then that the hair on my leg stood up and waved hello so I figured first things first, a go-round with a chain saw would be necessary if I didn’t want him running back to the hills when he realized his wife had morphed into a hairy beast-like creature while he toiled away to provide a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

Since it had been a while since I last bothered shaving my legs *cough*62 days*cough* you might say the forest was thick and the underbrush needed to be removed. For safety reasons my husband has imposed a strict fire ban policy: If my legs are hairy enough to rub together and spark with friction, it’s time to take a razor or a weed whacker to the ole stumps.

So I gathered the appropriate supplies, including hair removal creams, wax strips, razors (and a chainsaw for back up,) and headed to the bathroom to start the hair removal process. A few nicks, a couple of rips later, with my eyes bleeding from the toxic fumes of chemical hair remover creams, I was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. (Well, not really, since the dimpled cellulite on the backs of my thighs and ass cheeks preclude smooth skin, but I was significantly less hairy than I was when I woke up.)

It was as I was standing in the bathroom trying to staunch the blood pouring down my leg from a razor gone dull, that I found my inspiration. I knew exactly what it was I needed to do to surprise my husband home in a manner he’d never forget.

I was going to dye what little hair remaining on my body blue. That’s right. It was time to turn the old landing strip into a runway he’d never forget.

Thank you vericose veins in all your shiny blue splendor. You were my inspiration after all.

So after a quick trip to the pharmacy, I sat on the couch and tore open the box. After reading the instructions from front to back, (because when messing with a woman’s precious parts I deem it wise to never ignore any instructions or warning labels), I shed my bottoms and made my way to the bathroom.

The instructions were simple enough. Remove unwanted hair. Been there, done that already. Trim hair to desired length. Okay. So after rooting through my daughter’s pile of craft crap I located a pair of rounded tip scissors (because who wants to take pointy edged scissors to one’s box and risk permanently injuring one’s lotus of love) and started snipping. When I had a small pile of hair laying at my feet, I grabbed the instructions to see what the next step was.

Mix one part hair lightening cream to two parts conditioner. Easy enough. And oh, it smells like flowers. Niiice. Once the chemicals were mixed it was time to apply the snotty looking goop to my grass patch. Here’s where it got a little tricky. In big bold print the instructions warned the user to avoid getting hair near any ‘sensitive‘ skin.

So standing in front of a mirror and trying to twist my body, I applied the toxic bleach to my bush while carefully avoiding any bits that may get burned.

Once that was done, I noticed that the instructions said to leave on for twenty or thirty minutes to appropriately lighten the hair.

Which meant I’d either have to stand with my legs spread as far apart as possible for the next thirty minutes or walk like I had a stick shoved up my arse. Great. Just as I was about to make peace with the idea of waddling about with my legs as wide as possible, I noticed some fine print in the instructions.

If one would like to speed up the lightening process one may apply a strip of clear kitchen wrap to the hair smeared in toxic chemicals and aim a blow drier at ones twat. According to the instructions this could knock ten to fifteen minutes off the lightening procedure.

Sounded too good to be true, really.

So I walked to the kitchen as carefully as possible and ripped myself a big ole strip of cling wrap to place on my cooter. Apparently I didn’t walk carefully enough because by the time I got back into the bathroom with my saran-wrapped vajay-jay, my crotch was on fire. The chemical goop had found its way onto my pink parts.

Holy Mother of Gawd, my tinkerbox was on fire. I had two choices. I could wipe the whole mess off and abandon ship or I could try and remove the bleach from my pink petals and hope for the best. Since I’m not a quitter, I once again contorted and twisted until I managed to remove any trace of acid burn from my labia lips. Cursing myself for not thinking of grabbing an ice cube to shove up there, (cuz that worked the last time my cooter caught fire) I took a deep breath and rewrapped my box of love with cling wrap and grabbed the hair dryer. Anything to speed this process up and be able to wipe the toxic goop off and away from my inner bits.

With my legs spread wide apart and my bush covered in plastic I fired up the hairdryer and took aim at my girly parts.

Ever attack your privates with hot air?

No?

I imagine it’s about as much fun as wrestling with a porcupine in a tar pit. Gives a whole new meaning to Hot Damn! Once again my vadge was ablaze and my freshly shorn sensitive skin was on fire. After a few seconds I shut the hair dryer off and considered my options as I fanned cold air towards my womanhood.

By this time, sweat was pouring down my forehead and I knew I was in too deep to back out. “Come on Tanis. Some freaks out there would pay big money to have this done to themselves. Blowing yourself shouldn’t be this hard. You can do it!” I told myself as I reluctantly picked up the blow torch hair dryer and turned it on.

For the next ten minutes I stood in the bathroom alternating between frying my junk and fanning myself cool all the while whimpering like a cougar with a thorn in it’s paw.

I gave up at minute nine and decided enough was enough. Telling myself that a tinder box wasn’t conducive to love making, I tossed the hair dryer, ripped off the cellophane and jumped in the shower to rinse the last of the acid goo off my beaver.

After drying off I happily noted that my landing strip was now bleached white and ready for the next step to Smurfy glory. It had now been near an hour since I began this freak show and by golly I was going to see the finale come hell or come high water.

From here the instructions were simple enough. Smear the blue goo onto the bleached hair, reapply kitchen cling wrap and wait thirty minutes or fry oneself with the blow torch hair dryer for ten minutes. After my last trip to the inferno of hell, I figured I could wait thirty minutes as the dye took hold. I was done with the heat source. I’m pretty sure lighting my pubic hairs on fire with a match would have been a more pleasant experience than the heat gun.

Just as I made peace with standing like a statue with my legs wide apart, there was a knock on my door.

Imagining it was my father who would likely just barge in (as he’s been known to do), see my blue plastic-wrapped muff and then keel over dead, I wondered how I would explain this to the authorities so I grabbed a robe and ran to the door to try and stop my dad from buying the farm.

Except it wasn’t my father, it was the UPS driver. He must have thought I was a tad freakish what with the robe on in the middle of the afternoon and the way I sorta bounced up and down as once again the toxic chemicals burned their way into my female folds. I quickly signed for my package, ignored his polite chit chat and all but slammed the door in his face as I tossed the parcel onto the couch and beelined back to the bathroom.

Shrugging off my robe I noticed the plastic had fallen off my cooter and the blue had smeared all over the insides of my thighs. Sexxay. I tried to wipe the goo off which was in the process of burning off small pieces of my most prized flesh and was horrified to find that it had dyed the inside of my beaver bright blue.

Not really the look I was going for. After a few minutes of futile scrubbing I just gave up and decided to worry about that when I showered off.

There isn’t a whole lot to do when one is standing with one’s legs spread wide apart in the bathroom while waiting for her thatch to go smurfalicious. I counted the toothpaste splatters on the mirror my daughter had missed wiping up, practiced reading my French as I read the back of a shampoo bottle and pondered my husband’s reaction to my ever thoughtful gift.

Time moves really slowly when one’s cooter is cooking, just so y’all know.

Eventually, the seconds passed and it was time to rinse off and clean up.

It was a little disconcerting to see the water turn blue as it swirled at my feet but thankfully the dye was washing off my skin.

Score! I wouldn’t have a blueberry beaver and matching thighs!

Toweling off, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and dropped the towel to inspect my masterpiece under the harsh glare of the bathroom lights.

Yep, it’s blue all right, I laughed to myself. Blue like Smurfette.

By this time I had spent nearly two hours of my life (two hours I will never get back) all in the effort to surprise my husband with a blue bush. He’d better damn well appreciate this, I muttered to myself as I got dressed and cleaned up the remnants of the toxic waste.

Except, in the end, he arrived home later than expected, the kids were all home and there was no time to unveil my new blue Thunder without visually scarring my children for the rest of their lives. I may be a bad mother, but I’m not that bad.

So I waited. And waited. And every time I had to go to the washroom I had to do a double take because bright blue pubic hair tends to take one by surprise no matter how many times one sees it.

Finally it was bed time.

And when it came time for the big reveal?

That fucker laughed.

Laughed so hard tears poured down his cheeks. He laughed so hard I wondered if he’d ever be able to get it up. If I had gone through all the torture of ripping, stripping, coluring and burning my beaver all for naught. I wondered if Smurfette had permanently wrestled my husband’s one-eyed snake dead.

Thankfully no. The Blue Thunder worked it’s magic and all was right under the Redneck roof.

At least until the next morning, when I regaled Boo with the tale of torture and woe all in the name of welcoming him home with style.

“Didn’t you know you are supposed to wipe all areas you want to protect with vaseline before applying chemicals? Everyone knows that!” Boo laughed.

“What? I didn’t know that!!! It didn’t say that in the instructions!! It’s not like I dye my pubic hair every damn day! How was I supposed to know?” I huffed.

“You’re crazy, woman,” he laughed after I whined how I burned my box all in the name of love.

“Crazy and cute,” I teased. “Plus I’m now colour-coordinated to match your pretty blue eyes,” I laughed.

“You know Tanis, if you really loved me…” he paused and looked thoughtful.

“What? You mean my blueberry muff isn’t sufficient enough evidence of my undying love for you? You obviously weren’t listening to the torture involved in achieving the big blue box of love,” I huffed.

“No, no. It’s just if you really loved me, you’d have dyed it John Deere green.”

It was then I strangled him with a sock and buried him out in the back forty.

Never mess with a woman with a blue bush between her legs and a chemically burned cooter.

*And officially? I’m never, ever, EVER doing this again. Not just cuz it was a pain in the as- er, va-jayjay, but I don’t even want to imagine the nightmare of what the regrowth is going to look like.*