Bad Day: #6 and #7

On Monday night, I met my girlfriends at jojo for BYO wine night. The husband of one friend joined us which initially I thought may have stifled the conversation somewhat given that we always seem to talk about vile matters or sex (especially about her crazy, empassioned, sex life with him) but that wasn't the case. He was just as bad as we were. Instead of remaining quiet, I shared two stories from the past year which never made it to my blog (and, be forewarned, probably for a good reason).

While on the topic of Brazilians, I went into graphic detail about how, during my last bikini wax, after realizing how much intolerable pain I was in, I asked the woman if this was her first time. No, of course not! She then proceeded to maim me while telling me how she had gotten fired from her last position. Mid-wax, I had to make her stop and I bolted. The side that was done, what was remaining at least, was completely erratic (i.e., jagged edges); the side that was incomplete, albeit wider, looked smooth and even. I was a walking, God-awful, unsightly mess. (But really, who would see it?) The worst part was later that afternoon, when I went to the bathroom, I had to cut myself out of my underwear and throw the wax remains out. Honestly, who brings scissors to the bathroom? I had to go back into the office, grab them, field "why do you need scissors in the bathroom?" questions from the guys in the office and move on.

Another time, I went into the bathroom for a "routine visit." As had happened on a few occasions before, I got locked in but this time the lock wouldn't budge. So I spent what felt like a monumental amount of time pounding on the door and calling out for help. At times, men would enter the bathroom next door and ignore me. Finally the insurance agent down the hall rescued me. When I finally got back into the office, I asked the guys, "Did anyone happen to notice that I had gone missing for the better part of an hour (slight exaggeration)?" They responded, "Yeah, we just thought you were taking an enormous dump." OMG. Next time, assume that I'm not and come look for me, pleeeeeeeese! Later that week, the same thing happened to my boss. And the same guy rescued her. After that, they changed the locks. How you may ask? By putting our crappy lock on the downstairs ladies room, that's how. Now the Ameriprise folks, and their clients, can suffer the same embarrassment and we no longer have to send out the troops.

Maybe I should become a regular contributor to FML.