The Transporter Couch

Recently a friend asked me, “Do you shave or wax?” And the force of the question wasn’t “Do you shave? Do you wax?” It was more like, “shave or wax, which do you do?”

I said, “I do neither. Sometimes I trim.” And she looked at me like I was from Mars but that was the extent of the conversation.

This morning I was lying in bed, my body resting but my mind wide awake, and I remembered this scene from the Jenny McCarthy movie, “Dirty Love,” in which Carmen Elektra is behaving like a soulful black woman, consoling her friend who got dumped. With her left hand she holds a phone and says things like “Oh HELLLLLL NO!” and with her right, out of the scope of the camera, she’s doing something. She could be fingerpainting. She could be kneading dough. Then all of a sudden she YANKS her hand up and is holding this rectangle of fabric, or paper. At the instant she does that, these feet sort of pop up behind her and this disembodied voice yells, “OW!” And you see the pubic hair on the fabric. And you realize OMG, she’s been having this conversation while she’s waxing some chick’s pookie!

Well, this got me giggling, and I thought, had I had my wits about me when my friend asked if I shave or wax, I should have said, “I shave my crotch but I wax my balls.”

This got me giggling even more and then outright laughing, lying in bed
Alone.
Laughing.
Well, I wasn’t alone. The cat was on the corner of the bed looking at me like Marlin Perkins standing back at a safe distance. I observed her presence and said, “ARETHA! Do you wanna get shaved or waxed?” And as if she actually understands English, she fuckin vanished.

Now she’s lying on a speaker absorbing the sounds. All is forgotten. Or is it?