I'm supposed to be writing a blog post entitled, "The down-low on down there" all about pubic hair maintenance in the new millenium. I was all pumped up about it there for a while. And, I assure you, my research made for a VERY lively conversation with a group of people at a local bar recently. My penchant for sociological research of the generally naughty kind has been known to embarass a former associate or two but I've yet to run across very many people who weren't earger to share given the right mix of booze and and a racy topic.
My pubic hair survey was no exception. It yielded some fairly predictable results. The younger a girl is, the more naked her business is likely to be. Like, as in the under-thirty crowd is likely to be totally shorn. Woman over thirty? Likely to maintain some pubic hair, often a "landing strip" (an inch or so wide and a few inches top to bottom) since they may have child birth related, er, marks that are better off veiled.
What do men prefer? They prefer YOU more shorn than not, of course, though they themselves are not the least bit likely to shear themselves. One survey participant told me she regularly shears her (male) lover her damn self. And another survey participant told me she'd been sheared by a lover and the resulting trust/danger sharp-object-near-vulnerable-flesh situation was quite a turn-on.
I was, at one point, assured that pubic hair is "back" for the gay man. Which implies, of course, that it was "out" in the recent past. So take note: gay male pube styles trending toward bearded.
Absolutely positively out of style of the full-on bush ala 1975 (otherwise known as the full Farrah--sorry, Farrah). So, yah, unless you're naturally sparse down there, you need to be performing at least some maintenance. Though I know there are waxers ready to wax your lady-parts here in Paducah, no one I surveyed was putting themselves through it. I remain traumatized by a waxer who told me (while waxing my brows) that once when waxing an (extreme upper) inner-thigh (if you know what I'm saying), she yanked off the wax, and then watched as the girl's pores immediately filled up with blood. Talk about your wincing. I'm all about keeping up with the times, but yeeeouch. Then there's the lasering option. Again, good for you if you are committed enough to a shapely (or bald) pubic area that you're okay with a stranger electronically shocking your nether regions with a laser beam. Everyone involved in my particular conversation paled at the mention.
In other, less crotchety news, I've run into a bit of a snag with school. It seems that the hangover plaguing my 16-year-old self, lo, those twenty-five years ago on that far away summer Saturday when I took the ACT, has finally come home to roost. (DAMN YOU BICARDI RUM/VANTAGE ULTRA-LITES/OTHER!) Back then, I scored very well in all areas. Except. Math. This means in order to take Chemistry and something called "Contemporary College Math" ("math lite"), I must prove my compentency in effing ALGEBRA. And, thus, a phrase that I had thought permanently behind me has once again reared it's ugly head:
Solve for all x
People. If there's one thing I don't want to do these days? It's solve for all x. Whip me, beat me, but, please for God's sake, leave me alone about mother-effing "x". I have procrastinated (whined) about dealing with this particular scholastic hurdle for as long as possible, studiously skipping through English 101, 102, giggling through Psychology and Introduction to Business, even slogging through Astronomy, lollygagging through Kentucky history, whistling through Sociology, gliding through Management, and tiptoeing through more leadership classes than you can shake a stick at. I am a Leadershipping Bitch, by now, I assure you. And, lest we forget, I can, with an impressive degree of accuracy, name damn near every country IN THE WORLD (probably for another week or so).
All for naught unless I can Solve for all x. Damn it to hell.
What has to happen is that I must pass something called a "Compass" test. It is this test that I've been avoiding since my returning-to-school odessy began. I must pass the Compass to gain entry to Math Lite and Chemistry. My advisor (who as been advising me to address this issue for a full year now) finally nearly physically kicked my ass into the assessment room recently with a, "YOU HAVE TO TAKE THIS TEST AND THAT'S FINAL, NOW DON'T COME OUT 'TIL YOU'VE DONE IT."
I was abandoned with a Number 2 pencil in a pool of my own exponents and mothereffing Solve for all x.
In the end, I did fairly well as bad math students go. I easily demonstrated competetency in "pre" Algebra and was a tantalizing 10 points away from the magic number of 35 I needed in Algebra proper.
But ten points is ten points, people (that's ten more than zero, if you're counting and, God help me, I am).
It was decided I should visit the Tutoring Center. I just needed a little refreshing, you see. On presenting myself at the Tutoring Center, I was immediately subjected to TWO MORE HOURS of assessment testing--Number 2 Pencil, etc. They had to determine where I was going wrong, you see.
The verdict? I scored too high to qualify for tutoring. I was in that tragic gray area: Too smart for tutoring; too stupid to pass the Compass.
Still, they had mercy on me, if you can call it that, sending me home with a thick stack of sample Algebra problems to practice, meanwhile scheduling a in-person session with a math teacher a few days hence. My homework, enticingly labeled, EXPONENTS, ROOTS, AND POLYNOMIALS, then rode around in the passenger seat of the Subaru until it was time to drive it back to the tutoring session where I then presented it to my tutor, Michelle.
MICHELLE
SO! Which ones did you have a question on?
ME
Um...the "solve for x" ones?
MICHELLE
(Opening the papers)
So you did...
ME
I can write a hell of a sentence. Wanna see?
MICHELLE
(Pointing to a random sheet)Okay, which of these problems can't you solve?
ME
(I point to a problem that looks like this: 8x3-50x=2x(4x2-25)=2x(2x+5)(2x-5)
Anything that looks like that. Even a little bit.
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And so poor Michelle (who has to have the WORST job on earth...seriously, "Math Tutor"??...just shoot me) set about refreshing my memory. Order of operations. Factoring. The Distributive Property.
Gag.
To my credit, I guess, it all sounded a teesy bit familiar. In a nauseating sort of way. I took Algebra 1 and 2 and Geometry in high school, after all. Michelle seemed impressed with even my rudimentary and very sketchy recollections (I immediately felt sorry for her if I seemed a promising pupil in comparison to the norm). Michelle was so impressed, in fact, that after thirty minutes or so she decided I should take the test again. RIGHT THEN.
I was, again, suddenly and without warning, dragged to the Assessment Center, deprived of my Diet Coke, given a Number 2 pencil and a calculator and left to prove my mathematical competence. I could feel Michelle and the now sympathetic proctor staring hopefully from a safe distance at my sad, geriatric, math-challenged self. I sighed. Took up my pencil. Began the test.
In the end? My result was six points worse than my original score. Apparently? Tutoring makes me stupider.
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This means instead of wrapping up as planned in the Spring, I will have to take an extra class next Summer before I can move on to Real College, damnit. And that is IF I can manage to pass the Compass at some point this coming fall semester.
I have ordered the "Algebra for Dummies" workbook. I am resigned to my fate.
I am very, VERY annoyed.
[From Left: Kara McCombs, David Szemeredy, and Katelyn Swift at the GTG's event last night at Pasta House. The crowd was HUGE and I held my blackberry aloft with the intention of getting a crowd shot. Instead, I got this blurry photo of only my buddies standing immediately to my left. I'm blaming the big pours.] 
Yep, took some time off here. This may become the exception rather than the rule for the next little bit. I'm not sure why. My payback is this super rambling, partially innappropriate post. Don't say I didn't warn you (or blame it on Wanda). 
