the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Fun for the whole family!

Sunday morning after a late breakfast Jon was about to head up to the office to complete the edits on the video about working from home when he said, “You just WAIT. I am going to DAZZLE you with my edits. No, I’m going to BEDAZZLE you. NO! I am going to VAJAZZLE you.”

No, no, no. No you won’t.

There will be no azzling anywhere near my vagina. Is that a thing? Cami had stayed the night with us, and through a fit of laughter assured me that, yes, indeed, there is such a thing as vajazzling. I did not want to know how she knew this information so I just trusted her and then made a firm decision that I would not google this phenomenon. STOP. What are you doing? Slap your hands away from that keyboard! You cannot un-see a vajazzle!

Without doing any research we all three conducted an assessment of this activity. Like, glitter? Sequins? Confetti? Do you stand over a mirror and glue each individual piece? In the pattern of a star? A smiley face? The profile of your beloved pet?

How on earth could this be comfortable? You can’t walk around with glitter in your vagina, don’t even try to convince me otherwise. Is the glue urine-resistant? It had better be or you’re going to spend the better part of your day reapplying sequins to your butt.

And then there’s the dilemma of, well, certain activities that take place when adults have special feelings for each other. You can imagine that it might take away from the romance of the moment if someone has to stop every couple of seconds to remove a sequin from their mouth. And HELLO. Choking hazard.

But then I was like, what if you were kind of broke and really needed that supply of sequins? You’d have to stop that person from just spitting the sequin on the floor and then collect them in a pile so that you could do that craft project later.

You know, the one your child was assigned for homework.

But then why stop at glitter and sequins? If you’re a professional vajazzler I bet you could jazzle the shit out of a set of googly eyes and pipe cleaners.

Is all I’m saying.

And, yes. Cami is our hipster sister wife. Of course she spends the night.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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