Well, she wanted to go completely hairless and couldn’t see well enough to get rid of it all. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was certainly unexpected, and she made it worth the effort.
I too, have fished out a lost tampon. For the same girl I retrieved a ‘business’ cell phone from a feces filled toilet, which as you all know had a nice strawberry aroma after weeks of a steady take-out diet.
This reminds me of two things,
the country song “I Wanna Check You for Ticks”
and the House where the tick that’s making her sick ends up being inside the girl’s hoo-ha. So your “tick-checks” could be a good entre into sex play 
The ear-hair and unibrow cleanup. I never pictured having to do that…
Hmmm…I’ve never had to do anything remotely like this for anyone…many of you are very brave!
In all honesty, I’m the one that usually has the icky tasks done to - so if it keeps with the spirit, I’ll post one here. (My stories usually involves my crotch and other women.)
My sister had to remove teeny tiny leeches (they looked like black squirmy hairs, smaller than your pinky nail, but egads there was an army!) from the mentioned area while I freaked out at the possibility at one getting inside and living up there. (Yes, I was 19 and an idiot).
We were camping, mixed sexes - this happened in a tent in the middle of camp…
How did the leeches get in the tent?!? 
Ha ha ha
Truthfully, I’m not sure how I even got to shore, what with all vocal freaking out I was doing at the time, but those baby leaches were skilled at hanging on! They liked to hang out between my toes as well.
I did learn that the top of a gentle stream which draws it’s water directly from a murky, still lake is not the place to sit down…
I’d always assumed moving water = safe, but this was the Boundary Waters so there you have it!
Generally I sneer at men who turn green when they have to face a sharp, pointy needle. However, I think that your lover had a valid reason for his anxiety.
Also, I never got around to the issue of the OP. I go to a podiatrist regularly (I’m diabetic), and one of the services I can get is to have him sand the dead skin off my feet, if I need it. All the hip podiatrists these days have embraced the Dremel as a useful tool. In addition to sanding my calluses, my podiatrist will use his Dremel to smooth my toenails after he clips them. It takes very little time to do either chore, and my feet and toenails are very smooth afterwards. Then, always, I get the lecture on Moisturizing My Feet, and how important it is.
I hope that no one minds the spoiler box…
I assisted when my wife gave birth to our kids. At one point with our oldest, she needed to sit on my lap for several series of contractions. There was a fair amount of blood, and she emptied her bowels at some point.
I also asked my mother to ask my uncle to talk to my father about his cancer (Does anyone else’s family work like this?) It was obvious that Dad had colon cancer, but he didn’t believe that he could recover. He wouldn’t discuss it with Mom or any of us kids. Fortunately, an uncle had won a round against cancer, and Dad would listen to his little brother. Six months later he was on the road to a full recovery.
It’s both better and worse than it sounds. Pigeons are of course not native to Australia, and while she loves the natural world she hates introduced pests. We have wild cockatoos that come to feed at our seed station and the pigeons would frighten them off, so they had to go. She sourced the trap that caught them humanely, but it was up to yours truly to do the actual deed. I used the toilet initially because it was a handy pool of water, but later switched to a plastic tub instead as it didn’t smell.
FWIW the operation has been a great success. Not only do we get more cockatoos than before, but rosellas and native doves have become regular visitors too. Watching them is better than television.
Oh HA. You know what I meant. grin
My daughter will never have to shave her legs anyway – who’s going to see them at the convent?
This isn’t so much unexpected – I always thought I’d have to do things for my husband I wouldn’t do for anyone else – but it was a first for me. And I apologize that it’s relatively tame compared to what else has been mentioned here, but hey, to each their own.
Husband was terribly sick with mad diarrhea, like getting up every 10 minutes to crap his brains out. He took some Pepto, which plugged up one end right good but left the other open for business.
At about 4 am, after a fitful night of sleep I was sitting on the toilet having a pee. As I was about to wipe, I heard a gurgle from the bedroom and my husband came charging at me. I must have temporarily browned out from breaking the laws of physics because before I knew it I was standing outside the bathroom still holding a dry wad of toilet paper and watching – and listening – to my husband projectile vomit near the toilet.
Yes, “near” the toilet. When I turned on the bathroom light, there was a good amount of puke in the toilet. There were also, however, great bunches of it on the bowl, next to the bowl on the floor, and splashed all over the side of the sink cabinet.
I am seriously emetophobic. It’s very difficult for me to watch movies or TV where someone vomits, much less deal with it in real life. But this was one of those situations where you sack up and deal, right? Because it’s the man you love and this is what you bought into when you married him. I packed him into the shower – it was really messy – swallowed deeply a few times, and got to work with a roll of paper towels, Lysol bathroom wipes and a trash bag.
The best part was trying to stop the dog from eating stray pools of vomit in the hallway. Because when I grabbed him, my hands gooshed into spatters of barf on his back where he’d been caught in the crossfire of my husband’s dash to the bathroom. At least wiping him off was pretty easy.
You couldn’t just ring their necks or something? Why would you choose to kill them in one of the cruelest most terrifying ways possible? Oh hey maybe next time you can tie them to a little stake and burn them alive. Jesus Christ.
My ex-wife used to say, “Never try to chage you husband. The only one who will appriciate it is his next wife.” She tried to change me. Mrs. Magill appreciates it.
Before I had kids, I never thought I would have to various bodily fluids off my person.
So far my children have gotten the following on me:
Pee
Poop
barf
blood
breast milk
Something that smells suspiciously like bile.
Some sort of puss.
And a third one is coming in a couple of months… yay.
I refuse to try to change Dewey (not that I think he needs changing!) but I do think both he and I are better people because of our prior marriages.
And, umm - something smelling suspiciously like bile is coming in a couple of months? It’s better than Christmas!
Stop the dog? Are you insane? Am I the only person who thinks waste disposal is one of the most important functions a dog performs? Hell, sometimes they eat their own vomit. It’s nature’s way.
Most parents find out that being the target of a wide variety of bodily emanations comes with the territory. And cleaning out my wife’s sebaceous cyst was actually kind of interesting, in a Alien-poking-out-of-the-chest kind of way.
The most recent one was one I did not enjoy at all.
My daughter had a sore throat for a couple of days, and went off to the clinic. She returned with some antibiotics and Prednisone, and started them up. The next day she was no better - noticeably worse, in fact. Listless, feverish, and - I am not sure if I can explain it - her eyes were dead. She looked awful. And she didn’t want to talk. If you know my daughter, this is probably the most disturbing symptom you can imagine.
So we zipped off to the clinic, where the doctor took one look down her throat and sent us off to X-ray. She walked there, but in the waiting room all she could do was rest on my shoulder. (My wife was out of town). So, they X-rayed her from a couple of different angles, and the X-ray tech, who I knew - she is the mother of a friend of my son’s - had them developed, brought them into the room, and put them up on that lighted display screen.
And said, with a shocked look on her face - “Oh dear. I better get the doctor.”
I said, “What? What is it?”
“I’ll get the doctor.” And ran from the room.
I was trying not to panic, so as not to panic my daughter, but she didn’t react at all. She was just laying there. Her phone went off, and she didn’t even look up.
Back comes the tech with the doctor in tow. The doctor takes one look at the X-rays, and says, “You need to get her to the throat specialist right now. This needs to be done immediately. My nurse will call them. Get over there right away. This abscess is threatening her airway. Don’t delay this.”
If ever there was a piece of unnecessary advice…
Fortunately, the throat specialist was only a mile or two away. When we arrived, the surgical room was all prepared. My daughter was draped and prepped. Unfortunately…
Because of the location of the abscess, and because it was threatening to block her airway, they could not administer a general anesthesia. Nor could they completely numb the area, although they made a valiant attempt with Novocain.
So the doctor told her that she had to go down her throat with the scalpel to lance the abscess as is. "I’ll be as quick as I can, but I have to be careful.
But you can’t cry. If you cry, your breathing will affect the swelling, and I won’t be able to do this as well as it needs to be done. So you can’t cry."
And then they began to cut. My daughter was holding my hands. She was squeezing so hard that my rings cut into my finger. There wer two techs there to hold her still, if they needed to. But she didn’t cry. Not once.
And it went on, and on, and on. And it was hurting my little girl, and I couldn’t make it stop. Until finally -
“Got it!”
And my daughter spit out this hideous, foul-smelling gush of blood and pus and tissue, twice. And it was over.
We went home with prescriptions for Lortab and more antibiotics. And I got her settled on the couch, and got her to drink some water and the Lortab. And then I went up to my room to change, and I sat down on the bed, and I started to shake, and I couldn’t stop. Until I heard a voice from the living room -
“Daddy?”
That shut off the shaking like a switch. I ran downstairs to see my daughter sitting up on the couch. And the eyes were bright again. She was stoned to the gills. And I said, “How do you feel?”
And all the conversation that had found no outlet for the last two days came tumbling out. For two solid hours, I sat next to her and listened to the inconsequential, drug-addled chatter.
And it was like the voice of angels.
So that’s the unexpected task I performed. Sitting and listening to a stoned-out teenager babble.
And thanking God with every breath that she could do it.
Regards,
Shodan
Lesse… My ex-husband, shortly after we were married, vomited from the couch to the bathroom, including across furniture and a basket of laundry, and then finished his vomiting session in the sink, rather than the toilet. Then he climbed into bed and passed out. I spent an hour cleaning it all up, and then went for a long drive because I was kind of shell-shocked.
Then there was a close friend who ended up with crab lice, so I spent an evening at his apartment, in his bathroom, picking lice and nits out of his ass-crack hair with tweezers while he held his cheeks apart.
Popping zits? People think that’s gross? Hell my fiancé fight over who gets to pop the really good ones. In fact if you have a really really good one and you want to do it yourself because it’s too good to let the other person do, generally the other person will at least watch, so as to experience it vicariously. Zit popping is marvelous.
Then there was the time my son went to spend the summer with his dad. He had his own bathroom off of his room that nobody else used or had reason to go into. Toward the end of his vacation I was packing the house because we were moving, and I went into that bathroom. Apparently, the last thing he’d done in there is have some really, really bad diarrhea. Then over the next two months, all of the water had evaporated out of the toilet. So there was a half-inch caked up dried layer of shit covering Every Single Inch of the inside of that toilet bowl. That was not fun to clean up.
The best I have is balancing my checkbook. (I still don’t know what wrong with just keeping a cushion in there …)
I did hold down my step-child-to-be during painful stitches while the genetic parental unit (that would be: father) looked fair to faint. That was a memorable second date.
And the first Christmas dinner in our current home was peanut-butter and fluff on the afore-mentioned step-child’s drug crazed request, which said step-child passed out before eating (His First Kidney Stones; if you’ve had them, you understand).
And I still have two kidney stones in my jewelry box. And a couple of teeth.
Family is weird.
You write the best kid stories, Shodan. This is the third one in recent memory that had me tearing up.