An American Story

In 2013 I found out I was 7 weeks pregnant after barely escaping my treatment room in the middle of a client’s service and collapsing in the bathroom. It was my first day back to work after eulogizing my father only 3 days before. What I assumed were added symptoms of the crippling grief I was carrying after watching my father die in my arms were actually symptoms of HG, a rare pregnancy disorder. Symptoms that would keep me bedridden until I could receive the healthcare I desired, and that I would come to know again very intimately for months during my next pregnancy, with Elle. 

Looking back now, I wonder if the pain and denial of losing my Father aided in me clinging desperately to an intensely toxic and verbally, emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship. 

I suppose I felt like I couldn’t survive losing someone else, even though he had already shattered me. I was a shell of a person at that point, but when I saw the positive test result everything changed, and for me, the decision was simple.

I absolutely did not want a child at that time. 


I would not let a child be tethered to that man. 

I rarely have dreams that I remember, but after my abortion I had a very vivid dream of a little girl with red hair and blue eyes. More like a vision, maybe – it was very brief…but I saw her clearly, as if she was right there in front of me. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time. Was this some sort of cruel effort to make me think I had made a mistake? Was I supposed to feel guilty? Because I didn’t. I felt nothing but relief to be free of my abuser and of a life spent trying to protect a child from him. 

6 years later, I was pregnant again. 

Red hair and blue eyes. Elle. 

Elle, who never would have been, if not for the ability to make the choice that was right for me. 

What should have protected me from a pregnancy didn’t, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how you get pregnant, or why you decide to have an abortion. 

Rape, incest, poor boundaries, failed birth control, lack of sex education, manipulation — it doesn’t matter. 

Your own life is at stake, the baby will not survive, finances, age, homelessness, you just don’t want to have a child — it doesn’t matter. 

I have never publicly spoken about this. It is, obviously, no one’s business. But women are actively losing their rights in Texas, setting a precedent and writing a template for other states to follow suit. I am a privileged, white woman who is able to use my voice to stand up for those who can’t and I am livid, so here we are. 

Texas has implemented a bounty on those who choose not to comply with a religious belief. A “religious belief” that only goes back to the 1970’s in a desperate attempt for those with wealth and power to create a unifying issue that would secure republican votes and swing America away from the progressive path of the civil rights movement. How deeply shameful. The constitution this nation was founded on is a secular document. Where is the separation of church and state? 

Men are not even held accountable in this abortion ban, wherein they are equally responsible for causing any pregnancy, and in some cases, solely responsible. Tell me again how this is not a war on women; An exercise in control over our bodies and yet another effort to keep their feet on our necks?

Men, where are your voices? The silence is deafening and devastating. You are part of this. Be louder. 

Women, we are worthy of complete autonomy and trust over our bodies. why are so many of you still voting against your own interests and basic human rights? You are dripping in internalized misogyny and betraying yourselves and your sisters in the name of a fake holy war. 

Pro-life advocates, where is your outrage for the needless suffering of those who are actually alive and breathing? For this country’s shameful lack of affordable and universal healthcare? For republican lawmakers continuously banning accessible contraception to help prevent unwanted pregnancies in the first place? For the children and veterans and homeless going hungry everyday, while our billionaires fly to space for a selfie? For the immigrants seeking asylum, desperate to escape war and famine – to survive? Where is your outrage at the fact that Texas itself has the highest maternal death rate in the nation, and that this nation has the highest maternal death rate of any developed country? 

Pro life is not pro life at all. It is based in fear. It is anti-women. It is anti-choice. 

Look around you. How many women do you know? How many women do you love? 

1 in 4 women will get an abortion, and abortions will not stop with this ban. They will just become dangerous. Women will die. 

Abortions are physical and mental health care. 

If you do not believe in them, I suggest you do not get one.

We all have stories.

Trust women.



Dear, Elle


Six years.

Six months.

They feel the same.

Like it was only yesterday.

Like an eternity.

Six years ago, today, your grandpa left us. Six months ago, today, you were born.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that after nearly six years without my dad, would be You.

My Elle.

For so long after losing him, I didn’t want to have a child. After holding him while he took his last breaths, I didn’t think I could ever choose to potentially put my own child through that.

I was too young. He was too young. We weren’t done loving each other yet.

Maybe that’s selfish, maybe that’s selfless. All I know is that it’s the truth.

Grief manifests itself in strange ways.

But we often have to do things that scare us.

And when you were born I cried tears of joy for your miraculous arrival and I cried tears of anger for his heavy absence.

And here you are, six months new, and you are…Everything.

You would’ve been the best of friends. Airplane rides on the living room floor, and strolls around the block while he teaches you about nature and sports and life. Your nursery would already be filling up with Radio Flyers and Hot Wheels; crazy gadgets and toys that you wouldn’t grow into for years, but he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He was always just a kid, in all the best ways.

I can see you running toward the ocean to chase waves with him. Flying his trick kites and finding the hidden treasures in sand dollars, hands and feet covered in sand while the wind carries your giggles down the beach – just like he did with me.

I can see it.

But instead there is a picture of you cozied into his military dress coat. I show you pictures of him on my phone and play you the only voicemail I have left, hoping that someday you’ll recognize his voice and say his name as if he’s always been here.

You seem to already know so many things that I never will. It is true that children are far wiser than we.

Do you know him already? Did you meet somewhere in the space between him leaving me and me meeting you?

Did he put in a word to make sure you got his sparkling blue eyes, so that when I look into yours I’d see you both there?

Because you have his blue eyes.

Of course you do. 









Dear Dad,


5 years and 2 days ago, the idea that you wouldn’t be here anymore was unfathomable.

5 years and 1 day ago, I kissed you goodnight and whispered that if you needed to, it was okay to let go.

5 years ago, you did.

Grief is not something that you just deal with, or cure, or resolve.

When you are not done loving, grief lives inside of you forever.

I was not done loving you.

After 5 months, grief is still expected. It shows. Your smile is forced. Your eyes are tired. Your face, older. Your posture, defeated.

After 5 years, grief – somehow feeling less justified – turns you into the master of restraint. Grief becomes soundless screams into pillows and silently crying yourself to sleep. Hiding tears behind sunglasses when certain songs come on. Deep, muted breaths while you stare at the ceiling during tough movie scenes. Using the shower as a disguise for the kind of emotion you can’t choke back.

But after 5 years I am still just as angry as I was the day you told me that this time, it was terminal.

Some things, you can’t ever accept. Some things, I don’t think we’re meant to.

Last year I walked down the aisle to the love of my life, without you – my first love – on my arm.

Instead of cracking corny jokes and sneaking appetizers before cocktail hour, you were framed in pictures on a table.

I had to write you a love letter on the back of our programs, instead of you writing us a toast.

Instead of sitting front row, grinning wide with teary-eyes, there was one empty seat and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence.

And I was taken by complete surprise when after the first dance ended, your brothers stepped onto the floor and each took turns dancing with me in tribute to you.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

I was not done loving you.

But we did it anyways.

And it was magical.

We all laughed and we cried and we danced and we ate.

And you would’ve loved every second of it.










The Feins Go (Mid)West

Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.


(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.





Dear, Dad

Two years is an awfully long time to live without you.

You left at such an inconvenient time.

The Seahawks won the Super Bowl. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. I wanted to be really excited about them finally going all the way, but right after you died? They couldn’t have waited a year?

Their heartbreaking Super Bowl loss the following season would’ve been a bit more fitting.

As if happy things shouldn’t be allowed to happen in the wake of your death.

But happy things did happen.

Life is funny that way, isn’t it?

Unexpectedly, I met someone who has so many of the precious qualities that I loved so much about you. He’s my best friend, and would give you a run for your money when it comes to razzing me. 

No wonder I feel like I won the jackpot.

Why aren’t you here to hassle him about where his sports team loyalties lie, and teach us both how to fish?

Really Dad, you’re missing out.

Two whole years. 730 days.

But merely a fraction of the amount of time I will endure missing you.

Your death has never been a question of whether or not I will survive it. The question that haunts me is why you didn’t get to.

Maybe I would find more peace if I believed in the concept of religion, or a preconceived idea of why my 27th year included you dying in my arms.

I just don’t buy it. “Meant to be,” and “A bigger plan,” are not answers I am soothed by. I don’t think there is a Godly answer for why you were taken from me, from all of us.

The truth can be hard and sticky and complicated and heartbreaking and unfair.

Life is funny that way.

You were drafted in the Vietnam War before you were even allowed to legally buy yourself a beer.

How terrifying.

How brave.

You carried your best friend through rice paddies in the middle of the night, exposed and vulnerable, after he was shot and killed. Only the stars lit your way out of the battlefield.

You have known real fear.

You have known true courage.

The war exposed you to Agent Orange, a chemical that, forty years after all the fighting has ended, is still devastating veterans and their families.

Can you blame me for my anger, Dad?

You have felt the kind of fear that only a soldier feels.

You have known the kind of courage that only a soldier ever has to find.

And you have seen the kinds of things that only a soldier ever has to see.

And yet, I grew up with a father who never complained about the effects war had on him, or the pain that it would later instill through multiple cancers and countless chemo treatments.

And instead of asking why; instead of being bitter and resentful, you made peace with your life and with yourself.

Why am I not more easygoing, like you?

(It would really help the whole “Where would you like to go for dinner?” process.)

I was so angry when you told me you had accepted what was happening. So angry that I could feel my blood boiling and the lump in my throat cutting off my ability to breathe; I felt the heat of my tears streaming down my face and the redness radiating from my cheeks.

I was not ready.

I did not accept it.

But you did. And you were so graceful.

When have I ever shown that much grace in the face of such hardship?

The only thing I ever remember you longing for was to make it to your sixty-fifth birthday.

You died 29 days before it.

But alas, life is funny that way.

I read somewhere that our memories are not of the actual event that happened, but only of the last time we remembered it.

If that’s the truth, what an awful one to bear.

Which tiny, indiscernible detail is left out each time you come into my thoughts?

How many thoughts of you will I have before all I’m left with are broken, abstract memories of life as I knew it?

But I search my mind for original moments of you and squeeze my eyes shut as I try to focus in on the details of what you looked like and how you smelled when you’d get home from working in dirt and grass and oil all day, and how your calloused hands felt when I held them.

Sometimes I hear a phrase that you used to say and I stop and imagine your voice wrapping around the words.

I can still hear your voice as if you were standing next to me. Sometimes on my way home from work, I turn down the radio and fall into imaginary conversations with you.

There is just so much to catch up on.

I was not your child biologically, but it didn’t matter. You were mine and I was yours and there is no one on this earth that I identified with more than you.

You were fiercely my protector, and always my biggest fan.

You were kind. You were selfless. Your work ethic was unmatched. Your sense of humor and childlike sense of play made me the luckiest to have a childhood with you in it.

With your bare hands, you made our town immeasurably more beautiful than it ever would’ve been without you. More beautiful than it ever will be again.

You were the father that mothers hope for, and the daddy that little girls dream of.

Thank you.

For shooting hoops. For drives to the beach. For singing along. For lifting the heavy stuff. For pushing me. For not pushing me. For letting me be a dreamer. For calling me on my bullshit. For believing in me more than I believe in myself. For laughing at me. And with me.

For everything.



Dear, Dad

It’s been a year and ten months since I was forced to let you go.

Since I was forced to let go of your hand that had begun to go cold around my own.

Since I was forced to memorize how it felt and what it looked like: the freckles and spots; the deep lines running down your palm; the permanent dark stain under your nails — a symbol of your countless hours working in dirt and grease.

A year and ten months since not just a father was lost, but also a Friend. Husband. Brother. Uncle. Nephew. Coworker. Fishing buddy.

My biggest fan.

A year and ten months later I’m still struggling not to cry at some point everyday. If I sit quietly for more than a few minutes, my mind inevitably wanders to you.

When I see an older man on the street, I think of you.

When I see a man carrying his daughter on his shoulders, You.

When I see someone from the military, You.

When I hear Billy Joel or Elton John or The Beatles, You.

When I see blue eyes, You.

Feel the sunshine, You.

Smell fresh flowers, You.

Tend to my garden, You.



It’s so beautiful.

It’s so painful.

When I’m back home I find myself waiting to hear your footsteps down the hall. I had memorized them, you know; the cadence of your walk and the sound of your feet pressing into the floor. I knew them by heart.

I’d know them still.

On a Saturday in August, 2013 I drove you to three different grocery stores. You stayed in the car, exhausted and weak, but patiently, while I ran around looking for kale and spinach and acai powder and all of these other random products that boasted cancer-reducing benefits. I was convinced that if I could just get you to drink this all-powerful smoothie, it would do what 44 straight hours of chemo couldn’t, nor the additional chemo and drugs and therapies after that. This smoothie would take the cancer away, though.

You’d start getting better. We’d have more time together. I was convinced it would work.

I was desperate for it to work.

It had to.

You died a week later.

One year and ten months ago, my life and the way I would feel every single day for the rest of it completely changed.

Navigating life without you is a constant struggle, but there is one thing I know for sure: It keeps going.

That sometimes I curl up in a ball on the floor and cry for you and for all the days you’ve missed and all the days you will keep missing and I do not know how I can take one more second of this pain.

But it keeps going.

That sometimes all I wish is for someone to mention your name so that I’m reassured that you haven’t been forgotten because my biggest fear is that people will forget you.

But it keeps going.

That wonderful things and amazing people have come into my life since you left and it’s heart-shattering that you are not physically here to share in these moments and these people.

But it keeps going.

It’s that grieving you will always be present in me.

But grief is not solitary.

Happiness and sadness are not opposites.

They can coexist.

They coexist in me everyday.

They have to.

I love you.

Happy Father’s Day.




Band of Misfits

I recently had a client come in who hadn’t been waxed for six months due to birthing a human out of her lady parts.

Very legit excuse for not having me rip hair off of said parts.

She brought her baby in with her, which was a super cute situation except for the part where I was thinking about how I was going to have a six month old baby girl watch me drizzle hot wax all over her birth place.

And also that I’m 103% more comfortable being around an alien life form than with a small, helpless human.

(Aren’t they kind of the same thing though? Let’s be honest.)

I really do like babies, don’t get me wrong.

But honestly. I am just literally the worst at it.

(You grow out of that, right?)

I’ve watched plenty of my friends get the baby fever/virus/plague and turn into a sappy puddle of goop whenever one is within five miles radius, but whenever one is put into my arms I more or less develop rigormortis and paranoia.

And whoever said babies don’t smell fear is a dirty liar because they most definitely start crying as soon as I touch them, and in the rare case that they don’t, it’s because they were slipped some Benadryl.

Or whiskey.

Either way.

Anyway, the baby who I was about to give a wax show to started screaming bloody murder right before I went in to do the service.

Of course she did.

Fortunately, (and miraculously), the screaming wasn’t my fault, as the mom had accidentally punched her baby.


That’s normal, right?

Because I will totally do that.

At least once a week every day.

Sorry in advance, little one.

So speaking of me being a super great mother someday:

We had a baby!!

…”bought” a baby.

Well, a dog, technically.

A baby dog.

Also called a puppy.

Okay we rescued a puppy.


The most adorable pup in the entire universe.

Not that I’m biased.

TELL me this is not the cutest little bundle of snuggles you’ve ever seen.


Tell me.

Don’t actually tell me. I will cut you.

World, meet Sawyer.

Can we just talk about his eyelashes for a second?

Please notice how they butterfly literally 2 inches out from his eyelids.


Ladies, is this not the cat-eye we all dream of having???

Is puppy eyelash envy a thing because I kind of hate him for it.

…okay but I’m also the mom that goes, “YASS BITCH my (fur)baby is a model” every time someone dies over how adorable he is.

He’s super well behaved except for the part where he’s constantly nibbling whatever human body part is closest to him at the time, jumping over our fence to chase birds, cats, the UPS guy, etc., and chewing up all of my undies.


It’s always the lacy ones.

He’s got good taste, what can I say.

In our defense, we did get a shock collar recently to stop all the madness except that we soon realized our pup is a superhero when he jumped the fence this morning and was shocked repeatedly on full force for about five minutes with absolutely zero affect, while my saint of a boyfriend ran around the neighborhood trying to catch him.

But I guess it also could have been that, (helpful hint here, guys), the shock collar works a little better when you TURN IT ON.

You’re welcome.

….Okay but other than that he’s super well behaved.

(Extreme cuteness counts for something too, right?)

Sawyer’s favorite things include tummy scratches, decapitating (stuffed) animals, licking off my makeup (super convenient, actually), and eating cat poop.

….and the Wisconsin Badgers.


(Go Bucky)

His least favorite things include birds, bicyclists, leashes, and his brother, Marble.

….and Duke.


Now, I don’t want to be the mom who keeps posting a zillion pictures of her baby, because THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME (but omg he’s totally winking at me in this one!!!), so instead I’ll just leave a video of him getting slapped by Marble.

That’s entertainment.

And speaking of Marble, here’s a video of him slapping ME.

Also entertaining.

FYI the slap sound IS real and my neck 100% looked like I was attacked by a rake.

I deserved it though, clearly.

It’s hard to imagine life now without our little band of misfits.

…except that sleeping would be a lot more peaceful, considering Marble demands to be spooned by one of us every night (ALL NIGHT) and will walk all over your face until you comply.

…and less vacuuming.

way less poop.

…no 5:00am potty breaks in the dark.

Okay so I guess I can imagine life without them.

But we can’t imagine going back.

I KNOWWWW….the sappiness leaks out sometimes, I can’t help it!

UGH. Puke.

Okay one more.



Happy Thursday angel faces.



Thirty MORE People You Meet on the Waxing Table

Last summer I wrote a blog post about thirty of the crazy people and issues that my co-workers and I deal with on a daily basis while working as Estheticians.

You can read that, here.

Oh, but my darlings.

The party doesn’t stop at thirty.

With sunny weather approaching, everyone is crawling out of hibernation and into the spa for um… “spring cleaning,” let’s call it. Busy season has officially begun, and with it, a vast array of new stories to tell.

Like I did in my other post, I have to preface by saying that this is not at all intended to be an insult to my clients as a whole. I get to see and talk to (and rip hair out of) tons of really cool people. So many of them whom I’ve been seeing for almost two years now, and would totally consider to be a friend.

Let me also reiterate that I am literally the biggest pansy in the world when it comes to getting a brazilian and my friends will tell you that when they’ve tried to wax or sugar me, it’s a fucking ZOO. Straight-jacket required.

…which is why I decided to go the more permanent route and just get that shit lasered, which has been a circus in it’s own right and you can read about that little adventure here, if you like.

All that being said, when you perform around twenty brazilian waxes a day, you’re bound to run into a nightmare at some point.

Or thirty.

So with the help of a couple of my (saintly) co-workers, I’ve compiled another list of experiences/people/issues, of which I’m not quite sure are more horrifying, hilarious, or just plain disturbing.

You be the judge.

Thirty MORE People You Meet on the Waxing Table

The Over-Apologizer “I’m sooo so sorry, omg I’m sorry I’m such a baby I just can’t even handle this, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. OMG my feet probably smell too!!! Ugh, I should’ve left my socks on! How embarrassing! Omg I’m sweating so bad I’m so sorry!!! HAHAHA I can’t stop twitching omg so sorry about all of this. I can’t believe you do this all day! You really do this all day? I’m SO sorry you have to look at vaginas all day. Omg it’s over? Already? I’m so sorry I just completely freaked out for nothing.”

No worries, sweets, but if you’re really that sorry, you should just slip me an extra twenty because nothing says I’m sorry quite like money.

The Nail Salon Horror Story – These girls come in out of desperation, after nearly having their vagina’s torn to pieces from someone who most likely doesn’t even have a license to DO brazilians.

“Well, I mean, I went to this place by the university because all the sorority girls go there and it’s super cheap, like 20 bucks, you know? And so anyways I get there and the lady doesn’t speak any English so I don’t really know what’s going on and then she starts cutting wax strips from the sheet I’m laying on!! And there’s dried up wax like ALL over the wax pot and everything looks dirty and then she’s just like, POURING wax on me and it’s so hot I swear she burned my cooch, and she was like, double dipping the wax stick, which is super unsanitary, right?? Anyway it was like literally the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I. Wanted. To. Die. 

Let this poor girl be a lesson for all you cheapskates out there. The vagina is not an area of your body to be frugal with.

Unless coochie diseases are something you’re into.

The Porn Voice – The noises you are making when I rip your hair out are very reminiscent of naughty movies. Not that I have ever seen said movies but I have definitely read Fifty Shades of Grey cover to cover (don’t judge me, what else am I supposed to do on a solo trip to Mexico??), and I’m pretty fucking certain that you were liking this way too much.

The Texter– I really couldn’t care less if someone is on there phone. Sometimes it’s nice not feeling pressured to make small talk about Bruce Jenner’s sex change, but I can’t help feeling like she may actually be Snapchatting my hands in her lady garden to all of her friends (and hackers), which is not quite how I imagined myself getting famous.

The Pre-Colonoscopy – I really wish this didn’t have to be a Public Service Announcement, but Dear. God. If you are going in for a colonoscopy right after your brazilian, which means you are actively having to consume gallons of liquid that, you know…empties you out…well.

Don’t come in for a Brazilian.

Let me repeat myself. A waxing table does not double as a toilet.

Wrong channel, my dear. This is not Dirty Jobs.

Geez. LUH-weez.

The Astrologer – “I should probably apologize in advance for being so tensed up and cranky today. Mercury is in retrograde and it’s realllly affecting me.”

Oh, okay well I don’t really care if Mercury is in your refrigerator.

You need to stop it.

The Eyebrow Wax – “Um, so I should probably tell you that I’m suuuuuper picky about my eyebrows haha but like, really. I’ve tried several places and everyone seems to just fuck them up I don’t know why it’s so hard to just do them how I want. Oh, if you reach into my purse there I have a picture of (insert any botoxed-as-fuck celebrity name), whose eyebrows are EXACTLY how I want them so if you could just do them like that, that’d be great. But please don’t fuck them up.”

There is literally nothing scarier than a high maintenance, condescending biatch who wants an eyebrow wax.

YOU, my darling, are bona fide crazy.


The Over-Estimator – “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck OHMYGOD wait don’t do it! Okay okay do it. Wait no I can’t I can’t I LITERALLY can’t…okay fuuuuuck just do it already!!! No WAI— Oh, that’s it? You pulled it already? Oh. Heh. Yea. It’s not that bad.” 

The Under-Estimator – “Hi, I’m a badass and I’m going to act like one and also I wore these really tight workout clothes so that you can see all my muscles and know that I lift SOOooo many weights all day erryday baby. No amount of pain can get to me.”


The Lost in Translation – This client speaks no English and I essentially have to play charades in order to ask if she wants to leave a triangle, landing strip, leave it bare, etc….waving, pointing, and making shapes at my own vagina.

Literally miming.

The Entightled One – (Esthetician was out sick)

“God, can’t she just come in for thirty minutes and wax me and then leave????”

You know what? That’s a super great idea, actually. How did we not think of that? Let me just call her for you right now, I’m sure she’d love to drag her puking self off the bathroom floor so that you don’t have to see someone else today who is also perfectly qualified to remove your vagina hair.

Rapunzel – I have too many other things going on to give a shit about what the situation is inside of your pants, but every once in awhile I am just at a loss for words for how amazingly long people can grow their hair-down-there. I have literally seen masses of silky, golden locks.

LOCKS! Of hair!


Hair that looks more healthy and styled than what’s on my HEAD.


Dear. God.

The Leg Sugar – Not every hair-removal process involves the nether-regions, and I think most estheticians would agree that having to sugar someone’s legs is one of the most tedious and exhausting things we have to do. Whenever there’s a full leg sugar on the books, it’s a collective “Awww fuck,” directed at whichever poor girl at the spa has to perform it. If you don’t know what sugaring is, it’s an alternative to waxing (and I highly prefer it, so you should try it if you haven’t already, and then never wax again because it’s fucking amazing).

Sugaring requires a lot more physical effort on your esthetician, though, so doing your entire legs is basically like lifting weights for an hour straight. Not to say that we’re ungrateful for our new arm muscles, but sweating profusely for an hour at a job you’re supposed to look super put-together at is not that cute and you should at least consider bringing your Esthetician a cookie/latte/big mac/new car/mortgage payment…

You know.

Whatever works for you.

The Sorority Girl – Have you tried the new spray tan place? It’s amAAAAAze-ballssss. Omg I’m TOTES going to Vegas in three days. It’s gonna be hella tight haha my parents think I’m going to visit my girlfriend in Denver but fuck that!! VEGASSSS BABYYYY. I think DJ McDouche is spinning that night ugh I’m probably gonna black out hahaha OH WELL!

Like, OMG, though.

So. Tan.


The Last Appointment of the Day – If you happen to be your Esthetician’s last appointment of the day, you will literally never experience getting a faster brazilian in your entire life. I have done (high-quality) brazilians in four minutes flat. Do not even try to interrupt my flow.

The LATE Last Appointment of the Day – If you are the last appointment and are also LATE, you may as well turn your little tush around and run away as fast as you can because now you are fucking with our precious commute time, the dinner we’ve been dreaming about since 3pm, not to mention the fact that you probably didn’t even apologize for being late.

We actually want to hurt you at this point.

Sorry in advance.

The Post-Workout Sweat Machine – Riddle me this. Would you do hot yoga for and hour and then bang your sweetie-pie right after sweating profusely out of every pore on your body?

Probably not.

Because it’s gross.

So do us all a favor and don’t come get a brazilian right after that, either.

Because it’s gross.

The Gay Back Waxer Bitch, I get these all the time. NOT phased.

The Straight Back Waxer – I’ve never been waxed and my girlfriend is forcing me to do this but I’m sure it’s no big deal I mean DUDE, I’M A GUY, right? HOLY SHIT this hurts like a motherfuckerrrrr but I REFUSE to show it so instead I will bury my face into the pillow and white-knuckle the sides of the table while incomprehensibly responding to questions between gritted teeth.

The Exaggerator– “You’re killing me. KILL-ING. ME. Your literally killing me right now. I’m going to die. You’re so damn nice, but you’re like…like…an executioner of PAIN. I literally want to cut you right now. Haha omg just kidding…BUT SERIOUSLY.”

The Stay At Home Mom – This saint of a woman is so happy to have a break from the five (lovely) little monsters causing one catastrophe after another that she really doesn’t care WHAT you’re doing to her. You could rip her coochie right open and she’d probably still fall asleep on your table.

The Submissive – “My boyfriend’s making me get waxed. Haha cute, right? I’m terrified, but I just want to make him happy.”

You listen here little lady. Tell that jerkwad of yours that he should just be happy to be down there at all.

You make HIM come in here and get waxed so that you’re not flossing your teeth with his pubes every time you want a new handbag.

The Pre-Competition Body Builder – Okay, now this poor thing needs more than I or anyone could ever give her during a thirty minute appointment. She is dehydrated as hell right before a competition, making her skin shrivel up and tighten around the hair follicles, thus making them super painful and nearly IMPOSSIBLE to get out.

Not to mention she is so HANGRY from not eating real food for three weeks that she’s eyeing the ball of pube-filled sugar like it’s candy.

Watch out for these ones. They’re feral.

The Post-“Whoopie” Waxer – You think we can’t tell that you just had sex.

Believe me.


The One Who Wears TOM’s – Okay. We all know by now that TOM’s shoes have this magical way of giving your feet an odor so offensive that skunks would be jealous.

I KNOW you know.

This is not a new discovery.


Don’t wear TOM’s all day and then take them off in my tiny little Cracker Jack box of a room.


The “Couple’s” Wax – Some girls get really confused with life and think that they can bring their man into the room with them so that he can watch me be all up in her downstairs.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

All I can say is that I’m not paid nearly enough to be treated like a porn star.

Not even a porn star, though. It’s more like being an actress in an amateur porn with really awful lighting.

But that’s beside the point.

Either way, NO.


Sally No Shame – This girl thinks that because you wax her vajajay, you must also know everything else there is to know about vagina’s and bums and weird growths and spots, etc.

We’re not doctors.

We’re not allowed to diagnose you.

And no, I don’t know if “those things” are hemorrhoids. I’m just trying to stay away from them.

The Nudist – This lady seems to think that you need to remove every single piece of clothing on your body in order to get only about 1/20th of it waxed.

Really special.

Thank you for the anatomy lesson that I didn’t need.

The Pregnant Lady – A lot of women assume that you can’t get brazilians while pregnant.


You can totally get brazilians while you’re pregnant.

My only concern is when you decide to come in on or after your due date because I’m spending the whole time praying that I don’t send you into labor while YOU spend the whole time praying that I send you into labor.

The Flatulator – Yes. That’s a word now.

I needn’t explain this.

And yes. I’m sorry for me, too.

And if that isn’t enough to satisfy your masochistic needs, I’ll just leave you with this gem:

You’re gonna wax my ass, right? My boyfriend has been making fun of me because his cum keeps getting stuck in my butt hair.”



What in the Hell are Toggle Bolts, and Other Reasons Why I Can’t “Adult”

I recently moved!

My new ‘hood is one that I’d always thought was kinda lame (for absolutely no good reason).

Open mouth, insert foot.

Literally the coolest neighborhood.


I’m now only blocks away from the beach, and the best doughnut shop in Seattle.

Both are necessities.

I also now live with three boys.

My main man, my older man, and my baby…man. Baby man?

Anyway, only one of them is human, which I guess would be a good time to mention that WE GOT A PUPPY!

I can’t write about our newest addition here though because he needs his very own post, obvi, but my Instagram page is now ALL puppy pictures — I’m so sorry. Feel free to unfollow me. I totally turned into THAT girl and I hate myself for it. That being said, our new pup is fucking adorable so YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE EXPLOSION OF CUTE.

But back to moving.

We decided to hire movers. Not because my bank account is overflowing, it’s obviously not (thanks a lot, Zara/Sephora/Urban Outfitters, you bitches. God, I love you guys so much). I was willing to fork over the dough to hire movers though, because when I moved to my last apartment, the physical and emotional trauma that hauling 16,000 boxes in and out of a uhaul took on me is the sole reason why it then took me 9 whole months to gain enough motivation to actually unpack all the boxes and decorate my place.

That’s the lie I’m telling myself anyways.

Lazy could also be a reason.

So hiring movers is awesome, except for the part where they were 3 hours late and it was Friday afternoon with rush hour traffic and they didn’t end up leaving our new place till eleven-fucking-thirty PM. BUT, I did not throw out my precious vagina-waxing shoulder from lifting and pushing and kicking and punching six million pounds of knick knacks. So it was worth it. Also, I ordered pizzas for all of us and you better believe I stuffed my sailor’s mouth full of an inappropriate amount of mozzarella grease and questionable pepperoni’s, which made the whole 3 hrs late/bad traffic/super expensive issue just float right out the window (along with all hopes of being bikini ready by our upcoming Mexico trip).

The struggle is real.

The movers DID seem to strangely “forget” to pack my box of undies, though…which was a super fun issue to come across at 6:30am the next morning.

Now about these “toggle bolts.”

Seriously. What the fuck, you guys.

Have YOU ever heard of a toggle bolt?


All I want to do is hang some damn pictures in my house and apparently we have metal studs or that’s my assessment anyways from making massive holes in the wall with a power drill without any success of hanging anything because I DON’T KNOWWW.

Help me.

Mind you, my Voice of Reason (and better half) has been kindly encouraging me to talk to someone at Home Depot first but thanks to my father passing along his stubbornness to Yours Truly, I have been hell-bent on hanging these all by myself and also because HELLO, POWER TOOLS ARE FUCKING AWESOME GIVE THEM TO ME NOW.

Suffice it to say, there are more holes in my wall then there are pictures on it, and Google’s recommendation of using toggle bolts has only further enhanced the failure, but you better believe I will Tim the Tool Man Taylor my way through these major minor setbacks.

Let’s get real for a minute though, because our new house has a laundry shoot, so being frustrated at anything for very long is nearly impossible. A LAUNDRY SHOOT, PEOPLE.

Praise Jesus.

Praise him.

Also included with the house were two raised garden beds.

Let’s see: fresh veggies and fruits and flowers and cute gardening gloves and “Here, neighbors, have some fresh blueberry pie I made from berries that I planted in this earth and also please don’t hate us if when Sawyer poops in your yard.”???


So I decided to put on my gardenin’ hat and do what I had helped my pops do every year growing up.

Turns out it’s a little harder when your dad isn’t here to swat the spiders off of you while you stand paralyzed in fear.

And also harder because peat moss/mulch/compost/lasagna-method/vermiculite/topsoil/native-soil WHY SO MANY TYPES OF DIRT-THINGS TO CHOOSE FROM????

Also. Shoveling dirt is hard. I mean, I know dirt is heavy, but Jesus Christ.

I did do it, though. And it was fun.

I did it and I heard my dad through all of it.

I heard his laugh while I swore at spiders and all the dirt and compost and peat moss I had to shovel and rake.

And I heard him telling me about all the different fruits and veggies I was planting as I dug each hole and sowed each seed.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse at the fact that he’s gone or take a deep breath or just lie down in the grass and be still.

So I did all of those things.

And in the end I had this. And no matter what grows (or doesn’t), we did it together.

And it felt really good. And that’s enough.

Happy Sunday.



Almost Thirty: I’ll Never Be Homecoming Queen

The other day I was walking downtown on my lunch break when out of nowhere the guy walking in front of me threw two huge handfuls of something into the air, proceeding to shower me in CONDOMS. He didn’t look back, didn’t miss a beat. Just kept walking.

What worried me about this was not that I might now be on some YouTube prank video, nor that he seemed really delighted to get rid of (arguably) essential sexy time gear, but that I also just kept walking. Aside from checking the lid of my caramel macchiato to make sure I wasn’t about to inhale a contraceptive, I really didn’t even bat an eye.

My guess is that after staring at twenty vagina’s a day for almost two years, impromptu condom showers just don’t phase me anymore.

Condom confetti.

Okay then.



This is the year I turn thirty.

That magical, dreadful number that seemingly makes us all shit our pants and have a nervous breakdown because we’re not married yet/we ARE married holy shit/we’re afraid our eggs are drying up/we don’t want kids/we were supposed to be pregnant SIX MONTHS AGO WTF/Our metabolism is being a giant bitch/we still can’t do our own taxes/we’re forever alone/thelistgoesonforever.

Right? Right.

I haven’t really been thinking about turning thirty though, until I recently went home for the weekend and found a diary from ninth grade.

How precious.

In this little gem included lots of lists:

“People I’ve Dated.” That list was short.

“Stupid Dumb Bitches.” That list was longer.

My favorite, though, was one titled, “Goals to Be Accomplished Before the Age of 30.”

I got a chuckle out of it and kept going on with my life except that since then I’ve come across several articles whilst surfing the interwebs, with lists of where I should in my life by the time I reach this “magical” number. And I say several as in, almost everyday I am seeing essays on why I’m a sucky almost-thirty-year-old.

Is everyone turning thirty this year?

Okay universe. Thank you. I GET IT. Do your laundry.

These people are telling me that in order to be a proper adult, I should know how to fold a fitted sheet properly, read the news everyday, get enough sleep, and never run out of toilet paper. First of all, fitted sheets can just fuck right off. Reading the news everyday is like feeding yourself depression pills. Getting enough sleep is just a ridiculous term that some jerk coined in an attempt to make us believe that it IS actually possible to feel rested, and toilet paper is something you just never think about until it’s too late, which is what paper towels are for (or the napkins you get in your McDonalds bag as if you’d ever use them because obviously you will just lick the sauce off your fingers. Hello).

The list that my 14 year old self wrote though, is far more worthy of striving for, in my not-so-humble opinion.

So I figured I would share what I thought was most important to do in your first thirty years of life, and we can all have a pity party celebrating how much we (don’t?) have our shit together.


This would be way more entertaining if I hadn’t accomplished any of these goals, but unfortunately I can tick off more than I thought I would (or at least a version of them).

Sorry ’bout that.

I didn’t make it to American Idol’s Top Ten, but I did get a golden ticket, only to be shot down by the show’s producers in the second round. Not devastated or traumatized by that at all.

Let’s all do a slow clap at the fact that I’m not raising two children at this point because remembering to give my cat his eye drops everyday is enough of a struggle. Also if you really can’t drink coffee while pregnant, I’m really going to have to rethink this entire process.

I never studied abroad but I did live abroad so I’ll go buy myself a donut for that, later.

Skydiving is really fucking fun and everyone should do it unless you really really don’t want to. Then you should probably not do it, lest you have PTSD for all of eternity.

Shopping sprees are something I apparently took a little too seriously because I now work in a building that’s only a three minute walk from Zara, Anthropologie, Sephora, Nordstrom, yougetmydrift. It’s a BIG issue, people. A big issue. But, as a 14 year old I found this to be really important to do in my life so I really don’t feel that bad about it.

Bungee jumping is a sore subject to say the least, since I was literally standing on the ledge of a bungee tower and couldn’t seem to find my balls that day. I’d like to blame it on being hungover but the truth is that I was just a giant weenie. Instead, I got to take the walk of shame alllll the way down the tallest spiral staircase you could possibly imagine, and then go crawl into a hole and try to disappear forever.

I don’t wanna get all mushy here because that’s stupid and I’m not trying to make you guys puke, but let’s just say I’m pretty happy with the fact that I’m not dating a guy with a southern accent right now.

As for the REALLY important things on this list, I only have 8 months to buy a Navigator and be Homecoming Queen.

(Pray for me)

My conclusion to this whole “turning thirty” mumbo jumbo is that according to most lists, I’m kind of sucking at life. But according to MY list, I’m doing okay.

I have to say, I’d take skydiving and traveling and owning horses over being an expert fitted sheet folder any day of the week.

So I say to you, my lovelies: Make your own goddamn list.

Oh, and by the way, my contour IS on point.