Month: June 2014

I Can’t Control My F-Bombs, and Other Ways I Embarrassed My Mom on Her Birthday

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Have you ever hung out with your mom’s best girlfriends for a night?

Well if you haven’t, you should because it’s fucking HILARIOUS.

I surprised my mom for her birthday, by inviting some of her friends out to dinner back in my hometown, which consists of about 50 people, 6,000 cows, and a bunch of jacked-up trucks.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with how to hang out with your mom’s friends, I put together a guide.

It’s fail-proof.

1. Choose A Venue:

I chose a super-swanky Mexican joint. Except that it’s not super or swanky, but this town isn’t exactly riddled with options, so it was either rice and beans or pizza.

2. Keep the Alcohol Flowing:

You don’t have to do much work on this one, because when you show up to the restaurant, the ladies will already have giant margarita’s in front of them, and most will already be halfway gone. Everyone will be fascinated by those who ordered Cadillacs, and then promptly order one because they have more alcohol and Hello, the point of drinking tequila is to get fucked up.

(I, on the other hand, was watching this all go down through sober eyes and a straw full of diet coke. Lame-ass, maybe, but to be honest, the thought of alcohol was still giving me the shakes a little bit, after the previous weekend’s shenanigans which started off with a town car being sent for me…aaand I forget the rest. Wait, no, I remember a lot of mezcal. THEN I forget the rest. Maybe. All I’m saying is that Christian Gray actually exists and his Ducati is fast as hell.

Engage in “Girl Talk”:

Girl talk is pretty universal. Chatting with women 30 years older than you the same as chatting with women your own age, except that instead of constantly comparing yourselves to characters from Sex and the City, you compare yourselves to characters from The Golden Girls. Someone will inevitably call someone “Rose” for not getting a joke, and then all hell will break loose because no one wants to be Rose!!! It’s apparently as bad as being Miranda. Then, someone will call dibs on being Blanche because Blanche gets laid. I’m pretty sure that being Dorothy is a safe bet, but I’d personally want to be Sophia because that old broad is one sassy motherfucker (and I just know she’s got at least three men on the side that no one knows about).

—

Inevitably you’ll bring up hot men. Obvi. Men that women over the age of fifty find attractive might be just a tad different from who I consider do-able great husband material (and by the way, my celeb crushes got completely annihilated by these women. Thanks, ladies).

For example, apparently “Dr. Drew” Pinksy is primetime man meat. Who would’ve known?! He does have man boobs, according to one of the ladies, but I guess that’s not a deal breaker. It turns out he’s sexy enough to have an extra-marital affair with, and apparently it’s been okayed with her husband but it doesn’t matter anyways because as she put it, I don’t care what my husband says. If Dr. Drew walks in my house, I’m doin’ him. I like her style.

Other hot celebrities include the host of The Late Late Show, Craig Ferguson, Wayne Brady, Anderson Cooper, and the announcer on Price is Right, “George.” THE ANNOUNCER ON PRICE IS RIGHT. I cannot even make this stuff up.

I learned a lot about myself during this conversation, like how Dr. Drew actually IS really attractive…if you only look at certain pictures of his face, and only if he’s wearing glasses, and also only if you block out the fact that he had a sex therapy show on MTV, because lord knows the last place you need someone to be psychoanalyzing you is in the sack.

—

Women love to moan about the way they look. It’s this disgusting habit that seems to be engrained in us. I find that the best way to engage in body-bashing is to gripe about how you’re too tired and lazy to workout, while stuffing an enchilada into your face and ignoring the steady stream of grease running down your chin. Because that’s what I did. The only difference between bashing your body at my age and bashing it when you’re 60 is that at my age, you reach your goal weight by purposefully contracting a horrible stomach flu. It’s slightly different once you’re over the hill. As my mother’s friend so eloquently put it, “I won’t be hittin’ my goal weight until 9 months after I’m dead.”

—

In order to feel like sophisticated, grown women, talk about current events. For instance, the new crosswalks that were just put in around our one and ONLY stoplight in the entire town. I didn’t know that crosswalks could create such a hooplah, but Those goddamn things are in the wrong spot! If I stop my car as far back as the lines tell me to, I can’t see a damn thing!! How am I supposed to California-stop and nearly hit a pedestrian on my way to the local Five and Dime!? I’ll tell you something. This city doesn’t know what the HELL they’re doing.

The struggle is real.

—

Work is always a safe bet as far as conversation topics go. When I talk about work, the word vagina comes up a lot. I also tend to not be able to control my use of the word fuck, because I just really love that word. It’s the best.

Anyways, if you attempt to explain to a bunch of your mom’s friends what “sugaring,” is, this might happen:
Me: So sugaring is basically just a really gentle way to remove hair, and it’s all natural; just sugar, water, lemon and salt!

Mom’s friend: Oh, well I can’t get sugared, then. I have diabetes. 

—

4. Have Your Love Life Interrogated:

You probably haven’t seen your mothers’ friends in a really long time so undoubtedly, someone will ask if you’re still with “that one guy,” and all the rest of the eyes at the table will widen because they’ve heard some version of the story and let’s just say it ain’t pretty. At this point, it’s up to you to decide if you want to re-hash the madness, but if you do, don’t forget the part about the so-ridiculous-it-can’t-even-be-real way that you found out he’d been cheating. Then, cheers to being strong-ass women and take an extra large swig of someone’s drink. Then regret the extra large swig as PTSD flashbacks from the previous weekend start to hit you.

When one of the ladies asks if she can set you up with her son, who’s six years younger than you, don’t fret. I’m fairly certain this is normal behavior. Try to see it as a compliment to your (awesomeness?) instead of a plea to start popping out babies because your eggs are drying up and nobody wants to put a ring on it once your wrinkles are visible in dim lighting (not that either of those things are happening, but if you do feel the need to point out a wrinkle on me, feel free to go step on Lego).

—

I love my mom’s friends. I love my mom, too. I’d say the birthday bash turned out to be a great success, thanks to my expert knowledge in how to hang out with people 3 times your age.

I ate a ton of cheese (with a side of enchilada), was introduced to new words to call people when they are giant jerk faces (i.e. Cum Dumpster), got an amazing ab workout from laughing (only stopping long enough to stick another forkful of Mexican lard in my mouth), and also learned some new tricks for the bedroom that I won’t be using anytime soon because we all traumatized each other by reading passages out of Urban Dictionary. Do YOU guys know how to milk a prostate? Well, we do.

I’m off to Vegas tonight, and my plan as of right now is to get arrested because I feel like that’s the only way to truly experience the real Las Vegas. If I survive it, I’ll let you know how many wifey’s I accumulated while in the slammer.

Happy Wednesday, lovers!

Go kiss somebody.

Love,

M.

Father’s Day

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An eternity has woven itself inside of these last 10 months, but it seems like only yesterday that I kissed you goodbye.

Grief is strange. Maybe it had been withholding itself. Maybe it was waiting until it knew I was capable of doing it in a safe space.

Someone I thought I loved scolded me for grieving you, telling me, “Well it’s been four months.” As if four months is the magical number, the point where I should’ve stopped grieving the death of my father. I knew it was so incredibly wrong, but something inside of me seized up at that moment, and subconsciously tried to protect itself from such cruel and selfish words ever being said to me again. Just like the days leading up to your funeral when I was scoffed at for listening to a poem, one that connected you to my heart; the one that I ended up sharing a bit of at your service; the one I based my whole speech around because it moved me that much. I didn’t say why I was listening to it at the time, but I shouldn’t have had to. I wept silently as the author spoke the words when my body was begging me to let it out. I laid curled up in a ball at the very edge of the bed when I should have had two arms to safely fall apart into.

I’m so sorry that I had to keep you at bay for awhile. I’m so sorry if you ever thought I wasn’t thinking about you.

I’m so sorry.

And so now that I am in this place, this new, safe, healthy place, my heart has broken for you all over again, like it should have been able to all along. I cry for you all the time; in the strangest moments, and in the most obvious ones; in the quiet moments, and the overwhelming ones.

I cry for you now as I write this, and my sobs are getting too big to keep my eyes open, but my thoughts are not willing to wait, and so I keep typing, eyes blinded by tears, hoping that my hands alone, can say what is so clearly spilling out of my heart.

I cry for you and I don’t wish the tears away because they are a connection to you. They honor you. Each one spills over my cheek bone and down to the edge of my jaw, dripping into the hollow between my collar bones, just like the single tear that ran down your cheek when your eyes closed for the last time. I tasted it when I kissed your face, and that moment comes back to me when I taste my own.

The last trip we took together was to the ocean, your favorite place. Your sacred place. I had to drive us because your body was shutting down, but we didn’t speak of that. Instead, I sang along to the radio and made stupid jokes, and you told me stories; stories of your childhood and stories of us; stories of searching for pretty shells and sand dollars, and chasing down the waves together. I took each one in like a deep, deep breath, never wanting to exhale them out.

I was driving around a sharp corner when you asked me if I wanted your trick kites; the ones we used to fly together when the wind whipped at our backs and the sand stung our eyes and our laughs were lost in the crashing of the waves. I remember it so vividly because the sharpness of the corner mimicked the sharpness of the pain that stabbed my heart when you asked. I said yes, against my own will, because I knew that was your way of saying goodbye. You didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t either. But we both knew what your question and my answer meant.

At that moment I silently pleaded with anyone listening to please take it away. Please. Please give it to me instead. Please let me take your place. I will fight it. I can fight it.

No one listened. No one answered me.

And so I listened to the playing of Taps in a gymnasium filled with everyone who loved you, and watched my dear friend and fellow veteran, present my mother with an American flag.

I didn’t get to fight it for you.

I lost you.

Most days I feel lost, myself, and I am scared to look for you because what if I can’t find you? What if I find nothing? What if everything people say about you being here with me always is just a bunch of bullshit? How can anyone truly know?

So I went searching for shells, like we did when I was little, at one of the beaches in Costa Rica. I was the only one there that day. I found purple ones and red ones and I knew which one would have been your favorite right when I saw it; it was smooth with orange markings, and you would’ve told me they looked like tiger stripes. I chased down the waves, and they chased me back, the water so warm against my legs. I screamed at the ocean in anger, and wept as I walked along the shoreline. I threw fistfuls of sand and it went nowhere, and I asked a million questions of “why,” with no one to hear.

Why did it have to be you? Why did you have to suffer? Why wasn’t I able to save you? Why didn’t they let me take your place? 

The absurdness of it all made me laugh and I couldn’t help but think of you laughing, too. I was so far away from everything, but I’d never felt closer to you.

And then I came back, and I couldn’t find you anymore.

The city feels so big. My own walls feel suffocating, and too many buildings take up too little space, and I can’t feel anything except for business and money and ego and everything else that is everything but what you were.

I couldn’t see you.

And now it’s Father’s Day, the first one without you. There’s a weight on my chest and my heart is so tired. It’s hard to get a full breath, and each one is a constant reminder that all of yours are gone.

In my sadness I forget how close I am to what you so dearly love; to what you made me fall in love with.

So I walk the three blocks down to the water’s edge. Ferries are making their way across the Sound, and I imagine how I would’ve rolled my eyes at your excitement over the beauty of it. I would give anything to be able to roll my eyes at you again.

Slowly, the city is drowned out by waves and the smell of salt water and the sound of my breath and the warmth of the sun on my freckled shoulders. I ask the waves why you don’t get to have any more days and I ask the breeze how I’m supposed to go any more of my own without the  sound of your voice. I ask the current if the ashes that I sprinkled into the Costa Rican waters have made their way here, because I had asked each drop to hold you tightly. Because I had begged them to take you on their travels; to never let you go.

And I’m so caught up in the fact that I don’t feel you here like I so badly want to, that I barely notice the stranger that has been standing behind me. He is older, and he has bright blue eyes.

You had bright blue eyes.

Before I could say hello, he says, “You are beautiful.” I blush hard, and I smile, surprised and silently knowing that he is so completely unaware of the ocean of salty tears that have been pooling up behind my aviators long before he crossed my path.

It’s then that I am so aware that sometimes the darkness and the light take up the same space at the same moment, and they are both so very holy. Both so very beautiful. Both so very needed; each one a highlight, a reminder of the other.

As I thank him out loud, I thank you inside, because maybe that was it. Maybe that was you, telling me I’m beautiful. Still your beautiful little girl. Still okay. Still here. Still yours.

You’re still mine.

I see you.

—

If you’re able to hug your dad today, I hope you get to hug him every Father’s Day, and everyday, for forever.

If, like me, you’re no longer able to, my heart is with you.

Happy Father’s Day to my favorite guy. My first love. My best love.

—

Love,

M.

“Are You Gonna Get My Gooch, Too?” — People You Meet on the Table

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I’m an Esthetician. I do all forms of skin care. I’ll even tediously glue a single false eyelash extension onto every single one of someone’s real eyelashes, because sometimes I like to know how it feels to be cross-eyed. It’s called empathy, people.

While I am trained to do nearly everything on the spa menu, I mainly do brazilian waxing (or sugaring) all day.

Brazilians are my jam.

And no, I did not think that I would be removing hair from vaginas for a living, but I also did not think that Jimmy Fallon would marry that bitch of a wife instead of me, but such is life.

Except that she’s probably not a bitch.

What? I’m not bitter.

The thing about doing brazilians all day is that you meet all sorts of people. It’s almost like getting paid to people watch. Except with gloves on…and having private parts exposed. So yea, basically like people-watching. You also meet all sorts of vagina’s, but that post is for another day…or maybe never.

Anyways, here they are, in no particular order.

Disclaimer: This is not intended to be client-shaming. I love what I do, and I, myself, AM one of these clients. We are ALL one of these clients. And ladies, let’s be real. It doesn’t matter which type we are, we will always be stronger than men, because lord knows how much of a pussy a man is when you put hot wax and ball-sack in the same sentence.

So no shame, ladies! No shame.

Unless you’re the bad tipper.

Unknown

The 30 People You Meet on the Waxing Table

The Analyst – This client is constantly examining each spot as you wax it, double-checking for strays, and getting her hands all up in her goodies when YOUR hands should be the only hands within six inches of her cooch. Why? Because you have GLOVES on, and she doesn’t. Who cares? Well, when I’ve just ripped your hair follicles wide open, making them super susceptible to bacteria/toxins/other bullshit getting in there, and you want to rub your grimy little fingers all over yourself that were probably just all over your dirty cell phone and a glazed donut, well. Don’t come crying to me later when you have five thousand infected hair follicles. Thanks.

The Grabber – This chick grabs your wrists/hands/arms before you go to pull the strip or flick off the sugar. One of my clients even said to me one time, “You’re pulling way too fast! Can you pull the strip off slower please!?” Honey. Baby girl. If I pull this strip off slowly, not only are you going to feel every single hair come out of every single follicle at each individual moment, but you are also going to pass out from the pain and then be charged for attempted murder of your Esthetician. Now keep your hands to yourself, my love. Don’t make me get the cuffs.

The Low-Talker – The majority of your conversation consists of “Huh???” because this client is such a mumbler that you probably wouldn’t be able to hear her if your ear was in her mouth, let alone the fact that your face is basically in her vagina.

The Jekyll and Hyde – This girl is a sneaky devil. She is at best, very nice to your face, and at worst, politely smug. There’s nothing wrong with the service, and you go about your jolly day, wishing her a happy rest of hers. Later, you find out that she A) complains about things that NEVER happened (often resulting in a free service, or an excuse not to tip), or B) complains that it HURT. Sweetie pie, I’m ripping out your vagina hair. Did you expect an orgasm? 

The Dead Spider – This client has such a low pain-tolerance and is so tense throughout the service that is seems as though all four limbs are awkwardly frozen in a state of rigor mortis and her hands have gone white from gripping the table so hard. Her eyes are also most likely popping out of her sockets and you wonder to yourself if this is actually real life, or if you’re being Punk’d. …Or if you’ve actually just killed someone.

The Drunk – This chick is not a rookie. She knows what brazilians are about. She knows it’s painful, she knows she’s a pansy, and so she has a margarita or five beforehand. That way, instead of writhing around the table in pain, she’s laughing her ass off and getting really graphic about her latest hookup from Tinder.

The Loud Talker – This girl does not know how to turn the volume down, and no matter how many times you imply that there’s a massage going on next door, or how quietly you whisper, the bitch keeps yelling.

The Deceiver – This chick is the one that walks in ten minutes late saying “Oh yea I’m totes just a maintenance, you can get me done in 15 minutes no problem.” FULL-ON AMAZONIAN JUNGLE BUSH.

The Shaver – She thinks it’d be a good idea to come in just days after shaving, when the hair is barely long enough to even see with the naked eye, let alone rip out from the root. My favorite “shaver” is someone who came in after shaving absolutely everything off THAT MORNING. When I asked her why she did that, she replied, “Well I thought it’d hurt less if I shaved everything off, first.” Well of course it’ll hurt less, my dear. There’s nothing left to wax. Now kindly exit my room so I can scream into the pillow you’re lying on. 

The Vacation Emergency – This girl either walks in without an appointment, or is so late for hers that it’s past the cutoff time, but she will BEG you to squeeze her in because she’s leaving for Vegas in three hours and is clearly planning on whoring it up. I usually say yes because I take great pride in prepping my clients for one night stand’s and STD’s.

The Hyena – This chick has a slightly different way of coping with pain, and instead of grimacing or swearing, she laughs hysterically. THE WHOLE TIME. It’s honestly probably the most awkward situation of all. I do not know how to handle you when you can’t even stop laughing long enough to answer me when I ask you if you want me to leave a landing strip.

The Switch Hitter – This girl comes in with no idea if she wants me to sugar her or wax her, leave a landing strip or take it all off. After I’ve pulled the first wax strip off she’s decided that it hurts too much and wants sugar. Then she wants to take a breather and think some more about if she wants to be completely hairless or not. Then she wants to go back to wax because the sugar “feels pull-y” today. Do you know how hard it is to put a new pair of gloves on sweaty hands sixteen different times?! Make a decision and stick to it, darling. ‘Aint nobody got time for that. 

The Bear Trap – Also known as the Venus Fly Trap, this girl snaps her legs shut every time you rip a patch of hair out. The consequences are two-fold: 1) your arm may or may not have been shut in between her knees, which is how I once acquired a nice forearm bruise, and B) she has now officially stuck herself together with sugar or wax, and the “unsticking” is going to be painful. Really painful…which is what I like to call KARMA. So keep your legs open. 

The Crier – Rarely do I have someone cry on my table, but it has happened a few times. Most of the time the girl is so mortified about it that she stops noticing why she was crying in the first place and I’m able to finish the uh, project. Sometimes I stop the service because I feel like I’m partaking in war torture tactics. And SOMETIMES, more like ONE time, a girl was crying and I stopped the service because she disclosed that her “boyfriend” (who “bought” her, more or less), was FORCING her to get waxed. Here’s what I have to say to that classy gentleman: FUCK. YOU. 

The Stepford Wife – This lady is on point. If it’s an afternoon appointment, she’s dressed like she’s on her way to the country club. If it’s early in the morning, she’s got the most expensive designer yoga gear on that you could possibly buy. Her hair is impeccable, and you’d never catch her without mascara on. She NEVER misses an appointment, it’s always four weeks to the day, like clockwork. God only knows what her husband would do if she missed a wax. She’s fascinating to listen to because all she talks about is how hot her personal trainer is, or her latest trip to the south of France, or the yacht her husband just rented to sail around the San Juans next weekend. Basically she makes you feel really great about the fact that your upcoming weekend plans consisted of Subway combo meals and binge-watching 16 and Pregnant.

The Sexually Deprived – This client has just been through the ringer. Be it a terrible divorce, a messy breakup, or a stint in the slammer with no conjugal visits, this girl is ready to get back in the game. These clients usually give you an extra-large tip because they’re just so damn excited for their hoo-hoo to be ready for some yum-yum. If I didn’t care about keeping my job, I’d definitely end all of these particular appointments with a high-five, and a “You get out there and get yourself a hot piece of ass, honey! Yee Haw!” Because I’m classy.

The Bad Wiper – I don’t think this one needs much explanation because your imagination is probably accurate. My dress code doesn’t include a hazmat suit, people. The wipes are there for a reason. Use them.

The Full Disclosure – This chick does not give a flying fuck about what comes out of her mouth and will say things like, “Are you gonna get my gooch, too?,” or, “I know I’m not supposed to have sex for 48 hours after this, but can we do anal?,” or “I just need enough hair to be gone so that my boyfriend can eat me out.” These chicks are crazy. I love them.

The Post-Partum Bleeder – This lady will come in only  a few weeks after giving birth, and is clearly itching to get back on the sexy-time wagon. The problem is that she comes in before she’s allowed to wear a tampon…to stop the BLEEDING. So when she tells me we’ll probably need a lot of extra towels on the bed, I am forced to have to find a way to politely say to her “Um, NO you may not get naked on my table and bleed through my sheets and all over my hands while I sacrifice my own health in an attempt to prepare you for another round of baby-making. NO SOUP FOR YOU!” You’ve gotta be able to cork it, ladies.

The Skeptic – This girl show no mercy. She walks in looking you up and down, and turns your relaxing spa environment into an interrogation room. “How long have you been doing this? You’re new, aren’t you? What kind of wax is this? Why is it green? That’s not what my other lady used. What’s so good about sugar anyway? My friend told me that sugaring is bad for you. My old esthetician used to do my butt first, are you gonna do that? How’d you get into this profession, anyways? How many clients have walked out of an appointment? Has this place ever been sued?” Lady. Have you ever heard of Xanax? 

Aunt Flo – This chick comes in on her period, which is totally fine with me. BUT. Ladies. Please take note. If you are gonna come in on the rag, do yourself a favor. Make sure you have a new tampon in, and shove that string all the way up your chachi so that I don’t have to play Operation trying to maneuver around the damn thing. The last thing you or I want to have happen is your string getting caught in the wax and your bloody tampon being flung against the wall when I pull off a strip. Okay? Okay.

The Secret Sexpot – This chick looks like the girl next door on the outside, and then you remove the towel and she has six vagina piercings, or tattoos of swear words or really racist symbols all around her no-no zone. Now try starting a convo in THAT situation. Yea.

The Soul Sister – These are very few and far between. I only have two, and I see HUNDREDS of people. This girl is someone you meet and you instantly feel like you’ve been friends forever. You get super excited when you see her on the schedule and you always hug it out. Sometimes you even go slower so that you can chat longer. Basically you wish you could be talkin’ shop half- naked with mimosa’s on a beach instead of half-naked with hot wax on a table.

The Bad Tipper – I think the title explains itself. There are only two situations in which it is excusable to leave a bad tip, or no tip at all. A) I am so bad at my job that your lady bits now require medical attention, or B) I am literally the worst person in the world and do terrible things to you during your service like laugh at your vagina, or ask you if that weird freckle thing is an STD. Otherwise, anything under a 15% gratuity is pretty fucking lame, people. Okay, tip rant over.

The Accident – This client regularly sees someone else, and because of a scheduling accident/issue/whatever, she has to see you. She’s not happy about it. She dismisses you like you’re a dirty drunk bastard at a bar, trying to get her to sleep with you. You could rope the moon for this woman and she wouldn’t care. Sometimes she’ll say something like, “Well, I usually see so-and-so, so let’s just hope you’re as good as she is.” Well aren’t you just a peach! You’re really making me want to be gentle with your vagina right now! Buckle up, sister! 

The Hustler – This girl wants everything but the kitchen sink from you during her 30 minute appointment window. Now, a lot of my regulars tack something onto their appointment because they come every month so they’re a quick wax. And they’re NICE. That is not a hustler. Hustler’s are just plain pushy, and often try to get the extras for free. “Would it be possible to do my butt cheeks while you’re down there? Oh, and my belly patch? How far down my thigh do you actually go? Do you have time for eyebrows? How about my lip? Do you think I need to wax my chin? Oh, and can you trim me up a bit first, even though I’m a little late, so that it’s less painful?” Honey I’m about to stick this ball of pube-y sugar in your MOUTH. No. 

The Secret Stripper – Sometimes she’ll blatantly say she’s a “performer,” and own it. Most of the time, though, you’ll get a girl who says she dances for a living, but won’t tell you where or what kind of dancing…and then gets super uncomfortable and stops talking altogether. Right, okay. So I’m basically enabling young women to pay for rent by being groped at and ogled by disgusting men. How noble of me. 

The Procrastinator – This girl waits several months in between appointments. It doesn’t matter what you tell these ones, it’s like they enjoy the torture of waxing a full head of hair each time. For those of you that are unfamiliar, you need to get a brazilian every 4-5 weeks for it to be accurately maintained, less painful, and to receive the benefits of waxing/sugaring. If you only come every few months, it’s going to fucking HURT. Every. Single. Time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The No-Show – Most of the time a no-show royally chaps my ass. Not because I so badly want to get up close and personal with another vajayjay, but because that’s one less tip for the day, and tips are how I make that dough, people! That being said, every once in a blue moon I love this client. For example, if I’ve just done 10 brazilians in a row and then someone doesn’t show up, I can run over to the nearest bar Starbucks, grab some fuel and smile at the cute guy by the window while I pretend like I’m excited about life and not just wanting to eat an entire bucket of KFC in my sweatpants.

The Prude – This girl is so shy and embarrassed, I really don’t even know why she’s getting a brazilian in the first place. She’s clearly not showing any man her ‘nanny, if she won’t even let me remove the towel. Sometimes this type will even leave her undies on and expect me to just magically be able to…what? Wax through them? She wants the hair gone, but I literally need the jaws of life to pry open her butt cheeks. Sweetie. I used to work in a psychiatric hospital. I saw things you can never un-see. Your ass hole is the least of my worries right now. 

 Now go out there and get your coochie’s waxed, you crazy kittens!

And don’t forget to wipe!

Love,

M.

 

Sex-Ed

/ Love, M / 7 Comments

I’m writing this after a horrific work day yesterday. Now, I realize that horrific work days vary greatly depending on what your job is, and that a bad day for me means nothing compared to a bad day for an ICU nurse. Or a garbage man. Or a bull rider. BUT. My face is about six inches away from vagina’s all day and so a bad day for me can feel pretty bad. I’m not sure if it was a full moon, or if all of the difficult clients had a pow-wow and decided to come in on the same day, but I’m telling you: Every single vagina I encountered was demonic, I am sure of it. The weather starts heating up, and bodies start heating up, and heat = sweat, and sweat = a whole bunch of problems, and when you combine all of that with a small room and no air conditioning, well. I’m just going to let you use your imagination. It was rough, and also I had forgotten to pack my weed whacker. And Xanax.

…which is why the half block of cheese I ate when I got home was totally acceptable.

Anyways.

So I needed to decompress. I knew tequila wasn’t an option, partly because I don’t own any and partly because the last time I did own a bottle of tequila, I was 22 and dressed like a pirate and woke up on an unfamiliar couch with my sword in one hand and a burnt bagel in the other.

I settled for some salted caramel greek yogurt and silently scolded myself over why I didn’t instead buy salted caramel ice cream. Yogurt is no remedy for bad tips and overgrown hoo-ha’s and the last thing I was worried about at that moment was how well my pants were gonna fit me the next day. While brooding over stupid grocery store choices, I remembered that one of my good friends texted me recently about how she is having to teach Sex Education at her school. That statement in itself is enough to brighten my day because the thought of anyone I know having to lecture adolescents on why you should wipe front to back is just the best thing ever, and I would literally wax my own vagina in public if it meant I could watch my friend show innocent young minds how to put a condom on a banana.

She said she’d had her kiddo’s write down any sex-related questions they had, and submit them anonymously. She sent me pictures of her favorites because she is an awesome person and awesome people send their friends pictures of weird shit their students do.

 

So here they are.

You’re welcome.

 

photo 1-1 photo 1 photo 2-1 photo 2 photo 3 photo 4

 I am in my twenties, and still waiting for the answer to most of these questions.

Oh, and in case my vagina horrors weren’t enough for you to feel like you definitely have your shit together,  I just realized this morning that I have been using LAUNDRY soap in the DISHWASHER.

Multiple times.

I also burnt myself trying to iron out a wrinkle in my shirt, because I was WEARING it.

Just be relieved that I don’t have a child.

I hope your Monday was filled with way more awesomeness than mine was, and if it wasn’t, here’s hoping Tuesday makes us all slightly less tempted to become alcoholics.

Love,

M.