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.


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.





How (Not) to Jump Off of Waterfalls — Costa Rica Part 2

I should apologize for the number of monkey and horse pictures in this blog post, but the truth is that I’m not sorry at all.

I really think that picking a favorite child would be easier than having to narrow down these pictures (yes, I know I’m going to be a wonderful parent someday, thank you for thinking that).

Also, I’m convinced that the fact that my right eye has not stopped twitching since I’ve been back from vacation has everything to do with how I’m acquiring a (really cute and endearing) tick, and nothing to do with how every drop of moisture in my body was sucked out of me by sun and scorpions and also that I’ve been drinking my body weight in coffee instead of water and now I’m basically a raisin.

And I’ll also tell you that when I exercised today, I bought an iced caramel macchiato to take with me. Feel free to feel better about your existence now.

On to part 2.

Waterfalls are beautiful. I assumed that jumping off of them would be beautiful, too.

I had high hopes.

One of my days was spent riding a gorgeous quarter horse up a mountain and through a jungle to Nauyaca Waterfall. Sweaty, overheated, and feeling a bit daring from the margarita I shared with my tour guide at lunch, I was super pumped to jump off of it. Of COURSE I’m gonna do it and I won’t just DO it, I’ll make this waterfall my bitch, is basically what I was telling myself.

Nauyaca Waterfall

Nauyaca Waterfall

What I didn’t realize is that I’m actually a little afraid of jumping off of high things, except that I definitely did already know that. I think I was trying to avenge the fact that I was unable to bungee jump in Australia when I had the chance, which is my biggest and only regret in life. Just kidding, of course it’s not my only regret. I also regret not running onto the stage at Celine Dion’s concert and forcing her to sing with me and then be best friends forever. And also the number of Corona’s I chugged in a bloody Ben Roethlisberger costume on Halloween in 2007.

I digress.

So I’m pretty certain at this point that jumping off of this waterfall won’t be that big of a deal because my guide, Diego, said that the part I’d be jumping from was “only 8 meters high,” and 8 isn’t that big of a number, right? Especially if I pretend that 8 meters equals eight feet instead of what it actually equals, which is 26.2 feet. As I watched Diego scale the falls and do a practice jump, I’m thinking, Oh yea, cake walk. He just swan-dove off that thing! I can totes do that.

No, no no. You can totes not do that.

Long story short, just getting on top of the falls was like being on an episode of Fear Factor. There was no cutesy little trail around the side to walk up. No escalator, not even a ladder. I got to swim out to the base and climb up the rocks, with one hundred fire hoses spraying down on me. Now, this all sounded really fun in theory, but when you can’t open your eyes out of fear that your eyeballs will be water- blasted through your cranium, and you definitely can’t breath because water is forcing itself into every orafice from all directions, and it’s so slippery that every time you move your foot you’re pretty sure that’s the step that sends you back home in a wheelchair with a helmet, WELL. What I’m saying is that I fully expected Joe Rogan to be standing up there with a fifty-thousand dollar check.

I did make it though, and my guide laughed at me and I laughed at me, too and then he told me I was fearless and I told him he was delusional.

When you’re about to jump off of  a waterfall, a lot of things go through your head. For example, Why in the fuck am I jumping off of  a waterfall?

Other things I shouted at my guide include:

HEY! HEY YOU! Why do you have earplugs in? Did I need those?? Are my ear drums going to burst? Are there rocks at the bottom? I know I just watched you jump off of this thing but something could’ve shifted underwater, you know? I’m gonna be okay, right? Do I need a running start so that I don’t hit the rock wall and sever my spinal cord? Should I plug my nose? This bikini is TOAST as soon as I hit the water, I just know it. You don’t have goggles in your pocket, by any chance? Right, you don’t have any pockets. Oh, am I gripping your thigh too hard right now? Did I break the skin? Sorry, I’m a little tense. Can you tell me again how high this is? Will you jump with me? No, you can’t jump with me. Is there another way down? Right, of course there isn’t. How many people have died doing this? Do you think I’m crazy?

He definitely thought I was crazy.

P.S. this guy was a SAINT, but I don’t feel bad because he got a lot of good laughs in while I was preparing to probably die, so for that, Diego, your welcome. 


Long story longer, I did finally jump off of it and though I had every intention of making a super graceful exit off of the rocks, it definitely looked more like someone doing the doggy-paddle in mid-air. So that’s cute. Though it was pretty awesome (once I realized I was still alive and intact), I would probably not jump off of a waterfall again unless there was money involved or unless Hugh Jackman was using that as a pre-requisite for divorcing his wife and running away with me to live on a horse ranch in Australia.

Don’t mind the float-y tube that was waiting for me at the bottom in case my broken self  had to be towed back to shore.

And yes, my bikini was toast.


The only time I actually ever truly felt unsafe was on the three-hour boat ride in the Pacific Ocean, on our way back from Corcovado National Park. It was beautiful weather all day, but as we headed back around 4pm, a thunderstorm started approaching. What started out as calm, crystal waters with minor swells quickly turned into very dark skies, dark waters, and…slightly bigger swells. And by slightly bigger I mean fucking huge. Now I love me a boat ride, but when the captain stops the engine in open water, in a dinky little twelve foot bathtub toy (as seen in picture above), with thunder getting louder and lightening getting closer, and being thoroughly rocked by twenty-five foot swells, well. That’s when you start believin’ in Jesus.

The captain shuffled us all over the place, getting us in position to balance the boat well enough to “give us the best chance of not capsizing.” Well thank you for that. That’s super encouraging. As if the situation isn’t worrisome enough in itself, earlier that day I obviously was compelled to ask the guide what the scariest thing that’s ever happened to him was. He said the boat had capsized last year. Of course he said that. Oh, that’s great news! So glad I have that information. As if I hadn’t already asked enough dumb questions that day, I had also learned that these waters were teeming with bull sharks, because there’s a river mouth nearby and they love brackish water. Lovely. At that point I asked myself “Self, how brackish is THIS water that we are bobbing in right this moment? Is it just a little brackish, or is this full-on bull shark brackish? Can I live without a leg? I can live without a leg but please don’t take an arm. I can’t wax vagina’s with only one arm! Who on this boat is taller than me? I’ll tread water next to him so the shark sees his legs first. How long can I bob out here before I die of exhaustion? Is a stale granola bar really gonna be my last meal? I do not see any rescue mission gear in this boat. I haven’t even gone horseback riding yet!!

Obviously I made it back alive, though a roller coaster ride it was, but I just wanted to share my train of thought because these are the things that go through my head when I’m scared, because I’m crazycakes.

And also I’d like to publicly apologize to the nice lady sitting next to me on the boat who I latched onto like a barnacle until I hit dry land.

The only thing better than snuggling with animals is snuggling with animals that need a little extra help.

Osa Mountain Animal Sanctuary is a rescue, rehab, and release facility for wild animals. I could have stayed there all day long and then also forever.

A few of the animals were already (illegally) domesticated before being brought to the sanctuary, or have disabilities/injuries that make them to fragile too be able to thrive in the wild again. These little peanuts are the ones I got to interact with.


Tito is an 11-week old Squirrel Monkey. He was abandoned when his momma died. He loves raisins and I love him.


Gomer is a Dwarf Anteater. Of course his name is Gomer. All he ever wants to do is take naps and snuggle. He knows what life’s about.


This is Pablo. He’s a White-Faced Capuchin that was confiscated in a drug raid and brought to the sanctuary.

He has my heart.



When it was time to put Pablo back in his habitat, his snuggles turned into a vice grip and he wouldn’t let go. He broke my skin from trying to hold onto me so tightly. Dying. As Mike, the owner, pulled him away, Pablo reached out his arms to me and started wailing this horrific monkey cry, and I really almost collapsed from heartbreak. People. We are soul mates, is what I’m saying. Mike told me that he’d never seen Pablo react this way to anyone, that he must really have gotten attached, and to Mike’s (unasked) question I replied, Of COURSE I will move here and help you love on all of the sick animals forever and ever!!! I thought you’d never ask. 

Pablo made me realize that my biological clock doesn’t tick for humans, but for orphaned monkey’s.

Everything makes sense, now.

I love horses, and my love for them goes beyond my love for (most) humans. They are such soulful creatures, and when I’m around them, I feel at home. I often wonder why I’m living in the city and not on a ranch in Montana. With a cowboy. And a truck. …and lots of leather and rope. For the horses, pervert. 


I took a private horseback ride through the jungle, across a river, and to a secluded beach where my guide and I galloped along the shoreline and basically just had the most perfect day ever in the history of life.





My guide was the sweetest thing ever. He was only 20, but an old soul, and we quickly became chummy. He clearly assumed I was way older (which was totally accurate, unfortunately), because he wanted me to give him all of my wisdom on life and love and basically how not to fuck up his current relationship. Well, since I’m obviously a love expert, I said Okay fine, I’ll shower you with my wealth of knowledge. Prepare to be enlightened.  

Except that I didn’t really know what to say because my last experience was with someone who I’m pretty sure doesn’t even fit the criteria for qualifying as a human being, so I’m a little confused right now, myself. But as we walked along the sand like old amigos, a couple of things came to mind. Alright, Risto, I said. Here’s what I DO know:

If you don’t make her laugh, you suck. 

If she ever feels unlovable or insecure because of YOUR behaviors, you really, really suck.

And if you ever call her a stupid cunt, you should just do yourself a favor and cut off your penis with a pair of kiddie scissors. 

I thought I was giving him some sort of holy grail, but he looked at me, bewildered, and said, “Oh, well we’re always laughing together. She’s the sweetest and most beautiful person I’ve ever met. What’s a stupid cunt?” Okay well you clearly don’t need any advice and I have no idea why you’re asking me for it. I teased him for being worried about doing something wrong, and he laughed at me because I almost fell off of my horse while trying to push him off of HIS horse. After a long pause, he spoke. “I’m guessing that the cunt word is really bad and I really hope no one ever called you that. There are just a lot of idiots out there, you know? Guys who are staying up all night drinking way too much and watching all the naked videos (I loved that he called them “naked videos”).” These holy words came straight out of a man’s mouth, people! I know, I couldn’t believe it either. So the obvious response was, Are you a real person? Do you have a brother? Can I clone you? How do you feel about Seattle? I will buy you. Name your price. I have cash.

I wasn’t really going to buy him because that’s probably kind of illegal, or a lot illegal.

And also because he was only 20 and I’m not ready to be Mrs. Robinson.

On one of my last days there, I went zip-lining. I could’ve done this All. Day. Long. It was fast and freeing, and I was hoping they’d let me go across the lines upside-down “Superman-Style”, like I saw my guides doing. Apparently you have to have some sort of experience in zip-lining first so that you dont, you know, kill yourself.

At one point we had to rappel 75 feet from a tree platform to the ground and when it was MY turn, the guide told me to put my legs over my head. Okay Rico Suavè, you have to at least buy me dinner first. Then I realized he really just wanted me to hang upside down. Oh, right. Of course. But, wait. UPSIDE DOWN? 75 feet up in the air? Well, naturally, I did. Then he told me to let go of the rope and let my arms dangle. So I did that, too. Um, why am I the only person you’ve asked to do it this way?, may have been a logical question to pose, but I was too caught up in the fact that I felt like Spider-Man and I LOVE Spider-Man. Then, before I could even pretend to shoot some spidey-web out of my wrists, he slacked the line and dropped me in a free fall before stopping me with about 15 feet left to go. I screamed like a banshee and then laughed until I cried and then I begged him to let me do it again. Something tells me that’s not legal in the ‘ole motherland.

On a slightly more heart-filled note, the real reason I did this is one that is so deeply precious to me.

Ever the child at heart, my dad had always dreamt of being able to fly. We were supposed to go zip-lining together last summer and fulfill his dream.

We never got the chance.

So, I traveled to the place that boasts the worlds’ best zip-lining. I wore a necklace with his ashes in it, and we flew.

photo 2


Traveling solo to Costa Rica meant different things to me at different times in it’s formation. By the time I landed in Central America, I no longer felt like I was there to escape certain toxicity. Instead, I was there to honor my courage, my beautiful father, and have the fucking BEST time ever while doing it.

I think I can safely call it a success.

“You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown that reveals you with yourself.” – Ella Maillart




(Not) A Crazy Cat Lady.

It’s okay dude, I’m not trying to blog right now or anything. Take your time. 


World, meet my one-eyed fluffy snuggle monster (also known as my Maine Coon rescue kitty). You really only need one eye anyways, is what I always say. I mean, unless you want to have any depth perception.

Glaucoma took one of his eyes and will hopefully not take the other but don’t worry, I’d obviously get him a service dog. Feel free to assume that he’s just permanently winking at you, though, if it boosts your ego. I do that sometimes.

His name is yet to be determined, so for now I just say whatever ridiculous babble comes out of my mouth…like Mr. Magoo, or Pickles, or Stitch McGiggles, or Puffywittlebabylionsnugglebunnyboobear.

Because that’s normal.

One of my girlfriend’s thinks I should name him a slang term for penis, since they also only have one eye (you’re welcome for the anatomy lesson). This is an incredibly inappropriate and offensive suggestion.

So clearly I said, YES obviously I will do that. Oh and also, our wine glasses are empty. 

He’s not quite sure about me yet, but I don’t really blame him. I’m kinda weird, but only if you consider weird to be things like having full-on conversations with yourself about which yogurt you’re going to eat for lunch, or vowing to only get around your apartment that day via sliding across the floors in your socks.

He spends most of his time being terrified and hiding behind the toilet, but if he really wants something from me he’ll sprawl out on my bed. Men. They’re all the same.


…and if I stay on his right side, he can’t see my wrinkles or judge me when I’m elbow-deep in a bag of jalepeño chips, so it’s a really good match I think.

I know I’m not a crazy cat lady because I got to spend three hours with the foster-mom I adopted him from, and I am telling you what, folks. This woman needs her own reality show. I’m guessing she’s  the sole reason that the term crazy cat lady was coined, and since I do not currently have five cat trees, seven scratching posts, ten litter boxes, twenty-two food bowls, five million cat toys, or “MEOW” stickers on my car like she does, I am considering myself in the clear.

Except that I currently do own two scratching posts because I forgot that I already had one and so for the moment we’ll say I’m at 26% CCL.

The only thing that really changes when you have a feline is that now you wake up with a cat on your face.

And sometimes you unknowingly walk into a coffee shop with a giant gob of their hair on your bum….which is super cute, and helpful in attracting other slightly weird, pet-owning guys…?



Happy Weekend, lovers!

Don’t end up in the hospital with an IV in your arm and being forced to eat an orange popsicle. Not that I’d know anything about that.


I promise to have my second Costa Rica blog post up really soon, if this fluff ball ever gets off of my keyboard.





How to Get Stung by a Scorpion — Costa Rica Part 1

Can I just preface this by saying that I spent ten days in 97 degree heat with 90% humidity and was absolutely fine (you know, besides frying the top five layers of my skin off) and then I come back to SEATTLE where I sit in the sun for 45 minutes on my lunch break and I’m dizzy and dry-heaving from heat stroke for the rest of the day, and then subjected to a nice little three-day migraine.

My life.

Playa Dominical

Playa Dominical

So where do I even start with this vacation?

Costa Rica is…mind-blowing. Basically. I couldn’t have dreamt of a better accommodation, and the people there are absolute gems. I miss them. Of course I didn’t want to come back, and yes I’m going through a mild situational depression. I would’ve stayed there forever, but since I technically had to come home, there were two things I was quite looking forward to.

1) Having EVERY food at my disposal, because I’m a greedy American. And hangry.

2) A legitimately HOT shower which, after ten days of cold water and doing circus-act back bends while washing my hair so as to not have it splash on me, is honestly better than sex. Let me rephrase that. It’s better than sex with most people.

I think what I loved most about Costa Rica is how absolutely wild the place is. Not wild as in, “Foam party with 21-year-old trust fund babies and a guaranteed STD,” but wild as in, “I am literally sleeping in the middle of the jungle, there are crabs and scorpions crawling up through my shower drain, this screen door is barely not saving me from six thousand huge mosquitos/beetles/spiders/other unidentifiable flying monstrosities, the macaws and toucans are bouncing around the branches in the trees right in front of me, and a family of howler monkeys is traipsing across my roof.”


And amazing.

I’ve been struggling to figure out how to condense a trip like this into one or two blog posts, but that also might just be the scorpion venom eating away at my brain matter. Either way, I decided to post some of my very favorite pictures from my trip, and add little blurbs along the way.

Disclaimer: As you probably could tell from my last post, I am not a professional photographer and these were taken on my iPhone. I didn’t feel like packing around a super expensive and heavy camera everywhere because I didn’t want it to get stolen I was lazy. And also because I have neck issues. But mostly because I was lazy.



In order to get to the remote area of southwest Costa Rica that’d I’d be staying in, I took a tiny 12 seater plane from the capital, San Jose. I was stoked because I love flying and I also love amusement parks and I had a feeling this would be the best of both worlds. I felt like I was in an old black and white cartoon as it swerved and bounced down the runway. Once we were in the air, the turbulence was severe, and when I closed my eyes It felt like Space Mountain. PERFECT. I was hoping the captain would stall the engine and let us free fall for awhile, like when I did aerobatics in a WWII fighter jet in New Zealand, because I knew the two Jersey girls in the back would have seriously lost their shit. And their stupid Gucci sunglasses. When we became enveloped in clouds and a mini thunderstorm, unable to see past the rain assaulting the windows, all of the girls on the plane freaked out and grabbed their men. I grabbed my camera.


I’m a morning person. I know. Annoying. Costa Rica’s weather during the green season varies immensely depending on the time of day, and I loved how cool and quiet it was at 6am, with everything around me seemingly still sleeping. I spent my mornings like this, and obviously with plenty of Almond Joy coffee creamer that I had smuggled into my purse. It’s really humbling to be so far away from everything you’re used to, in an environment that is powerful, beautiful, dangerous, and healing, all at the same time.

It was incredibly peaceful and I had so many “zen” moments, like when I gently rocked in my hammock, staring in awe at a howler monkey lounging in the tree in front of me. A good ten minutes went by before I realized that the howler monkey was actually just a darker piece of tree.

You can’t tell from the pictures, but the ocean was also in my view, just past the trees, and you could hear it early in the mornings, before the rest of the jungle awakened. You probably can tell from the picture that my legs are covered in bug bites, and by the end of the trip I literally looked like I had been put in front of a BB gun firing squad. Costa Rica is not a sexy place.


The air in Costa Rica was thick and heavy, smelling of fresh rain and leaves and salt water and spices and bug spray. The bug spray part may have been me. The sounds were never ending, and many of them so foreign to my ears. There was a constant buzz in the air, always. It never went away. It was as if the entire world’s population of insects got together and were playing a symphony, just for me. It was totally awesome and soothing until the buzzing started to sound like it was actually inside your ear canal at which point you make up some fun ballet-dancer-on-crack moves to get away from a giant wasp/moth/mosquito/preying mantis/jumping spider/other unknown creature. Some sounds were low and guttural, like the howler monkeys, and some were really melodic, like the toucans, with other animals singing back in reply…and then sometimes it sounded like coconuts were being hurled at my bedroom window, but that only ever happened at 3 in the morning when I was half-asleep and too delirious to understand that I probably don’t need to break into a full-on sweat that soaks my sheets because you’re already sweating enough in this humidity darling, and that I also don’t need to grab my fork from the bedside table that I used to finish off my dessert in bed the night before, (go ahead, judge me. I know you’re lying on your couch covered in Girl Scout cookie crumbs right now) and tiptoe up to my window with a fair amount of certainty that I was about to be face to face with the Costa Rican version of a Sasquatch.

What I learned about bugs, and the wisdom I want to pass onto you is this: If your kitchenette is located outside on your balcony, and you must get into the fridge when it’s pitch black out to grab something hydrating, wrap yourself up head to toe in a sarong as tightly as you can until you resemble a racist Halloween costume. The bugs are in full force at night, and they do not give a single fuck about you, your life, your sanity, or the fact that your hair is not an appropriate breeding ground for them. I also recommend humming a tune while you do it to warn any creatures and creepy crawlies that you’re coming. I chose this little diddy about tight pants (dance moves included) because it was literally running non-stop through my head since the day I left for Costa Rica. It makes no sense, which makes complete sense, and if you know me at all you know that I WAS actually doing this.


The first morning I was there, I walked down a steep and winding path to a river nearby, and hung out for awhile before a thunderstorm with raindrops the size of grapes had me scampering back up the trail. Later that day, I ran into the owner of my villa who said, “I hope you have such a blast here, but make sure you don’t go down to the river! It’s croc season, and they’re all back now that the river’s high. Oh, and someone spotted a 12 foot boa constrictor down there a couple days ago.” Lovely.

At one point I was innocently drinking my can of Cuba Libre Rum & Coke on my balcony when all of the sudden I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. My gorgeous view of jungle and ocean and sky had turned into a dark swarm of flying devil mutants. They’re seemingly coming from under my balcony which is really reassuring. I peeked over the railing (with my sarong securely fastened over my upper half so that only my eyeballs are exposed), assuming the queen bug is going to be staring me in the face, and I realize they’re spilling out, in hoards, from the wood that’s holding up my bungalow. Even better. I don’t see any holes at that point, but they certainly found one. I don’t know how they’re oozing out in those kinds of numbers, but they are and there’s no sign of them stopping and they’re all up in my grill and it’s gross. When I look closer, I see larva. Is this a fucking hatching happening right now? Am I living on top of a hatchery? Are those even real words? What’s going ON right now? Do I need to roll up a piece of paper like a tube and insert it into my mouth so I’ll have a way to breathe when they swarm me, like in that horror film that traumatized me as a child? I knew that movie would come in handy one day. These are real survival tactics, people, and I would’ve used them if I hadn’t gotten the heck outta dodge and gone to find tacos and pizza and cookies instead. Because watching thousands of insects flying recklessly around you makes you really hungry.

I took a video of the hatching/swarm/reaping, but I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I watched it back, so I decided not to post it. You’re welcome.

 I took a private boat tour down the Sierpe (Snake) River, through the dense mangrove forests to look for wild animals. It was surreal, and reminded me of the movie “Anaconda,” except I look nothing like J-Lo, and thank god my tour guide wasn’t Ice Cube because he’s really annoying…and also he died and I don’t know how to drive a boat.

My guide was so sweet, and spent way more time than he probably wanted to in making sure he found me a sloth on our adventure. The green iguana’s were his favorite, and he wanted to tell me all about them, including their mating habits. I, of course, am really good at unintentionally turning normal conversations into inappropriate ones, and this was no different. It went something like this:

Guide: Iguana males has over thirty of females, but he only has the sex one time in a week.
Me: Ha, well that iguana’s doin’ better than me.
Guide: (pause…)

Guide: (puzzled) Your boyfriend no want the sex?

Me: Haha, he’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Guide: Oooh. you get reeeed of him?
Me: Yes.
Guide: (still puzzled) But he no wanted the sex?? With YOU?
Me: Well apparently he preferred OkCupid.
Guide: Who es Ok Coopid?
Me: Um…she’s cheap and easy. …Is that a howler monkey???

Long story short, we bonded in agreement that once a week is not enough sex, that never is also not enough sex, and also that we both like green iguana’s.

Baby Cayman

Baby Cayman

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.


American Crocodile

I knew my guide was a good one when he said, “Hey, since it’s just you on this tour today, let’s pull the boat over to these mangroves and wander around the mud flats looking for crocodiles and caymans (even though I’m pretty that’s super illegal and also moderate to severely life-threatening).” …Okay, let’s!

I was even more excited when he told me the story about the previous week, when a drunk Nicaraguan had jumped off one of the bridges a little further up the river, and six crocodiles swarmed him immediately and all that they found was his head. I told him, Honey, you should be careful of who you tell that story to. I am a what you would call disturbed, and a weirdo, so I love that I’m staring at this crocodile who may have just eaten a human and who may want to eat me next. Not everyone is going to love that. His English comprehension wasn’t the best ever though, so I’m not sure what the old couple who took the tour after me was in for.


I got a massage on my balcony while I was there because I’m old and my back was hating me from the plane seats basically being 90 degree wood planks and also becasue of course I’m going to get a massage on my balcony. It was balmy with the slightest breeze and there was no need for music because the birds and critters were providing us with their own soundtrack. The whole thing was dreamy, obviously, and as she scooched my towel so far down that nearly my entire bum was exposed, I thought to myself, Self, I’m sure glad this isn’t a sexy male massage therapist doing this right now because that’d be REALLY upsetting. Mm hmm. Really upsetting….yea….um….like, really…Fifty Shades of…huh? What was I saying? 


Black Scorpion

Black Scorpion

I decided to actually unpack my clothes and hang/fold them nicely like a normal human being for the first time ever on a trip. I was quickly proven that you should NOT waste your time doing this and you should just keep your luggage zipped up tightly with all of your clothes crumpled up inside, like I usually do. One of the first mornings I was there, I put one of my shirts on. Big deal. I kid you not, I was wearing this goddamn shirt for at least ten seconds before a black scorpion FALLS OUT OF IT. Just falls right out of it, making a clicky-clacky noise as it hit the groundI had been wearing a scorpion for way longer than anyone should have to wear a scorpion. How I did not get stung is beyond me, really. After I got down from the bed that I ninja-leapt onto, I grabbed the only thing that seemed like a weapon at the time, a red toilet brush. What are you gonna do with that, genius? Scratch his back? I started poking at him with my toilet sword but I soon turned from freaked-out to fascinated as he kept rearing his tail to strike. Then I felt really mean, so I put a wine glass over him and left him there to die. Because that’s not mean.

I’m obviously a badass for fighting off scorpion venom with common household items, but even the strongest of superheroes are faced with their kryptonite.

As I was drying off from my shower on my last full day in Costa Rica, I felt a searing pain in my side. I dropped my towel and saw that a large, red welt with a hole in the middle was forming. I was a bit perplexed, since there were (oddly enough) no creepy crawlies within view. This red thing on my abdomen was definitely happening, though. When I finally got enough braves gathered up to pick up that towel, I noticed the scorpion that was attached to it. Oh okay, so what just happened is that I rubbed a SCORPION onto my body. Okay great. I had forgotten to research what to do if I accidentally rubbed a venomous creature on myself, so I did what any normal person would do. I put that piece of shit under (another) wine glass, and ran away.

Lesson: Always do a towel check, and always dry off important body parts last.

And always have a wine glass handy.


More Costa Rica ridiculousness to come, so stay tuned!

If you have any questions about my trip (serious, inappropriate, or otherwise), write them in the comment section and I’d be more than happy to answer them in my Part 2 post!…Right after I binge-watch Seinfeld re-runs and down a box of Cheez-Its.

Until next time, lovers!




Post-Vacation Stress Disorder

Alternatively titled, “How Much for all of Your Meds? And a Cupcake?”

I survived the jungle! Barely, at times, but I’m still tickin’.

Post-Vacation Stress Disorder is a real thing, of this I am convinced.

I’m working on a full post about my trip, but it’s taking a little longer than expected. I know this is surprising because you’d think I’d be amazing at getting back to normal life after a long vacation, considering I’m obviously so good at getting ready for one.

Among things like, “I can’t fall asleep now without 5 billion bugs providing a cacophony of noise around me and dive bombing my windows” and, “Excuse me while I shed my burnt skin all over your cooch today,” my computer doesn’t want to back up my phone, hold any pictures, or do much of anything helpful in making a blog post, really. Obviously I don’t know how to figure that situation out because my brain shuts off as soon as there’s a technology issue and instead I just cry.

Oh and also because THIS happened yesterday, less than 24 hours after my arrival back into the states.


Happy Homecoming.

(If you’re reading this and you happen to be the one that did this to my car, you missed a spot. In the corner, on the right.)

Obviously this is a sign that I should’ve never left Costa Rica and I instead should have eloped with my horseback riding guide, Risto, and lived on a ranch by the ocean forever.

Lesson learned.

On a brighter note, here is a little sneak peak from my trip, while I attempt to get my shit together.

I recorded this video when we saved a sea turtle on the way back from a hike around Corcovado National Park. And by “we,” I mean the captains of the boat because I “technically” did nothing to save it except for making lots of cooing noises and exclamations like, “Poor baby ohmygoodness you little peanut oh I just want to snuggle you forever does he need a hug oh please can I kiss him??”

If you’re one of those people (I am one of those people) that have to leave the room every time that damn Sarah McLachlan dog-rescue commercial comes on because you “got something in your eye,” this video may tug a tad bit on the ‘ole heart strings. Maybe at least wait until you get off of work and have a box of Kleenex and bottle of Jack (or maybe you keep both in your desk drawer already in which case, I love you).

This little guy was bobbing on top of the water when the guides noticed that (he?) had a fishing hook stuck through both his mouth and one of his flippers, leaving him unable to swim and easy prey for one of the bull sharks that infest those waters (“That one time I almost unwillingly swam with bull sharks” story coming soon).

Now if I wasn’t such a dumbass, you’d be able to watch the ending of this story as opposed to me telling it to you, but my camera stopped recording right before the grand finale. Of course it did. I wish I could say it wasn’t my fault but it was totally my fault because I took way too many pictures of monkeys and used up all my storage.

Of course I did.


What I’m trying to get at is, though the video ends on a cliffhanger, the sea turtle was fully freed from the hook and released. He swam away and I totally shed a tear cheered him on like a normal person would. You should still watch the video, even though I just gave away the ending because he’s just so damn cute!

(I apologize for you having to go through a link and not being able to watch it on my page. If anyone wants to help me be not such a terrible blogger, I’ll buy you a beer. And a cupcake).

Sea Turtle Rescue

I also learned some very valuable lessons from this sea turtle rescue:

1) I should not quit my job and become a videographer for National Geographic.

2) I should quit my job and become a professional injured-animal snuggler.

And just in case that’s not satisfying, here’s a really flattering photo of me right after I found the courage to climb off the bed I’d just ninja-leapt onto because a SCORPION had just fallen out of my SHIRT…AFTER I’d been wearing it for at least ten seconds.



Why would you take a picture of yourself in that moment, you ask? It was for evidence, in case I died. Obviously.

You can see that my weapon of choice was a really good one, and also that I couldn’t look into the mirror long enough to snap a photo because I had to keep my eye on the monster rearing it’s venomous tail at me in the corner.

And also take note of my very attractive fanny pack…which may or may not have contributed to the number of passionate hookups I may or may not have had.

Stay tuned for more Costa Rica craziness.



Who Stole All of My Thongs?! – Deep Thoughts on Vacation Prep

I’ve done a fair bit of traveling in my ripe old age of 25…plusafewmoreyearsmaybe. I’ve lived abroad, slept under stars in the Australian Outback, explored Mayan Ruins on a bike decked out in Disney Princess stickers, and have definitely eaten my weight in local cuisine, at least 15 times over. I just can’t turn down a good fish taco, people.

What I’m saying is that I’ve grown to become really seasoned at packing and prepping for trips. A lot of people procrastinate, over-pack, panic, emotionally-eat, make impulsive purchases, and stress themselves out to the point of exhaustion in trying to prepare for a vacation, which kind of negates the whole POINT of the vacation. I never do this. Ever. Cool as a cucumber, I am. So, in an effort to help you have the least amount of stress possible in getting ready for your next vacation, Im offering my own expertise; a glimpse into my thought process as I prepare for my upcoming solo trip to Costa Rica. Feel free to write these down.

– I really should’ve used those three Hot Yoga packages I bought on Groupon.

– Does doing squats while I brush my teeth count?

– These squats have really shortened my tooth-brushing time.

– I’ll just do a juice detox and use the scary new vibration weight-loss machine we got at work; the one that makes me feel like Shakira, but also like my internal organs are about to rupture.

– Is that a box of Cheez-Its??

– Okay how can someone possibly be this white? Am I even allowed to wear shorts like this? Is transparent a trend yet? Hahahaha FUCK.

– If this horseback riding guide doesn’t let me gallop on the beach, I swear to God.

– …I’ll just slip him some extra cash. …that’s super sleazy. Oh well.

– How many books should I bring? I’m probably gonna read a LOT, like on the beach and in the airport and on my balcony and in my hammock and at a cafe next to a cute stranger and…

– …Maybe I didn’t need to order seven books for my E-reader. …Or SIX paperbacks based solely on how to spot a narcissist/sociopath…oh and those four romance novels from Amazon…but they were my very own personalized suggestions!

– I probably should stop at Anthropologie since I’m downtown already and see if they have something comfy for my plane ride, even though Target is only five blocks away and I could buy basically the same white tee for $5.

– Are those riding boots on SALE? Wait but they’re $175. Haha that’s bullshit. Oh but they WERE $350! That’s actually a killer deal. Okay wait, I’m shopping for Costa Rica, not the Kentucky Derby. But I would totes wear those next Fall. I’ll just get them.

– Anthropologie has WEDDING DRESSES now?? Okay I can’t be that girl, I’m like 20 years away from being tagged and bagged. Walk away. But THIS one. Omg. This has Grecian Goddess written all over it. Oh yea I would look totally amazeballs in this. I’ll just take a quick picture and put it on my secret Pinterest board.

– Of course I waited til the last minute to get a Brazilian and now I’m lying on a cowhide rug in my living room with Seinfeld in the background, trying to rip hair out of my own vagina. Lovely.

– Are my BLINDS open? …Fuck it.

– (Rip) Alright. That really wasn’t that bad. Haha people are such pansies. 

– (Bigger rip) Okay, there it is. Yep. That’s what I remember. This feels like fire. I have fire crotch and I’m not even a redhead. It’s burning. Am I bleeding? How do I do this to people all day? Why am I such a weeny? Who can I call that would bring me Vicodin? Or whiskey. Okay maybe I’ll just make it a bikini wax and call it good since I basically want to kill myself right now. I don’t need to do the full-meal-deal anyways. It’s not like I’m gonna get tequila-wasted and have a romp with a chiseled Latin bartender.

-…Maybe I should get tequila-wasted and have a romp with a chiseled Latin bartender.

– How many Pizza Hut Dinner Boxes have I ordered this week?

– Don’t answer that.

-Do I honestly only own 2 thongs? Who stole all of my thongs!?? And one of them is five sizes too big! What was I smoking when I bought that one? Are my Victorias Secret “cheekies” close enough? Who gives a fuck about panty lines, honestly. Does anyone actually like having a piece of fabric stuck up their ass crack all day? I don’t care whose ass it is, guys cannot possibly think it’s that hot to take off some girl’s g-string with their teeth when it’s literally been hot-boxing between two butt cheeks all day.

-How am I going to smuggle a bottle of coffee creamer into my carry on?

– Maybe googling “Most dangerous creatures in Costa Rica” wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

– If I start praying to this “Jesus” dude now, will it prevent me from waking up with black scorpions all over my face?

– Well, my apartment officially looks like my closet threw up all over it.

– I’m not bringing ANY makeup on this trip. I’m gonna be in the jungle, for god’s sake. And also because I’m a badass.

– Okay, maybe just mascara.

– Okay, mascara and concealer. You never know how your skin will react to that kind of humidity, after all…but that’s IT. Well, maybe one lipstick. Just a nude shade, though. Nudes are so in right now. I have 16 nude lipsticks?? Woops. Oooh, there’s that shiny new purple-y gloss I just got! I’ll probs need that in case I wander into some cute little town and go salsa dancing. Oh, I should really take bronzer, so I don’t scare people. Where’s that limited edition blush palette I just bought?

– I wonder what the penalty is for smuggling a monkey back with me…

– These Seinfeld bloopers are getting really distracting.

– Can I pay someone to pack my bags for me? Does that exist? I would do some really unspeakable things if I didn’t have to make anymore decisions right now.

– Where’s my passport?

– Fuck it. I’m calling Pizza Hut.


I probably shouldn’t mention that I forgot to SHAVE MY LEGS this morning, on the day I embark on a TROPICAL VACATION. I guess I was too distracted with brainstorming all of the different types of vaginas that you meet when your work days pretty much consist of doing nothing but ripping hair out of them…but, you know. Welcome to my life.

I’ll be  lost in the jungle for the next ten days, and should be back in action shortly after! In the off-chance that I haven’t posted anything new within the next few weeks, can one of you bum some Xanax for my mom? Thanks.



Cast Away’d

When I told one of my really good friends about the time a guy went all “Cast Away” on me, he asked me if I got a bloody handprint to the face like Tom Hanks had given to that volleyball. I wish it would’ve been that harmless. Oh no, my friend. I didn’t get “Wilson-ed.” This was much worse. 


Normally after a date, the phrase “It felt like something straight out of a movie!” is cause for you and your BFF to momentarily turn into giddy 13 year olds again, jumping up and down with the squealing and the hugging and the, “Tell me eeeeverything. Now.,” which is promptly followed by spilling all the details about said date’s unit stamina O-face political stance.

I totally had a movie moment.

It was not cause for the aforementioned reaction.

Let’s call this guy “The Eager Pleaser,” shall we? Now, this man was a super sweet and kind-hearted human being. Super sweet. Bless him. We’d been on two dates and he’d pulled out all the stops. Fancy restaurants that I’d never been to – filet, lobster, top shelf alcohol, desserts that catch on fire; he picked me up, opened doors, walked on the street side of the sidewalk. Everything. AND, he didn’t for one millisecond have me feeling anxious over whether I should offer to split the bill. As in, I really think he would’ve laughed in my face if I asked. HELLO, men out there: put down the xbox controller and take notes. You don’t have to pay for EVERYTHING for the rest of your life, but for pete’s sake, maybe start trying to prove that chivalry isn’t dead. This guy even went so far as to surprise me with a stuffed teddy bear from his trip to Vegas after I had randomly told him the devastating story about how when I was 4, my family took a road trip there and I managed to lose my best friend and beloved stuffed teddy bear, “Bear” (I was a very creative child). Are you KIDDING me with this thoughtfulness right now, people.

So why am I not pregnant with his third child and driving a Range Rover that he bought me for Christmas, you ask?

Keep reading.

It’s our third date. He wants to cook me dinner at his apartment. I want to see how this man lives. He makes me my favorite drink that I apparently mentioned in passing and he LISTENED. It’s important to note that despite his incredibly sweet gestures, I’m still very much on the fence as to how I feel about this guy (hello, I’ve known him for two seconds). I also haven’t kissed him yet because well, because I can totally be a Nervous Nelly and also who doesn’t like a little tension build-up? (Don’t get me wrong, I have definitely kissed guys before the third date, and I have definitely  kissed guys because “Well, I’m never gonna be in this country again so I probably should just do this.” What I’m saying is that I’m not a saint and nobody needs to name a church after me. But those are stories for another day).

Anyways. Eager Pleaser. He suggests watching a movie on the couch after dinner. Alright Slick, I’m onto you. I was genuinely mostly having a good time but something in my gut was literally giving me the Mckayla Maroney. Maybe because it was 9:30 on a work night which is obviously bedtime and I didn’t want to turn into a pumpkin (unless you are Hugh Jackman in which case, should I take my pants off now or later?). What I’m trying to get at is that my intuition already knew some important things and my brain was just being a little bitch. SO, naturally, my stupid mouth opened up and said “A movie? Okay, sounds great!”

Alright men, this is where you want to stop taking notes.

We make our way to the couch. There’s an exhausting exchange over what to watch because he’s just trying to be considerate and I’m just trying to survive the next two hours of my life. I took the initiative to implement my own “six inch rule” because, well, I didn’t know what to do with myself and basicallyimawkward. At this point I still could’ve pulled the “ohimsosorrybut___” and get the heckfire outta there. But, I didn’t. I sat. I watched. He inched closer. I prayed. I wanted so badly to like him the way I liked my high school crush, Jason. The one who asked me to the Homecoming dance my freshman year via the hip, new computer instant messaging program, and I jumped up and down on my bed giggling uncontrollably for ten minutes because I just KNEW we were going to get married. The one who, on Homecoming, I literally didn’t say a single word to the entire night because I was so utterly terrified and flustered that I forgot how to speak English altogether, let alone form a sentence.

What I’m saying is, ‘my penis wasn’t gettin’ off the couch,’ with this guy. The  Millionaire Matchmaker has taught me well.

It’s probably ten minutes into pretending like I’m watching something with some shooting and some swearing when my Eager Pleaser makes a comment about how cute my freckles are. This is weird since the room is pretty damn dark and I don’t know how he’d possibly even be able to see them. So I look over up at him (he is a very tall man) to say something really clever like “Huh?,” but before I can deliver my line he swoops down and his face is suddenly on my face. Well, it looks as though contact is being made, I note. It’s almost an upside down kiss, which would’ve been totally welcomed if he was in a Spider-Man costume and was also Andrew Garfield (sorry, Tobey). I decide to give this kiss a shot, though, and see if there’s chemistry, but I quickly come to the conclusion that he took kissing lessons from these poor souls. Or maybe a woodpecker. Anyway, just as I’m getting ready to pull a really clever exit move (that I swear I was about to come up with), I feel a sensation that I’m pretty sure only sticks and tinder are ever supposed to feel.

Out of nowhere this guy’s hand lands on the no-no zone of my jeans and starts Going. To. Town. His hand has turned into a scouring pad and my sacred promised land has become his cast-iron skillet. This man is trying to start a fire on me, people. He is literally attempting to create FIRE using his hand, AND MY VAGINA.

How did I get here???

My first thought is, “Well, it’s happened. I’m in Castaway. Tom Hanks is here and in his state of delirium and starvation he seems to have mistaken my body for a pile of kindling. Perfect.” My second thought is “Please don’t put a hole in my jeans with your furious and incessant rubbing because they actually make me look like I have an ass and also this denim is the only thing keeping my cookie from being pulverized right now.”

I should mention that I also took a moment to mentally high-five him on his efforts though, because let me tell you, the ferocity and diligence this guy was putting into this endeavor was something for the record books. What I’m saying is that if this guy was ever stranded on an island and needing a source of heat, he’d be golden.

As I awkwardly wriggled my lower half out of reach, I mumbled something that I don’t remember now, probably because I blacked out. What I DO remember is that I WANTED to laugh hysterically and maybe cry just a little bit and then ask him what kind of porn he’s been watching.

Suffice it to say, this “spark” did not go any further then my, now, “distressed” denim.

To this day, I’m still baffled by what exactly I did to make this guy think we should roast marshmallows over my vagina. Unfortunately, this may forever be an unsolved mystery. Either way, I guess I should just be thankful that no body parts were seriously harmed, but I do sincerely hope that I’m the last fire he’s tried to start.


And THAT, my friends, is how you go all “Cast Away” on somebody.


Oh, and the next time any of you men want to put your lady into some dreamy Tom Hanks movie reenactment, maybe try Sleepless in Seattle.





(tap tap tap)…Is This Thing On?

Hi there,

Most blogs tend to have a section dedicated to who the writer is, I’m assuming to help us better understand and navigate the content. I, personally, like to have little background because I’m just plain Curious George about everything. A little backstory never hurt anybody, and it’s also a good way to decide if you think the writer is completely off their rocker. Let’s be real, though; we’re all a little crazycakes.

So before you decide to take the leap into my blog world, here is a little snippet of what you’re signing up for:

I currently call Seattle home. This city has my heart.

I’m an Esthetician. Most of my days are spent doing brazilian waxes. Yep. Vagina’s. All day.

I wasn’t always an Esthetician.

I used to be a Recreation Therapist.

The career swap was due to an “I need a change before I admit myself to this psych hospital” moment.

…I used to work in a psych hospital.

I am borderline inappropriate…pretty much all of the time.

I long for deep roots, genuine connection, and an authentic life.

Laughing with good people is the BEST thing in the world.


Writing down my thoughts has always been an outlet that I crave, and therapeutic for me. Unfortunately, I’ve been the absolute worst at making it a regular hobby. I happened to go through some especially intense experiences in the last year, though, that have catapulted me into taking action instead of just constantly thinking to myself “I have got to write this shit down!”

So, here I am, writing it down. It’s a place for all the pieces of me and all of the thoughts that take up space inside of me. Love, work, relationships, mishaps, secrets, traveling, vagina-waxing, rants, music, family, inspiration – all of it. Some parts of me are really messy, or sensitive, or difficult. Some of them are, hopefully, funny. A lot of them are ridiculous. All of them are real. I just so happen to be very human, which works out pretty nicely since we are all most of us are very human.


Lastly, and maybe most importantly, to reiterate what I hope was already obvious to you but if not, Honey, take it from me:

“Stupid cunt” is in fact, not code for, “I love you.”