365 Days.

August 11, 2014August 11, 2014 / Love, M / 1 Comment

It doesn’t make sense that it’s been an entire year. It’s unbelievable to me that you’ve been gone for that long. A year is such a long amount of time, but it went by so fast. Too fast. I need the time to stop passing because it means you keep getting farther and farther away from me.

365 days ago I was sitting on the couch watching a game show while you laid in your hospice bed, unresponsive. The previous night had been rough, and something inside of me knew. Before I went to bed that night, I kissed you and held you and whispered sweet everythings in your ear. I knew how much you were suffering and how strong you were trying to be for all of us. I knew it was all too much. I whispered to you that it was okay to let go. I promised you that mom and I would be okay; that we’d be strong and we loved you more than anything. I whispered that you were the best dad I could’ve ever asked for and that I’d never ever let you go. I don’t know if you heard me but I have to believe that you did.

Morning came and you fell deeper into nothingness. As I watched you lying there I became so angry that this is how it was all going to end. A beautiful Saturday morning with you stuck inside in bed. You were always incapable of sitting still for very long. You were always outside doing something. Why weren’t you outside, now? I grabbed my headphones and placed them on your ears. Listening to me sing was one of your favorite things, and so I played the cd of my songs for you. You didn’t react but I know you heard me and maybe that’s what you had been waiting for because not long after, your breaths became slower, and labored. I knew what was happening and I could barely speak. I think I told mom that you couldn’t breathe, but I can’t really remember anymore. I watched you. I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t do anything. It was the most beautiful and precious and horrifying and heartbreaking thing I’ve ever witnessed but I couldn’t let myself look away. I had to see you go. I had to watch you and listen and feel it and you needed to know that I was there and that I saw you and that you weren’t alone.

Your final breath was such a deep inhale. It was as if you were trying to fill yourself up with everything you had ever loved; every memory. Every hug and kiss, high five’s after a basketball game, fishing on the river, morning walks with Ace, Friday night football games, sunny days at the beach, motorcycle rides, morning coffee with your boys, flowers from your garden, all the songs I’ve ever sung. You wanted to take it all with you. I watched your eyes close. I remember letting out a panicked “No,” and then saying “It’s okay, you’re okay,” over and over and over. I didn’t want you to feel bad for having to go. I remember nuzzling your face and kissing your neck and your ears and your forehead and your eyes and your nose. I remember getting off of my knees and sitting on the bed with you and wrapping your hands around mine and not letting them go. I didn’t let them go until people that I didn’t know made me let you go. I was so mad at them, and your hands were stiff and had lost their warmth. It was difficult to untangle our hands and I knew you didn’t want to let go either.

Days passed and your funeral came. I remember walking into the gymnasium and seeing it filled with people. I remember feeling so proud. So, so proud of you, Dad. I wanted to show you how many people loved you. Did you see all of them? Everybody loved you so much. I remember that I sang and gave a speech and I don’t know how I did that. I think I was in shock. I remember lots of people saying the nicest things but I don’t remember now what any of those things were. I remember lots of smiling and laughing and trying to be strong. I remember a never-ending line of people wanting to hug me, and feeling like I couldn’t hug another person; it was just all too much. I remember someone making me sit down and eat some food. I didn’t want to eat any food because it made me feel guilty that I could eat, and hug, and smile and breathe and laugh, and you couldn’t.

More days passed, and they keep passing.

The house has been so quiet since you left. People ask me why I don’t go home more often, and I don’t know what to say to them. It hurts me. It’s so painful. It’s so deep-down, bone-crushing achey to pull into the driveway and see your truck parked there. To see Ace run out and greet me with his tail wagging in excitement. Does he think it’s going to be you, every time someone pulls in? He misses you. Your garden is still there and mom weeds it for you and she is trying so hard for you and it’s gut-wrenching and I don’t know what to do with the heaviness on my heart.

Everything is still there. Everything but you.

I never know what to do when I’m home anymore, but I always go into your bedroom. The memory of the last time I saw you in there is so vivid.

I was going to take you to get coffee, at the place downtown you used to go every morning with the guys. You hadn’t been in awhile because your body was just too tired. You went in your room to change out of your pajamas. After several minutes I walked down the hallway and peered in, to check on you. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, struggling to get your shirt over your head; defeated. Your back was to me and I could see every bone, every vertebrae of your spine. Your skin was so thin and transparent, you almost didn’t look human. In that moment I felt my heart break. I felt pieces of it shatter and the pieces pierced my insides and felt like searing, hot pain all throughout my body. I tried to keep it together when I asked you how you were doing but you were feeling the same way I was, and for the first time since your cancer diagnosis, I saw you break down. Your boney shoulders shuddered as you wept and whispered to me that you just wanted to be able to put a shirt on. I wanted to squeeze you so tightly and bury your face in my neck but I didn’t want to hurt you. I held you, but gently, and I felt all of your bones trying to pierce me. I would’ve torn my own flesh off that very second if it would’ve filled in all of your empty spaces. I tried to crack a joke as I helped you put your shirt on and you tried to muster a laugh as you helped me wipe my tears. Did you know that would be the last time you would ever go out for coffee? The last time we would ever go for a drive together? I had never seen you so vulnerable in my entire life and there was nothing that I could do except love you with everything I had and hope that would be enough to save you.

Your clothes are still hanging in the closet and I always bury my face in them. They still smell like you, Dad. I wrap myself up inside of them and close my eyes. I pretend that you’re holding me as I take deep breaths in. And for a moment, I feel you there with me.

I need it to be 365 days ago, so that I can be at your bedside, holding your hands and trying to memorize the freckles and scars on them. I need it to be 365 days ago so that I can tell you I love you not just one time, but a million times. I would tell you and I wouldn’t ever stop telling you.

It will never be 365 days ago.

But I will breathe. Deep breaths. Keep breathing.

“And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always irregularly.

Spaces fill with a kind of soothing, electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never to be the same,

whisper to us. They existed. They existed.

We can be, and be better.

For they existed.”

-Maya Angelou

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Love,

Laser Hair Removal — Burning Your Vagina on Purpose

August 8, 2014 / Love, M / 1 Comment

Have you ever put Saran-Wrap on your lady parts? Don’t act like that’s a weird question.

Recently I let someone shoot red laser beams at my vajayjay over and over and over and OVER. And also at my legs. And armpits.

I know what you’re thinking. “I don’t remember that part in 50 Shades of Grey.” That’s because it’s not in 50 Shades of Grey, and also I probably wouldn’t trust a man to aim a laser at me when all of his blood is currently flowing in the completely opposite direction of his brain. AM I RIGHT?

I DID let someone (not a man) shoot me with laser beams though, because I’m sick of having my coworkers rip my hair out every month. Wait, that’s wrong. A more accurate statement would be that my coworkers are sick of ME, because I’m literally the worst client in the entire world and I will give any and every excuse for them not to pull the strip of hair off in that moment because blah blah blah and I’ll love you forever and buy you coffee EVERYDAY if you just stop torturing me already, and also I will aggressively grab your arm and smile so sweetly with terror in my eyes, alligator tears, and beg you to make it stop. So basically I’m worse than any of these clients that I’ve previously written about. I know this about myself though, and that’s the first step to recovery.

I don’t know why I’ve waited this long to give the permanent BUH-BYE to shaving and waxing, but it might have something to do with You’re taking ALL of my money right now? Okay cool, oh and also, Fucking OUCH.

Being an Esthetician, I knew quite a bit about the procedure and the skin-care side of being lasered, but that did not stop me one bit from having a minor panic attack in the car before I went in. I dumped a bunch of numbing cream down my pants in the parking lot at the last minute, with no qualms about the passersby trying to run errands in peace without getting an eyeful of my magic kingdom. I was also panic-texting my bestie about things that I just can’t share with you angels. Not even on a blog with the word “cunt” in the title. I was out of control. (Oh and also because some of it happened to be super sappy and what the fuck, people? I was totally prepared to be forever tormented by assholes, and nobody wants to hear about yummy mushy bullshit. I know, PUKE, right?).

😉

Anyways.

I tried to take all necessary precautions and prepare myself as well as I possibly could before having my vagina potentially burned off, as this would highly negate the reason to get laser hair removal in the first place.

If you’re not familiar with laser hair removal, you have to shave the area before the appointment. As someone who waxes peoples hoo-ha’s for a living and pounds it into their brains that they should NEVER shave, I really felt like I was cheating on myself. With a razor. What I learned from this process is that shaving fucking sucks, BUT, if you MUST do it, men’s razors are WAY better and slightly less likely to make you want to take the blade to your wrist (thank you, Claire, for your razor wisdom). I also learned that shaving EVERYTHING off is exactly what I thought it’d be. Fucking ridiculous. I’m very aware that popular culture likes the bare look, and 99% of my clients have me give them the full-meal-deal, but I just don’t see how looking like a really tall pre-pubescent child with too much makeup on is sexy. Nobody wants to bang a ten year old and if you do want to do that, I do not want to bang you. Glad that’s out of the way. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with a landing strip. That’s all I’m saying.

After giving myself approximately 62 shaving-induced ingrown hairs, I decided to slather myself with the numbing cream I bought so that I could hopefully get through this procedure without having the cops called on me for punching my Esthetician in the kidney. Something fun I learned is that applying an active numbing agent on a freshly-shaved vagina is the exact same thing as rubbing liquid fire onto a freshly-shaved vagina. If I wasn’t busy sprinting to my freezer for the icepack while making up new curse words and fanning myself with both hands on the way there, I would’ve gladly taken a video of my freakout for you.

If you’re on the fence about using a numbing cream, I put together a pros and cons list for you (some people don’t want to put all of those chemicals on their skin. I on the other hand, don’t want to feel my vagina being lit on fire for an hour, so GIVE ME ALL THE CHEMICALS).

Pros to using numbing cream:

– Your vagina feels numb

– You can text your bestie about how your vagina feels numb

– You can text a guy you’re dating that your vagina feels numb.

– Don’t do that that last one

Cons to using numbing cream:

– It feels like fire

– Your vagina isn’t going to be numb enough

– Your vagina can never be numb enough

– It’s really difficult to distinguish between if you just feel like you have to pee, and if you are actually peeing. In your pants.

Another fun thing I learned about numbing cream is that it activates more if you put Saran Wrap over the area. Yes, I 100% DID Saran Wrap my vagina. And whatever you’re imagining as far as how I did it or what it looked like, is probably right on the money.

My Esthetician definitely thinks I’m crazy, and she’s not far off. I had my phone out the whole time, which surely creeped her out because who in their right mind takes pictures of someone burning the hair follicles out of their cooch? Well I’ve got news for you. I do that.

I promise you that this is the LEAST terrified I looked during my entire time on the table. The sexy glasses are to shield my eyes from the red light that the laser emits, but I know that it was actually to save my eyes from being shot with laser beams when I accidentally-on-purpose kicked my Esthetician in the face.

And just in case you don’t believe that I went through with it, that silver thing in the bottom right corner is a laser. I think you can guesstimate where she’s pointing it.

So what does it feel like, you ask? Well, let me just tell you. After drawing a grid on you with a white crayon, your Esthetician is going to start firing the laser, quickly, all over the grid she drew. It’s basically as if your vagina has become a game of Pacman except that instead of a cute yellow cartoon character running around your lady bits, it’s a ball of fire. Lovely.

I spent most of the time white-knuckling the table with one hand, texting my girlfriends and/or taking pictures with the other, and wondering if I’d ever let anyone near my vagina for any reason, ever again.

I survived though, and lucky for me I get several more treatments to look forward to, with the laser being put on a more intense setting every time. SO LUCKY. CAN’T WAIT.

It will all be worth it in the end, though. Right?

If not, I’ll just drown my sorrows in lots of Butterfinger blizzards (extra Butterfinger). As if I need an excuse to do that.

And on that note, I’m gonna go for a run. And by run I mean lounge on my rooftop deck with some wine.

Happy Friday, lovers!

Love,

Date Fails

July 28, 2014July 29, 2014 / Love, M / Leave a comment

Do you think the reason I’m single right now has anything to do with me belting out The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” at 7:30 in the morning while marching up and down my hallway with no pants on and using my giant bottle of Coconut Creme coffee creamer as a microphone?

Yea, me neither.

So, I’ve been on way more dates than I care to remember. At one point (years ago) I had eleven first dates in one month, and that is not including any second or third dates I went on. What in the holy hell was I smoking, you ask? I’d really like to know the answer to that, too. Shouldn’t I get an award for that or something? I got zero STD’s because nobody got laid and so I guess that’s my award. No chlamydia. Lots of free sushi. Win.

I think Larry David says it best.

Now I’m not quite as cynical as Larry (yet) and I can’t say all the dates I’ve been on have been bad. I’ve had some pretty great ones. Some really great ones. Some, “OMG you’re going to DIE when you hear this” ones. Some, “I’m 96% sure I’m living out a very popular book series, right now,” ones.

When a date goes sour, though, it’s bad. Sometimes my encounters make me think that this cannot be real life. It’s appalling, some of the things men think will be impressive to do or say. I’m not 100% sure yet that my love life isn’t being Punk’d. I’m just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind my bathroom door with a camera. Except I hope it’s Andrew Garfield instead, and that he decides that he’s single and then also has no pants on.

I digress.

So, without further adieu, I want to share some of the Red Flags I’ve encountered on dates. This was originally going to be exclusive to first dates, but I didn’t want to discriminate and leave out all of the awesomely fucked-up things that guys have done at any point in my knowing them.

All of these things have actually happened to me.

Laugh it up.

The amount of FAIL that I’m giving these situations is obviously only my opinion…

But seriously, guys, stop it.

– If your date discloses that both his father and brother were admitted to the psychiatric hospital that you are currently working at. Okay well I guess I’ll be seeing your admission papers soon enough. Thanks for the pizza, okay BYE NOW.

– If a guy tells you his favorite past time is working out, you might want to start lunging your way out of the juice bar you’re probably in. If I hear one more guy say how working out his his religion, I am literally going to throw up in my mouth, swallow it, and throw it up again. I am 150% sure that there are a billion exercise-obsessed men that are fucking cool as hell, but I can’t say I’ve ever had a good experience with a workout whore. I can’t listen to you talk about your “WOD” because it makes me want to “FKM.” And also because I can’t hear anything over the sound of myself chewing handfuls of Cheez-its.

– If a guy sends you a dick pic. Okay. Can we just chat for a second about dick pics? GUYS. A picture of your PENIS. really? Do you realllly think those things are that attractive? Besides the fact that it’s probably going to make us jump out of our skin when we open the picture, and then drop our phones into a puddle out of sheer terror, can you please tell me your thought process on sending me a picture of a giant worm attached to your body? It’s not sexy. You should know that 99% of the time, we are laughing at it. It’s a PENIS. We are laughing. And showing our friends.

– If your date says this: “I’m not a major stoner, just a mild stoner. At my worst, it was 10 to 20 bowls a day. Now it’s only like 1-3.” Do you remember what your last name is? Can you please recite the alphabet for me, sir? I’m going to need you to step out of the booth, and start walking in a straight line…and then just keep walking. Yep, right out of the restaurant.

– If a guy you haven’t gone out with gets your number and the FIRST thing he texts you is “Whattup?,” or “I ain’t got shit on Friday if you wanna hang,” or “You free tonight?,” we are probably not going to be on the same page with much of anything. I may swear like a sailor, but I actually AM a lady, and I’m most definitely not your homie or your booty call. Unless we’re role-playing.

– If a guy bails/reschedules on you three times in a row. You’re an idiot for giving him a third chance, and he’s an idiot for being so goddamn immature. Cut your losses and move on (but not before eating a giant Kit Kat).

– If he looks like he’s aged 20 years from the picture you were shown of him. Can someone please tell me why guys (or girls) think that their dates aren’t going to notice that their grandparent has replaced them at dinner?

– If this conversation happens: “I’m pretty apathetic, in general.” …Do you mean empathetic? No, I mean apathetic. Sooo, you have complete disinterest in everything? Yea, pretty much.” Oh..okay. That’s good to know. Shoot me.

-If your date says he doesn’t eat sweets. At all. Oh…okay, well, fuck you then. Anyone who hates sweets is either the devil, or wants to be.

– If your date ends the night by saying, “Good luck on your next date!” …*slow blink*

-If he proceeds to tell you about the two really hot girls at a wedding the previous weekend that he and his buddy tried to hook up with, and then immediately realizes that he totally just said that out loud and tries to back track. Um no, my friend. You can’t back track that. Goodbye.

– If he still lives with his parents, at an age where you do NOT live with your parents.

-If, after your date, he sends you a bathroom mirror selfie of him wet, naked, and holding only a very small white hand towel over his ~~manhood~~ boyhood which includes the caption “Night night, sweetheart.” FIRST OF ALL, do not call me sweetheart. I just met you, dickhole. Secondly, the only thing your little white towel picture is doing for me is making me want to stick a butter knife into my eyes.

– If your date gets legitimately mad at you for not wanting to drink as much as he is (even though he might be, say, over a FOOT taller, and have at least 100 pounds on you), you should take that as a cue to bail. Any man who actually tries to make you feel bad for not drinking, wants you to drink more so that he doesn’t feel bad about how much HE is drinking. Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not an angry alcohol-abuser like you are, and that I actually like to be able to go to work the next day without wanting to give myself a lobotomy. Find a meeting, love.

– If, on a date, a guy decides it’s a good idea to say, “I watch a lot of porn. What can I say? I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years!,” A) How the fuck did we get on the subject of porn and B) Were you done with your glass full of beer because I need to chug it and then puke into the glass.

– If, after enthusiastically explaining what you do in your career as a Recreation Therapist, your date LAUGHS AT YOU and says, “Isn’t that kind of a joke? You’re actually getting paid for that?” Lord give me the strength not to ruin this man’s chance of ever having offspring.

– If your date shows up late. ESPECIALLY without calling. Either way, it’s super inconsiderate. Unless your dog died right before you left the house, your ass should be at the restaurant before mine.

-If your date pays the bill and then says, “You should feel really special right now.” You should feel really special that your face doesn’t have my handprint on it right now.

– If your date says, “So I guess I should probably mention that I’m in a cult.” I don’t even know what to say about that.

– If within the first 15 minutes, you feel like you’re on a date with a clone of your super narcissistic/borderline-sociopathic ex-boyfriend, you should probs just stick a fork in that bitch because he’s done.

– If your date says, “I don’t think I have much empathy. Things happen to people, but it doesn’t really bother me…I only really call my friends or family if I need something from them. Yea, I’m not really a good friend.” Are you hearing yourself right now? You are? Okay, just confirming that my ears aren’t full of all of the starving children in the world that you give zero fucks about.

– If a guy acts completely smitten by you on a first date, and never calls you again. A four hour conversation, sharing personal stories, holding your hand across the table, acting like he’s so moved by what you say, saying over and over how much he’s going to have to thank our friend for setting you two up…and then nothing. No call. No text. No nothing. Don’t be that guy. But thank you for not wasting anymore of my life than you already did.

-If a guy tells you on a FIRST DATE, “I have $350,000 over in Europe that I’m sitting on.” First of all, no you don’t. Secondly, who the fuck says something like that, and especially the very first time you go out? Hi, I’m super insecure. Can you please believe my blatant lies so that I feel like I’m something other than the cold, empty shell of a person that I actually am? Also, would I really believe that you’re sitting on 350,000 bones when you’ve taken me to a restaurant that makes Applebees look gourmet? I should’ve known that going to a place called Rock Bottom on a first date was a bad omen.

-If your date talks an absurd amount about how attractive other women are (except I really think that talking about it any amount is pretty fucking unnecessary).

-If your date says, “So…do you hook up a lot?” Well, yea! Obviously I’m a slutbag, I thought you’d never ask!

-If your date tells you that all of his friends think that he’s really arrogant, but he doesn’t see it. DUDE.

-If, on your second date, he tells you that you guys will work out just fine because he’s planning on having interracial children, you should probably just start running and not stop running.

Well, that’s probably just part 1, unfortunately. Or fortunately?

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Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

Online Dating — You’re Doing it Wrong

July 12, 2014July 18, 2014 / Love, M / 1 Comment

Confession: I recently made an online dating profile. Recently, as in a few days ago. Why did I do this? I’ve asked myself this same question about 67,000 times in the last 72 hours, but it’s basically the same reason why I came home yesterday from what was supposed to be just a chiropractic appointment, with shopping bags from Zara and Nordstrom Rack filled to the brim with useless clothing items: I’m a wee bit IMPULSIVE.

(okay but they’re not totally useless clothing items and I got a gorgeous new white top because I’m obsessed with white and ohmygodicantstopbuyingallthewhitethings. This is 100% a cry for help)

Anyways, what really happened is that this site lets you make a profile for free (so obviously I got super curious), but you can’t see anyone’s emails or pictures or anything unless you pay, so once the messages started flooding my inbox and I couldn’t even see who was sending them, I caved and said FINE TAKE MY THIRTY DOLLARS, NOW SHOW ME THE SIX-FOOT-FOUR HUGH JACKMAN AND RYAN GOSLING LOOK-ALIKES ALREADY!!!

Also, dating websites are fucking hilarious. The best. I’m telling you, it’s better than reality TV. I think it’s safe to say that it’s pretty much exactly like being on The Bachelorette, but without having cameras following you around. Except that I think I can pick out at least 7 men on this website that would definitely follow you around with a camera.

And maybe also a weapon.

JUST kidding.

But seriously.

I feel like I should be embarrassed to reveal this recent venture, but then again, I posted a picture of my torn up underwear on here, and also, when I brought up this concern to my girlfriend, she said, “Wayyy more people are doing this online dating stuff then you think. They just don’t wan’t to admit it.”

SO THERE. I’m admitting it. I’m on one. Now piss off. Just kidding, I love you. Keep reading. And feel free to laugh at me. I’m laughing at me.

Oh and ALSO, one of my other girlfriends once said to me, “If you’re ever feeling shitty about your life, just remember that I got super drunk a couple weeks ago and slept with a toothless guy.”

…so there’s that.

Now, I’m about 15% taking this seriously, and 85% using this as a social experiment and having my mind blown by some of the stuff I’m seeing and/or reading, immediately taking screenshots of the madness and sending them to my equally inappropriate, we’re-both-on-the-first-train-to-hell-but-it’s-totally-fine-because-we’ll-be-singin’-the-whole-way-there-and-besides-everyone-we-love-will-be-there-too-oh-and-also-WEWILLBRINGTHEMARGARITAS, girlfriend. Love her.

So are you super curious as to what MY dating profile looks like? Well, I was feeling generous today so I uploaded a picture of it for you. Enjoy!…

Hahahahaha

No.

If you want to see my profile, fork over the money to be on the site and stalk me that way, like a normal person would.

Anyways.

For every one message that I’ve received or profile that I’ve come across that has actually made me laugh in a non-creeped-out way, or raise my eyebrow with a look of Okay, well you certainly don’t suck to look at and you also actually write about yourself using sentences that go a little deeper than “I like to have fun. Beer is good,” there are 103 ridiculous ones.

The majority of the time I’m shaking my head in disbelief. So, I thought I’d share, in my humble opinion, how to tell if you should NOT go out with a person you meet online.

If his main profile picture is of him wearing a fish hat.

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If he states that his pet peeve is “chipped nail polish.” Nail polish? Really? If you’re going to abstain from playing ping-pong or wrestling around with your girlfriend because you don’t want her chipping her nail polish, you need to re-evaluate your life. Wait, first remove the giant stick from your ass, and then re-evaluate your life.

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If he has no pictures whatsoever on his profile. Yea, you seem super legit and not at all embarrassed to show your face on here. Your mug shot is probably plastered on light poles in every residential neighborhood.

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If his email says, “You won’t be disappointed.” Honey, I’m already disappointed.

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If his name is MacGregor, and he actually wants to be called MacGregor.

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If he is the Hispanic Tom Selleck. Except that I think this guy may actually be doing it RIGHT. Let’s be honest.

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If he sends you emails that are in style of a Shakespearean sonnet.

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If he can’t even spell his own name right in his email.

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If he’s Jesus Christ’s doppleganger. Like I mentioned above, I’m already on the south-bound train for writing this blog post and I can’t look at someone so Christ-like everyday, wondering how much he’s judging me for drinking coffee out of a mug with the word “cunt” written on it.

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If his spelling is so bad that he confuses the word “horse” with “hores,” multiple times, thus asking you if you currently live with hores.

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Two words: Bathroom selfies.

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If he takes the term “Profile picture” literally (and also burns worse than you do — for the sake of your unborn children)

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If he puts up pictures of himself completely hammered and standing next to the Señor Frog mascot in Cabo (or any other monument/mascot/anything while shitfaced and slumped over). Stop it.

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “Who doesn’t like a good box?”

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If the subject line in his email to you is, “I have a gorilla.”

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If he posts this picture:

I do not care that your muscles are chiseled and glistening with fake sweat. You’re an idiot. But have fun getting winks and emails from a bunch of girls who pop Valtrex like they’re Flintstone vitamins.

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If his message to you is anything along the lines of: “I’ll keep this short and sweet. You’re hot. What’s your cell number?” What this message ACTUALLY means is: “We should text for a couple of days and then have sex and then you can immediately regret it while I find someone else to text/sex/repeat.” And as romantic as that whole idea is my darling, you can just take your Costco bulk package of condoms and fuck off. K thanks.

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If his username is “CreepyMcCreeper”

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If he sends you an email with this subject line:

Thank you for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment I’m going to go throw up and then pour acid in my eyes.

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If his username contains the phrase “Rico Suave.” If you feel the need to make it known that you are the Rico Suave type, then you are not suave, you are a d-bag.

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If he’s wearing a big red helmet in 90% of his pictures. Take off your helmet.

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If he has someone take a picture of him talking on his cellphone, while strategically placing his other hand casually through his belt loop, and also just happens to be looking at the camera and giving a casual smile that says “Oh, were you taking a picture of me? You silly goose I wasn’t even ready!” You are not posing for a spread in LL Bean. Get out.

—

If he sends you multiple emails in a row, because he kept forgetting things that he had wanted to ask you. Let it go, my friend. Oh and also, Xanax.

—

If his pictures are literally from a modeling agency and so incredibly photoshopped that it looks like you could use the hollow of his cheekbones as a vessel for guacamole dip. Stop. You are not real, and if you ARE real, I am 98% certain that you have never been able to give a female an orgasm. You probably also do weird shit like only drinking water and sucking on lemons, except for on Tuesdays when you’ll let yourself have some organic soybeans.

—

If he posts his Instagram username in his profile with the caption “Follow me on Insta!!” HONEY. You look so desperate. The douchebaggery that you are sending out into the world right now is really messing with my chi.

—

If any (or all) of his pictures are taken with various bikini-clad babes that CLEARLY are not his sister. Oh, please let me be your next lay. I can tell that you’re really into monogamy and class. Puke.

—

Lastly, and on a slightly different note, if you’re a widower whose wife died of cancer 2 years ago and you post pictures with the adorable little girl that you had together, and you write happily about how most nights nowadays are spent building forts and watching Frozen, you should know that I’m just going to start bawling. So thanks for that (but you, kind sir, are NOT doing it wrong, and I hope that you find a deep and mighty love). But seriously, I cried. I know, I know. Throw me a tampon.

It’s not all bad, really. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’m living proof that good things (and horrifying things) can come out of this interweb-correspondance. I know quite a few people who have a certain finger that is a little extra sparkly these days, thanks to one of these silly websites. It’s really no different than meeting people the “normal” way. No matter how you end up getting involved with someone, you’re always going to run the risk of them being a fucking nutjob. Or a narcissist/sociopath. <— worst case scenario. But you may also just meet that dude (or lady) who is YOUR kind of weird, and it just works.

Well now that I’m feeling sappy, I’m gonna go snuggle my cat and then run around outside until it’s time to drive up north for the day and get into trouble with some old amigos.

Cheers!

Love,

Self-Esteem Boosters

July 4, 2014July 4, 2014 / Love, M / Leave a comment

If you ever feel like you’re the only one struggling, read this and then high-five yourself.

You’re welcome.

Did I mention I tried to make a thong out of a pair of white granny panties?

Well, I did try to do that.

It turned out well.

Now before you start going off with, “Good gracious!! That girl needs to keep her skivvies to herself! Who in their right mind would go around posting pictures of their panties?! She’s coming off looking like a goddamn hooker!,” let’s take a step back for a second.

People. Look at this pair of underwear. Does it LOOK like I was trying to make them into something that I was planning on having anyone else actually see (until now)? I do have a shred of dignity, sometimes.

I was trying to make them into something that I could wear so that certain things would NOT be seen through all of my white summer dresses because APPARENTLY, it’s really trendy right now for companies to make transparent clothing.

Lovely.

This endeavor clearly did not work out (and no, I didn’t end up wearing any of the dresses because I try to save my hoe-bag looks for never).

If I ever do manage to be successful in creating a thong out of granny panties though, you’ll be the first to know.

Or, I could aways just go and stock up on some of those string-y underwear bullshit things, like a normal person, and not have to sit on my floor trying to go all Martha Stewart on my underoos.

Either way.

—

Did I mention I went out to dinner and the human that I was with happened to get accosted with death threats at our table by a wild, yelling, arm-flailing man who claimed to “know all about him?” Yea. That happened. Was I surprised that it happened? No. Of course that would happen to me. And as I watched this all going down, with wide eyes, a forkful of lamb shank and giant gulps of my whiskey cocktail, I thought to myself Self, is this an appropriate time to get your phone out and start video-taping? I may be witnessing an attempted murder. Or a real murder. Or even my own murder. If this man actually takes a swing at the human across from me, is possibly knocking over my delicious plate of lamb really worth jumping in on the action and trying to be a hero? Is this person I’m with right now the Seattle version of Jordan Belfort, and I’m about to witness his downfall when twelve cop cars come screaming around the corner in about 30 seconds? I better start eating my lamb faster because if this happens I probably won’t have time to ask for a box.

Did I mention that on this said ‘dinner-with-a-fellow-human,’ it took nearly an hour for me to get the half mile to the restaurant because the driver of the car that was sent for me couldn’t spell or pronounce the name “Harrison,” and kept trying to find a “Sheraton” street while I was standing outside in 6-inch heels and about ready to call Pizza Hut so that I could at least have something to munch on while my life was passing me by?

Did I mention that my fellow human was super romantic that evening, sending me texts while he was waiting for me to arrive that said things like, “I’ll probably be drunk when you get here,” and, “Pouring Jameson in my eyes.”

Did I mention that the aforementioned dinner experience ended with a hilarious rejection of mouth to mouth contact, and the town car driver later telling my fellow human, “You’ll kiss her next time, champ.”

Aaahh, optimism.

Dating is really fun, guys. REALLY fun.

(okay but seriously, though, that one was really fun)

—

Did I mention that I resemble a zombie pretty much all of the time now and I’ve probably bought Sephora out of all of their under eye concealers because this little feline thing that I rescued is actually a human toddler? A toddler that doesn’t stop meowing from the time I get home until the time I pass out, UNLESS I let him drape his furry body across my face and start snoring in my ear? A toddler who, like clockwork, puts his face in front of mine at 4am every single morning and starts loudly meowing at me until I wake up, and once I’m up he promptly goes back to sleep, because he’s trying to KILL me? He thinks that because he’s so goddamn cute with his one eye, he can get away with murder.

He’s right.

Did I mention that I bought said feline a gift from Vegas, to try and remind him that I am actually the boss and will put uncomfortable, too-tight pieces of human-looking clothing on him whenever he gets sassy?

My efforts to embarrass him were fruitless because he gave absolutely zero fucks about it.

—

And finally, since it’s 4th of July weekend, did I mention that I once had a new brazilian wax client, who’s name on her consult sheet was spelled “Merica,” and when I went to introduce myself and take her back for her service, I called her Mer-i-ka? Yes, like ‘Merica, in the style of Larry the Cable Guy.

Do you want to know how her name was actually pronounced? MUH-REE-SA.

Do you want to know what ethnicity she was? African-American.

Do you know how badly I wanted to crawl into the crevasses of the couch she was sitting on and never, ever ever come out ever again?

So, so badly.

SO badly.

I still almost throw up when I think about it.

Well folks, If THAT doesn’t make you feel better about yourself, I don’t know what will.

—

I hope all of you abstain from holding Roman Candles by the wrong end this weekend, and have lots of fun writing swear words in the air with sparklers.

Happy 4th!

Love,

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

June 25, 2014June 25, 2014 / 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,

Father’s Day

June 15, 2014June 16, 2014 / Love, M / 6 Comments

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,

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

June 8, 2014 / Love, M / 4 Comments

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.

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,

Sex-Ed

June 3, 2014June 3, 2014 / 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.

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,

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

May 25, 2014May 28, 2014 / Love, M / 1 Comment

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

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.

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

Love,

	Nic on Dear, Dad
	Serena Rovin on Dear, Dad
	Band of Misfits \|… on (Not) A Crazy Cat Lady.
	"stupid cunt" is not… on How to Get Stung by a Scorpion…
	"stupid cunt" is not… on Shit Girls Say to Their B…

Love, M

I'm probably watching The Office

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Sex-Ed

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

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The 30 People You Meet on the Waxing Table

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