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Date Fails

/ 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.

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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,

M.

Online Dating — You’re Doing it Wrong

/ 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.

phortto 2

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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.

phoeeeto

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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)

phodddeeto

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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:

photeeo 1

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:

photdsdso

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. 

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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. 

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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.

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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. 

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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.

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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,

M.

Self-Esteem Boosters

/ 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.

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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.

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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)

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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.

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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.

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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,

M.

Father’s Day

/ Love, M / 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

I’m so sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one listened. No one answered me.

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

I didn’t get to fight it for you.

I lost you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t see you.

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

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

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

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

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

You had bright blue eyes.

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

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

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

You’re still mine.

I see you.

—

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

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

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

—

Love,

M.

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

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

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

Brazilians are my jam.

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

Except that she’s probably not a bitch.

What? I’m not bitter.

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

Anyways, here they are, in no particular order.

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

So no shame, ladies! No shame.

Unless you’re the bad tipper.

Unknown

The 30 People You Meet on the Waxing Table

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And don’t forget to wipe!

Love,

M.

 

(Not) A Crazy Cat Lady.

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

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

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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.

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…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…?

No.

 

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.

 

Love,

M.

 

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

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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.”

Wild.

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.

 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Toucan

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.

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 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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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 ground. I 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.

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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!

 

Love,

M.

Post-Vacation Stress Disorder

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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.

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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).

Context:
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.

Anyways.

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.

People.

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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.

Love,

M.

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

/ Love, M / 9 Comments

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.

Love,

M.

(tap tap tap)…Is This Thing On?

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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.”

 

Love,

M.

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