life

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.

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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.

photo

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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.

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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

/ 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.

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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.

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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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Post-Vacation Stress Disorder

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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.

Cast Away’d

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

 

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

I totally had a movie moment.

It was not cause for the aforementioned reaction.

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

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

Keep reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did I get here???

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Love,

M.

(tap tap tap)…Is This Thing On?

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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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