people

Dear Dad,

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

IMG_2574

5 years and 2 days ago, the idea that you wouldn’t be here anymore was unfathomable.

5 years and 1 day ago, I kissed you goodnight and whispered that if you needed to, it was okay to let go.

5 years ago, you did.

Grief is not something that you just deal with, or cure, or resolve.

When you are not done loving, grief lives inside of you forever.

I was not done loving you.

After 5 months, grief is still expected. It shows. Your smile is forced. Your eyes are tired. Your face, older. Your posture, defeated.

After 5 years, grief – somehow feeling less justified – turns you into the master of restraint. Grief becomes soundless screams into pillows and silently crying yourself to sleep. Hiding tears behind sunglasses when certain songs come on. Deep, muted breaths while you stare at the ceiling during tough movie scenes. Using the shower as a disguise for the kind of emotion you can’t choke back.

But after 5 years I am still just as angry as I was the day you told me that this time, it was terminal.

Some things, you can’t ever accept. Some things, I don’t think we’re meant to.

Last year I walked down the aisle to the love of my life, without you – my first love – on my arm.

Instead of cracking corny jokes and sneaking appetizers before cocktail hour, you were framed in pictures on a table.

I had to write you a love letter on the back of our programs, instead of you writing us a toast.

Instead of sitting front row, grinning wide with teary-eyes, there was one empty seat and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence.

And I was taken by complete surprise when after the first dance ended, your brothers stepped onto the floor and each took turns dancing with me in tribute to you.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

I was not done loving you.

But we did it anyways.

And it was magical.

We all laughed and we cried and we danced and we ate.

And you would’ve loved every second of it.

 

 

Love,

M.

 

 

 

 

@tennisonweddingfilms

www.tennisonweddings.com

The Feins Go (Mid)West

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.

HUS-BAND!

(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.

 

Love,

M

 

Band of Misfits

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

I recently had a client come in who hadn’t been waxed for six months due to birthing a human out of her lady parts.

Very legit excuse for not having me rip hair off of said parts.

She brought her baby in with her, which was a super cute situation except for the part where I was thinking about how I was going to have a six month old baby girl watch me drizzle hot wax all over her birth place.

And also that I’m 103% more comfortable being around an alien life form than with a small, helpless human.

(Aren’t they kind of the same thing though? Let’s be honest.)

I really do like babies, don’t get me wrong.

But honestly. I am just literally the worst at it.

(You grow out of that, right?)

I’ve watched plenty of my friends get the baby fever/virus/plague and turn into a sappy puddle of goop whenever one is within five miles radius, but whenever one is put into my arms I more or less develop rigormortis and paranoia.

And whoever said babies don’t smell fear is a dirty liar because they most definitely start crying as soon as I touch them, and in the rare case that they don’t, it’s because they were slipped some Benadryl.

Or whiskey.

Either way.

Anyway, the baby who I was about to give a wax show to started screaming bloody murder right before I went in to do the service.

Of course she did.

Fortunately, (and miraculously), the screaming wasn’t my fault, as the mom had accidentally punched her baby.

IN THE FACE.

That’s normal, right?

Because I will totally do that.

At least once a week every day.

Sorry in advance, little one.

So speaking of me being a super great mother someday:

We had a baby!!

…”bought” a baby.

Well, a dog, technically.

A baby dog.

Also called a puppy.

Okay we rescued a puppy.

WE RESCUED A PUPPY!!!

The most adorable pup in the entire universe.

Not that I’m biased.

TELL me this is not the cutest little bundle of snuggles you’ve ever seen.

IMG_1304

Tell me.

Don’t actually tell me. I will cut you.

World, meet Sawyer.

Can we just talk about his eyelashes for a second?

Please notice how they butterfly literally 2 inches out from his eyelids.

FullSi222zeRender

Ladies, is this not the cat-eye we all dream of having???

Is puppy eyelash envy a thing because I kind of hate him for it.

…okay but I’m also the mom that goes, “YASS BITCH my (fur)baby is a model” every time someone dies over how adorable he is.

He’s super well behaved except for the part where he’s constantly nibbling whatever human body part is closest to him at the time, jumping over our fence to chase birds, cats, the UPS guy, etc., and chewing up all of my undies.

Fu00llSizeRender

It’s always the lacy ones.

He’s got good taste, what can I say.

In our defense, we did get a shock collar recently to stop all the madness except that we soon realized our pup is a superhero when he jumped the fence this morning and was shocked repeatedly on full force for about five minutes with absolutely zero affect, while my saint of a boyfriend ran around the neighborhood trying to catch him.

But I guess it also could have been that, (helpful hint here, guys), the shock collar works a little better when you TURN IT ON.

You’re welcome.

….Okay but other than that he’s super well behaved.

(Extreme cuteness counts for something too, right?)

Sawyer’s favorite things include tummy scratches, decapitating (stuffed) animals, licking off my makeup (super convenient, actually), and eating cat poop.

….and the Wisconsin Badgers.

Obviously.

(Go Bucky)

His least favorite things include birds, bicyclists, leashes, and his brother, Marble.

….and Duke.

Obviously.

Now, I don’t want to be the mom who keeps posting a zillion pictures of her baby, because THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME (but omg he’s totally winking at me in this one!!!), so instead I’ll just leave a video of him getting slapped by Marble.

That’s entertainment.

And speaking of Marble, here’s a video of him slapping ME.

Also entertaining.

FYI the slap sound IS real and my neck 100% looked like I was attacked by a rake.

I deserved it though, clearly.

It’s hard to imagine life now without our little band of misfits.

…except that sleeping would be a lot more peaceful, considering Marble demands to be spooned by one of us every night (ALL NIGHT) and will walk all over your face until you comply.

…and less vacuuming.

…way less poop.

…no 5:00am potty breaks in the dark.

Okay so I guess I can imagine life without them.

But we can’t imagine going back.

I KNOWWWW….the sappiness leaks out sometimes, I can’t help it!

UGH. Puke.

Okay one more.

FullSizeRe333nder

HE KILLS ME.

Happy Thursday angel faces.

Love,

M.

Almost Thirty: I’ll Never Be Homecoming Queen

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

The other day I was walking downtown on my lunch break when out of nowhere the guy walking in front of me threw two huge handfuls of something into the air, proceeding to shower me in CONDOMS. He didn’t look back, didn’t miss a beat. Just kept walking.

What worried me about this was not that I might now be on some YouTube prank video, nor that he seemed really delighted to get rid of (arguably) essential sexy time gear, but that I also just kept walking. Aside from checking the lid of my caramel macchiato to make sure I wasn’t about to inhale a contraceptive, I really didn’t even bat an eye.

My guess is that after staring at twenty vagina’s a day for almost two years, impromptu condom showers just don’t phase me anymore.

Condom confetti.

Okay then.

 

960118_10101137192439290_8988231652560284596_n

This is the year I turn thirty.

That magical, dreadful number that seemingly makes us all shit our pants and have a nervous breakdown because we’re not married yet/we ARE married holy shit/we’re afraid our eggs are drying up/we don’t want kids/we were supposed to be pregnant SIX MONTHS AGO WTF/Our metabolism is being a giant bitch/we still can’t do our own taxes/we’re forever alone/thelistgoesonforever.

Right? Right.

I haven’t really been thinking about turning thirty though, until I recently went home for the weekend and found a diary from ninth grade.

How precious.

In this little gem included lots of lists:

“People I’ve Dated.” That list was short.

“Stupid Dumb Bitches.” That list was longer.

My favorite, though, was one titled, “Goals to Be Accomplished Before the Age of 30.”

I got a chuckle out of it and kept going on with my life except that since then I’ve come across several articles whilst surfing the interwebs, with lists of where I should in my life by the time I reach this “magical” number. And I say several as in, almost everyday I am seeing essays on why I’m a sucky almost-thirty-year-old.

Is everyone turning thirty this year?

Okay universe. Thank you. I GET IT. Do your laundry.

These people are telling me that in order to be a proper adult, I should know how to fold a fitted sheet properly, read the news everyday, get enough sleep, and never run out of toilet paper. First of all, fitted sheets can just fuck right off. Reading the news everyday is like feeding yourself depression pills. Getting enough sleep is just a ridiculous term that some jerk coined in an attempt to make us believe that it IS actually possible to feel rested, and toilet paper is something you just never think about until it’s too late, which is what paper towels are for (or the napkins you get in your McDonalds bag as if you’d ever use them because obviously you will just lick the sauce off your fingers. Hello).

The list that my 14 year old self wrote though, is far more worthy of striving for, in my not-so-humble opinion.

So I figured I would share what I thought was most important to do in your first thirty years of life, and we can all have a pity party celebrating how much we (don’t?) have our shit together.

photo

This would be way more entertaining if I hadn’t accomplished any of these goals, but unfortunately I can tick off more than I thought I would (or at least a version of them).

Sorry ’bout that.

I didn’t make it to American Idol’s Top Ten, but I did get a golden ticket, only to be shot down by the show’s producers in the second round. Not devastated or traumatized by that at all.

Let’s all do a slow clap at the fact that I’m not raising two children at this point because remembering to give my cat his eye drops everyday is enough of a struggle. Also if you really can’t drink coffee while pregnant, I’m really going to have to rethink this entire process.

I never studied abroad but I did live abroad so I’ll go buy myself a donut for that, later.

Skydiving is really fucking fun and everyone should do it unless you really really don’t want to. Then you should probably not do it, lest you have PTSD for all of eternity.

Shopping sprees are something I apparently took a little too seriously because I now work in a building that’s only a three minute walk from Zara, Anthropologie, Sephora, Nordstrom, yougetmydrift. It’s a BIG issue, people. A big issue. But, as a 14 year old I found this to be really important to do in my life so I really don’t feel that bad about it.

Bungee jumping is a sore subject to say the least, since I was literally standing on the ledge of a bungee tower and couldn’t seem to find my balls that day. I’d like to blame it on being hungover but the truth is that I was just a giant weenie. Instead, I got to take the walk of shame alllll the way down the tallest spiral staircase you could possibly imagine, and then go crawl into a hole and try to disappear forever.

I don’t wanna get all mushy here because that’s stupid and I’m not trying to make you guys puke, but let’s just say I’m pretty happy with the fact that I’m not dating a guy with a southern accent right now.

As for the REALLY important things on this list, I only have 8 months to buy a Navigator and be Homecoming Queen.

(Pray for me)

My conclusion to this whole “turning thirty” mumbo jumbo is that according to most lists, I’m kind of sucking at life. But according to MY list, I’m doing okay.

I have to say, I’d take skydiving and traveling and owning horses over being an expert fitted sheet folder any day of the week.

So I say to you, my lovelies: Make your own goddamn list.

Oh, and by the way, my contour IS on point.

Love,

M.

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s

/ Love, M / 2 Comments

768b919fa22206ad0360afc9e99e9a8e

Girlfriends.

They’re basically the only way to keep your sanity in life.

AMIRIGHT?

Preach.

Furthermore, there are just certain things you only say to your best lady loves; those dark, dirty secrets or (embarrassing) everyday happenings that you just really need to share with SOMEONE so that you can be validated that yes, you are crazy but you’re not the only one.

As much fun as men can be, your husband/baby daddy/boyfriend/FWB/secret lover will probably (hopefully?) never have a vagina, and sometimes there are things that you can only say to people with similar parts.

Do you catch my drift?

I’ve been keeping a list for awhile now, of a bunch of the random, embarrassing, and ridiculous and things my girlfriends and I have said to each other.

I’ve been contemplating whether or not to publish this particular blog post for awhile, now. My thought was that it might be a little over the top and/or offensive (as if posting pictures of my underwear or talking about my sexcapades gone wrong are not either of those things). But then I said to myself, Self, have you ever read the title of your own blog? Okay? Okay. 

And also, I recently gave a fellow human a few examples of some of the quotes I’d planned on using and his response was, “I’m pretty sure you say way more inappropriate and weird things to me on a regular basis.”

Touchè.

So it’s happening.

(What that person doesn’t know is that I secretly took that as one of the best compliments ever.)

Keep it weird, people. Keep it weird.

I would like to emphasize that these did not all come out of MY mouth. Most of them are things other people have said to me…mm hmm, yea…especially the ones that really make you contemplate the status of my mental health. Definitely didn’t say any of those ones.

Definitely not.

…aaanyway…

Without further adieu,

Shit Girls Say to Their BFF’s:

—

I just had to tug unnecessarily hard to get my thong out of my ass crack.

—

I don’t want to hear from you again until there’s been actual P in the V. I love you. I believe in you. Good luck.

—

GF1: The kissing was WAY too much. It was like, “Here, let me swirl my tongue around your tongue for 16 minutes and then right before your mouth completely dries up from being wide fucking open and catching flies, I’ll kiss your lips.” I’m exhausted.

GF2: Stop kissing him.

—

GF1: Do you know what you’re wearing on your date tonight???

GF2: No idea! I want him to see me and choke on his own saliva. What does that outfit look like?

—

(At a bakery)

I am SOOO bloated. Do I look bloated? Don’t you fucking dare lie to me right now, ___. Do I? I don’t? You swear? Okay, lets split a cookie then.

—

Don’t mind me while I furiously rub my vagina with face-cleansing towelettes.

—

I just said this to somebody: “These almonds are EVERYTHING.” Everything? What am I, a fucking Kardashian? No. Please feel free to unfriend me from your life.

—

I only ended up getting my ass waxed, so maybe we’ll just do doggy style and he’ll never see the front.

—

I wish the reason that I have disproportionate forearm muscles was as pleasurable as the reason that guys do.

—

How do people go commando in a dress? I feel like something is gonna fall out of my vagina at any moment.

—

Ummm I’m growing a national forest on my face.

—

My swamp ass is so real right now.

—

My pants are literally going to just fall right off of me when he gets back from his trip and I’m going to have zero control over it.

—

GF1: Please tell me you’ve had multiple orgasms in the last 72 hours.

GF2: Best sex of my life.

GF1: Marry him.

—

My uterus is about to erupt. My vagina is literally housing Mt. Vesuvius. I’m dying. Why am I a woman??

—

I took the next day off so that I can get drunk just below the “get-sent-to-the-hospital” level, and then make bad decisions regarding my love life.

—

I had to change out of my dress and into jeans because you could feel my leg hair through the fabric. I’m obviously not getting laid.

—

If a guy doesn’t even want you to talk to him while he’s pooping, why the fuck would he want to stick it in your ass?

—

I def just ate a cookie that was god knows how old and stuffed behind a bunch of shit in one of the drawers at work. I have know idea whose it was but I do know that it had chocolate in it and also that maybe I shouldn’t drink sangria on my lunch break.

—

If you stopped talking to me for more than 36 hours without having a death in your immediate family, I’d be a little butthurt. Especially if I had texted you that I got laid.

—

Just because he’s British does NOT mean he gets a free pass into these panties.

—

He had this little twitch in his eye and this weird cough thing happening and I don’t know if he was just super nervous but I do know that it was adorable and made me wanna give his penis a hug. With my vagina.

—

Hahaha your fiancé is the best. I need a fiancé who’s also the best so that we can just be sister wives and brother husbands already.

—

You know that if I see your ex on the street, I’m going to walk straight up to him and kick him right in the balls, right? Like, multiple times. This is what bitches do for each other.

—

Is it weird that we get really excited about each others’ sex lives?

—

Would you rather take a shot of your guy’s cum, or a shot of your own phlegm?

—

Do you think he’d think less of me if I boned his brains out before being exclusive?

—

I saw an ex last night who was in town, and I was expecting it to be along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey, but it was more like The Notebook, except that Noah and Ally don’t ever end up together, and just…TEARS. TEARS EVERYWHERE. So yea, now I’m just eating a lot of cookies.

—

WTF I’ve pooped three times today already.

—

GF1: I have a bunch of leftover Plan B pills, do you want them?

GF2: Hahaha what do you think I am, a whore?! Yes. I do want them.

—

I’m so dehydrated that my poop looks like a pile of burnt popcorn chicken.

—

He hasn’t asked me on another date  yet, but I’m sure he’ll ask before the weekend is over…right? If not, I’m just going to eat three whole ice cream cakes and then drown myself in a kiddie pool.

—

GF1: Why am I watching Katie Couric learn how to give a newborn baby the Heimlich?

GF2: You’re lonely.

GF1: And my uterus hurts.

—

I just started my period and my back is fucking killing me and all I wanna do is crawl into a gallon of ice cream and eat my way out of it.

—

 When I think about being skinnier, my first thought is always: it would be WAY easier to shave my vagina

—

I love you so much I just hugged my phone

—

I just shaved my entire vagina and I don’t get how this is so fucking attractive. I look like a really tall ten year old with way too much makeup on.

—

He’s so sweet I might just kill myself purely because he’d write the best eulogy.

—

He makes fucking delicious bacon, so…basically that seals the deal.

—

I tried using conditioner instead of shave gel on my lady bits and my vagina feels like a pair of silk panties.

—

I need you. In the most heterosexual way.

—

GF1: At what point is it appropriate to ask the question, “So, are you gonna cheat on me with free dating websites or completely disappear for a week and then I’ll randomly run into you in a park and you’ll be holding a bottle of bbq sauce and a loaf of bread, like the last guy?”

GF2: I’d say that’s a good fourth date question.

—

GF1: How to know your date tanked – you leave and drive straight to the KFC drive-thru window.

GF2: Oh no! He was that bad?

GF1: Give me all the Chicken Littles.

—

I’m totally the whore in this relationship.

—

It’s so hot out I have a cup of ice between my legs but the heat radiating from my vagina is already melting it.

—

You know it’s time to get a brazilian when you move and your jeans tug on your pubes.

—

SWEAR to me that you’ll always tell me if my ass is sweating through my pants. Swear it.

—

GF1: What percentage of guys do you think try to suck their D’s?

GF2: 100%

—

On a scale of 1 to eating cold chicken out of a plastic bag before bed, how lonely are you?

—

Btw I’m so bloated I wanna kill myself, and I don’t even wanna binge on junk food first, because TOO BLOATED.

—

Confession: I was holding a pen in my mouth and fully drooled all over my chest, but it felt good because I’m so bloody hot.

—

GF1: Sorry your leg wax didn’t turn out well!!

GF2: Oh, it’s not that terrible. just thought I’d sit up and cum at touching my own legs.

—

GF1: You may also have to hold a fan directly against my vagina while I hold my wedding dress up, so I don’t drip sweat all over everyone’s shoes.

GF2: I’m just going to buy you a strap on dildo and replace the penis with a fan.

—

GF1: How do you ask a guy if he’s a virgin without making his dick go soft for all of eternity?

GF2: You can’t.

Dedicated to my lady loves. I’d be lost and even more crazycakes without you.

Love,

M.

Father’s Day

/ Love, M / 6 Comments

1005240_10100586645968830_846022119_n

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.

(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. 

20140523-161907.jpg

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.

image

…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.

 

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

/ Love, M / 2 Comments

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.

 

photo

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.

image-2

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.

image-6

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

—

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

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.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Cayman

Baby Cayman

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.

DSC02070

American Crocodile

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

—

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

image-8

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.

—

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.

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.

Cast Away’d

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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.