relationships

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

 

Dear, Dad

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Two years is an awfully long time to live without you.

You left at such an inconvenient time.

The Seahawks won the Super Bowl. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. I wanted to be really excited about them finally going all the way, but right after you died? They couldn’t have waited a year?

Their heartbreaking Super Bowl loss the following season would’ve been a bit more fitting.

As if happy things shouldn’t be allowed to happen in the wake of your death.

But happy things did happen.

Life is funny that way, isn’t it?

Unexpectedly, I met someone who has so many of the precious qualities that I loved so much about you. He’s my best friend, and would give you a run for your money when it comes to razzing me. 

No wonder I feel like I won the jackpot.

Why aren’t you here to hassle him about where his sports team loyalties lie, and teach us both how to fish?

Really Dad, you’re missing out.

Two whole years. 730 days.

But merely a fraction of the amount of time I will endure missing you.

Your death has never been a question of whether or not I will survive it. The question that haunts me is why you didn’t get to.

Maybe I would find more peace if I believed in the concept of religion, or a preconceived idea of why my 27th year included you dying in my arms.

I just don’t buy it. “Meant to be,” and “A bigger plan,” are not answers I am soothed by. I don’t think there is a Godly answer for why you were taken from me, from all of us.

The truth can be hard and sticky and complicated and heartbreaking and unfair.

Life is funny that way.

You were drafted in the Vietnam War before you were even allowed to legally buy yourself a beer.

How terrifying.

How brave.

You carried your best friend through rice paddies in the middle of the night, exposed and vulnerable, after he was shot and killed. Only the stars lit your way out of the battlefield.

You have known real fear.

You have known true courage.

The war exposed you to Agent Orange, a chemical that, forty years after all the fighting has ended, is still devastating veterans and their families.

Can you blame me for my anger, Dad?

You have felt the kind of fear that only a soldier feels.

You have known the kind of courage that only a soldier ever has to find.

And you have seen the kinds of things that only a soldier ever has to see.

And yet, I grew up with a father who never complained about the effects war had on him, or the pain that it would later instill through multiple cancers and countless chemo treatments.

And instead of asking why; instead of being bitter and resentful, you made peace with your life and with yourself.

Why am I not more easygoing, like you?

(It would really help the whole “Where would you like to go for dinner?” process.)

I was so angry when you told me you had accepted what was happening. So angry that I could feel my blood boiling and the lump in my throat cutting off my ability to breathe; I felt the heat of my tears streaming down my face and the redness radiating from my cheeks.

I was not ready.

I did not accept it.

But you did. And you were so graceful.

When have I ever shown that much grace in the face of such hardship?

The only thing I ever remember you longing for was to make it to your sixty-fifth birthday.

You died 29 days before it.

But alas, life is funny that way.

I read somewhere that our memories are not of the actual event that happened, but only of the last time we remembered it.

If that’s the truth, what an awful one to bear.

Which tiny, indiscernible detail is left out each time you come into my thoughts?

How many thoughts of you will I have before all I’m left with are broken, abstract memories of life as I knew it?

But I search my mind for original moments of you and squeeze my eyes shut as I try to focus in on the details of what you looked like and how you smelled when you’d get home from working in dirt and grass and oil all day, and how your calloused hands felt when I held them.

Sometimes I hear a phrase that you used to say and I stop and imagine your voice wrapping around the words.

I can still hear your voice as if you were standing next to me. Sometimes on my way home from work, I turn down the radio and fall into imaginary conversations with you.

There is just so much to catch up on.

I was not your child biologically, but it didn’t matter. You were mine and I was yours and there is no one on this earth that I identified with more than you.

You were fiercely my protector, and always my biggest fan.

You were kind. You were selfless. Your work ethic was unmatched. Your sense of humor and childlike sense of play made me the luckiest to have a childhood with you in it.

With your bare hands, you made our town immeasurably more beautiful than it ever would’ve been without you. More beautiful than it ever will be again.

You were the father that mothers hope for, and the daddy that little girls dream of.

Thank you.

For shooting hoops. For drives to the beach. For singing along. For lifting the heavy stuff. For pushing me. For not pushing me. For letting me be a dreamer. For calling me on my bullshit. For believing in me more than I believe in myself. For laughing at me. And with me.

For everything.

imageLove,

M.

Dear, Dad

/ Love, M / 2 Comments

It’s been a year and ten months since I was forced to let you go.

Since I was forced to let go of your hand that had begun to go cold around my own.

Since I was forced to memorize how it felt and what it looked like: the freckles and spots; the deep lines running down your palm; the permanent dark stain under your nails — a symbol of your countless hours working in dirt and grease.

A year and ten months since not just a father was lost, but also a Friend. Husband. Brother. Uncle. Nephew. Coworker. Fishing buddy.

My biggest fan.

A year and ten months later I’m still struggling not to cry at some point everyday. If I sit quietly for more than a few minutes, my mind inevitably wanders to you.

When I see an older man on the street, I think of you.

When I see a man carrying his daughter on his shoulders, You.

When I see someone from the military, You.

When I hear Billy Joel or Elton John or The Beatles, You.

When I see blue eyes, You.

Feel the sunshine, You.

Smell fresh flowers, You.

Tend to my garden, You.

Everything.

You.

It’s so beautiful.

It’s so painful.

When I’m back home I find myself waiting to hear your footsteps down the hall. I had memorized them, you know; the cadence of your walk and the sound of your feet pressing into the floor. I knew them by heart.

I’d know them still.

On a Saturday in August, 2013 I drove you to three different grocery stores. You stayed in the car, exhausted and weak, but patiently, while I ran around looking for kale and spinach and acai powder and all of these other random products that boasted cancer-reducing benefits. I was convinced that if I could just get you to drink this all-powerful smoothie, it would do what 44 straight hours of chemo couldn’t, nor the additional chemo and drugs and therapies after that. This smoothie would take the cancer away, though.

You’d start getting better. We’d have more time together. I was convinced it would work.

I was desperate for it to work.

It had to.

You died a week later.

One year and ten months ago, my life and the way I would feel every single day for the rest of it completely changed.

Navigating life without you is a constant struggle, but there is one thing I know for sure: It keeps going.

That sometimes I curl up in a ball on the floor and cry for you and for all the days you’ve missed and all the days you will keep missing and I do not know how I can take one more second of this pain.

But it keeps going.

That sometimes all I wish is for someone to mention your name so that I’m reassured that you haven’t been forgotten because my biggest fear is that people will forget you.

But it keeps going.

That wonderful things and amazing people have come into my life since you left and it’s heart-shattering that you are not physically here to share in these moments and these people.

But it keeps going.

It’s that grieving you will always be present in me.

But grief is not solitary.

Happiness and sadness are not opposites.

They can coexist.

They coexist in me everyday.

They have to.

I love you.

Happy Father’s Day.

10896948_10101150505809190_129637600736289181_n

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.

Laser Hair Removal — Burning Your Vagina on Purpose

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

mjaxmi05zwmxmje3m2ezytuxzgy3

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

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

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

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

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

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

😉

Anyways.

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

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

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

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

Pros to using numbing cream:

– Your vagina feels numb

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

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

– Don’t do that that last one

Cons to using numbing cream:

– It feels like fire

– Your vagina isn’t going to be numb enough

– Your vagina can never be numb enough

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

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

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

 

 

 

photo

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

photo 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday, lovers! 

Love, 

M. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Date Fails

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

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

Yea, me neither.

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

I think Larry David says it best.

pdshoto

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

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

I digress.

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

All of these things have actually happened to me.

Laugh it up.

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

But seriously, guys, stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

M.

Online Dating — You’re Doing it Wrong

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

And maybe also a weapon.

JUST kidding.

But seriously.

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

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

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

…so there’s that.

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

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

Hahahahaha

No.

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

Anyways.

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

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

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

phortto 2

—

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.

 —

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. 

—

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

—

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

—

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

phoeeeto

 —

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

—

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

—

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.

—

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.

—

Two words: Bathroom selfies.

—

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

phodddeeto

—

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.

—

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

—

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

—

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.

—

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. 

—

If his username is “CreepyMcCreeper”

—

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. 

—

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.

—

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

—

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

—

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

—

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

—

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

Cheers!

Love,

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.

photo

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

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

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

Lovely.

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

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

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

Either way.

—

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

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

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

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

Aaahh, optimism.

Dating is really fun, guys. REALLY fun.

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

—

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

He’s right.

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

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

photo

—

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

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

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

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

So, so badly.

SO badly.

I still almost throw up when I think about it.

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

—

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

Happy 4th!

Love,

M.