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

/ Love, M / 4 Comments

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

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

Brazilians are my jam.

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

Except that she’s probably not a bitch.

What? I’m not bitter.

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

Anyways, here they are, in no particular order.

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

So no shame, ladies! No shame.

Unless you’re the bad tipper.

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The 30 People You Meet on the Waxing Table

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And don’t forget to wipe!

Love,

M.

 

(Not) A Crazy Cat Lady.

/ Love, M / 1 Comment

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

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World, meet my one-eyed fluffy snuggle monster (also known as my Maine Coon rescue kitty). You really only need one eye anyways, is what I always say. I mean, unless you want to have any depth perception.

Glaucoma took one of his eyes and will hopefully not take the other but don’t worry, I’d obviously get him a service dog. Feel free to assume that he’s just permanently winking at you, though, if it boosts your ego. I do that sometimes.

His name is yet to be determined, so for now I just say whatever ridiculous babble comes out of my mouth…like Mr. Magoo, or Pickles, or Stitch McGiggles, or Puffywittlebabylionsnugglebunnyboobear.

Because that’s normal.

One of my girlfriend’s thinks I should name him a slang term for penis, since they also only have one eye (you’re welcome for the anatomy lesson). This is an incredibly inappropriate and offensive suggestion.

So clearly I said, YES obviously I will do that. Oh and also, our wine glasses are empty. 

He’s not quite sure about me yet, but I don’t really blame him. I’m kinda weird, but only if you consider weird to be things like having full-on conversations with yourself about which yogurt you’re going to eat for lunch, or vowing to only get around your apartment that day via sliding across the floors in your socks.

He spends most of his time being terrified and hiding behind the toilet, but if he really wants something from me he’ll sprawl out on my bed. Men. They’re all the same.

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…and if I stay on his right side, he can’t see my wrinkles or judge me when I’m elbow-deep in a bag of jalepeño chips, so it’s a really good match I think.

I know I’m not a crazy cat lady because I got to spend three hours with the foster-mom I adopted him from, and I am telling you what, folks. This woman needs her own reality show. I’m guessing she’s  the sole reason that the term crazy cat lady was coined, and since I do not currently have five cat trees, seven scratching posts, ten litter boxes, twenty-two food bowls, five million cat toys, or “MEOW” stickers on my car like she does, I am considering myself in the clear.

Except that I currently do own two scratching posts because I forgot that I already had one and so for the moment we’ll say I’m at 26% CCL.

The only thing that really changes when you have a feline is that now you wake up with a cat on your face.

And sometimes you unknowingly walk into a coffee shop with a giant gob of their hair on your bum….which is super cute, and helpful in attracting other slightly weird, pet-owning guys…?

No.

 

Happy Weekend, lovers!

Don’t end up in the hospital with an IV in your arm and being forced to eat an orange popsicle. Not that I’d know anything about that.

 

I promise to have my second Costa Rica blog post up really soon, if this fluff ball ever gets off of my keyboard.

 

Love,

M.

 

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

/ 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.

 

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In order to get to the remote area of southwest Costa Rica that’d I’d be staying in, I took a tiny 12 seater plane from the capital, San Jose. I was stoked because I love flying and I also love amusement parks and I had a feeling this would be the best of both worlds. I felt like I was in an old black and white cartoon as it swerved and bounced down the runway. Once we were in the air, the turbulence was severe, and when I closed my eyes It felt like Space Mountain. PERFECT. I was hoping the captain would stall the engine and let us free fall for awhile, like when I did aerobatics in a WWII fighter jet in New Zealand, because I knew the two Jersey girls in the back would have seriously lost their shit. And their stupid Gucci sunglasses. When we became enveloped in clouds and a mini thunderstorm, unable to see past the rain assaulting the windows, all of the girls on the plane freaked out and grabbed their men. I grabbed my camera.

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I’m a morning person. I know. Annoying. Costa Rica’s weather during the green season varies immensely depending on the time of day, and I loved how cool and quiet it was at 6am, with everything around me seemingly still sleeping. I spent my mornings like this, and obviously with plenty of Almond Joy coffee creamer that I had smuggled into my purse. It’s really humbling to be so far away from everything you’re used to, in an environment that is powerful, beautiful, dangerous, and healing, all at the same time.

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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.

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You can’t tell from the pictures, but the ocean was also in my view, just past the trees, and you could hear it early in the mornings, before the rest of the jungle awakened. You probably can tell from the picture that my legs are covered in bug bites, and by the end of the trip I literally looked like I had been put in front of a BB gun firing squad. Costa Rica is not a sexy place.

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

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

Toucan

The first morning I was there, I walked down a steep and winding path to a river nearby, and hung out for awhile before a thunderstorm with raindrops the size of grapes had me scampering back up the trail. Later that day, I ran into the owner of my villa who said, “I hope you have such a blast here, but make sure you don’t go down to the river! It’s croc season, and they’re all back now that the river’s high. Oh, and someone spotted a 12 foot boa constrictor down there a couple days ago.” Lovely.

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At one point I was innocently drinking my can of Cuba Libre Rum & Coke on my balcony when all of the sudden I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. My gorgeous view of jungle and ocean and sky had turned into a dark swarm of flying devil mutants. They’re seemingly coming from under my balcony which is really reassuring. I peeked over the railing (with my sarong securely fastened over my upper half so that only my eyeballs are exposed), assuming the queen bug is going to be staring me in the face, and I realize they’re spilling out, in hoards, from the wood that’s holding up my bungalow. Even better. I don’t see any holes at that point, but they certainly found one. I don’t know how they’re oozing out in those kinds of numbers, but they are and there’s no sign of them stopping and they’re all up in my grill and it’s gross. When I look closer, I see larva. Is this a fucking hatching happening right now? Am I living on top of a hatchery? Are those even real words? What’s going ON right now? Do I need to roll up a piece of paper like a tube and insert it into my mouth so I’ll have a way to breathe when they swarm me, like in that horror film that traumatized me as a child? I knew that movie would come in handy one day. These are real survival tactics, people, and I would’ve used them if I hadn’t gotten the heck outta dodge and gone to find tacos and pizza and cookies instead. Because watching thousands of insects flying recklessly around you makes you really hungry.

I took a video of the hatching/swarm/reaping, but I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I watched it back, so I decided not to post it. You’re welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Cayman

Baby Cayman

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.

White-Faced Capuchin, who gave zero fucks.

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American Crocodile

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

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

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I got a massage on my balcony while I was there because I’m old and my back was hating me from the plane seats basically being 90 degree wood planks and also becasue of course I’m going to get a massage on my balcony. It was balmy with the slightest breeze and there was no need for music because the birds and critters were providing us with their own soundtrack. The whole thing was dreamy, obviously, and as she scooched my towel so far down that nearly my entire bum was exposed, I thought to myself, Self, I’m sure glad this isn’t a sexy male massage therapist doing this right now because that’d be REALLY upsetting. Mm hmm. Really upsetting….yea….um….like, really…Fifty Shades of…huh? What was I saying? 

 

Black Scorpion

Black Scorpion

I decided to actually unpack my clothes and hang/fold them nicely like a normal human being for the first time ever on a trip. I was quickly proven that you should NOT waste your time doing this and you should just keep your luggage zipped up tightly with all of your clothes crumpled up inside, like I usually do. One of the first mornings I was there, I put one of my shirts on. Big deal. I kid you not, I was wearing this goddamn shirt for at least ten seconds before a black scorpion FALLS OUT OF IT. Just falls right out of it, making a clicky-clacky noise as it hit the ground. I had been wearing a scorpion for way longer than anyone should have to wear a scorpion. How I did not get stung is beyond me, really. After I got down from the bed that I ninja-leapt onto, I grabbed the only thing that seemed like a weapon at the time, a red toilet brush. What are you gonna do with that, genius? Scratch his back? I started poking at him with my toilet sword but I soon turned from freaked-out to fascinated as he kept rearing his tail to strike. Then I felt really mean, so I put a wine glass over him and left him there to die. Because that’s not mean.

—

I’m obviously a badass for fighting off scorpion venom with common household items, but even the strongest of superheroes are faced with their kryptonite.

As I was drying off from my shower on my last full day in Costa Rica, I felt a searing pain in my side. I dropped my towel and saw that a large, red welt with a hole in the middle was forming. I was a bit perplexed, since there were (oddly enough) no creepy crawlies within view. This red thing on my abdomen was definitely happening, though. When I finally got enough braves gathered up to pick up that towel, I noticed the scorpion that was attached to it. Oh okay, so what just happened is that I rubbed a SCORPION onto my body. Okay great. I had forgotten to research what to do if I accidentally rubbed a venomous creature on myself, so I did what any normal person would do. I put that piece of shit under (another) wine glass, and ran away.

Lesson: Always do a towel check, and always dry off important body parts last.

And always have a wine glass handy.

 —

More Costa Rica ridiculousness to come, so stay tuned!

If you have any questions about my trip (serious, inappropriate, or otherwise), write them in the comment section and I’d be more than happy to answer them in my Part 2 post!…Right after I binge-watch Seinfeld re-runs and down a box of Cheez-Its.

Until next time, lovers!

 

Love,

M.

Post-Vacation Stress Disorder

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Alternatively titled, “How Much for all of Your Meds? And a Cupcake?”

I survived the jungle! Barely, at times, but I’m still tickin’.

Post-Vacation Stress Disorder is a real thing, of this I am convinced.

I’m working on a full post about my trip, but it’s taking a little longer than expected. I know this is surprising because you’d think I’d be amazing at getting back to normal life after a long vacation, considering I’m obviously so good at getting ready for one.

Among things like, “I can’t fall asleep now without 5 billion bugs providing a cacophony of noise around me and dive bombing my windows” and, “Excuse me while I shed my burnt skin all over your cooch today,” my computer doesn’t want to back up my phone, hold any pictures, or do much of anything helpful in making a blog post, really. Obviously I don’t know how to figure that situation out because my brain shuts off as soon as there’s a technology issue and instead I just cry.

Oh and also because THIS happened yesterday, less than 24 hours after my arrival back into the states.

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Happy Homecoming.

(If you’re reading this and you happen to be the one that did this to my car, you missed a spot. In the corner, on the right.)

Obviously this is a sign that I should’ve never left Costa Rica and I instead should have eloped with my horseback riding guide, Risto, and lived on a ranch by the ocean forever.

Lesson learned.

On a brighter note, here is a little sneak peak from my trip, while I attempt to get my shit together.

I recorded this video when we saved a sea turtle on the way back from a hike around Corcovado National Park. And by “we,” I mean the captains of the boat because I “technically” did nothing to save it except for making lots of cooing noises and exclamations like, “Poor baby ohmygoodness you little peanut oh I just want to snuggle you forever does he need a hug oh please can I kiss him??”

If you’re one of those people (I am one of those people) that have to leave the room every time that damn Sarah McLachlan dog-rescue commercial comes on because you “got something in your eye,” this video may tug a tad bit on the ‘ole heart strings. Maybe at least wait until you get off of work and have a box of Kleenex and bottle of Jack (or maybe you keep both in your desk drawer already in which case, I love you).

Context:
This little guy was bobbing on top of the water when the guides noticed that (he?) had a fishing hook stuck through both his mouth and one of his flippers, leaving him unable to swim and easy prey for one of the bull sharks that infest those waters (“That one time I almost unwillingly swam with bull sharks” story coming soon).

Now if I wasn’t such a dumbass, you’d be able to watch the ending of this story as opposed to me telling it to you, but my camera stopped recording right before the grand finale. Of course it did. I wish I could say it wasn’t my fault but it was totally my fault because I took way too many pictures of monkeys and used up all my storage.

Of course I did.

Anyways.

What I’m trying to get at is, though the video ends on a cliffhanger, the sea turtle was fully freed from the hook and released. He swam away and I totally shed a tear cheered him on like a normal person would. You should still watch the video, even though I just gave away the ending because he’s just so damn cute!

(I apologize for you having to go through a link and not being able to watch it on my page. If anyone wants to help me be not such a terrible blogger, I’ll buy you a beer. And a cupcake).

Sea Turtle Rescue

I also learned some very valuable lessons from this sea turtle rescue:

1) I should not quit my job and become a videographer for National Geographic.

2) I should quit my job and become a professional injured-animal snuggler.

And just in case that’s not satisfying, here’s a really flattering photo of me right after I found the courage to climb off the bed I’d just ninja-leapt onto because a SCORPION had just fallen out of my SHIRT…AFTER I’d been wearing it for at least ten seconds.

People.

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Why would you take a picture of yourself in that moment, you ask? It was for evidence, in case I died. Obviously.

You can see that my weapon of choice was a really good one, and also that I couldn’t look into the mirror long enough to snap a photo because I had to keep my eye on the monster rearing it’s venomous tail at me in the corner.

And also take note of my very attractive fanny pack…which may or may not have contributed to the number of passionate hookups I may or may not have had.

Stay tuned for more Costa Rica craziness.

Love,

M.

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

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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

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

 

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

I totally had a movie moment.

It was not cause for the aforementioned reaction.

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

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

Keep reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did I get here???

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Love,

M.

(tap tap tap)…Is This Thing On?

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Hi there,

Most blogs tend to have a section dedicated to who the writer is, I’m assuming to help us better understand and navigate the content. I, personally, like to have little background because I’m just plain Curious George about everything. A little backstory never hurt anybody, and it’s also a good way to decide if you think the writer is completely off their rocker. Let’s be real, though; we’re all a little crazycakes.

So before you decide to take the leap into my blog world, here is a little snippet of what you’re signing up for:

I currently call Seattle home. This city has my heart.

I’m an Esthetician. Most of my days are spent doing brazilian waxes. Yep. Vagina’s. All day.

I wasn’t always an Esthetician.

I used to be a Recreation Therapist.

The career swap was due to an “I need a change before I admit myself to this psych hospital” moment.

…I used to work in a psych hospital.

I am borderline inappropriate…pretty much all of the time.

I long for deep roots, genuine connection, and an authentic life.

Laughing with good people is the BEST thing in the world.

 

Writing down my thoughts has always been an outlet that I crave, and therapeutic for me. Unfortunately, I’ve been the absolute worst at making it a regular hobby. I happened to go through some especially intense experiences in the last year, though, that have catapulted me into taking action instead of just constantly thinking to myself “I have got to write this shit down!”

So, here I am, writing it down. It’s a place for all the pieces of me and all of the thoughts that take up space inside of me. Love, work, relationships, mishaps, secrets, traveling, vagina-waxing, rants, music, family, inspiration – all of it. Some parts of me are really messy, or sensitive, or difficult. Some of them are, hopefully, funny. A lot of them are ridiculous. All of them are real. I just so happen to be very human, which works out pretty nicely since we are all most of us are very human.

 

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, to reiterate what I hope was already obvious to you but if not, Honey, take it from me:

“Stupid cunt” is in fact, not code for, “I love you.”

 

Love,

M.

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