Entries from October 2009
I used to think I had a high tolerance for pain. I lived under this happy delusion until last weekend when I got my first Brazilian. Perhaps I should have started off with a bikini wax and worked my way up, but since I’m the type of person who likes to do something 100% or not at all this did not seem like a viable option. Oh, silly, feeble-minded woman.
I have been in a death match with the hair on my body since I was a little kid. Imagine being the product of a gorilla who mated with a Venezuelan and you will still only minimally understand the anguish I suffered at the expense of my hairy arms in middle-school. When I was 14 or so my mother finally introduced me to waxing and the mental anguish was over, but the physical had only begun. Who invents these tortures? The same person who invented the bra, or the paper towel contraptions at the gyno’s, or the speculum for that matter. That’s who. The person who thinks Let’s pour hot wax on ourselves and then rip the hair on our bodies out by the follicles with tiny strips of paper. Fun!
Okay, I can’t help but go on a little femi-nazi rant here: why are women the only gender expected to subject themselves to this torture? I guarantee you if you told your man that you would gladly wax your private tickle parts if he waxed his testicular hair the answer would be something like: HEH-HELL NO. It’s okay for men to be hairy beasts but god forbid a woman have a mustache! Can’t we all just take a deep breath and read the Third Chimpanzee together while collectively holding hands and remembering that there was a time when women had beards and cavemen still loved us? Alright maybe not, but I thought it was worth a try.
Back to the Brazilian. The only part of my body I have never waxed is my crotch. Why? Because we have an understanding. Because we love each other and we always have. Because she has threatened to go on strike when I have considered it in the past. However, I turned 29 last week and I like to try something new every year for my birthday and anal sex is on next year’s list so Why not?
The day of my appointment I was led into a sterile looking very white room with a Sade song being piped in through a speaker on the ceiling and a bed covered with a sheet of paper and I thought, “Uh-oh, it’s like they perfectly recreated my own personal version of hell.” Then I was handed a tissue paper in the shape of a thong. I’m sorry, but are you freaking kidding me? Why do we always insist on keeping up appearances during the times in life where it is virtually impossible to escape a situation with even a shred of your dignity left intact?
I decided not to flee despite my inner putang begging me to run like hell. Two minutes later as I was screaming HOLY SHIT at the top of my lungs I was fairly certain that I had made the wrong decision. In fact, by the end of the ordeal, I’m pretty sure the esthetician never wanted me to come back since we were both covered in sweat and she actually told me that she had never had such a traumatic waxing. Traumatic? That is not the word. There needs to be a better word, one with more severity for what she did to me. I was actually afraid to even look at my crotch when she was done for fear that it might spew balls of fire at my head and then spontaneously burst into flames. When I finally did work up the courage to look down all I managed to say was, “My poor poor cooter.”
Despite the Brazilian being the MOST painful thing I have experienced since I watched an episode of Housewives of Atlanta sober, I have to admit I love my new gine gine. I finally know what she really looks like outside the confines of her former jungle, and it’s like we have a whole new secret relationship. We can not wait to go out and take over the world together: one testicular hair at a time. Or at least one handsome Southerner’s. Because in my book, football and a Brazilian= my serotonin levels are obviously so high I’ve temporarily lost my mind.
Categories: Uncategorized
Tagged: Is it normal?
If you ever wake up with a ticket for public intoxication stuffed down the back of your pants and are required to get an alcohol assessment to get the charge dropped, you might find the following list of questions and tips helpful:
Cheat-Sheet
1. Have you ever blacked out from drinking too much? Does drinking two bottles of gin when I was 15, hitting my head on the TV in our rented cabin and waking up next to the van driver count?
2. How many drinks do you have per week? Um, can I count on my hands and toes?
3. Have you ever been physically abusive while under the influence of alcohol? Don’t make me laugh.
4. Have you ever been hungover? I’m not sure, but sometimes I like to spend Sundays lying comatose on my futon with the shades drawn wondering if a hair of the dog would be worth it.
5. Are you religious? Whaaat? Spontaneously yell out “No!” and then look around the room and notice all the ceramic angel-figurines and simultaneously realize that the outcome of this assessment will not be good.
6. What is your monthly income? Not enough to afford all the expensive bottles of wine I would like to go out and buy after this thing is over.
7. What is the longest you have ever gone without drinking? Let’s see, how long have I been here now?
8. Have you ever used alcohol as a means of drowning your sorrows or celebrating an important event? Refrain from blurting out that you think losing your virginity covers both of those.
Tips:
1. Say no to absolutely everything that is asked. This will make you: 1. Not human. 2. Successful!
2. Do not obsessively stare at the muffin tops bulging out of the assessor’s tank top or at the silver studded flip-flops she is wearing.
3. Do not tell the assessor you quit smoking two years ago only to have a lighter fall out of your purse and onto the floor as you are reaching for the photo ID she has requested.
4. Do not spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom while you are being drug-tested because the wallpaper of said bathroom is covered in trivia questions and you can’t stop thinking “Who were our founding fathers?”
5. Do not tell the assessor that you think she is unethical and could use a drink.
Categories: Uncategorized
Tagged: Is it normal?, Lists
Lenox Square Grill just opened right by my office and I’ve been there three times now. The service is interesting, to put it mildly. On my second visit our waiter came up to our table with his hands down his apron scratching his crotch and asked me if I wanted lemon with my water. While I’m not typically a germaphobe, hell no, you just had your hands down your pants. I like my lemon without ode de pubic hair, thank you very much.
Everything about this place is an anomaly. The service is slower than molasses, but the food is actually pretty tasty. Last night I had a macaroni skillet with chopped up hot dogs in it that was spank yo mamma creamy and good. Another time I tried the turkey burger and even though it looked absolutely disgusting when it came out it was actually juicy and delicious after biting into it.
The most incredible thing about eating here is the price. You can get a heaping portion of food for under $7.00 no problem. The prices completely make up for the service. Just don’t ask for lemon with your water.
Categories: Uncategorized
Tagged: Amateur review, Food
This weekend Brother J and I rescued a friend of his from getting a DUI and safely deposited her at her house. As Brother J relayed to me how embarrassed this girl was that she met me for the first time under what she deemed less than flattering circumstances, we both had a good laugh. Because our family’s definition of less than flattering circumstances can be somewhat more well-informed than most. She didn’t, for instance, moon me over the balcony of an apartment because we had a fight, or try to run me over with her car, or get arrested for beating up a little league coach with a baseball bat, or throw a rather hefty portion of cheese bread at my head at the Red Lobster, or have to stop on her evening run to poop behind a bush.
In fact, we laughed our asses off. All this poor girl did was cry on my shoulder and give me some repeatedly strong hugs. Like, she’s embarrassed about that??? I’ll show her embarrassed.
Categories: Uncategorized
Tagged: Donald, Is it normal?
I turn 29 in a couple of weeks. That’s almost THIRTY in case you missed it. I don’t feel like I thought I would at this age. I’m sure everyone thinks the same way, but I thought I would feel old or at least more adult–have adult furniture, a fridge full of actual food from the grocery store, a closet of clothes that matched and people might stop describing my style as “professional 5-year old.” Instead, I still don’t know how to cook (the last time I turned on my oven was to make sure the pizza in the cardboard box did not get cold before friends came over for “dinner”), my furniture is a hodge-podge of charitable donations from family and friends, and I honestly have no control over the desire to wear my cowboy boots with purple tights, a blue-gray striped dress and accessorize the whole outfit with a pink wig.
When someone recently asked me if I had any domestic abilities, I wanted to respond: Domestic abilities? Hmm, not sure, but does my prowess in the sack count as an international one?
I’ve spent the past few days rereading journal entries from all my birthdays since the time I was five or six and, wow, was I one unhappy little EMO mofo. I’ve documented the progression of my grey hairs since the age of 17 and let me tell you, year 28 took a fast dive off the semi-permanent hair color aisle. However, nothing will ever come close to year 26 when I realized I had a grey crotch hair and called my mother sobbing. She taught me an important life lesson that day: “When you’re a heathen, life poops on you.”
And that’s why god invented tweezers.
The reality of getting old truly hit me last Friday when mom and I went out for drinks and everyone her age was hitting on me instead of her. I kept thinking: this will be my fate too one day, to grow old and be ignored by men my own age because they can’t get a grip and accept theirs. And while I’m almost positive that my reader-base (ha-ha) is not compromised of 50 something year-old men: get a fucking life and stop asking me to sit in your laps! What I find even more disgusting is the women spending time with these men, promulgating their delusions of grandeur and deflated penises. I haven’t especially endeared myself to the vast majority of people I’ve come across in my lifetime, but this age group in particular can lick my discharge. I don’t care if you’re a plastic surgeon and drive a Porsche (seriously, someone did tell me this only to be followed minutes later by his exact yearly income). You were alive during Vietnam and your porcelain veneers are blinding me. Find someone you’re own age. That way you two can sit around the fire sipping Chardonnay and reminisce about the good ole days of segregation while complaining about your acid reflux. Not only that, but the thought of having sex with my dad turns my cooter to ice.
Whew! I feel so much better. Thank you internet.
I have a feeling 29 is going to rock. I have one more full year to make a complete ass of myself and chalk it up to stupid things I did “in my twenties.”
And just so you don’t think I hate all older men, a shout out to the one that made me:
Categories: Uncategorized
Guess what? I met someone. Guess what he likes that I never thought I would? Yeah, that funny looking game with the men in tight pants who run that even funnier-looking conically shaped ball down a field that is how many yards? How many? Think, think fast. Oh, and I bet you didn’t know that when they pick up that phone on the sidelines they are not calling their moms to discuss their injuries.
My whole life I have had a hard time understanding how anyone could get so emotionally worked up about watching a team of neanderthals run a 15 ounce object down a field as if it were a golden nugget; as if it were the determining factor in whether or not their saviour the lord jesus christ greeted them at the gates of heaven with a high five. What was even harder to understand was, why are people watching this? Why on earth would I want to help someone who is infinitely richer than me continue to get richer and the only thing they have to do for it is take some hits off an oxygen tank and get the shit beaten out of them every weekend. Hey, for 30 million in mad cheddar, you can throw me down to the ground and pump me full of as much compressed air as you want. Ok. I realize I completely simplified the complexity of the game in my head, but still, don’t expect me to get emotional about something so trivial, so childish, so… FREAKIN AWESOME!
Enter Fantasy Football stage left. Where have you been all my life? I get to name my team and pick my own players? I get to talk as much smack as I want, in fact it is encouraged that I call people cunt giblets and smegma juice etc., and whenever I am bored at work I can scrutinize my line-up and make fun of others. Call me a traitor but the last four weeks have brought me endless hours of entertainment. A sneakily comforting feeling on Sundays of lying on the futon with my book while the games are on in the background, and holy shit– I am a full-fledged American! I wear blue jeans, I drink beer, and now, oh yes, I watch Fútbol Americano and I like it. You can’t keep me out of your little gringo club anymore. I know what a dink and dunk is and Brett Favre can kiss my ass.
I just realized how horribly manipulated and brainwashed I’ve been into sacrificing all of my principles. Whatever. Come this Sunday, I hope you hear me screaming “Run Addai you motherfucker run!” into the boob tube and enjoy it just as much as I do.
Image from http://www.bustedtees.com/fantasyfootball
For any of you ladies out there unwilling to abandon your belief systems for your men, check out this website.
Categories: Uncategorized
Tagged: Is it normal?
