An Apology to L, The Brazilian Waxer … Or, Why My Crotch is Cradling a Bag of Frozen Corn

It’s rare that I get a weekday off work, but when I do, I do non-worky things. Like fail at multiple attempts of homemade granola bars. Read Gone With the Wind with the cat curled in my lap. Eat guacamole wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underpants. And indulge in Prison Break marathons. Oh. And shell out $70 to pay a strange woman to slather my body in hot, sticky liquid and rip out every hair from my nether most private region. Which I suppose isn’t that private now since I’m telling you about it.

Men: Now is a good time to navigate to the top left area of your screen and press the back arrow. Or, better yet, stay here. Let me share this educational bedtime story with you.

I’m pretty pale with a few freckles here and there and the occasionally splotchy face because I’m so readily embarrassed. Oh, and my skin is uber-sensitive, so I have banned myself from “real” tanning, and while I shave my legs and underarms every day or two with relative ease, taking a razor to my bikini area is a task I fear from the moment I wake up. But I prefer to be bushless and I loathe, loathe, loathe stubble. So, I do it. But, my boyfriend and I are going on vacation next week and I intend to be in a bikini for 4 days straight. Hence, this inspiration.

So, this morning, I decided to get a spray tan and a Brazilian wax. In that order.

Prior to Yelp-ing local waxing joints as I laid in bed this morning, I came across a plethora of Pinterest posts promising me the “Perfect DIY Brazilian Wax at Home” which they should probably rename “How to Accidentally Eff Up Your Entire Bathroom and Every Towel You Own and Also Likely Accidentally Glue Your Privates Together.” So, because waxing your vagina alone is the worst idea ever, I called 4 salons until I finally found one with a wax opening today English: Advertisement for women's shaving raz...due to a cancellation (every other salon was booked until mid-June. This is not a joke. I guess bushes are a goldmine in this area. And at $60/appointment per half hour, I am now considering a switch in profession.)

So, yeah. I got waxed. And the honest-to-goodness truth? It hurt like hell. Just like L, the aesthetician (waxer), told me it would. But she was fast. Very fast. Thank goodness. I’d had this done once before, about 5 years ago, and vowed to never get waxed again because it was almost an hour of unbearable pain. But L was fantastic. She was done in 12 minutes flat. And she was THOROUGH. I confessed to her beforehand that I was petrified, though I’m sure in her 8 years’ experience in beaver waxing, I was her most difficult client. Even though I was so very knowledgeable from all of my internet research this morning.

Though when it comes to the the Brazilian wax tips and info out there in Internet land, it seems most of it is a dirty, rotten lie: “It may sting a little your first time.” “Pop an Advil an hour before to help numb the pain.” “It gets easier with every wax.” “You hardly notice a think as you and the aesthetician chit-chat.”


Those are lies.

You know what would calm my nerves while you are spreading my legs into unnatural positions and smearing my most sensitive skin in what feels like hot Hershey’s syrup but smells like a potholder you left melting on a forgotten burner? A Long Island Iced Tea. Through an IV. While I lay atop a heating mattress clothed in my Care Bears blankie. As the aroma of lavender verbena candles waft through the room. And Frank Sinatra croons at me from above. And I’m surrounded by tulips and various earthy accents. Instead of tongue depressors and bubbly pots of death wax. And the voices of a woman and her aesthetician in the next room carrying on a loud conversation about a recent cruise, as if patches of her pubic hair being scorched and yanked out is the most pleasant thing in the world.

FINE. So, maybe I’m a baby. And obviously there are plenty, millions even, of women who get this done every 4-6 weeks, as is recommended. And I’m sure it DOES hurt less if you go more often, as your hair is less coarse and ingrown hairs are less likely. But I am not comforted, my friends. I remain in fear. Because as I sit here typing, I wish I could open the freezer with my eyes and encourage the bag of frozen corn to levitate toward me and onto my crotch, where I would cherish and cradle it.

But, I’m actually digging the final results. (Thank you, L.) Poor L. When she told me to make my nervous hands useful and pull the skin on my belly and upper thigh taut each time she spread the wax, I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth and at the first sense of motion, pushed my skin toward her, making her job more difficult as my skin creased. But still, she was pleasant. Less than a foot from my labia and charming as could be.

And ultimately, she turned me into a bronzed goddess with a bald beaver screaming in pain with rectangular shapes of pale white  — where the muslin strips were placed over the wax and pulled — adorning the areas between my hips and thighs, courtesy of my genius Mystic Tan attempt 2 hours prior. Which L totally cracked up about. Good-naturedly. I think.

When she finished my wax, L gave me a cloth with a blue oil on it to rub over the area, and out the door she went. 12 minutes. Of the worst pain of my life. (No, I haven’t gone through childbirth. But for now, I’ll maintain that it’s closing in on a tie, since I didn’t get an epidural with mine.)

$70 and a few final tweezes later, I totally recommend it. All of it. (But, get your faux tan on afterwards.)

But, perhaps I should consider lazer hair removal, so these bouts of pain would result in a lifetime of results as opposed to a month. And I’m now reminded of a radio talk show I was listening to a while back in which a widowed father called in to ask if he should let his 16-year old get a bikini wax with all of her friends before she goes on spring break. He wondered if it was normal and acceptable; he had no idea. And you know what? Either do I. Perhaps another blog post in the making.

And now, off to trade in my piping hot laptop for that bag o’ frozen corn.


Straw Story #1: That Time I Sneezed So Hard, I got a Straw Stuck Up My Nose

When I was 19, I had a pretty good group of guy friends. We hung out a lot, and they were good Catholic boys and I was a good un-Catholic girl, so we never caused any trouble with the exception of that one time when we were hanging out late at night at a local bar & grill, sipping our Sierra Mists, and I accidentally submerged the late-night crowd in a downpour of blood shooting straight out of my sniffer.

So, there we were, 5 of us, sitting around a table in the darkly lit bar area, yuckin’ it up and having the kind of grand ol’ time that 19-year-olds have when they don’t drink. We’d just come back from a friendly church league baseball game (of which I was not a part — due to the fact that I a) did not go to church and b) could not — do not — hit a softball properly). I was wearing a crisp spaghetti-strapped white tank top I got that afternoon at JC Penney, and it had a word written in rhinestones across the front. If my memory serves me correctly, that word was “REBEL,” which is outstanding and a total lie, because the worst thing I’d done that decade had been to get my ears pierced in a sketchy parlor in Myrtle Beach on a spring break which involved zero drinking, zero sex and one fun… But which got me grounded for two weeks. At age17.

Anyway, the guys and I were sitting there, and our food had just arrived. My friend N had ordered these delicious cinnamon poppers that came with a variety of sauces, one of which resembled a strawberry jam. As he’s popping his popper into the jam, the jam flips off the table and onto his pleated khaki shorts, and we all started cracking up. What happened next, I could not possibly make up.

You see, my older, smarter, shorter sister and I are very different people with very twin-like mannerisms. She was not there that night, but she understands this story. It’s because we’ve both got this gyrating laugh. Like, if something terrifically funny happens, we not only laugh with our mouths, we laugh with our entire upper torso. Sometimes, most often in fact, no sound comes out. We laugh and laugh and alternate between breathing heavily and not breathing at all, and our shoulders heave with exasperation, while our heads bob up and down uncontrollably. It’s really quite ridiculous, but we simply can’t help it.

So anyway, that night, the strawberry sauce is all over N’s shorts and someone says something funny, and hilarity suddenly overcomes me. I begin to laugh so hard, I can’t breathe, so I grab my Sierra Mist to take a sip and hydrate, but as I grab the cup, I begin laughing so hard again, that my head violently jolts downward as I bring the cup up to my face. The straw conveniently and immediately shoots straight up my nostril, into some strange canal I believe probably leads to my eye sockets and hippocampus — which today, likely accounts for my increasingly terrible eyesight and even worse memory — and SNAP. The straw punctures something somewhere between my septum and my cerebrum. .

So, the straw is up my nose for just a couple of seconds, and when I yank my head back up, the flood gates open, and blood starts flowing. Nonstop.

Blood has found itself down my neck and onto my REBEL shirt, and I am beginning to look the part.

I run to the bathroom and am in there for a good 20 minutes, crying and leaning my head back, trying to clog the blood-snot with paper-thin restaurant toilet paper. My friends don’t come check on me. I mean, they’re boys, but they could yell through the door, or ask a female waitress to come make sure I’m alive. But no one did. I was horrified. I didn’t want to go back out there, with my blood-encrusted nostrils and red smears across my chest.

As I walk back to the bar, head held high (but out of sheer bodily necessity — it had nothing to do with confidence, I assure you), my friends are all, “Dude, that was awesome!” and I realize they’re sitting a few tables away from where we originally were, and that the staff had brought out the sanitary spray bottles to hose the place down. And that’s pretty much how the story ends.

So anyway, this is Straw Story #1: Please stay tuned for Straw Story #2.

An ounce of my morning routine

starbucks mug

(Photo credit: Smithcam)

I would venture so far as to say I frequent Starbucks to start off my workdays more to nurture my observational prowess and less for the overpriced beverages and blueberry KIND bars.

My keenest of observations: Rich people (I am not not one of them) (obviously) get upset when their coffee isn’t perfect and fast.

Stay tuned for more of my Starbucks adventures. I’ve got some already half-written and stocked up to share with you.

When life gives you citrus, add vino.

When life gives you lemons… And oranges and limes and apples and expired maraschino cherries in a jar of sugary syrup, and red wine (and white wine) and brandy – or cognac, if you’re feelin’ jazzy – make sangria.krazy straw

And then try and wait 24 hours for the flavors to meld. But when you actually drink it less than two hours later, because of course you will since the lime wheels have now been dyed fuchsia and look too gorgeous to keep waiting, make sure you add a topper of something fizzy such as tonic water or ginger ale, though I advise against Crystal Pepsi.

Get out your krazy straw and enjoy.