This morning I went to the dentist, got two fillings done and it was entirely uneventful (except that I drooled a little bit on my dress and was too lazy to change when I swung by the house to pick up my lunch before driving to work so am currently trying to sit in such a way that I hide the slobber spot) but it DID remind me that the Saturday before my wedding, I did something even more painful: I got waxed. For the first time. In places other than my eyebrows. And I have opinions.
Before you go thinking this even MORE of an over share than usual, I didn’t get the whole shebang done. Despite the encouragement of most of my female friends, I resisted popular opinion and opted for my thighs and bikini line instead of getting a landing strip in the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It began harmlessly enough with my eyebrows. I chatted with my waxer, Alice, about the wedding. She was cute, not overly-perky, and had a big fake hibiscus behind her right ear. What a coincidence? I also like big fake flowers. We bonded over being chubby and avoiding buying pants until our old ones have holes and how I would likely reward myself with ice cream after my waxing appointment. Alice and I were thick as thieves. Until she stole my pubic hair.
I dropped trou, preparing myself for what I understood would not be a pleasant experience. The first rip wasn’t as bad as I had expected. I thought to myself “I can handle this. I’ve been through worse.” Over the next hour, that would prove to be a terrible, terrible lie. I can honestly say that it was worse than all three of my tattoos combined at the same time. PLUS, unlike the tattoo parlor, there wasn’t a TV playing Labyrinth in the background. Instead, she dimmed the lights and we listened to Sounds of the Ocean: Volume IV on loop. I’m sure it was meant to be soothing but I couldn’t wrap my head around the dichotomy. It would be like playing Enya on the set of Saw. Waves calmly lapping against the shore and getting the hair ripped out of your crotch just don’t go together. It took me DAYS on the honeymoon to stop cringing when we walked on the beach.
What else could I do but attempt to control the volume of my voice during our idle banter and not yell “I WILL KILL YOU” when she asked about my wedding dress. I kept my furiously perspiring hands tightly clasped on my stomach to keep myself from giving in to instinct and begin hitting the person causing me so much pain. In addition to controlling myself, the wet spot under my profusely sweating palms was growing and I stressed about hiding it from this woman with a terrible fake tan who had already seen my ugliest pair of underwear and parts of my lady bits. But the anxiety gave me something to think about other than holding her down and pulling out her fingernails so I accepted it.
To keep myself distracted I made a mental list of those responsible for my situation: I cursed my own propensity for fuzziness. I cursed my genetic information for giving me the fuzzy phenotype. I cursed my parents for those genes. I cursed Italy for my fuzzy heritage. I cursed all of the Mediterranean just to be on the safe side. I cursed my bathing suits and I cursed Old Navy for not having any board shorts in my size that week. I cursed the fashion industry for insisting that females be bald everywhere but their heads. I cursed every dollar I’d spent in support of that industry and I cursed every goddamn Vogue I’d ever read. Then I squinted and I cursed Alice in my mind so vehemently that she caught my eye and started looking scared. So, I stopped playing that game.
But. It. Kept. Going. I ran out of clever little things to think about and my jaw started hurting from grinding my teeth. The sweat spot was out of control. I’d already memorized every detail of the neon painting of a Caribbean beach landscape on the wall and had already drafted a mean letter to the artist in my head belittling his talent. I searched the walls for something else to focus on. Mere feet from the painting was Alice’s waxer certificate. From mid-April. You know when the camera rushes in on a focal point really quickly in a movie and you can tell the main character must be shitting his pants? That’s sort of what it was like. Just then Alice asked “Did you want to do the back of your legs too?” and I responded a little too quickly with an unnaturally high voice “NOTHANKS.ITHINKI’MALLSET.”
In a thinly veiled attempt to restore my karma after an hour of homicidal thoughts, I tipped well despite the fact that I was walking like I’d been riding a horse all day, had wax stuck to my pants, and, as I later found out, still had plenty of patches that she’d missed, making me resemble not a blushing bride but a mangy dog.
So, yeah, I have opinions. Here's one: cavities are more fun than waxing appointments.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hitched
Stay tuned for TONS of photos and stories (oh the stories!) of the wedding and honeymoon coming up in the next few weeks. I’m trying to hold out for the DVD from our wedding photographer before I get rolling. Till then, here’s a sneak peak from the fabulously charming and talented Kate Haus of Alpine Moon Photography.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bachelorette Party - Part II: Seth's Girls
Correction from previous entry: The overwhelming page hits that I accused Bologna of are indeed NOT being perpetrated by Bologna. She introduced my blog to one of her coworkers who has taken a shining to my work. It is my pleasure to introduce her as My First Unrelated Admitted Fan (or Mfuaf for short... kind of sounds like if you tried to say “mofo” with a Ugandan accent). Hi, Mfuaf! Today’s post is dedicated to you!
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
When we last left our hero, I was sitting in a car clutching a big red balloon with a note that read “Clue #1.” I opened the note and was directed to a local park where I was instructed to publicly announce my love for Beau. We circled the park a few times but were unable to find the balloon so Chairsy took me to the known location of the second balloon: Subway.
We parked and I half skipped, half stumbled in the door and ran to my next balloon which had been tied to a chair. There was no clue though. I frowned loudly and began complaining about the lack of security in this area since someone had clearly tampered with my second balloon. A girl at the next table over turned around and it took me a moment before I realized it was Lulu. I gave her a big ol’ Dangerous K bear hug and she told me that the cashier (sandwich technician?) had my next clue. I just needed to sing the $5-footlong song in order to retrieve it.
I sang and ($5-Italian-sub and clue in hand) we journeyed to a local grocery store where I was instructed to purchase a variety of phallic items. As I began perusing the produce section, the store manager welcomed me to the store over the intercom and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials to which I began war whooping. A banana, carrot, and after many pokes and squeezes, a cucumber were selected (As previously discussed, I have a phobia of rotten vegetables. I refuse to purchase a subprime cucumber. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced that the next step wouldn’t involve these items going in my mouth).
Chairsy suggested purchasing a log of pepperoni which would be both phallic AND delicious on crackers. I concurred with her logic and we migrated to the deli section. Before reaching our destination, I saw a red balloon and honed in on Bologna who was calmly seated in one of those open meat refrigerators. It must be an unsettling sight to be on the receiving end of me, slightly intoxicated, charging with fistfuls of pointy vegetables but what can I say? I was excited.
The last balloon directed me to Grasshoppah’s house but first, Bologna insisted we return to the park (or rather, visit the correct location for the first time since it turns out we had been circling the wrong park the last time). Upon arrival, it became clear that the original first balloon had gone missing anyway. I climbed on top of a picnic table and shouted to a group of adolescent soccer players that I love Beau and intended on marrying him.
A kindly stranger took our picture once I’d climbed down and asked if we happen to be looking for a red balloon. My eyes narrowed. He said he’d seen it earlier in the day but didn’t know where it went. I focused on his 6-year-old son. I had a pretty damn good idea where my balloon went and assumed that beating the child was an implicit task in the scavenger hunt. Sadly, my bridesmaids know me too well so they quickly put me back in the car before ass-kickings could be distributed on the playground.
At Grasshoppah’s house, I was greeted with a slew of my favorite things: Beau’s face glued to posters of Taylor Lautner’s body, the entire Quatro, a small dog who I may or may not have attempted to put in my purse later in the night, my college roommate Gazelle and gallons upon gallons of rumndietcoke. There was a magnificent spread of food and drink, all of which was related to a memory of me. There was Jack Daniels from my more dangerous years, chips’n’cheese’n’hummus from Oxford’s street-meat vendors, even Lulu’s mother’s meatloaf. I was in heaven. I piled a mound of food on a plate and sat myself in my throne to chatter with my lady friends and ogle the Chihuahua.
An hour or so later, I was full and moderately plastered when Bologna ran into the room urging everyone to quiet down. One of Grasshoppah’s respectable neighbors had called the cops. I attempted to hide my pimp cup of rumndietcoke behind my throne like a drunken 15-year-old. I heard quiet murmuring from the front hall and began writing my apology monologue to Grasshoppah’s landlord. Then the cop walked in. It was immediately apparent he was not in fact, an officer of the law. Either the long, greasy, curly hair, the shirt open to his navel, or the tear away pants gave it away.
Despite my purported dangerousness, I have never actually seen a live stripper before. Even drunk, the situation is uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem right to just sit there while someone is going through the trouble of taking off their clothing for you. Should you applaud? Dance? Sit there and smile idiotically? I chose to engage in conversation because, by God, strippers are people, too. My stripper’s name was Seth and according to Lulu, one of my opening lines was, “So, tell me your back story.” This doesn’t surprise me at all considering one of my primary interests in life involves the logistics of taboos. For further details on this interest, please refer to any of my bathroom posts.
Time passed. My memory goes a bit fuzzy. I know I gave Seth some of my stickers because like a truly underdeveloped adult, it’s the most valuable thing I had to share. Other than one-dollar bills I guess. Given the choice, I would personally pick the unicorn sticker. Anyway, more time passed. I vaguely remember an exchange between myself and Bologna that went something like:
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
Bologna: You have raffle tickets, sweety.
Me: [looks at left hand which is clenched in a fist around several dozen raffle tickets] What are these for?
Bologna: The raffle
Me: There’s a raffle?! I want raffle tickets!
I don’t know how long that went on for. I know that eventually the night devolved into an all-out dance party in Grasshoppah’s living room to Sandstorm which was being played on loop thanks to Notorious and, though the money had dried up, Seth hung out with us in his banana-hammock while Face brought him Shirley Temples.
My fuzzy memory flashes forward to the point of the evening when we were out on the front porch having heart-to-hearts under a quilt (“just like a scene out of Gilmore Girls” as Chairsy reported) and I was eating the carrot we bought earlier. I remember someone asking me why I was eating an unwashed, unpeeled carrot and I remember not understanding why they couldn’t follow my train of thought that went “Bologna doesn’t like it when I get shitfaced and smoke cigarettes so I should eat something to keep my hands busy but I shouldn’t eat any more combos covered in queso dip or else I’ll get too fat for my wedding dress so I’ll eat this carrot instead.” Instead of explaining, I just rolled my eyes at them which in retrospect probably looked more like I was about to boot.
But boot I did not. I survived thanks to Lulu’s stealth transfer from rumndietcoke to water. She may be the only person on earth who can remove an alcoholic beverage from my hands and replace it with water without getting physically assaulted. The next morning, I woke up to the Chihuahua running across the pillow next to me and within moments I was surrounded by girls handing me Advil, water, and a bagel. A dollar bill and a raffle ticket fell out of my hoodie and they all laughed while I scratched my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better bachelorette party or more achingly awesome friends.
Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving for Cape Cod in preparation for the wedding on Saturday. I won’t be near a computer for two glorious weeks. I will share many, many photos when I return but until then, Mfuaf, please enjoy this picture from the morning after my bachelorette party.
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