WAX ON

*WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART*

Today I experienced THE ultimate womanhood rite of passage. Yes, friends, for the first time ever, I done got waxed. And let me just say HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGJESUSCOCKSUCKINGBITCHOUCH. That shit is painful. THAT SHIT IS PAINFUL.

THAT. SHIT. IS. PAINFUL.

That being said, it's also totally worth it. And, let me tell you, I now feel like a real woman. If my ladyparts can withstand that, hell, they can handle anything. Ahem. I also got my 'brows waxed for the first time. I've been putting it off for as long as possible and I finally figured, enough is enough. Time to clean that shit up.

Now that I'm on my third glass of wine, here is a bit of play-by-play for your inquiring minds in case you've never had this particular experience yourself. I was led to a cozy table in the middle of a tastefully decorated room with soothing music and aromatic oiliness in the air and, for a moment, I thought I was about to get a massage. I believe my mind was desperately trying to trick itself out of the realization of impending pubic hair pillaging. I'm a bit of a wuss when it comes to people doing potentially painful shit to me (since I was a kid, I've always imagined the worst happening in every situation, resulting in my freak and untimely imaginary death), so I went in there nervous as a mail-order bride waiting to meet her new pudgy, bald, alcoholic hubby. I told my waxer, Jill, this, and she tried to talk me through the process to calm me down. I kept waiting for her to offer me a glass (bottle?) of wine, for godsakes. Sadly, she never did.

The first few rips were actually not that bad. She was working with the outermost and thinnest patch of hair at this point. The entire time I babbled like the lonely old crazy lady sitting next to you during her first airplane flight ever, and I remarked that it wasn't so bad. I told her one friend of mine had said that nothing can prepare me for this kind of pain and that another friend said it didn't hurt at all, so I really didn't know what to expect. I began to relax a bit, which was the wrong thing to do. What I should have done was hold on to my fucking hat. Because then she did a thicker strip of hair closer in. HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGJESUSCOCKSUCKINGBITCHOUCH.

And it continued on like that. Then the tweezing. I remember mumbling something to Jill about "god, the things us women do to ourselves" and how I was fantasizing about making MP get something equally as painful waxed. Jill did mention that some men get Brazilians. Anyway, the tweezing. Imagine a burn victim. Now imagine taking a sharp object and scraping it along said burn victim's mutilated, still oozing burned skin. OK, that's gross and I'm obviously exaggerating, but plucking hairs from red, sensitive skin that's just had patches of hair ripped from it hurts like a fucking bitch. All in all, it wasn't really that bad, but toward the end, it was all I could do to keep myself from crying out, "Enough, Jillyoufuckingbitch! I don't care what it looks like. Please, just fucking stop!" Hoo boy. It was fun in a way, though, and it's something I can now cross off the list of life experiences. Yes, I am a better person for having endured the waxing of my pubic hair. Now, I can conquer anything. Bring it on, bitches!

Sorry for the swearing but, frankly, I think I've fucking earned it after the day I've had!

And, now, I'm off to admire my goods in the mirror, spread some aloe on my red skin, and head out for some cocktails. 'Night.

STRAIGHT FLIPPIN' CRAZY

This favorite expression of MP's keeps popping into my head today. I have a few unmarried, childless friends who have all but completely ditched me for their significant others. What's the deal with that? Romantic entanglements come and go, and you need your friends to get you through it all. Am I right? I have one friend who talked about how she got too wrapped up in a previous relationship and let her girls fall to the wayside, and how she never wanted to do that again. So, after beginning her next relationship, I'm guessing she must have witnessed a murder and was either disposed of by the mob or went into a protection program, because lady's disappeared! Another friend of mine continuously makes plans with me and then flakes every time, and it's been going on for months. She just can't leave her man's side for a second! And a third friend suddenly starts calling me every time him and his girlfriend break up and his schedule is suddenly free. I'm sorry, but this is starting to irritate me.

I won't pretend I'm perfect in this area. I do spend a lot of time with my manpanion. But he's not all I've got, and I don't want him to be. (Plus I'm sure he doesn't want that either!) I really enjoy my bike rides, gym excursions, and watching (the new) 90210 with Roommie; the occasional karaoke jam sesh with my GBF; and weekly happy hours with various acquaintances. I wouldn't trade those times for an Argentinian underwear model. Well . . . OK, I wouldn't trade them for almost anything. It's true, sometimes when we all leave the bar (or wherever), I sneak over to MP's to crawl into bed with him. But I think that's actually a reasonable way of dealing with the issue.

Of course I understand the feeling of being in a new relationship: you're gaga, you're insecure, you're straight flippin' crazy at times. But once the trust and confidence start to build, it should be OK to be apart now and then. And if you don't feel secure spending a night apart, well . . . eh, what do I know. But this is my observation (as a friend who feels neglected).


P.S. The Argentinian underwear model appearing in this blog is Ivan De Pineda.

MOTORIN'

Today was a gorgeous day in the fabulous city of Portland. Sunny and warm even. I just got back from a motorcycle ride with MP, and I have to say it was invigorating! My hunger to experience everything I can in life negates my unhealthy preoccupation with dying, and I am a FAN. It was so much fun. Sooo scary at times too, but so much fun. We went down Burnside and up through Washington Park, then up up up Skyline into the hills. I wish I'd had a camera. The view was spectacular. There was a mist surrounding the hills in the distance, and a CLEAR (wha??) view of both Mount Hood and Mount St Helens.

There is something that amuses me about the motorcycle community. Every time two motorcyclists pass each other (note: I'm not using the term "biker" because I think it brings to mind a specific image), they wave or nod or at least signal in some way. It's usually a pointing sort of wave. It always manages to catch me off guard that we all have to acknowledge each other like we're in a secret club. It's like we think we know something that people not riding on motorcycles can only hope to catch a glimpse of someday. Maybe it's just that motorcycles are dangerous, so what we're acknowledging is something like "Oh, you're a badass too? Right on." It's pretty funny.

(This photo was from a previous ride.)

Ode to our Old, Part II

I thought I'd share another story of my grandfather's—the late, great Burke Casper. Here we go, a short one. Hope you enjoy it.

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After delivery in our clinic, we kept the mothers about 12 hours and then sent them home in the local ambulance, furnished by the funeral home. We hired a practical nurse to stay with them during this period. She was friendly, warm, and capable, and came any hour, day or night. One night her husband came in. "Doc," he said, "I've lost my courage." This was the term used to mean impotence. I put him on shots of B-12 twice a week. Since impotence is mostly psychological, almost any treatment helps, but injections do best because they are a more dramatic treatment.

He made me promise not to tell his wife that he'd lost his courage, so I told her that he was a little run down and needed some vitamins. I smiled inside when she later told me, "Those vitamins sure are powerful; he wants to fool around all the time."
***************

Ode to our Old

I just found out that my friend's grandmother has passed away. I know that this happens to grandparents (and with increasing velocity as the years pile on for us grandchildren), but I also know that this particular granny was remarkably special to my friend. They were close, and she seemed like a truly fantastic person: a smart-as-a-whip, tough old Energizer-Bunny type. I think she was 96 years old. Their relationship is something I, personally, can only partially grip.

I only had one biological grandparent I ever knew, and we were not close. He passed three years ago last month. I have 100 regrets as far as he's concerned; he was another one of those rare amazing people. And I'm not just saying that because he was my Gramps. As a young doctor, he spent a decade treating gnarly backwoods Kentuckians and came through with some damn incredible stories. We actually had a book of his stories published not long before he died.

One of my favorites involves him showing up at a house where he was called to examine this pretty burly (read: fat) teenage girl. He was trying to listen to her lungs and he told her, "Big breaths." She responded, "I know, and I'm only 16." Love that one. Gramps told hands-down the best jokes, the kind that start out as innocent, casual stories and go on and on and on until the punchline. I heard he was cracking jokes until the end. We get together every year and sit around telling jokes and playing music—no one says it, but we all know it's never the same and that it never will be.

I'm sorry I never knew your Granny, Foges. I'm thinking about you, her, and your family. I know you won't get over it, but I hope you are celebrating the life that she lived and all she gave you. I know it was a ton. xo

I painted this watercolor of my Gramps the
week before he died. It hangs in his bedroom.

SIKE! NOT.

I've been too in shock the last few days to write about it after what happened the last two elections, but I think it's for real this time. Barack Obama is going to be our new president! I can hardly believe it's true. It really hasn't sunk in yet; I guess the last 8 years have just been too long.

My mom is jazzed that I won't be moving out of the country, but I was kind of looking forward to an excuse to relocate to Brazil. Oh well, another time! The U.S. and I are on good terms now for at least another 4 years. For the first time I can remember, I am not completely ashamed of my country. Hooray! Plus, our new president is totally sexy. Yes, I've joined the "crush on Obama" bandwagon. Here are B and myself as we celebrate his victory:


Don't we make a handsome couple? I think so. Speaking of which, I would like to discuss the idea of attraction. Personally, I find that I am usually attracted to people who are not necessarily hot in the typical sense. Sure, there are classically gorgeous men like one Paul Newman—but, while his looks really can't be disputed, part of his sexiness comes from the fact that he was such a good person too. In the world of celebs, I would hands-down choose someone like, say, Anderson Cooper or Brian Williams over Justin Timberlake. Hmm, I guess that just means I like men who are good-looking AND smart. Well, that's really not that atypical then, is it. Oh, Manpanion too—he's way into Tina Fey, which is much better than him being into someone like Jessica Simpson. Photo montage . . .

But, OK, take a real person on the street. I just don't tend to go for the super hot guy. Besides the fact that he's probably a dick, I really prefer someone a little quirky, a little nerdy, a little neurotic. Ack, never mind, I just described this guy:

Did you hear about SP? That she thought Africa was a country, not a continent? Ummm. And that she couldn't name all of the countries in North America? "All" of them?? There are three—one of which lies between her state and the rest of the United States. Seriously, what a dummy. We really dodged a bullet with that one. I need to thank a friend, CD, for sending this Daily Show clip:

http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=209420&title=sarah-palin-is-so-dumb

Enjoy.