It’s All About Me

It seems lately I don’t want to do much of anything. Obviously I haven’t been writing, or I wouldn’t have that awful lag time between this and my last post. And that old adage that depression breeds creativity may have been real at one point but right now it feels like bullshit. Right now I want to create… a nest of blankets and take a nap. I want to go to sleep and catch up on what feels like 3 years of deprivation. I want to create a mind that doesn’t feel the stress and frustration of actual adulting. I want to create a bridge between how I used to create and now, so I can go back and drag its ass to the present.

Sitting down to write used to be fun. I wanted to spend more time at the keys than most other things. I thought of shit to say all the time. And I didn’t give a shit about who read it. If I was talking about you, oh well. You probably earned it. Chances are you earned worse than what I said, but I was being kind-ish. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch but its relative. Then people sorted out who I really was. In my actual life. My anonymous outlet ceased to be an outlet but a chore. It became an exercise in ways to disguise my truth. I don’t want to disguise my truth.

My truth isn’t always kind. My truth is that I get legitimately hurt by people in my life and my efforts to sort that out include writing about how painful it is. If seeing your actions hurts, maybe you shouldn’t take those actions. My truth is sometimes judgmental because as much as we try, sometimes we are judgmental. Sometimes its okay and sometimes its not. But its my truth. I am okay with it. Because sometimes I learn when I bear it.

So I don’t want to shroud my truth in bullshit. If you can’t read it, then don’t. I am not going to apologize for my truth. No, I am not going to start calling out names and using places and telling people where I live. But if you already know, fine. Suck it up and understand that sometimes it is about you. Sometimes it is not. Either way, this is my truth.

Letters, Therapy and Music to Heal the Soul

Sometimes its just like that… you start out writing a letter to a friends kid and it ends up being to you.. and your friend and her kid… and maybe a few other people you know. Hell maybe a lot of people need it. But mostly it was about my struggle with resentment toward my dad, my inability to get past some shit I fully blame on him.

My missive started as a note about how we, as children, like many of the most amazing things in science, are not only what we appear to be. We are an amalgamation of intricate detail. We are made up of so many things. Some good, some beautiful, some complex, some completely incomprehensible, some ugly, some insincere, some repulsive and some that want to admit is part of us. But all those tids and bits are what makes us who we are. And we as a whole are greater than than the individual bits that make us. What does this have to do with anything and why am I writing this to someone elses child? She doesn’t like her dad. (I don’t blame her, he is a piece of shit and I know a bit about dads that are pieces of shit). He isn’t a good person. She and her siblings struggle with the same self loathing I and my siblings struggle with because our whole is made up of some bad parts.

Fortunately we are not our parts. Without an arm, we are still human. But we are not the same human we were with that arm.  That specific arm, no matter its state, formed part of who we are. So I wouldn’t be who I am without the contribution of my dad, however bad I may think it, and my friends daughter wouldn’t be the amazing person she is without all her components either.

My last therapy session started with a song… My therapist was rather speachless for a bit then reminded me I dedn’t really need to see him. I have a penchant for self analysis. I know this, yet I can’t fix the resentment and anger. So we talked about the words and the song and the singer. I’ve written about Austin Lucas before and how his songs have helped me through other things in my life. At the time I played this and talked about it with the shrikydink I hadn’t come to the realization I did when writing this. Nothing he did, said, or didn’t do or say can make me who I am… but it contributes to my whole. I like the whole. It is rough and needs constant work to keep from becoming a bag of shitty parts.

Somebody Loves You

Easy there, old man
I’ll drop you where you stand
You wear wings of white but I smell your hellfire
Cause I know who you are, a racist and a coward
And all you’ve got to show for life is dust

Cause you lay roses on the ground
And turn lies to common wisdom
You’re a good man when it suits you
Yes I know

But whatever good you’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And your savior may forgive you but I won’t

Oh but somebody loves you
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you
Oh yeah somebody loves you
And how can it be true
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves you

It was from you I learned some men cannot be trusted
And from you I learned some friends do not inspire
Cause you were like my brother
But you filled my heart with anger
And I’ll thank you when those lessons have helped at all

Oh your stories gave me life and they flowed through me like wine
But they were darkest pitch-black arrows to my soul
Yes I was your true believer now my bones do shake and shiver
With a poison that does rot me to the core

Oh but I did once love you
I guess I knew no better
Yes I was once that fool
And I did love you
Oh yes I did once love you
And how can it be true
That I was once that fool
And I did love you

And like some ghastly phantom voice, lifelong companion
Or a devil on left shoulder, lashing tongue
I spit crescents, spite filled language like some drunkard
To the heavens, when to hell he knows his spirit’s surely bound

Yes I lay roses on the ground and deceive you beyond wisdom
There’s a good man in the shadows, so I’m told
But whatever good I’ve done
Is dwarfed by mountains made of wrong
And that truth comes cold to blacken out the sun

Oh but somebody loves me
I guess they don’t know better
There’s a fool for every fool
And somebody loves me
Oh yeah somebody loves me
And how can it be true
That somebody loves me
Somebody loves you

 

Maybe I’m still resentful. Not as much as yesterday. And not nearly as much as when I last met with the shrinky dink. I still think this song speaks more about my relationship with my dad than I could ever write on my own, At least for now. But I’m working on that. 

And sometimes it’s just like that… you walk through a shadow and notice your own, and it isn’t as bad as you once thought it was. 

 

Update! RDCV

Sometimes it’s just like that… one day you are entering the 300th invoice of the day for the crazy lady who thinks you suck because you didn’t enter 301 and you wonder what you did to karma. Then you realize you are smarter, more capable and oh yeah, way better looking than she is, thus you threaten her. Time to roll bitches! So you do. Possibly landing face first onto the asphlat (I will neither confirm nor deny how many times). So… dusty dusty shaky shaky and rolling forward. I landed myself a new career. And gusdammit if I’m not pretty good at it to boot.

On the days when I am not herding cats I’m pretty sure I am actually just the ringmaster of the shitshow. (No that isn’t mine… thanks BlueQ!) I ended up stumbling my way into what may the most misogynistic industry ever… Okay, maybe not the most, but for sure top 5 or 3, yeah 3. I would say commercial fishing or oil-rigs have fewer women, but I can’t think of many industries less welcoming to women than trucking, yet here I am. Not that it’s been all shits and giggles. (See what I did there?? You missed me you know you did!)

I started at what I thought was the worst place ever. Not the job, the dude. An under-cover woman hater. Boy-next-door good looks, all-american with the wife and volleyball team of crotch-fruit. Can’t be bad right? He hired me and I’m a loud opinionated bitch! Oh wait, not always… loud. So I endured that because the work was fun. It was a lot like babysitting and being a big sister and playing tetris. Only with big-ass men and 53′ trucks loaded at 40 tons. Plus there was some juicy shit happening with the wife and the bff. Popcorn worthy. Then one day I find myself sold off like so much cargo. He sold the trucks and threw in the humans too. So not the worst place ever… it was about to get worse real quick like.

There I was in my new work nightmare home with my new work overlords family. I am going to skip this for another time because frankly I could spend hours on it. New boss man made boy next door look like a girl. He didn’t hide his contempt for me and the fact that I had ‘no place in trucking’. It didn’t matter that I was bringing in new customers on reputation or making insane margins. All that mattered was what was missing between my legs. Oh well, his loss. Within an hour of leaving the office that last day I had 4 job offers from customers. And I’ve made it my passion to contact all the customers I had and offer them service at better rates than they had before. Because newsflash motherfucker… they are too big to fit between my legs, I have to strap them to my chest.

In the end I pushed past all that shit and end-rounded the stereo types. I escaped the super sexist assholes at the places I worked- where I went from an under-cover, nice to your face, guy next door misogynist… to an overt, balls-out -or you lack the proper equipment to play in my sandbox- women hater. But now… Life is amazing. I have a bad-ass bitch of a boss (she’s not even a bitch at all… more of a dick really. Again, another post entirely.) and an epic owner who wants me to succeed. So I am.

breaker one-nine come back, over

Tonight I’m trying to get the thoughts to flow onto the page. I’m sitting at the pub, listening to my favorite DJ’s The Ideals spin sixties vinyl. The pub has overwhelming amounts of inspiration but nothing I can fit into a lovely little flow. Maybe my expectations are too high and I shouldn’t expect my first real post in more than a year to be some epic soliloquy. I shouldn’t expect myself to be able to capture all that’s happened in my life the first time I sit down.

But I want to. I want all the ridiculously funny shit that has happened in the last howeverlong to just spill out as if I had never been blocked. Speaking of blocked… what the eff yo? I feel like my creative process is as dry as the sahara. Though it is not for lack of material… I have spent the last year and a half herding cats, I mean babysitting, I mean playing mom working with truckers. actual truckers.

Before you say ‘oh that sounds like fun’ bite your fucking tongue. really. Being responsible for let’s see… 40 tons x 12… um a lot, no a shitload, no a metric shit ton… as it rolls along at 7mpg (maybe, if we’re having a good day) is stressful. Making sure the drivers trips can be done within their D.O.T. regulated hours and that they are not exhausted is stressful. Taking their eleventeen hundred phone calls a day because they had to sit at a dock for two hours or someone cut in front of them on the 405 while they were doing 45 is stressful. It is like being mother to 12 grown-ass-men who all need your attention but, like most children, don’t simply say ‘hey I’m a little stressed here, can we talk for a few?’ they call and complain. But… I loved it. I loved my job. I loved my truckers. I loved that they respected me and counted on me and needed me. I miss them terribly. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to let the horrible, awesome, funny, ridiculous stories flow. Maybe it’s why I am sitting at the pub on a Thursday night writing about them. And maybe it’s why I am not ready to move forward to the next step. I need time. I need to grieve. I need to decide if I want to go through all that comes with the responsibility of caring as much as I do.

Sometimes, it’s just like that… you have a stressful, crazy job that you think is gonna be the death of you until it’s gone. And you miss the stressful craziness of it all.

Train Wreck Tuesday

sars: ho-lee-shit. So I’m looking for a new writing spot, and watching a train wreck… This could be it! I am currently watching an Unambiguously Gay Duo “chat” with a couple of republijocks. It didn’t go full asshole until one of the UGD told republijock he is beautiful. Then asked if the lone female if she was married to her dude (republiijackass). They answered no, and UGD spokes-boy proceeded to tell them ‘we’re not married, but we’re okay with it for now. It’s been a year and we are solid’.  The looks from republijock make it almost too much to watch

bro-ho: Wha-what?!?!?!?! OMG… Too good not to sit and watch.

sars: I’m trying not to stare… so. many. stories.

bro-ho: Right?! I expect a full report.

sars: And now UGD spokes-boy is telling republijock all about how he’s never even kissed a girl, he’s known his entire life. The look on republicjock’s face is priceless! I don’t think he knew such a thing existed.

sars: There is a lot of hugging and high-fiving going on (read drunken mocking). UGD are so far out of their depth, I think they are just trying to tread water until republijock falls down and republijackass drags him out.

bro-ho: Hahahaha How do I miss all the good stuff?!?!

sars: So republijock/jackass have exited the building (with much coaxing fro Jackass’ girl). UGD are reeling.

bro-ho: Bahahaha

sars: Did I mention I know republijock? He stopped by my table to say hello  (admittedly, he is beautiful). But left one of his two or three partial fireball shots at my table after eating the bulk of my hummus & pita. (I’m surprised he didn’t drink my drink!) It did give me a chance to say hi to the bartender, who I know of course. I guess he was concerned because republijock kept hugging me and high-fiving me and eating my food.

bro-ho: Again… missing the good stuff!

sars: Turns out he put UGD’s drinks on republijocks tab… They deserve at least that!

bro-ho: Perfect!!!!

sars: Spokes-boy is ordering dinner for both, consoling his partner and being very reassuring that all will be well.

sars: Makes assigning roles difficult… for descriptive purposes (of course)

bro-ho: Meg… you never can tell.
bro-ho: Meh. Not Meg. Fucking autocorrect!

sars: Ha! I see now, ponytail is way-sted! He is leaning or is that laying, on the table. (could it be the rounds of fireball coupled with his Chardonnay??)  I believe I saw three rounds in the half hour I’ve been here.

bro-ho: Ahhh.  Laying Leaning… makes for good times!

sars: Indeed, but spokes-boy has been blowing kisses and fervently consoling ponytail.

bro-ho: Oh Dear!

sars: Aw, UGD are leaving and spokes-boy is leading (read coaxing) ponytail out of his seat to the taxi, but swing and a miss… ponytail is headed (staggering) to the bathroom. Spoke-boy insists he’s shy and just doesn’t want to be seen in public..

bro-ho: HAhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

sars: ooohh, oooh this just walked in!

image

Some glitter and hair walk into a bar

bro-ho: Jesus H. Tell me you are joking.

sars: Nope!

bro-ho: Oh…. Shit…. Someone needs an intervention.

sars: Apparently she’s Canadian (does that matter?!?) or so she has said 5 times… And they are sidled up to a pair of ‘psychologists’  (self proclaimed) who have decided they need shots of Jamo. (which they have never had, possibly not heard of.)

bro-ho: OMG. Ouch.

sars: She asked ‘their story’ and they told her (the older of the two, probably 45? She’s maybe 23, I’m being generous) they are the ‘top sellers of wine bottles on the west coast’. Um, are they analyzing grapes?? I think not. Then they were chatting about wine and the older actually scolded and is lecturing her! Definately smell fava-beans.

bro-ho: Okay. Wow! Also, I am about to rock the pajamas to Target. (Yeah, I am awesome!)

sars: You are classy as fuck.

bro-ho: Well, the level of classy on my part is a given. Good thing Target is in a neighboring town.

sars: Um, she still thinks they are psychologists… Deserves to be Lecter’ed. She is getting dumber by the second and they are toying with her over-teased brain.

sars: I don’t think I can stay for this train-wreck. I have to go write this down… Because I too am classy as fuck.

posted from my tablet thingy

more badass than Jules

I  have the most random song in my head… I guess it’s my theme today.

“sometimes…. sometimes, bad is bad.
I stay cool as a rule, but sometimes bad is bad.”

Why fucking Huey Lewis???

I have this friend, I usually refer to her as half my OREO because standing next to her I glow in the dark. Add our MP friend and I become the center in the OREO. I’m the ass white bitch between two women who have no idea what SPF means and are determined to blend if they accidentally wake up in the congo.

oreo

see… I am ass white!

My friend sin is a total badass. She is that chick you want on your team when the zombie apocalypse comes. She will be all Tallahassee and shit and you will be standing behind her like the little bitch you are. She is a 46 year old gilf with the body of a 35 year old. Her work out regimen makes douchecanoe-frat boys bow and worship at her feet… and not just to get a better look at her DD’s, they want her secret. They want to know how she does it. Ya know what little man, it’s attitude. She just loves life. She has been dealt the worst possible hand so many times but she ended up with chips left on the the table because she is a badass. Sin works everyday with the worst humanity has to offer yet she reflects the best humanity can give.

well….. she did. Friday was her last day here. She didn’t know it and I think she’d have wanted it that way. She wouldn’t have wanted to sit around wasting time waiting for that stupid bitch to bring her a door…. She’d have hopped on her Harley and gone balls out until the sunset.

Sin had a philosiphy:

” Fear less, hope more; Whine less, breathe more; Talk less, say more; Hate less, love more; And all good things are yours.

…I’m a mother, a daughter, a sister, a grandmother, a girlfriend, a friend, a mentor a leader a local and someone everyone I know can look up too. I am proud, I am strong, I love hard and loose with dignity. I am a challenger and a supporter. I do what I believe in and I do it better than anyone else. I am here for anyone and everyone. I help those that can’t help themselves and I do it cause I can.”

This song just makes me think of her.. She loved country and dancing and country. And I can fully see her doing this.

[youtube]http://youtu.be/Gw7gNf_9njs[/youtube]

 

Sin was a badass and she rocked my world. Sometimes it’s just like that, you stay cool as a rule, but when your girl is a badass, well…

posted from my tablet thingy

breathe, echoing the sound

I just want for you to be here to sit beside me.

I wish for the anxiety to be gone so my chest to relax and the shaking to stop.

I want to be held so the tears will stop and I’ll know its okay. I want the shaking to stop and I want to know its okay.

Today is a blue day.

The lenses in my glasses are blue. Not a dark kind of midnight blue but kind of a prussian blue. Seeing the world this way is very frustrating because I don’t like these glasses. They feel like I can’t take them off and change them out for my pretty pink ones. They feel like I can’t breathe. They make the little things look big and the easy things look hard and they make everything feel personal. The blue glasses put me on the roller coaster that takes me on the vortex ride and I fucking hate the vortex ride. I don’t know who designed that shit but they didn’t know what they were doing.

I try to be quiet and wait for the calm to come.

I try not to think about what I’m not doing and the mess piling up and the arguments I’m picking for no reason and the tears that I can’t stop. I can’t.

What’s to say, what’s to ask, I’ve no answer to give and even I probably don’t even want to hear the reality. So I sit and sniffle and wipe dry my tears and think about all the reasons that brought me here to this blue day. The reasons that matter and the ones that don’t.

Today is a blue day.

I just want for you to be here to sit beside me.

I wish for the anxiety to be gone so my chest to relax and the shaking to stop.

I want to be held so the tears will stop and I’ll know its okay. I want the shaking to stop and I want to know its okay.

 

[youtube]http://youtu.be/KAUF7e1GVrc[/youtube]

this is not about you

If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:

 

~posted from my tablet thingy~

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLjrD-oXkhA[/youtube]

 

No! Sensei!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only last two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and realize it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that evil rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’.  I prefer that warm rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ Sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I had been subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis.

I may have forgotten to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic?  and by may or may not I mean may and by slightly or a touch more than slightly, I mean yes. And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event, I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the down to the below, whatever. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm, I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and have the possibility of rush number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damaging my bladder? So to avoid the damage, I got up and whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow -as a man might say, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with a ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache’. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved with a dull razor… I had a bikini wax. The day before.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure (I don’t judge) or your threshold is almost nonexistent (mine is pretty high) you must go into your appointment prepared for at least a little pain. As someone who has had this done probably a hundred times over the years, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new, at a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not forever, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. And my appointment was with one of their most experienced Estheticians. Maybe I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and possibly a desire to pretend one is young by trying to fit in with the hip crowd.

I arrived and was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” Looking back, I should have run. Where are we?? West-bygawd-Virginia? What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my vah-jj and rippin’ hair out while she’s there. But before my better sense kicked in she was back. So, I put in my headphones aaand promptly took one out. Apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk‘ to everyone. I did however, leave one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. I would have done this anyway, but in this case… life-save-er. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC’s ‘Gravity‘ may have saved a life (not my own).

Like I said, my wits didn’t work so she was back. First, she pulled off the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only with less lube and cowboy boots and Demi Moore when she looked awesome and Burt Reynolds when well.. and a lot less funny. I guess I passed inspection, so the waxing began.

First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, that’s more wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell, I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times but I’m paying someone to not have that happen. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure I’m okay with this. But too late to worry about that (I have no desire to look like the nether parts of the 40 year old virgin) so forward we go…

I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. The lower field is usually easier  and I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (Really..if that was tmi, forgive.. but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed… ??) Thus the next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lot-a-bit different than any of the others and I kinda said ‘that’s different’.  Her response to my query, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’ Alright, no worries, err.

“u-um… pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”

I’m going to skip the details about  starting to take it off before it was hard enough (stop it!). All I can say is.. Maybe it wasn’t ready because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being it’s in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?

I mentioned the temp again and the third time

“wow, that is a lot hotter than I thought it would be, really. kinda uncomfortable”
this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt…* Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer, so it sure as shit wasn’t her. (That is another blog entirely so sorry)

All of this… Repeating spots, meh… Wax too hot… meh. Uncomfortable verbiage, meh… None of this was all that bad Until I noticed she had a little pair of scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. Again, I’m not so sure about you, but when someone who is up close and personal enough with my vaah-gene to use the words ‘inside me’ without even buying me dinner first, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried. I bypassed worried and went straight to anxious, wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim some hairs. Okay, I can see that, be gentle and carry on. Next more scalding wax of doom and I feel a little well stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her doom wax to close me off. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and have been frightened enough by the sealing and the ripping that you will never know. In my panic I lie wondering if she was going to perform some sort of vagino-plasty, so I was again trying to espn the Xanax with every cell in my brain. As I tried without success I realized there was a foreign object in the region just below the region setting off the alarms. And said object was making a snipping noise.

What. The. Fuck?!       over.

Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal of doom? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me lose trac of where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. And I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in right in my magic button. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell bitches! I was definitely alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.”

I lie there mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there. I had no desire to anger whomever I had pissed of to receive this punishment.

When she finally cleaned me up (if that’s what we call that) I dressed, paid and left. I had no desire to re-live the trauma right then and no desire to look jigsaw in the eye while trying to explain.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two Esteticians that I know (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty chat with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’. But when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near there, but at least I know they heard and someone understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page out of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is always a lesson to be learned from even from Jigsaws Funhouse: ask around and research well before you go to someone new. (Especially when they are touching your lady bits) Because been around may just mean old. And is reputable does not mean good, it just means they can charge more and have nice drapes.  Also if your Esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run.

My lesson… STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only go two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’ I prefer a rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ But no, sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I was subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis. 

Oh, did I forget to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic? And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the below. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and possibly shock number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damage? So whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow on a man, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with some ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved… I had a bikini wax.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure or your threshold is almost nonexistent you must go into your appointment prepared. As someone who has had this done probably around one hundred times in the past, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new (keep track here) but since it was a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. Ah-no. Really, big no. I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and a desire to pretend one is young by hanging out with the hip crowd.

I was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” I should have run. What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my who-ha and rippin hair out while she’s there. But before my wits kicked in she was back. So I put in my headphones and then promptly took one out because apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk’ to everyone. I still left one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC may have saved a life.

Things were all well and good, until she pulled the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only less funny. Thus my ordeal began.

I guess I passed inspection, so let the waxing begin! First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, what’s that? More wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure l’m okay with this. But too late now so forward we go… Oh, you thought that was it, ha!

There I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (If that was tmi, forgive but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed…) The next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lotabit different than any of the others and she said, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’
Alright, no worries, then came the hot wax. mmkay. “pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”
I’m going to skip the starting to take it off before it was hard (maybe because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being its in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?)
The third time I said this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt… Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer so it sure as shit wasn’t her.

But I digress, that was really not a big deal. Repeating spots, meh… next she reached for the little scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. So again I’m not so sure about you, but someone who is up close and personal enough with my vah-j area to use the words inside me without even asking, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried l’m wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim something. Okay, carry on then. She applies more scalding wax of death and I feel a little well smothered, stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her death wax to seal me up. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and now they have all been ripped away so you will never know. Wondering if she was just going to perform some sort of vaginoplasty, I was again trying to espn the Xanax when I realized there was a foreign object in the region setting off the alarms and it was making a snipping noise. What. The. Fuck?! over. Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me not to notice where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. But I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in my bean. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell I was alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.” I was mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two people I know that are esteticians (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’ but when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want it, but at least I know they heard and understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page our of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is a lesson to be learned from my ordeal that is not: ask before you go to someone new, just because the salon has been around and is reputable does not mean good or if your esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run. The lesson is, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

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Sarah Whipple
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bluffing…

You are overwhelmed, tired, feeling like the walls are closing in and all you want to do is go… go for a drive and have time to think… Listen to music, angry, soft, loud, emotive, piercing, any music to calm the mindPod… but no. Your keys are in your hand. Your tank is full (well, sorta, you never can tell since you tend to run out when the gauge reads in the neighborhood of half tank), you have a little cash for snacks and a plan, or rather non-plan, but that is the plan, but no. None of it matters, you are fucking stuck. You can’t just go. Can’t go to your favorite breakfast place to read a book and people watch. Can’t just drive and sing loudly to the same song over and over because it is what you feel right that moment. Can’t spend the day hiking along the bluffs or go kidnap your best friend to get lunch somewhere he’s never been.You no longer have that option.

Sometimes its just like that…. you sit. With your head in your hands. You sit with your head in your hands because no matter how many reasons you can find to blame someone else, the choice that brought you to this place was yours. You put yourself on this stoop with your keys in your hand next to a vehicle that is completely unsafe to take more than 15 miles without AAA and telling everyone you care for where you’re going and which route you’re taking. You made a poor choice and it was not the first time, its just visible to more people than the rest have been.

Sometimes its just like that… the ripples in your pond- the decisions you’ve made, those choices you have found ways to put band-aids on and share blame with others; or pawn off on them completely, or better yet, decisions you’ve chosen to ignore all together…. those are making the ripples in your pond. They have started to clash into each other and make bigger ripples and even waves at this point. So much so that you can’t ignore the ripples and you can see those fucking waves from your stoop. The truth is reflecting back in a way that is certainly not as pretty as it was from the glassy pond…. but reality, you threw those fucking rocks, help or no, they left your hands before hitting the water. River rocks, giant stones, small pebbles, chunks of concrete, tar from the road… they all came from you and you have to feel the effect. You are responsible for the fact that all water sports have been suspended until further notice.

It’s time to to calm the water and bring it back to a glassy pond. Time to find the bluff that lets you look down at your reflection and forgive yourself because try as hard as you like… you can’t jump in and pull out what you threw in. You can’t undo the past. You can only forgive yourself and realize it will take work to calm the waters, to trust yourself to hold a skipping stone. It will take time to find the calm and face your reflection once more.

Sometimes… its like that… you must climb to the top of the bluff to find forgiveness. It is difficult and steep.  It’s taken a long time to even get here… you’ve stopped a few times (even threw another pebble or two). But you are here now. The top of the bluff is within your reach. When you get there and see your reflection clear from the peace forgiveness brings, bring back the water sports… jump off the bluff on a sunny day, into the glassy water and make a new kind of ripple.