confessions from Kevin’s couch

So it would appear there is a bit of a tet-a-tet going between one Social Assassin and myself. This should not be seen as a complaint. I feel rather special to be honest and also a little bad that it has taken so long to respond to his little challenge. Sorry, BIG challenge. As he is one of my favorite unmet friends, that I hope to someday meet… I happily answer the following as my ass has been tapped tagged.

1. Book or movie and why?
I personally hate it when I read a book and then a movie comes out after so I can nit-pick the shit out of it… That being said I will pick a book every time. I just finished the Dragon Tattoo series after watching the whole Swedish series of films and was really impressed by the books. They kept me interested, which is really difficult when you are easily …… is that a pigeon?

2. Real book or e-book?
Real Fucking Books. I, like everyone else on the planet has used an e-reader at this point (okay maybe there is a starving child in Haiti, but let’s not focus on the depressing shall we) but it just isn’t the same. That being said (déjà vu?) I am now willing to acquiesce that they have their place. Who wants to take 6 books on vacation? Unless they are graphic novels and get hot geeky men to pay attention to you. Because I love hot geeky men. Big brains are sexy. Yeah.

3. Funniest thing you’ve done in the last 5 years?
In my efforts to follow the advice of my therapist, head shrinker, blogishere friends and other people I see daily in flesh and blood, I have been working on my penchant for self-deprecation… in this instance however, Fuck that. If you can’t make fun of yourself???

I was sitting at the pub writing, how unusual I know, and this all of 21.5 year old douche frat boy kept looking at me and mumbling. Then he’d look back to his friends until I again felt his eyes on me and again… staring at me with furrowed brow and mumbling. I was getting worried (read pissed) at what could possibly make this douchbag so frustrated since I was sitting there with headphones in writing on a touchpad tablet and not even singing along!! The third time I realized this was happening and he looked like he was fuming I walked over to his table, poked his shoulder and said, “I’m not sure what I’ve done by merely being here to piss you off son, (yeah, I threw out son, I was rad that way) but back the fuck off me.” He looked at me completely bewildered and said “What are you talking about lady?!?” I said you “are shooting me angry stares and I’m not even in your general vicinity. So unless you are having some sort of girlfriend transference issue, or always mumble at girls sitting alone minding their own business – which incidentally will never get you laid and you need all the help you can get (yes I said that) back the fuck off me.” I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t being as quiet as I should be and I had conveniently missed the fact that 4 of my friends (mechanics and the dudes who showed me this place and taught me about beer) were in a corner booth.

At this point he looks up at me, squints and says, “listen I am not sure what your fucking issue is but, the fucking Lakers are losing and you are blocking my view of the TV.” …that happened to be conveniently located above my head on the wall. Yeah. I have an incredible awareness of my surroundings. So when my friends burst into laughter… I deserved every second. They remind me of this every time they see me at that table, so does the bartender and the waitress.

4. Do you put yourself into the books you read/write or the movies you watch?
Uh no… I am not like Lisbeth Salander in any way and though I can be a tough bitch, I hate math, have nothing close to a photographic memory and would probably have died at least 5 times in the first book. I am also not an alien, zombie, soldier, crazy megalomaniac, early 19th century farmer or his fucked up sons, or zen philosopher… I could go on but I just do not have that kind of imagination.

5. How would your best friend describe you?
I am really bad at figuring out what anyone would say about me. I have a hard time seeing myself the way other’s do unless it’s flaws or failures. (I know that’s shitty, I’m working on it and took a compliment just last night… I see a shrink for a reason bitches!) So I’m changing the question to ‘How would your friends describe you… then asking them. One of them got back to me so apparently “I’m kind of a big deal” well something like that:

“Sars is one of the best listeners and advice givers I know! Empathy isn’t something you can fake and Sars doesn’t have to try to. You may be in a crowded bar but in her eyes you are the only people there. A true blue, ride or die friend-she is great!”

uuuummmm…… I would never have thought to write this about myself.

“quick-witted, sassy, loving/nurturing, firm, level headed, stressy.” (I love stressy, kinda like sassy but not really.) And I’m gonna remember that level headed thing the next time I fly off the handle and get all wishy washy : o funny, patient, smart, loyal, loves shoes (lol), good cook, great at talking people (and by people I mean me) off the ledge…kind, generous, a true friend”

or this… *sniffle* wipes nose on sleeve.

6. Favorite kind of car and why?
Bar none… Range Rover Sport. This vehicle is so awesome that Top Gear has used it to challenge a Tank… (yes, a fucking cannon shooting, I ride on dam track thinggys- tank) Now, I am no fucking soccer mom and I would drive the shit out of that thing. I would take it off road and get it dirty and then be comfy and cozy as I do philanthropic works and volunteer to stuff and things with the underprivileged. Because you pretty-much need disposable income to own one. I currently drive an amazing little Mazda3 (6 speed Manual – oh hells yeah). Two days later it is all that I wanted from a car since I am not rich and famous and don’t have a sugar daddy to give me my Range Rover. If you need more reasons, you don’t know cars and have never seen Top Gear (for shame): so here:

[youtube]http://youtu.be/ot6dL2mlO7c[/youtube]

[youtube]http://youtu.be/-wKfpPrRVIo[/youtube]

The Rubicon is calling my name now and I need a moment alone.

7. Would your choice of party be a catered meal or barbecue out back?
Since both the man and I have been cooks somewhere – he far longer than I, we like to do dinner at the house for friends. I am more the baker and breakfast/brunch maker and he is more the dinner/I can whip something up out of some mustard, a jar of capers, half a chicken breast and 2 brussels sprouts. I’m a planner. We like the bbqing and California is probably the best place in the world to live for it. Although I will admit, since I hate doing dishes, a nice dinner out on occasion is just lovely. Or bring me a maid. I’m cool either way.

8. What’s your favorite season and why?

because you can do this in the summer

When there is sun and warmth and clear skies, that is my favorite season. The season where I can wear a tank top and not a sweater, flip-flops and not boots.

 

[youtube]http://youtu.be/U8voypJbQcA[/youtube]

9. What specific lesson have you learned – Spiritual, educational, occupational?
Educational : Never let anyone else decide for you. Wherever you want to go to school so that you will find a path that makes you happy… then do it. If someone is your friend and honestly cares for you they will support your decision. Be it a tech school, trade school, university or certification program… go. Then don’t stop learning.

Occupational: Sometimes being treated poorly is just stress on the part of a person who lacks understanding. If you can rise above it and have patience you will learn and probably teach at the same time. And don’t trade stability for what seems like and easy fix to a stressful situation, you may be shoving your head into a lions open mouth.

Spiritual : I agree with Kevin that spirituality or religion can cause a shit storm of issues in life. Especially since they are two different things..I used to be a super religious person who also happened to have a healthy grasp on my spirituality. I have learned that the best way to ruin a person’s spirit is cram religion down their throat. I think the best way to describe what I’ve learned and how I feel is two fold:
I think ‘we have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.’* And I also think that maybe Buddha was right in that “all life is suffering” but I don’t think we have to suffer to live.

I believe in Bacon!

*attributed to Jonathan Swift

10. Besides writing, what’s your favorite thing to do when you get some extra time?
I agree with Kevin (again) that listening to music is one of my favorite things. Getting lost in a song or finding something new is glorious. But when I have time, I love to share. Time, food, drink, tears, music, laughter, friendship, solace, whatever is necessary to connect with my friends. We are so busy and so cyber connected that we forget to put down the fucking gadgets and look each other in the eye. We are forgetting how to be with each other in a real way. And that is my favorite thing to do, spend time with those I care for.

11. What’s one place you can be found at least one time every week?
I don’t have an answer for this question. That is a sad admission for me to make. It is one, however, I am working to change in a very real way. If I had answered this 5 or 6 months ago I could have said the pub where I write, the gym or the favorite coffee shop, any number of places. Right now I can’t say that. I can say home and work. Maybe in a couple months I’ll have a better answer for this. Today it is what it is.

I’m supposed to make others do this now but I’m just gonna leave you with this… and go find a kleenex while I print what my friends wrote in 76pt font to paste on my walls.

rainbows and kittens bitches

tanks mang

Who took the elephant?
You know the elephant, that was here.
It was right here!
It’s been sitting on my chest for months and even though there is still a Mastiff there now, I can tell it’s gone. The anxiety and stress and fear, well they aren’t all gone but they are in reprieve.

I have been patient, waiting, looking for something so I would be responsible. I didn’t want to pile on another bad decision. I didn’t want to disappoint everyone so I waited. And I shrunk. And the elephant got bigger and heavier and it was harder to breathe.

Sorry… I know this is a bullshit “rich first world issue”, but growing up where you have a car for every house (because lets face it, our public transit in most places is fucked) you learn the freedom that brings. I do realize how fortunate I am in every way. This is not about being thankful for that just now. That is a different grattitude for a different day. Today I am realizing just how oppressed I felt not having the ability to come and go as I please. I have great friends that would cart my ass and the most patient man ever who gave me cart blanche (for the most part) with his vehicle… but it wasn’t mine. I never felt okay, just going without asking. It wasn’t mine.

So the bullet was bitten and the purchase made. It was not the originally intended purchase, in fact far from. It will mean being a grown up and saying no sometimes. But everytime I have to say no to the movies this time, I’ll remember the elephant and how it felt to be released from it’s weight. I’ll do something else. I’ll remember the tears shed in lonliness and sadness and I will smile. It is okay. I am mine, I can go. I am free to choose where and when. It was a good decision. It was a smart decision.

Sometimes it takes removing one weight to notice there are more, but I can get to those. I can make my way to each, on my own, without asking anyone’s permission. I can give each one its turn and look… wouldn’t you know, that bastard was sitting on my confidenece. I knew it was here somewhere.

Lets dust it off, shall we?

HI-Larry-US!

I know I’ve said it a hundred times.. but I don’t want children. (spare me a lecture, I’m almost 40, I know I don’t want them) This may be an awesome shining example of why. Also, I love Louis CK. He makes me laugh and can pull me out of a funk faster than Xanax or Booze (though sometimes… kidding). To that end, I apologize in advance that this is a clip from the youtubes but will shamelessly plug that you can buy his newest vid for only $5 and download it right to your happy lil compy at home. I’ve seen it, and it is also funny.

But as I was saying… I don’t want to be a parent. Thanks Louie…

[youtube]http://youtu.be/s120QJv6Ikg[/youtube]

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]

 

Ich Liebe Diche Auch

*sniffle*

*wipes nose with Kleenex (with lotion, duh)*

Since being put in the Assassin’s cross hairs it’s been a challenge to catch my breath. His many kindnesses have had me swooning (not to fear Mrs., just in ways that mean my ego needs to have a pin or two taken to it at strategic places). He hath bestowed upon me an Academy Liebster Award! In keeping with his format I offer the following blommit (thanks to whoever said that, I’ve stolen it and I love it, yay!) rather than the lengthy acceptance speech which I had been penning. It brought to light the many causes near and dear and of course thanked the magic baby, whom I have no idea why I was thanking but that’s what one does when accepting awards right? And hell If I’m gonna thank him I may as well thank the evil torcheress from the chamber of doom-wax… but neither of them shall be thanked.  Just you Assassin of all things socially inept, thwarter of skanks from continents away, protector of lady bloggesses and their right to bash on whomever they choose and desire to beat ex-abusers to a bloody pulp with whatever means feels right at the time! Killer of baby seals! (okay maybe not that last one but you know how you get going sometimes…) All the while being a loving husband and rockin, fire-breathin father, not to mention an amazing chef… all wrapped in a 6 foot 8 inch tall package of hot man. Sounds fantastic to me.

So I shall crumple my speech, throw it at those less fortunate and go “off the cuff”. Settle in, this may take a few. First and foremost, thank you Mrs Assassin, for encouraging your husband in his passion and being understanding of the time and boobalicious photo browsing it requires. Having a partner who realizes that writing, a true calling to write, is not a fad but part of our being, is the best gift this universe can bestow. You fucking rule Mrs.

And now you (don’t cower in the corner over there… you’re a foot and a half above the chair anyhow!) Get your ass over here for some lovin’. Mr. Assassin… or Kevin if I may, Ich liebe dich auch. Du nahmst meine Herausforderung und bestanden. Andere konnte es nicht. Sie sind die besten. (that’s right bitches… Deutsch. ha! and Shane, if its wrong – sue the interwebs*) But really, how could I not!!! Even if you hadn’t offered to make me eggs bennie, thus winning my heart for all time…You gave me 35 songs… with videos. Shit Son! I only asked for songs… Not videos. It was brilliant and challenged me to look up music I hadn’t heard for a long time and some of it never. It was nothing short of awesome. But even that is not why I stick around and read your blog. You are funny as shit, but not always gufaw funny, you are witty, intelligent, challenging to my brain. You give me pause to think about things from a perspective I may not have, and I like that. Plus you are fucking tall and well I loves me some tall lean man, especially one that loves music and cooking.  But not to fear Mrs., I have my own tall lean man (serious… 6’7″, loves music and cooks… its like bizaro blog) on my side of the planet so she and I can get together and dish about tall men and all the awesome that you are. Thank you for the support, love and leaving a cute little heart on my twitter feed. How decidedly un-punk rock of you.

Now that all the squishy shit is over, on to the liebing and award bestowing…

When I first started writing it really was just for myself. I had one reader (my best friend) and that was fine. Then it turned out that there was this “feed” thing people who were familiar with the interwebs used and I really had more like one-hundred readers. Holy shit-balls, who knew!!! so on and on and here I am 6 or 7 years of wirting. You know I still don’t have all that many readers (I don’t have N.F *wink* to tweet me and give me global recognition. But I digress as this is not about me. Back when I had no readers I was shocked one day to get a comment from someone I didn’t know. It was mind boggling! And now I’m feeling global love and getting a chance to say thanks to people who I enjoy the hell out of that you (my bloggity fam) may not know.

1. Why not start with the serious shit right?? When I stumbled on this ol’dog (whoever gave her that moniker should be put down, she’s fucking gorgeous!!! and um not old) with her sexy ta-ta’s, I couldn’t help but read. Too young to live through the shit she has, but fortunate to be surrounded by family, friends and a world wide network of people who genuinely wish her hope, love and healing. With all the cards she’s been dealt, she has a very funny take on her situation and whether you are down or not go see what’s up at Old Dog New Tits and you’ll be glad you did.

2. Several years ago I was trolling through images and one caught my eye. No I did not pirate it, but I did find out where it was from and where I could see more. And more I did. He doesn’t know I lieb him and it’s not stalkerish, but I’ve followed Mike’s journey from Utah and a tiny little paper to his new place in Berlin. Go check out whatever Π is up today. Then troll through the backlog. Several hours later you’ll be amazed and the clock will be well past where you thought it should be.

3. I love women. No I am neither lesbian, nor bi-sexual (get your mind out of the porn) but I think women are amazing. Strong, resiliant, tender, ferocious, frail, perplexing and extraordinary. For all these reasons and more, I love Brooke Farmer. I love her brash wit and bitter tears. I love her honesty about her struggles with life, love, and everything in between. I love her heart.

4. Sometimes a good story can be all you need to get cozy on a cold day. Sometimes you are sucked in by someones respectful tale of age and dignity where another author may leave none. Sometimes they aren’t stories but tales of true life adventure or non-adventure. When I read Siren Voices I sometimes laugh at the humour (see got British for ya there) or cry for the humanity shown by people just doing their jobs. Sometimes I can’t read because my eyes hurt and my heart and soul hurt too. But I go back always to listen to Siren Voices. I try to think of what Spence may sound like telling his stories. (thanks to his yule blog I now hear Kevin and well that’s as close as I’ll likely get). But I also try to hear their voices, those of the others that he comes to meet each day. And that is probably the point.

5. Last and certainly not least or he would have been first is Steve. Oh Steve.. You have aptly named your blog but I love, love, love reading it. It is my pleasure and I savor it for the times I need to laugh or cringe – I’m not sure which. Some of your photographs make me wonder but then again, they could only come From the Mind of a Madman.

There you have it… Now I’m tired from all the squishing….

*(I love you too. You took my challenge and passed. Others could not. You are the best.)

~posted from my tablet thingy~

cupcake!

I have said many times in the past and will hold it to be true until I have no breath, word are the most powerful thing we possess. They have the power to hurt or heal. Words can leave scars that tear over and over, or they can serve as a reminder of where you have been and how strong you’ve become. Words are a gift.

Words in the form of poetry can mean something different to each person that reads it. The author may mean one thing and it may touch you in a different way. That is the beauty of words. This was a gift to me when I needed to hear it. I share it because my friend needs to hear the words and receive the gift she chooses to take just as I did.

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
~Mary Oliver

 

One other thing…  happy birthday… today you have permission to be just a shoe whore. : )

[youtube]http://youtu.be/Lt_E-iY6f58[/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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rainbows and bacon bitches

Well, well…. it is Conversational Monday over at Becca’s little house of snark. I’ve never been very good at remembering actual things we said and I am not a fan of quoting what wasn’t said. However.. this one was captured on my IM because I forgot to update my settings. I’m not gonna lie and say I’m sad this time.

So I had a convo with a good friend I haven’t seen in a while. He is very quick witted (which is why you get no time stamps for my responses!) and all over the map. He is the co-founder of the Tri-Fecta of gus (more on that later). It’s got bacon, zombies, work, and more… It made me happy.

I would apologize for the length but fuck that, its my blog and I’ll post what I want…

Sars! howdy fine sir!!
Zimm Hola!
Sars! miss you and wifey’s faces! If you guys can’t make it Saturday we should plan a Pub date…
Zimm I’m heading out of town for a work conference and have to pick up the company owner so I probably won’t make it. But a Pub visit is always welcome : )
Sars! For sure! Maybe next week for hang time?
Zimm I will be back home Thursday. On a yummy note I have a Belgian Golden Strong* that should be ready soon.
*this is beer for those not aware
Sars! Um.., maybe I can make dinner and er, um you can um provide an adult beverage or something…. perhaps
Sars! : D
Zimm I’m  not above bringing beer to the Pub. I just make sure the Pub-stress gets some. And, I also have a nice *Class V clone from Kern River Brewing.
*again beer… hope you are getting the theme
Sars! sweet! But I was actually thinking come over and have dinner at the house… The Man does enjoy cooking and he is pretty good, not gonna lie. He really enjoyed talking to you at my party. He rarely says that kind of thing.
Zimm Cool, It is nice to have someone you can have an intelligent conversation with on a wide variety of topics. I just need to coordinate with the schedule keeper so I’m not double booking.
Sars! Whenever y’all can I would love it!! And he is a bit on the intelligent side (but he’ll never admit to it).
Zimm Stealth is always a good policy…. the way of the Ninja!
Sars! indeed… I may not look like much but I’m a pro at pretending to be a ninja.
Zimm The not looking like it is the master skill level.
Sars! that’s what I think! The trick is to wear clothes that aren’t restrictive… then if you need to flip in the air and boot someone to the head… DONE!
Zimm So you are also a student of ti quan leap. Not many learn so much so soon.
Sars! I study hard and train with masters…. I pay attention.
Sars! He’s an expensive sen-sa
Zimm But I take it he comes with benefits ; )
Sars! I am never aloud to discuss these things… He does not like it, it is not the ninja’s way… but yeah.. it’s pretty freakin awesome. He cooks, he cleans, he scrubs floors!
Zimm He is a man of many skills, I am not surprised.
Sars! He only takes one concubine, errr student at I time…
Zimm The better to hone your skills.
Sars! indeed, like a sword. It’s good stuff. ; )
Zimm All sorts of inappropriate sword comments are floating through my head and making it hard to concentrate on my work.
Sars! hehe, that’s why I left that there and did not proceed. I could have gotten gross!
Zimm I like the Hitchcock method plant some seeds and let the other persons imagination run with it. The results are usually spectacular.
Sars! indeed.. I’m learning these things. Although my writers block is really becoming a pain
Zimm Have The Man pick you up by the feet and swing you around until stuff comes out. Then sort through it and look for the gems.
Sars! that’s one way of doing it.. or we’ll be sorting through my lunch and I’ll be blacked out and remember nothing at all. Maybe I could lay on the bed and tap one side and see what comes out the other… sift through the ashes, because this job is killing me for real!
Zimm I have found if I leave my soul at home they can’t suck it out of me when I get to work.
Sars! bahahaha
Sars! I think I need to try that!
Zimm It is the only way I have survived this place for almost 10 years. Then you and your soul have something to talk about when you get home. Just don’t leave a credit card and the internet on or you will get weird things in the mail.
Sars! That is brilliant! Now I know why I got an angry birds keychain, a copy of the snuggiesutra and a pair of diabetic socks from amazon. The little bastard. I think it may need a kennel.
Zimm Make sure to put a toy in there or it will chew the bars.
Sars! cong with pb
Zimm good choice nutrition and entertainment!
Sars! He (I think my soul is masculine – kinda like a car) needs to be powered up. The weekend is coming
Zimm Go stand in the sun, it is kind of like solar panels.
Sars! Will I make the windows or mac powering up sound when I’m at full power?
Sars! Kinda like Wall-E, I need to know what to expect.
Zimm If all goes well sunshine will shoot out of your belly button at half power and your ears at full power.
Sars! But will rainbows shoot out my ass?
Sars! That would be entertaining, and make up for the shitty work week all at once
Zimm Only if you forget to clench.
Sars! Well sometimes, even a proper girl such as myself needs to er let loose?
Sars! you know… rainbows and kittens bitches…
Zimm Just clear your path before you do to prevent harm to innocent bystanders. Unless there are vampires then fire away.
Sars! Is this something new? Do ass rainbows kill vampires?
Zimm Concentrated UV light, the vampire council has been trying to suppress this info for years.
Zimm It will also repel the Goth, way too much happy.
Sars! hhhmmm, I must investigate. If ass rainbows repel goth and kill vampires, what will it take to kill zombies? This could be the answer to the apocalypse! Unless I have to swallow real bullets… That shit ain’t happenin
Zimm Not sure it might buy you time or backfire (pun intended) and draw them to you. Only test in a controlled environment. Even cute zombies will eat your brain.
Sars! yeah… I think I’ll let people far more badass than myself test that out.
Sars! And I think people with wet-brain may be good candidates
Zimm Just follow the rules from zombie land and you will be OK.
Sars! I fully intend to.. Witchita would never have gotten my gun with her little scheme.
Zimm Is wet-brain what happens when you try to scrub memories from you brain and forget to towel dry? Never put your brain in the dryer, it will shrink.
Sars! nope… it’s when you drink non-stop for umpteen or more years and have no idea what’s goin on… I’m wondering if  Zombies will even eat those brains?
Zimm Only the ones that were alcoholics before they turned.
Sars! that’s what I was thinkin.
Zimm No one is safe from the zombie apocalypse!
Sars! I was tryin…
Sars! Maybe disguise? Skin suit ala buffalo bill?
Zimm I think that is just like wrapping yourself in Bacon. It just makes you yummy.
Sars! bahahahahaahah
Sars! I always say everything is better with butter bacon or beer!
Zimm Off to play in the bushes, beware the zombies!
Sars! beware of rainbows…