November 29, 2010

My First Brazillian or, Happy Birthday to Me.

Some women, when they pamper or buy themselves a birthday present, do something like a full spa mani-pedi, a night out with the girls, or a new outfit. Me? I went and paid someone to rip my pubic hair out with hot wax.

Coming to that decision wasn't easy. I woke up and decided since I'd taken the day off work, I was going to do something that I'd never done before. I narrowed the decision down to strip club, or Brazilian. I was out of singles, and didn't feel like explaining why I needed a wad of ones at the bank, so I made an appointment at the salon.

November 28, 2010

A Message About Manscaping

This is a PSA from me to the men of the world. Call it the journalist in me. (No, I'm not fucking an anchorman as I write this. Let's keep that clear, shall we?)

There's a line between wookie and Ken doll that I wish more men would be familiar with. I don't think any woman would ask for a completely hairless man. However, if cuddling, let alone a blowjob, requires dental floss once you're done, I don't think I'm alone in asking you to trim that shit.

I'm not saying go all out bare. I mean, Ken dolls were great when I was still in pigtails. But as a grown up, completely hairless men either have a waxist, or make us worry that you're as anatomically correct as Barbie's beau.

Yes, we know you're convinced that if you're clean shaven "down there" it makes you look bigger. Remember what I said about the tease for women? There's also something to be said for under-promise and over-deliver for men as well. Surprises are usually good! Unless you expect us to believe "oops, it slipped".

There is nothing wrong with keeping your hair neatly trimmed. They make special shavers for it if you're afraid of a pair of scissors. And before you start to whine, remember how women are almost expected to either take a razor to their delicate flower, or let a stranger yank out the hair with hot wax.

Pubic topiaries and vajazzeling are an entirely different topic for another day. I will never be able to look at my Swarovski candlesticks the same way again!

In short, keep it trimmed guys. I'm all for souvenirs, even the kind that require you to take a second look at your wardrobe and neck lines. But, I don't want to be at dinner with the family and suddenly pick a pube out of my teeth. Not again.

November 27, 2010

"Say Something Nice" She Said...

First in a series of stories that sound like lies...

I got married to a mechanic at the tender age of 26.  Not that I have anything against the institution, but in hind sight, for me, it was a bad move.  I had come from a pretty rough place emotionally in my early 20s.  I probably should have seen a therapist to untangle myself from the aftermath of what felt like emotional abuse, but I didn't.  I soldiered on.  I met my now-ex husband in 2002, and we were married two years later in 2004.  On Memorial day, of all days.

At the wedding reception, a long time family friend corners me and says "You should stand up and say something nice to your parents.  They really love you, and want to see you happy."

Say something nice.  Ok, I can do this.  I work off the cuff all the time anyway. 

The Virtues of Being Fan Dance

Skank is the new black, apparently. Don't tell me I'm the only one that's noticed it seems like the idea of sexy went from tease to tah-dow!

Knowing that Fan Dance and Burlesque are a lost art, let's start with some show and tell.

This is Sexy.

This is just about a tour of this woman's internal organs, and is not all that sexy.

In the interest of full disclosure, No. I can't move like the pole dancer. You can't see my ribs, and my tits are both real, smaller than your average plus sized woman, and shaped like you'd expect a 30-something's to look. However, I don't say these things out of jealousy. I say them because I appreciate and require a little bit of mystery with my sex.

I'm a bigger fan of peekaboo panties than "Did that cervix just wink at me?".

Fan dance is about duality. You see everything, and you see nothing at the same time. It's lighting, it's timing, and it's quick peeks of "the goods" instead of getting to know them so well you feel obligated to send them a Christmas card next year. You can look, but you can't possibly think you can touch is so much sexier than "please exit through the gift shop"

Burlesque allows woman to stay soft, feminine, and powerful at the same time. Take, for example, Roxy Rouge. She's no stick. She's voluptuous, curvaceous, classy, and very pin-up. She wouldn't fit in on a pole dancing stage, and that's a damn shame. I'd rather watch her take off her clothes and shake around some ostrich feathers than see the woman with thighs strong enough to open a pickle jar any day.

Pole Dance is specific. It requires this kind of waistline, these kinds of breasts, this brand of shoe. Fan Dance is more suggestion, wiggle, and eyelashes. It's more attitude than goods. Anybody can be Fan Dance because it's more confidence than measurements.

I call being Fan Dance a virtue because, as I've said many times before, there's a difference between being easy and enthusiastic. Fan Dance is about being both Predator and Prey. It allows a woman to be feminine, accepting of her body, and to encourage a man to come get her.

The flirt allows a woman to be alluring, and to tease a man without giving away all her secrets. It brings out the love of the chase in both sexes. It's more about foreplay, thinking, and the idea of nudity than "Boom! I'm naked! Stick it in me already!" That doesn't work for me.

So, pass me the ostrich feathers, dim the lights, and cue the saxophone. I'm gettin' in your head one wiggle at a time.

November 25, 2010

Pass the Torch, and the Green Bean Cassarole

Well, hello 30s, when did you get here?  Usually, you bring kids, minivans, and play dates.  Maybe that's why I didn't see the swing in holiday traditions take place until just the other day.  We've already talked about how I'm not going to breed, being a card carrying member for the Child-Free club and all.  I also seem to surround myself with others who are also childless and share my joie de vivre.  We live youthful lives, taking the time to play when needed.  Ok, enough backstory.

This year saw a total of four Friends and Family Thanksgiving dinner invitations, replete with all the fixins' a corn fed Midwestern woman could want.  Oh, carb coma paradise!  Nowhere in that list was a trip out to the Fortress of Attitude, also known as my parents' house.  Times, they are a changin'. 

I don't consider the easing into another stage of life something to mourn, just notice and appreciate.  I look forward to sitting on couches with my pants unbuttoned, cussing a blue streak about how I shouldn't have had three helpings of turkey and two slices of pie*.  I look forward to gathering around fireplaces of my nearest and dearests' living rooms, telling stories from the years previous.  I also am happy for my parents and how they can finally, after all the years over the stove, jet off to the mountains for an intimate dinner just for two.  Family is blood, and friends are the family you can choose. 

Happy Thanksgiving Internetland.  Pass the pie and gas-ex.

*Edit, three slices of pie.  *groan*  Oh Key Lime, your temptation is too great!

November 23, 2010

Foiled by MarbleMouth

Maybe I just have a wax buildup problem, but it seems like every corrections officer I've ever taken a call from has a mouth full of marbles. Yes, I am mischief's handmaiden, but my conversations with COs usually involves them having forgotten a password.

Which brings me to the mumbling. I have this trick you see. If I didn't catch a name, or didn't understand what someone says, I'll ask for a spelling. Usually, that isn't so obvious. Then there was this morning...

Them: "Hi, this is *mumbles* and I got locked out."
(Translation: Hi, I tried my password too many times, and for security reasons, the windows network locked my account. Can you please press that magic button to make it go for me?)

Me: "Sure. I can unlock that for you. How do you spell the last name?"

Them: "Really? J-O-N-E-S."

Me: *stares blankly at the phone in an effort to avoid making a comment.* ... "OK, got that unlocked for you. You should be able to log in now. Anything else I can do for you?"

Oooookay. Well, that was embarrassing. The moral of the story is, I apparently need to clean my ears, and they need to, oh I dunno, OPEN THEIR MOUTHS WHEN THEY TALK!

November 22, 2010

Charm School Reject

Being a debutante or going to cotillion conjure up dated mental images,  For most people, they include blonds with southern drawls decked out in white tulle after spending hours in the stylist chair. Think Gone with the Wind and that's usually pretty close to your average notion of that social caste. However, not everyone who's been through the indoctrination into society goes on to be gentile or even docile. Case in point, me.

Growing up, I was the definition of Tomboy. I had skinned up elbows, the knees of my jeans were almost always torn, and I was in more trees than Tarzan. My mother ran the gamut of curse words and the shampoo isle trying to get the tree sap out of my pigtails. Eventually, after trying to corral me into the tub after a night out riding horses, she proclaimed an exasperated "Enough!"  I thought that meant no bath for me.  Oh, it meant much more than that.

November 20, 2010

Anthems, Individuality, and Finding a Message

Everyone needs an anthem.  Well, actually I am of the opinion that it's good to have several so you've got all your moods covered.  I may have found a new one that I wish more people would embrace.

Having left my MP3 player in the car, I turned on the radio while climbing in the tub before heading out on the town last night.  Unfortunately, living where I do, Top 40 is really my only option when it comes to over the air music.  Eh, it's noise, and now and again there's something that does end up grabbing my attention.  As was the case last night.

Say what you want about Katy Perry, but that girl rocks my face off.  She's got a new single called "firework".  I heard it and fell in love.  I think it might have even taken the place that Nikki and Rich's "Next Best Thing" previously occupied.  It's at least tied with it.  Here.  Rather than just talk about it, take a listen/watch.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my new anthem.  Despite being catchy with a beat you can dance to, it has a message.  Stand up, be yourself.  Work it.  Own it.  Make your own mark.  After a hurricane comes a rainbow.  Katy, your timing is perfect.

It's perfect because it seems that in recent months, bullying and suicide have been all over the news.  Our nation is consuming its own individuality and embracing mediocrity.  Have you seen the "it gets better" video?  I am not one to have leaky eyes, but this really got to me.  My hurts suffered in my life don't compare to Joel Burns' and I won't be so egotistical to sit behind my keyboard and compare them on the same page.  But, if my pains felt the way they did, I can't imagine what he went through. And THAT is why he got my eyes to leak.

I suppose what I'm getting at is this.  Find a message.  If it's a book, a song, a person, an idea, I'm not one to care what you grab on to.  Find something that speaks to you.  This world is too full of people who are afraid to live life as exactly who they are, and that's a damn shame.

November 18, 2010

Circadian Stalker

2:30 AM really needs to stop taking cues from John Cusack movies.  You know, the one where he's standing in some love(lust?)interest's yard, holding a boombox over his head?  Yeah, 2:30 AM needs to stop that shit.  Except in my reality, he shows up, drunk, pantless, bitching about how his car is broken again, whinging about the good old days and wanting to give it "one more try".

Fuck that!  I've met someone new.  And Well Rested and I are quite happy together thankyouverymuch.  Sure, we have our bad nights.  But that's to be expected when you're in it for the long haul.

2:30, I meant it when I said that the next time you show up either alone or with your deadbeat cousin 4:47, I'm calling the cops!  We're over!

Wardrobe Malfunction

In the last year, I've dropped some weight, picked some back up, and dropped it again.  Somewhere in the mix, I've learned to love me for who I am. I've found that I am in that blurry place of being able to shop in both the mainstream girl and the curvy girl stores. I've taken full advantage of that and made some lacy purchases at both Lane Bryant AND Victoria's Secret. One of the Vicky's purchases was some sleek, seamless black panties. They made me feel sleek and sexy.  I loved how they felt when the cloth of my clothes slid over them, and they fact that they were black showed off my alabaster skin.

I tell you that to tell you this:

November 16, 2010

A Decade-Long Love/Hate Relationship With Birth Control

Much love to Margaret Sanger and all, but being on chemical birth control for roughly 12 years is one of my deepest regrets.

As a teenager, I weighed my options for not getting knocked up.  I'm forgetful, so the pill wasn't really a good idea.  Remembering to take it at the same time, much less every day would be difficult.  I just wasn't willing to trust my memory.  The patch and the ring were still in the future, and Norplant was a little too scary for me.  Too many women had the implants break under their skin, or were horridly scarred when they were removed 5 years later.  The idea of dropping trou every 13 weeks for an injection sounded like the ideal.  No forgetting a daily pill, no worries about a condom breaking, and quite possibly, I'd no longer menstruate.  Yes!  Sign me the fuck up for that!

This is the part where I interject that I know that the shot doesn't protect against STIs.  Don't send me letters about how I can't rely on a shot to keep me disease free.  I know.  I'm not going to breed and the shot was the first line of defense.

For 10+ years, I faithfully went to my local Planned Parenthood every 12-14 weeks to get a shot of fake hormones in my hip.  Granted, for much of that time, I was single.  However, it was nice to not really have to worry about accidentally getting pregnant.  Well, should the stars have aligned and I had the chance to both get laid AND the condom broke.

For more than a decade, I put up with the side effects.  They started small, but progressively got worse.  But, it was so slowly, I lost sight of where I began.  Sure, my periods stopped, which I was all in favor of. the trade-off was that I caught a chronic case of the sandy snatch.  Sex without some sort of lube wasn't happening.  (As a result, I got really good at knowing what kind to use when, brands I liked, and which flavors didn't remind me of that fluoride shit the dentist puts in the toothpaste.)

My underlying depression deepened until I became a reclusive shell of myself.  My libido, which should have been roaring in my 20s, went the way of the dodo.

November 15, 2010

The Pussification of the Midwestern Male

A brief background on me.  I’m a thirty-something divorcee.  I spent much of my twenties and all of my marriage hiding my personality from the world in some misguided attempt at being more socially acceptable. Those who know me use words like “aggressive”, “strong”, “force of nature”, “outgoing”, and “brazen”.  All of these I wear like a badge of honor.  I live my life for me, on my terms.  I’ve spent many a day shaking trees to get done what needs to happen. I’ve only known how to be one way, a mover, a shaker, and a questioner.  In life, I make the phone calls.  In money, I write the checks.  In love, if I didn’t seek it out, I turn my nose up at it because it’s too easy.  This is how it works in my world. I do this while trying not to be as abrasive as 80 grit sandpaper.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.  However, this approach goes against the grain for the men of the Midwest.  

November 13, 2010

Phone Slave's Lament

After a frustrating day, I usually find some therapy in writing an angry letter that I'll never send.  So, I decided to put into words some of the frustrations of your average Phone Slave.  By that, I mean anyone who's worked in a Customer Service, but more specifically, a Help Desk job.  This is by no means a complete list, in any particular order, or a slam against EVERY caller.  But, there are the chosen few, the frequent fliers that people who answer phones for a living would really like to see take this to heart. 

Death by spoon, or bendy straw through the nasal cavity?

It is November 13th, 2010 and there's snow on the ground.  While that isn't surprising, or out of the ordinary, there is irony to that statement.

I am recently divorced.  (To channel Martha for a moment, it's a good thing.)  My ex husband and his girlfriend moved out TWO days ago.  While that sentence alone I'm sure will make for some rereading and screwed up noses, I'll get into that later.  I mention this because to come up with some money to help pay for moving, he sold some of the items he wouldn't be able to take with him to an apartment.  His options were rather mundane; extra garage fridge, lawnmower, grill, and snow-blower.  Of that list, the fridge stayed and the snowblower found a new home.  (Insert painful facial expression of 'oh no he didn't!' here.)  The fridge stayed because, as I came to find later, it has a veritable biota living in it.  The snow-blower went because he could get a couple hundred bucks for it. 

Now, this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have a tender back.  I've had some REALLY bad back problems in my day that he was there to witness.  I mean, if you need help putting on your own socks or getting out of bed, then you know a couple Advils and some hot coco isn't going to help.  An angry TSA agent with aggression problems named "knuckles" who's told my back muscles are terrorists needing to be "roughed up" might be what it takes when I'm bad.  Thankfully, I haven't had any really bad day in several years.  However, physical exertion in the wrong way can cause those shriveled rubber bands cum muscles in my back to spasm to the point where touching them is painful.  And I have the option to shovel the driveway by myself this winter. Fantastic!

As the snow began to stick in earnest, I sent a text message asking him if he'd like death by spoon, or bendy straw to the nostril for selling the snow-blower.  I have yet to hear back.  As for the snow?  It's thankfully 38 degrees and slushy this morning.  Thank goodness for near misses.

Rough sex, and a turn of phrase

Sometimes words just seem to fall together in ways that inspire laughter.  Hyperbole helps, as does personification of inanimate objects.  That said, I recently had a conversation about the difference between enthusiastic sex and what's too rough. I said, pain isn't the problem.  Sometimes you need the pain to make the pleasure sweeter.  However, when my cervix tenders its resignation citing a hostile work environment and seeks workman's comp, then it's too rough.  Between blindsided giggles, my conversation partner exclaimed that those sorts of off the cuff observations and outbursts are exactly the reason I should be doing this.  So, thus begins my biography of sorts - with sex and violence.  Natch.