42 Wrinkles

i'm pretty well known for over sharing a lot of personal information. i warn you now that if that bothers you about me, stop reading this post immediately.

if i ever open up a salon devoted entirely to brazilian bikini waxes, i'm going to name it 42 wrinkles. and if that happens, i'm going to have lindsay rent the retail space next to me and open a cupcake shopPE named 42 sprinkles, just to be kind of a jerk (what goes better together than pubic waxing and massive amounts of frosting?).

anyway. you might be wondering why i would call a wax boutique 42 wrinkles. benjamin once told me that the average human butthole has 42 wrinkles (fun facts like these are one of the many reasons i love him so dearly) and i'm happy to say that i can confirm this fact after my intimate wax session today, held in lindsay's guest bathroom, where i managed to accidentally glue my ass cheeks together. when i managed to pull the wax away, a feat that felt pretty similar to ripping my own asshole skin off, i noted that the indentations in the wax really WERE wrinkly! a quick count of 90 degrees around the wax and a bit of multiplication led me to an estimation of 40 butthole wrinkles. fantastic! i assume because i'm only 27 AND my dad administers a lot of restalyn that i probably have fewer than average butthole wrinkles. maybe a 60 year old has more. i don't know. for the record, i was not trying to wax my butthole. i have experience with that involving a chubby pakistani woman at a spa in the whitechapel borough of london, but that's a story for another day. this was merely a mishap involving various factors, including too much time between waxes, being out of practice with application, and oh, MOLTEN HOT WAX BEING APPLIED TO MY CROTCH.

let's back up. i like a clean pubis area, especially now that we are entering the holiday season. nothing says "holiday" to me like having a freshly waxed box in honor of all of the other boxes that are being spiffed up for the occasion. the strippers didn't help, i'll admit. those girls are like fucking hairless cats. hairless cats covered in spray tan, glitter, a smidge of cocaine dust. i could have gone to my sister's preferred waxer, and for $50 she would have cleaned up the region and sent me on my way in about 20 minutes. sadly, i didn't feel like figuring out how to get to this girl without a car OR spending $50, so i decided a little at home number couldn't be that bad...after all, it never has been in the past.

sadly, it had been 4 months since my last wax.

WHAT. don't judge me.

if things with hot rob and the maybe date had gone better maybe i would have felt the need to wax before the ol' christmas lights came out and my belly panis (formed over thanksgiving) obscured the vision of my vajayjay. ugh. but no. hence, today when i went to take care of this little problem, i was faced with a dense bush not unlike an amazonian woman. of course, the outer edges were easy. sure, the hairs were roughly 6 inches long and i had to remove the braids and tibetan beads i had put in during my spare time over the past third of a year, but it was still sparse enough to be pretty painless. i tried to avoid the apex of my mane until absolutely necessary. women who wax know what i'm talking about. it's similar to summiting mt. kilimanjaro (haha. as if i would know what that's like) to rip out those deeply rooted hairs at the point just north of your clit with molten hot wax. i don't care if you have waxed for 80 years...those bitches are in there DEEP and no amount of pain tolerance makes it a comfortable moment.

at the summit of kilimanjaro i choked. i got the wax stuck, which is funny because that's what wax is supposed to do. one tug, two tugs, three tugs...i just couldn't do it. i was left with a lime green hitler mustache while i considered my options. "well, i'll just clean up a bit around the area," i thought, "no harm in going back over a few of the harder to reach places". yup. once again i misjudged the best option. a little too much wax and a little too far of a reach left it smeared on my wrinkly hole. ok i'll be honest. the warm wax felt nice for about 1 second, until i straightened up and my cheeks clashed together like those toy monkeys with cymbals. oh. i realised my mistake immediately. hitler 'stache in the front, glued together ass cheeks in the back.

i had two choices: rip out the mustache first, or rip it out second. after spending a good 2 minutes psyching myself up, i did it. i would have clenched my cheeks to make it a little easier to handle but they were already glued together. feeling victorious and ignoring the fact that this experience had drawn blood, i went for the reach around.

imagine that. maybe even try it if you're alone right now.

it's awkward to wax your asshole because you can't get a good grip on things (and i have long arms). alright. it's just awkward to wax your asshole. so here i was, left with a slightly bloody hitler mustache where my bush once was and holding what looks like a green silly putty impression of my asshole. 42 wrinkles, indeed. of course, instead of this taking only 20 minutes like it should have, it took about 90. an hour and a half of hot wax, strange yogic positions to reach certain hidden regions, and, alright, a couple episodes of frasier to help with the mounting tension of the situation. i would post a picture of the wastebasket filled with lime green wax covered in pubes, but even i think that's going too far. probably mentioning that and letting you form a mental picture was too far, but whatever.

so because i love lists, here are a few tips for your next wax experience:

1) buy hard wax. you're already dealing with a lot of variables down there. just make it easier on yourself and get hard wax.

2) shower first. the warmth helps open the pores.

3) bring a bottle of bourbon into the bathroom with you. and your laptop.

4) don't give up. commit to the moment and just do it. you got yourself into this mess, you have to get yourself out of it.

5) think about how much worse it would be if you had to wax balls. that's a lot of loose skin. i tried that once (obvi not on me...tranny much?) and it didn't go well. that's another story.

6) if "jungle lady" passes through your mind when you look down, please just pay the $50.


but i don't know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs.

court

my first time

she was beautiful. blonde, buxom, toothy, and she smelled like a mix between vanilla musk and a new barbie doll. her name was

her name was...

ah. who fucking cares what her name was. as she tossed her boobs around my face we chatted about hair products and what i should see whenever i finally make it to sydney, which is her home town. how did she end up here, stripping in a sleazy club around times square? i don't know. i don't care. i came out of the strip club with a net gain of twelve dollars stuffed into various pockets and a new sense of icky. it was enough to get me home and puking up pink bile into a zabars grocery bag. if that's not the perfect way to leave new york, i'm not sure what is.

this all started in las vegas four months ago. you should assume that if you meet someone in las vegas that you're dealing with a person who enjoys that whole scene. it's like meeting a future spouse in a bar...you can't be all that surprised when, five years and two kids later, their preferred hangout is still a bar. MR BOFA is a loosely related very wealthy younger person who appeared in my life last summer during my cousin's shit show birthday of debauchery twenty one run. when i went to meet MR BOFA (that's what we will call him) and his friend for a drink last night, i should have known it was going to be a long, epic adventure.

we met at a west village bar, a place so trendy the thought pains me to admit i've been there. sometime during my first grey goose on the rocks the topic turned to blondie, a massive stripper very well known in atlanta who will crush beer cans with her planet sized breasts. legendary is the term, i believe. it came out that i had never been to a strip club and MR BOFA, being someone who spends a lot of time in strip clubs, and his friend decided that this needed to be remedied immediately. "sure!" i say, "why not?". i was literally a block from my apartment, and i could have gone home so easily, but in the spirit of adventure, i didn't.

a short cab ride and a stop at a club that was deemed inferior by a passing patron, we ended up just north of times square. five hundred bones later (with the understanding that a bottle of liquor must be purchased) we were seated at a table and my face was a foot away from a stripper's ass. just reach out and grab it! suddenly MR BOFA disappears only to reappear a few minutes later with a stack of single bills, which he hands to me. it's time to get serious. oh how the ladies danced. how they stalked about the stage, leggy and anorexic, looking like giraffes on safari. it was amazing.

some length of time later, though i'm not sure how much as the vodka haze had settled in, i had seen a lot of boobs and coked-out half smiles. the whole show started to seem a bit like an auction with the livestock moving around on stage, pleading to the highest bidder. so distracted was i with this spectacle that i didn't notice the naked woman standing behind me, poised to lead me to a chair where she could push her boobies into my face for the delight and cash of my colleagues. i felt a powdery touch on my hand and lo and behold, there she was. very blonde, very tan, and ready to rock. i don't remember much from the lap dance (it might have technically been two...MR BOFA kept giving her money and it seemed like it lasted forever) aside from recommending her to get a couple of moles on her back checked out. melanoma is scary stuff, after all. i also got a great tip for a deep conditioning mask for my hair. fantastic. i mentioned that i wanted to learn how to do my makeup like hers (i may have been very inebriated, but i could still deliver sarcasm) and much to my surprise and delight i was ushered into the stripper's den. never have i seen myself with so many different shades of purple on one eyelid or such a tan face (similar to a brioche). i am pretty sure that i contracted face AIDS from the experience, but at least it was memorable.

soon after, we stumbled out of the club onto a nearly deserted broadway. i made it back to christopher street, the very sight of the now quiet boots and saddle a comfort. you think that was all great, right? wow, incredible and so new york! no, my friend, the authentic "new york moment" came when i puked my twelve dollar drinks and two hours worth of stripper juice into a zabar's grocery bag. does it get any better? does it?

i don't think so.

so long, new york, and thank you for this memory. it was fantastic, tawdry and totally unforgettable...and i couldn't ask for more.

Bathroom Antics

There is only one thing I’m paranoid about, and it is bathroom aerosol spray. Not like, febreze or whatever, but the micromist spray that is created with people don’t bother putting the lid down when they flush their bodily excrements down the loo. I really fucking hate when people leave the toilet lid up. I hate walking into a bathroom and finding the lid up (especially knowing if someone was just in there), I hate establishment restrooms that negate having a lid available AT ALL, I hate that my family leaves them up on family vacations because they are a bunch of assholes who pray on my one weakness, and I just really, really hate the thought breathing other people’s fecal waste in the first place, not to mention while I’m in a really vulnerable, pants down squatting position. One night during graduate school, I was so disgusted by the sound of one roommate peeing in the half bathroom in the middle of the night and knowing my toothbrush was left, uncovered, in the medicine cabinet (I threw that particular head away and kept my toothbrush in my room after that) that I couldn’t sleep for about an hour, so disturbed was I. Somehow I found a study from Bryn Mawr through a google search that discusses the aerosol pee spray in bathrooms and I’ve been deeply entrenched in this obsession ever since. you can find that study here: http://serendip.brynmawr.edu/exchange/node/1839 and decide for yourself how SUPER NASTY it is.

Having spent a fair amount of time in coffee shops and public libraries and out of my apartment here, I think I can speak fairly confidently about just how many weirdos there are here in regards to public bathroom acceptability. A well-known coffee chain sited at Columbus and 67^th has one bathroom for an insanely busy store. There is consistently a line four or five people deep, and it seems like there is constantly someone who takes more than five minutes to do whatever and get the fuck out of there. Who wants to spend time in a public bathroom? That’s fucking gross. My mission in all bathrooms: get in and get out. I heard of a girl who was in such a big hurry to get out that she wouldn’t even bother wiping her ass and would instead just leave a big shit streak on the lip of the bowl. I’m not in that big of a hurry, but I’m definitely the type to start the unbuttoning process while walking into the restroom. Maybe that makes me weird, but I figure the less time there is spent in aerosol shit spray, the better.

Ok, here are some of the weirdos I’ve encountered in public restrooms:

1)    the primper. Women are obnoxious, alright? I’m sorry, but we take way, way too long doing almost everything that impacts other people. You have a phone, there are store windows and other reflective surfaces, please don’t reapply your makeup in a public bathroom. It’s nasty, anyway, as now you have cloaked your hair and clothes with urine aerosol spray and are basically bathing in it. I also don’t want to smell your baby-whore victoria's secret perfume. It’s bad and you suck.

2)    the shitter sitter. I don’t care about you taking a nasty dump outside of your house. It happens. I eat too many oats, too. Please don’t think that if you are someone who takes a long time to duce or, heaven forbid, enjoy it so much you want to hang out in your own shit smell, that you have the free and clear to dump wherever you are. People are waiting, and furthermore, if you leave it to sit in the bowl while your butt is warming the seat to a consistent 98.6 degrees, there will be more shit smell permeating the restroom. You’re an asshole. We all know you’re a shitter sitter when you grab a newspaper before you go in.

3)    The chatter. My mom is definitely in the category, sorry to call you out. the chatter is super irritating. Some of us are already dealing with stage fright or phobias about feces-laden bathroom micromist spray germs and have a hard time getting in and out while there are multiple toilets flushing as it is, but you answering your mobile while taking a crap or whatever really doesn’t help. The call can wait. Trust me. If the call can’t wait for you to pull up your pants, then I expect to see you run out of the bathroom with your pants around your ankles after you take that call. On the flipside, don’t answer your phone when I’m calling if you’re in the bathroom. The conversation is worthless because you’re technically busy doing something else, and I really don’t want to be a part of it. Plus now I know your phone is covered in duce germs and I have a mental image of you sitting and shitting.

4)    the non-washer. I don’t actually care if you wash your hands or not, but just know that I know if you do or don’t. we all know, and we’re all judging you.

5)    The crapper tapper. Does tapping your feet really make it come out any faster? You know what’s weird…I CAN SEE YOUR FEET under the stall door, so I know that you are impatiently trying to squeeze one out.

6)    The dis-gruntler. I don’t want to hear you strain. Keep it quiet. Is that enough description for you to understand? F-ing gross.

7)    The mommy gang. I understand that you can’t keep your children inside your house all the time and it’s probably considered child abuse if you did, but you taking your 6 children into the restroom is irritating. First of all, kids are always pooping. It’s the product of being a lot like a puppy with a short digestive tract and constant feedings. Kid poop also smells sweaty. I don’t know why. Children have the most foul shits of all time, consistently. It’s unfair for you to take up time making all of them pee (poop too, because you know it’s going to happen), play with the toilet paper, teach them how to wash their hands, and generally take a lot longer than you should. I don’t care if you have children. The good ol’ “One Two You’re Through” rule still applies to you.

Feel free to post a comment about an annoying restroom user for me to add to the list. What can be learned from this? Not a lot. Avoid public restrooms and their pee spray. Assume that everyone in line in front of you fits into one of these categories so you’re not too disappointed when you walk into a tiled room that smells like a sewer or end up pissing yourself because you’re waiting for the woman with multiple children stuffed inside to exit. It’s ok to be disappointed in other people, and if you fit into one of these categories, you should definitely be disappointed in yourself. - court

15 signs he is a douchebag

If you have found this posting, you’re in a bad spot in your life. Think about it, if you searched “am i dating a douchebag?” you should know that you definitely are. Women are pretty smart when they aren’t the one in the relationship, so watch your friends carefully when they meet him. If they seem a little put off, annoyed, or find a way to leave your company earlier than expected, its because you are insufferably needy and giggly around him or they just can’t stand his obvious douchebagness that you are apparently blind to.

Here are the signs:

1)    Going Dutch on a first date…even if it’s a Maybe Date.

2)    He drinks Starbucks regularly (this doesn’t even take into account the disgusting sugar-infused drinks he orders. If Frappucino is in his vocabulary, he is most likely impotent.)

3)    His “look” can best be described as “trendy”.

3.5)   Oh, and he also claims to have a “look”.

4)    Three words: white linen suit. If he owns one, run away as fast as your knock off Louboutins will let you.

5)    Talking about how certain actresses are hot. Yeah, we know. That’s why we have anorexic tendencies, max out our credit cards on products and clothes, and feel like we have to look our best for a grocery store run. thanks a lot, fucker.

6)    He seems inconvenienced by your presence in the morning because not only are you happy to see him (how dare you actually spent the night!), but you are also about to take away precious minutes of his in the bathroom that he could spend grooming himself.

7)    Check his wallet…if there are more than 4 credit cards you should be concerned.

8)    He loves logos and seeks out clothing that shows them.

9)    He owns a shirt that can be worn off the shoulder and one of those newsboy caps that has a short bill ala Baby Gap and Abercrombie and Fitch. You may actually be dating a gay guy, but if you’re sure he’s not then he’s definitely a douche.

10)   Most stories begin with or contain name-dropping. Get over yourself.

11)  Even though you’ve been sleeping together regularly for months, he is uncomfortable with the term “girlfriend”.

12)  You tend to say “yeah…he pays for a lot of stuff” when talking about him with your friends

13)  He’s an expert on just about everything and has no problem letting you know that.

14)  He seems to have a type that he dates…and he’s willing to tell you about how you fit into it.

15) Your friends are always busy when you want to hang out as a group. This is because they know he’s a douche bag.

Listen, I get it. The douche is a species of male that comes across as smart, funny, personable, and like a real catch. I have been lured by the douchebag as well…something about that carelessly spiked fauxhawk, knowledge of the latest anti-wrinkle regimen, and appealing insecurity of the hunt are all things we mistake for excitement at the beginning of a relationship (in this case, a relationship that will never go anywhere). Unfortunately, the only thing you will get out of this faux-relationship is an STD and a few months of heartache after he drops you citing that you want more commitment than he does. My advice? Get him to take you out one last time to a great place you have been dying try, blow him off to go back to his place and then never return his call. That night when you question if he was really THAT bad, take comfort in the fact that he’s probably been cheating on you since the beginning. - court