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shoes in the city

the story of the trials, tribulations and mundane bullshit of a disturbingly normal lesbian

Thursday, March 20, 2008

waxing magic

why is waxing so much better than shaving?

i've tried every type of hair removal known to human kind.  literally.  electrolosis, laser, shaving, waxing, those stinky hair removal cremes, threading, i even owned an epilady.

btw - epilady?  i kept at it with that thing.  burned the shit out of myself when i was a high school senior and still had hair on my legs.  did that actually work for anyone?

so, last summer i decided that my bank account was entirely too low.  and that i needed to get a cash infusion.  so i decided to strip.  which meant that i had to suck it up and wax my bikini area.

i'd never gotten a brazilian before.  i'd shaved a lot, but, i have really sensitive skin.  when i shave between my legs, i end up looking like i have some sort of dread, previously unseen disease.  not cute.  threading is my favorite eyebrow shaping option, but it isn't done in areas with that much hair.  so, waxing it was.

and i fell in love.  smooth skin, no hair, use a little salt scrub and you avoid the ingrown stuff.  it rocks.

this morning it was time to get waxed again.  i'd been putting it off because i was broke (the stripping thing didn't work out).  and the hair had been driving me crazy.  we can talk all day about the societal oddities regarding where dominant culture thinks we should have hair and where we shouldn't, but i prefer to be hair free from the waist down.  and, i'll tell you, as a woman who eats pussy, it is a smidge easier to see and feel what your doing when there's less or no hair in the way.  and it feels tidy.  and looks nicer with g strings.

so, i feel much better.  lighter.  happier.  because a woman put wax on me and ripped off some hair.  odd that should make such a difference in my mood.  but it does.

waxing is magic.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Because there is air between my ears

I've been luxuriating in my new house.  Which is funny because it's not luxurious.  It just feels that way to me.

Last night, after feeding Cassie, it was time to for us to go on our nightly walk.  We got excited because both of us like our walk.  And we're having fun exploring our new neighborhood.  She likes it because it's a little trashy.  Literally, there's trash on the sidewalks which means, sometimes there's food.  And, although I reach into her mouth and take out the food, she enjoys the hunt.  And the occasional tidbit of rotten stuff she manages to swallow.

So, I pick up my coat, weigh it in my hand to make sure I have my keys, trip the lock on the door and we're off.  It's raining a little, so, after a few blocks (and some unexpected snacks for Cass), we head home.  I reach into my pockets for the keys.  They aren't there

Because I'm brilliant.

So, there I am, standing on a street corner in a not incredibly safe neighborhood.  No phone.  No keys.  But I do have a wet pit bull and a few dollars in my pocket.

Ok.  I'm figuring the apartment is cheap, the lock on the door must be too.  But, i was wrong.  My landlord had thoughtfully installed a lock that I can't pick or jiggle open.  The kitchen window has a grate.  The living room window are locked, and don't start until six feet up from the sidewalk.  I'm fucked.

We set off in search of a pay phone.  It's hard to find a pay phone in this cell phone age.  Especially in Baltimore.  They took most of them out a decade and a half ago in a futile attempt to put a dent in the drug trade.  But, they missed two at the gas station at the corner.  I was feeling pretty proud of myself.  Until I talked to the lock smith who wanted $240 dollars to come and let me into my house.  And was going to take an hour to get there.  So, I started to cry and hung up the phone.  

I live in an apartment that is an old row house.  The house was divided into two apartments by slicing it into one third and two thirds from top to bottom.  I live in the front.  A couple lives in the bigger apartment in the back.  Lucky for me, they are artists.  And don't go to bed early.  So they weren't that freaked out when I knocked on their door at 11:30 at night.  They called the land lord, who of course didn't answer the phone.  I couldn't call anyone else because I don't know anyone's phone number.  I barely know my own number.  Everyone else is saved in my phone.  I'd say that technology had disabled me, but even before cell phones I barely knew anyone's phone number.  If I didn't have my phone book I was lost.

So Cassie and I went off to look for another way into the house.  And found one.  

I was able to open the window into the kitchen.  Now I just needed to unscrew the grate.  The artists lent me a screw driver.  Another neighbor had a chair out in front of their row house.  I borrowed it.  Forty five minutes and one very wet dog later, I was crawling in the window.  And managed to not break any dishes.

Cassie was thrilled to be back in a dry house.  She immediately ran up stairs and rolled around on the bed.  And I didn't care that she was getting the bed all wet.  Frankly, she had just spent the past hour hanging around outside with me in the rain without complaining at all.  She's a saint.  Or will be until the next time she decorates the house with trash.  

I'm really going to miss my trash compactor that day.

But in the mean time, I was so grateful to be home on my couch that I could hardly stand it.

Just when I think that I'm getting less flighty I do something like this.  I suppose it's nice to know somethings don't ever really change.


home. really home.

In this life, one of the things that I'm supposed to learn is how to ask for help.  At least I'm desperately hoping that's true, because otherwise it's just plain mean that I keep ending up in situations in which I have to do it.

I don't like asking for help.  Perfectly happy to give it.  Don't like asking for it.  It makes me feel funny.  And vulnerable.  Belch.

But, since I'm broke and recently divorced and moving into a new place, I had to ask for help.  Having money means you can pay people to help you.  It's easy.  It's good for the people you hire.  But when your bank account won't support that behavior, you just gotta ask.

Surprisingly, people frequently say yes.  So Sunday morning, with a borrowed truck and a passel of friends, we moved the big stuff from one place to another.  And it was really fun to see my friends.  

Of course one thing was missing. Men.  I'm a dyke.  Which often means that men just aren't around.  I don't know that many guys.  I know even fewer that I would call and ask for help.  And, most of the guys I know used to be girls.  Which means that they don't have that size advantage that bio men do.

So, moving the couch were three women - not including me.  Because picking things up is a little challenging right now.  You see, a few years ago, I messed up my back playing rugby.  And, at really convenient times, it likes to act up.  Like when I'm moving.  

Then later in the day, it was me, Niki and Danae, moving a king size mattress up the stairs.  Here's how it went.

I'm 5' 11", about 160 lbs.  And pretty damn strong.  Even with a messed up back.  Niki and Danae are both about 5' 6".  And thin.  But it turns out, Danae is a brute.  Maybe it's the years of working with horses.  Or the yoga instructor girlfriend.  Niki and I were pushing from the bottom of the mattress.  Danae was pulling from the top.  It took us about 30 minutes to get the thing three feet.  But it got there.  It now has a lump.  And I don't care.

It's in my bedroom.  In my apartment.  Where it's just me.  And my dog.  And no one else.  It's peaceful.  God.  I had no idea how much I needed this.

I spent Sunday evening watching Sex and the City (season one), drinking red wine, and eating Chubby Hubby Ice Cream and Pringles.  I can't remember the last time I was so happy.  

So, so good.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

In Honor of the Beginning of the Holiday Season

a blast from my past

Kitties for Christmas
It was a long weekend. Very long. It started on Wednesday. I was driving back into the city. Thru beautiful rolling hills at sunset. So, of course, I started thinking about my ex-girlfriend. The one I wasn’t supposed to call. Somehow, in the golden light, on the rolling hills, in jeep without a radio, and mind with not enough to do, it made sense to call. So, I did. Next thing I knew, we were making plans to have lunch. I was full of spit and vinegar before lunch. I had a list of things I was going to say. And I was wearing adorable shoes. Of course, I said none of the brilliant things that were sure to bring her running back to my arms. I returned to work and immediately locked myself in an empty office and cried.

So, I spent yet another evening on my couch, surrounded by my own emotional deritrus, and moped. Accompanied by a bottle of shiraz, a pack of cigarettes and HBO. Pathetic.

I did, however, come to one useful realization. When I’m down, I like for my house to be a mess. I find it somehow comforting for it to look like I feel. I sat on the couch and looked around. The house was a fucking dump. And my parents were coming in two days. I took another swig of wine and settled back into the couch to watch another episode of the Sopranos. Nothing like drama to take a girl out of her own tawdry head.

Christmas eve, I woke up and I was ready. Ready to take on the house, buy groceries and in general, prepare for the arrival of Sarah Ann and Richard (the parents). In other words. The house had to be spotless. But, first, I had to check on the cats. They had come home about two weeks ago, and immediately ran into a hole in the wall. In the past week, I had discovered that they had found their way into the ceiling. I felt like this might not be good. So, I set and baited two live traps. So far, they had avoided the traps. I figured eventually they’d get hungry and go in. I was beginning to forget what the cats looked like. It was kind of like having ghost cats. They ate. They used the litter box. They made noise in the ceiling. They made a hole in the ceiling. But I never saw them.

I opened the door to their room. And there, looking rather pissed, inside a trap was Ameila. I was ecstatic. After dancing a little jig, I opened the trap and prepared to carry her the five feet to the bathroom. Ameila was thrilled to be freed from the trap. And quickly decided that she wanted to go back to her safe, dark hole. I wasn’t having it. She followed international rules of engagement and responded with steadily increasing levels of aggression. First, she growled, then hissed, scratched, then a quick bite, then, the mother of all bites. I’m cussing and this little bitch has her teeth firmly attached to my finger. We end up with me holding her behind her head like she’s a snake, blood dripping on the floor and I manage to open the kittie carrier with my feet so I can manage to carry the whirling dervish the five feet to the bathroomwithout further injury. We make it.

I set the carrier on the bathroom floor, open the door to the carrier and dash out of the bathroom. I’m not completely stupid. Over my shoulder I see her dashing in the other direction, headed straight for behind the toilet. Luckily, I have another bathroom. So I don’t have to fear getting my ass attacked while I’m taking a shit.

I spend the rest of the day running around, getting ready for the grand arrival of the parents. I hate Christmas. Ever since I quit being Christian, it’s kind of lost its meaning. But, it’s a big deal for the parents. That probably has something to do with my dad being a pastor.

By late afternoon, my finger is swollen, tender and warm. Four different people, including the ex-girlfriend and the advice nurse at my HMO have told me to go to the doctor. I spent the next three hours at the urgent care getting a tetnus shot and antibiotics. And, for some reason, I turned down Tylenol with codeine. What the hell was I thinking? My parents were coming the next day. I was depressed as hell. My house was a mess. And my finger hurt like a mother fucker. What better time to be high? But I, in my infinite wisdom, said no, I could handle the pain. Fucking masochist.

The Christmas morning, my house looked much like it had the previous day. My finger was still so swollen I couldn’t bend it. My cat was still behind the toilet. And I was sitting on the couch, drinking a latte and smoking a cigarette when my phone rang. It was my parents. Their plans had changed and they were calling to tell me that they would be at my house in two hours; approximately four hours early.

I panicked. As I was scrambling around the house, trying to create some semblance of order, or at least get it to not look like a crazy person’s house, I realized that I was out of toilet paper. I dashed over to my friend Leigh’s house to borrow some. When I get home, I find that Cassie has eaten two loaves of bread and then peed on the floor. I needed that bread for two different recipies for Christmas dinner. I took a breath and called my parents, who were now in town and at the airport. I informed them that we would be having Chinese for dinner. About five minutes later, they called back. Their luggage was in Philadelphia and their rental car reservation was screwed up. I started laughing. And gave the fuck up. I told them that not only were we having take-out for dinner, but the house was a wreck and I wasn’t cleaning anymore. I was done.

Finally, they made it. We had a lovely dinner of steamed dumplings, moo shu and chocolate truffles with Leigh, her daughter Rory and Leigh’s girlfriend CJ. My parents were dismayed by my lack of glassware and forks. Hey, when a girl gets divorced, these things happen.

After Leigh, et. al. went home, Sherman, the other cat, stuck his head out of the ceiling. First we heard meowing. Then I saw his adorable little head peering out of the hole in the dining room ceiling. Next thing I know I’m standing on a chair, trying to feed him treats, while my parents stand on the floor, all of us making kittie noises and talking to him. Sherman has some neurological deficits. His cerebellum didn’t develop fully. So some things don’t work quite how you’d expect them to. Things like eating treats while hanging his head out of the ceiling. They kept falling out of his mouth. So he gave up on the treats and asked to be petted. So there I was, with his head sticking out of the ceiling, scratching his ears while he purred like a diesel engine. It was sweet. But we couldn’t stay like that forever, so I very carefully pulled one leg out, then the next, and while murmuring sweet things, pulled the rest of him out. It was like watching the ceiling give birth. Like Athena coming out of Zeus’ head. Except, it was a developmentally disabled cat coming out of a drop ceiling in a house with a rotting porch, into the arms of a depressed, single lesbian with a throbbing, infected finger and two parents standing by giving well meant, if rather obvious, advice. The little bugger clung to me and then was very happy to see his sister. She even came out of from behind the toilet to greet him. My parents and I ended up having a decent Christmas. They didn’t bitch about the house. They made Christmas dinner the next day and their luggage arrived. Leigh and CJ left a bag full of glasses from Pier One on my porch. My parents gave me a set of silverware. The swelling started to go down in my finger.So all in all, the weekend didn’t suck.

After all, I did get my kitties for Christmas. What could be better than that?

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


Balance is good.


Because today in the NY Times the following two stories were almost side by side:

South Africa Legalizes Same Sex Marriage


Catholic Bishops Say Gays Are "Disordered"

Ok, so I paraphrased the headlines. But the bishops report literally does say that "persons with homosexual tendencies [please note - we're not gay, or lesbian or bi - we're person's with homo tendencies - you know, like I tend to like french fries, i also tend to like pussy - same thing- just a small matter of taste - ok - now here's the kicker] are inherently disordered". Yep, disordered. Of course, the APA (the shrink society) removed homosexuality from the list of disorders in 1973. But, apparently the priests have yet to catch on.


It stuns me to see a church body, supposedly based in Christian love, do such a good job of alienating itself from the people they are supposed to serve.

Oh, and then the document goes on to remind folks that they should not use contraception.

I have a major disconnect when I hear a religious person calling healthy people disordered and encouraging people to relinquish control over reproduction to fate. In the faith in which I was raised (Lutheran), we were taught that God made us and we should be proud of who we are. And that God gave us brains to develop technology, and that resulting technology should be used in such a way as to provide good stewardship of the planet, our communities and families.

But, then again, that's just me.

As to South Africa? Can the US catch up please? For heaven's sake, we're running behind Norway, Spain, Canada and now South Africa?

After our wedding a few months ago, I am even bigger proponent of gay marriage. It was good and healthy for us to stand in front of our families and friends and promise to stick with each other until one of us is dead. It makes a difference in every nook and crannie of me to know that we are married (not recognized by the state, but that's another story). That we have been blessed by our community, that we have laid it all out there, and that our families stood by us. I've been surprised by how very different it feels. It's good. Really good.

The other day we had a fight that made me want to sleep on the couch. After yelling for a bit, stomping around, and cleaning with a fervour known only to the really pissed off, I looked at her, remembered her face on our wedding day, remembered my vows, shut up, got in our bed and told her that I loved her. Because I do. Madly. And that's where I belong. With my wife. We still had to deal with our shit, but somehow the shit is was a little less earth shattering.

How can that be bad? Or disordered?

Especially when it makes me happy down to the bones of my soul.

Thursday, November 09, 2006


yeah -

not feeling sorry for K-Fed

spousal support?! really?

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

heart so soft it's gooey

Just to confirm that I'm a big old, flag wavy, teary eyed push over - i found my self feeling sorry for Kevin Federline.

Which is completely absurd.

First of all, i don't know the guy.

Second, I don't want to know him.

But, here I sit at work. Where I'm bored out of my mind. So, I'm compulsively surfing. And i click over to Gawker for like the seventh time today, and find myself watching the clip from Canadian MTV or whatever the hell it's called. And there is K-Fed, apparently learning of his divorce by text message. And I gotta say - I felt a little bad for the guy.

Yeah, I know that from all appearances he was one hell of a crappy husband. And, if one of my friends was with someone who ran off to Vegas to party three weeks after she gave birth - I'd encourage her to dump their sorry ass too.

But there was something a little heart breaking about watching part of it on video.

However, what's really heart breaking is that my life has descended to such a low, that I am actually avidly following the divorce of Britney Spears. There are good things going on. Things that certainly distract me from the world of gossip. Like the election. Of course that's just gossip with a smidge more significance. I follow the election cycle and politics with the same fervor that i carry to Gawker and Page Six. But right now, all of the things that interest me, challenge me or seem worth paying attention to are outside of my day job.

So, I sit here at my desk, desperately looking for something to keep my overactive mind busy. And i clutch at the closest things: politics and gossip. Perhaps I should spend some time and troll for a website about Nietzsche. At least that might be better for my brain.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Hard Heart

It was a leave Cassie at the vet morning again.

And Kofi was not having it.

It has happened so often lately that he's starting to develop plans to prevent the separation.

This morning they knew something was up. Not getting breakfast is always a dead give away. Then i pick up one leash. They start tumbling over each other. I snap the lead on Cassie. Kofi acts like he doesn't notice and runs to the door ready to go. I manage to get Cass out the door and the door shut with Kofi still in the house.

Of course the barking and the leaping begin immediately. Cassie happily jumps in the car (which never fails to amaze me - we never go anywhere except the vet) and starts scouring the car for food.

I dash back in the house to grab my bag and attempt to squeeze out the door without Kofi. But the little fucker turned his bones into mush, squished himself thru a two inch space and dashed out the door into the street.

God damnit.

He runs around to the other side of the car and looks for a way in. He finally returned to the sidewalk, wagging his whole body and giving me that look that usually gets him whatever he wants. But it didn't work, not this time

I grabbed ahold of his collar and dragged him back in the house. The whole time he had himself bent in half, looking longingly at the car. Like a convicted felon being dragged out of the courtroom looking at his mom for the last time.

But, I made it. I managed to put him in the house, shut the door and drive away. I was proud of myself. I managed to not be manipulated by a little furry 35 lb dog.

Very impressive. Next I'll bring home the Nobel Peace Prize.

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