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.

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.

right?

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.