Rumble in the Red Jungle

I woke up today feeling extremely bitchy (shocking). On a normal morning, I can easily determine the cause of my malevolent mental state after flipping through my regular list of grievances/enemies. Today, however, I couldn’t pinpoint why I was feeling so harassed, which annoyed me. The annoyance quickly turned into rage, which then spiralled into anxiety, followed by fear and finally full-on depression. “Why happening???” I whimpered to myself from beneath the covers, lower lip quivering and eyes filling with tears of shame. Moments later, when I instantly gained five pounds and my chin broke out into a beard of zits, I understood: Shark Week.

Every 28 days, when the above cycle-of-cray repeats itself, the first stop on the roller coaster of emotions that ensues upon the discovery that my south-mouth is about to spend the next few days puking blood is, oddly enough, elation. Yay! Not only am I not crazy, I’m not pregnant!! In your FACE, nature!

The conversation I then have with myself usually goes something like this: “I win! Time to party! I know, I’ll go out! With girls! Girls who understand me! Girls who feel my suffering! And we’ll look hot! I’ll wear my new dress! ...My stomach hurts... I’ll drink through the pain! ...I feel bloated. No, I’m fine. More than fine, I’m great! … Wait, I AM bloated. I’m dying. I can’t wear that dress! I can’t wear ANYTHING! I’m a big, fat, SEA COW of a woman! No, not a woman......a MONSTER!!” Cue hysterical sobbing.

Side note: for all the “men” out there who are all “Ew! She’s writing about her reproductive cycle, yucky! I never want to picture this! I only want to picture her making out with her hot girl friends and making me dinner forever!” I’m sorry. :( But also, go fuck yourself with your sister’s used tampon. Bitch, please. You got into an argument with your roommate over something legitimate that you were able to easily identify and discuss? That’s tough. What’s that? You’ve got a little tummy-wummy ache from all those bread sodas you chugged last night? Poor baby. Sorry? Your muscles are sore from your baseball (standing around) game? Aww, muffin. Shut up.

THIS is what real pain looks like:



...THE FUCK IS THIS?! I still don’t really know. But something in this choda lickin’ graph is responsible for the bullshit mental and physical agony we lady humans have to deal with every month. In a nutshell, it basically feels like you’ve turned into an enormous beached whale who swallowed a thousand fire ants that are shooting arrows at your uterus, while spiders lay exploding eggs in your brain and an unknown force is filling your tits with poisonous lead. While all of this is happening, you can see a big flashing “stop crying!” button but it’s *just* out of your reach, and any time someone looks at you you’re suddenly filled with terrifying murderous rage.

You’d think since more than half the population is suffering from the symptoms that come with riding the crimson wave at any given time, scientists would have figured out a way to hook a bitch up. Au contraire. Here are the most common treatment options your doctor (or the internet) will recommend:

1. Lifestyle changes (because it’s your fault)

From everywhere on the Interweb: “Below are some steps you can take that may help ease your symptoms” (note “may help ease” - as in, “there is no cure.”)

- Exercise regularly (Sure! Because when your tits, back, head and stomach are blinding you with pain and blood is pouring out of a hole in your body, the first thing you want to do is hit the gym.)
- Avoid salt, sugary foods, caffeine, and alcohol (You might as well tell me I’m going to war, but I’m not allowed to have a gun)
- Get enough sleep. Try to get about 8 hours of sleep each night (This is like telling someone you can’t swim and you need help and their advice being “just swim.” Thanks?)
- Find healthy ways to cope with stress. Talk to your friends or write in a journal (Dear Diary, Fuck You.)

2. Over-the-Counter Medications

Google (my other doctor) says: “Over-the-counter pain relievers may help ease physical symptoms, such as cramps, headaches, backaches, and breast tenderness.” These include:
- Ibuprofen and Aspirin (Imagine going to the hospital with a broken asshole and being offered a band-aid.)

3. Prescription Meds

From our friends at Wiki: “In more severe cases of PMS, prescription medicines may be used to ease symptoms. One approach has been to use drugs that stop ovulation, such as birth control pills.” Thanks. Because everyone over the age of 8 is already on the pill, and guess what? Nothing, that’s what. NEXT.

Since none of the above is even remotely helpful, I decided to make myself (and all of you lovely ladies out there) a list of home remedies to help you cope when when you’re attracting the lesbian vampires:

1. Kill everyone.

2. Eat only chocolate and donuts dipped in bacon-flavoured butter cream frosting sauce forever.

3. Yell at anything boyfriend says or does, even if he is attempting to help or understand how you feel. Especially if he is attempting to help or understand how you feel. HE’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND!!!

4. Burst into tears if anyone asks you a question about anything. What are you, some kind of goddamn question-answering wizard?!

5. Grab a box of cooch diapers and proceed to the nearest body of water. Throw each one dramatically into the water and scream “RETURN FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!!”, like so:



6. Call anyone you love and pick a fight with them. When he/she asks why you’re upset, scream “BECAUSE YOU RUINED MY LIFE!” and hang up. Immediately start crying and break whatever is closest to you.

7. Buy everything. Online, in-store, whatever. Just fucking buy the shit out of it until your credit card bleeds like you do.

8. At work, sit in murderous silence at your desk all day. Snap at anyone who looks at you. Answer questions with terrifying intonation: “I’m WORKING on it, JASON. I’ll GIVE it to you when I’m DONE.” Sigh audibly every 15 seconds or so.

9. Go to Dairy Queen. Purchase 1 large ice cream cake. Ask them to write “Fuck off” in red frosting on top. Cry for hours after you eat the whole thing.

10. Anything. You’re hemorrhaging out of your vag. You can do anyfuckingthing you want.

C U Next Time!

xo
m

Things I Love and Hate About my Physical Appearance

I’m feeling pretty hungover today and, consequently, pretty bad about myself. What am I doing with my life? Why do I drink so much? What’s wrong with me? Who are my real friends? Why can’t I get my shit together? Why am I so hideously ugly????????

The last question took over my entire being moments after I attempted to pop a particularly cruel neck zit. Rather than producing the desired white ejaculate, it imploded upon itself as the big ones so often do. Now it looks like I have a small tumor directly under my jaw line. Good.

As I pulled my hand mirror away from my face to better examine the full horror of what I had done, I noticed how greasy my bangs were. Then how my nose was so red. Then how bloated my face looked. Before long the tears came and I slammed the mirror shut and screamed “shut up!” at no one in particular. I allowed myself an indulgent 10 minute melt down before deciding I needed to suck it up (also, the tears made me look even more repugnant). That’s when I decided that I needed to quickly make a list of all the things I like about my physical appearance before I ran screaming to the nearest McDonald’s in a fit of self loathing (I’m probably still going to Donnies later, but whatever).

Obviously an “I’m So Pretty LOL!!” list is not remotely interesting or tolerable to anyone besides me and possibly my grandma, so I included the Hates for good measure / entertainment purposes. Here we go:

LOVE: my small feet. I mean they’re just so fucking adorable! Everyone knows girls with big feet have big vajessicas. It’s just science.

HATE: my chubby cheeks. A boy in my grade 7 class once looked me straight in the face and said “you’re kind of pretty, but you have fat cheeks.” Cue 15 years and counting of silent devastation. When I look in the mirror, no matter how much of a “hot” day I’m having, the FIRST thing I see is a sea of ham.

LOVE: my lips. Not only are they succulent and full, but if there was a colour for sex, they would be that colour. That’s not even getting into their functionality* but this isn’t the time or place. (*Editor’s note: I first wrote “functionability”. It had that red “you’re a retard” line underneath it and I couldn’t figure out how it was misspelled until google told me that it’s not a word. Brain make fun party today!).

HATE: my hair. Jesus Lord don’t even get me started. I’ve written about this shit before so I’ll spare you the full details, but in a nutshell, I believe my parents should be shot for making a human who has to go through life with nothing but two wispy sheets of Kleenex on either side of her head. Try making an updo for a wedding out of air and two spider webs. You can’t.

LOVE: the shape of my legs. True, it would be better if they were longer and cellulite-free, but they’re strong as a hard deen and my thighs still don’t touch when I stand, despite the fact that every other part of my body has been slowly expanding over the past couple of burrito-infused years.

HATE: the colour of my eyes. They’re exactly the colour of poo.

LOVE: my teeth. I didn’t suffer through two years of head gear for nothing, bitch.

HATE: my ever increasing double chin. From the right angle and with the right amount of photoshop, it’s hardly noticeable! But most of the time I can feel it laughing at me. “That’s right, eat that piece of pie, just slide it right on in here!” Sometimes I can actually feel the donuts I just ate hanging out in my deec (short for “D.C.”). I’m going to have to make peace with the deec though, because there is nothing that can stop me from eating all the things.

LOVE: my Ts. Look, I’ll just show them to you one time, and you’ll know.

HATE: my beer gutlet (not quite a gut, but getting there). WHY WILL YOU NEVER LEAVE? I already know that no matter how much exercise (ha!) and eating right (what!) I do, it will never go away, because I will never stop drinking beer. The only way I can disguise it is by stuffing myself into something with a super tight waist, but then it just shifts into a muffin top and I can’t really breathe properly or move at all. If I got paid for the time I’ve spent sucking in I’d be a fucking millionaire by now.

Ok! I feel a bit better. Now to tackle the emotional problems I have. That should only take 7, maybe 8 years tops. I’ll keep you posted.

xoxo
m

#MMVAging

I recently attended an event that is every 14-year-old’s wet dream come true, and this particular 29-year-old’s hell on earth.

I’ll start from the beginning.

I recently joined Twitter. The reason it took me so long to jump on this particular cyber bandwagon isn’t because I’m a technological mongoloid or old and uncool* (*more on this later). It’s because I really don’t need another fucking way to waste my pathetic life away online. Facebook already allows me to stalk friends and enemies alike. Email allows me to intimately communicate with the 3 people I don’t want to murder in this world. This Blog allows me to...something.

From what I know so far about Twitter, all that it brings to the table is the unsolicited knowledge that Jessica “Just ate a vegan burrito!!!” (@burritoboyz #yummy) or that Jason is “@American Apparel and just bought the new soft grey #gayshirt, LOLZ!!” Really? You’re broadcasting this, you self involved anal beads? Do the world a favour and shove your iPhone 4 up your sex crack.

Still, because I am a hypocrite, I eventually succumbed to the extreme power of the FOMO (“Fear Of Missing Out”, in case you’re reading this and you’re over 30). I refer you to the case of the time where I didn’t miss out (No Fomo) thanks to the magical world of Twitter: I was chillin in Williamsburg, minding my business, when my favourite NYC ho - let’s call her “C Paterson.” No, that’s too obvious. How about “Clare P”. Yes. Anyway, Clare P texted me: “Kanye! Brooklyn Bowl! Now!! It’s all over Twitter!” I immediately hauled my shit to said locale just in time to witness Yeezy’s surprise performance (!!) in front of 400 people (!!!). This was when I reluctantly accepted that Twitter might not be such a yeast infection after all.

So here we are. I now have a sassy online persona with an ampersand in front of my name. #sigh.

When I first joined, I had no idea what the terrifying-future-world I was doing. I remember mashing the keypad with my palm, screaming commands at the screen, and swearing like a fuckin’ trucker as I tried to decipher these new and foreign symbols. I finally had to beg my friend @Shosh for assistance. Luckily she took pity on me and advised, in her gentle way: “Just follow everyone I follow, you idiot!!” I now follow the likes of The Globe and Mail, Heidi Montag, Pitchfork, 70 random people I’ve never met, and H&M, to list a few winners.

As any new member will attest, Twitter sucks you in hard and fast, like an amateur blowj. By day two, I was already checking my feed every 11 seconds or so. One morning during this early courtship phase, my good friends over at Hennes & Mauritz were announcing a giveaway: “First 4 people to come to the H&M at the Eaton Centre @YongeAndDundas win 2 free wristbands to the Much Music Video Awards this Sunday!!” I work one block away from this particular H&M. Still, I thought “meh, so many gross rat kids are probably already lined up - no way I’m rushing over to fight those shitty little twats.”

About 10 minutes later, there were at least 5 new posts from H&M saying that no one had yet to claim the coveted prize. In that moment, all I could think of was my sweet, innocent (she wasn’t) 14-year-old cousin, whom I affectionately refer to as Rat-Chicken (RC). She would kill to go to this show. I would forever be the Worst Big Cousin Ever if I missed this opportunity out of sheer laziness! Cock!

Before I could ask myself “Who the eff is Selena Gomez?” I was on my bike, furiously dodging cars and pot holes along Yonge Street until I reached my destinaysh, panting and sweating in the 30 (year old) degree heat (the one day of the month it was summer!). There is NOWHERE on the corner of Yonge & Dundas to park one’s bike, so I wheeled the old rust bucket right into the store, much to the disdain of the overweight security guard and almost into the shins of the peppy H&M Tweet Team.

“Please...” I panted, red-faced and gasping for air. The two young PR agents looked at me with mixed feelings of disgust and fear as I held out my hands like a homeless guy and begged: “Tickets... please....twitter... give them to me...”

“Oh, um......are YOU here for the tickets to the MMVAs?” one of them cheerily giggled at me, implying that this was awkward, since I clearly wasn’t 15.

“Obviously,” was the least insulting reply I could manage.

“O-M-G! You’re the last one to get them! Excitinnnggg! Do you mind if we take a Twitpic of you?” I had no idea what the chode this meant, but consented with the slightest nod of my head as I snatched the bright orange wristbands from their well-manicured claws.

I’ll skip the part where I broke the news to @RC over the phone that I was taking her as my guest, for free, to the #MMVAs. Needless to say, I’m the #BestBigCousinEver.

Fast forward to Sunday, the day of the show. I should quickly mention that the day before was my best friend’s Big Fat Croatian Wedding (number 2 of 9!) in London, Ontario. I was one of the bridesmaids, so obviously started drinking mimosas at 7:30 am and continued hitting the homemade hooch till 2:30 am. I also ate an extra-large pizza to my face at the end of the night (I’m a lactard, so that’s great), and had to wake up early to attend a father’s day brunch. When I arrived back in Toronto on Sunday evening, just 30 minutes before I had to be at Queen & John, I was more hungover than @Haymitch (#HungerGames) and more exhausted than @AnthonyWeiner’s PR team.

With no time to spare, I rushed through my front door, threw some gum and cash into a purse (don’t call it that) and hopped into my aunt’s waiting minivan to be driven into the fire. I noted that RC was sporting jeans, a tank top, a hoodie, sneakers, and about 16 bracelets. “She looks so cute and young” I thought as I gazed adoringly at her en route to the show. I, on the other hand, was wearing my new short silk black dress (#whure). I felt pretty dressed up compared to little RC, but I was going to be attending the after party with my boyfriend (@HotDogGarbage) who was nominated for hip hop video of the year (wooh!) so I wanted to look the part. (#ShadKwasrobbed)

As the minivan neared Queen & Spadina, I started to notice signs that, in retrospect, painted a clear and chilling vision of things to come. Girls with “JUSTIN I LOVE YOU!!!” painted across their faces, necks, arms and bee-stings. Boys with baggy pants that barely concealed their non existent treasure trails, pushing each other and laughing. Pink, green and blue hair extensions everywhere. Homemade signs featuring “musicians” I have never before seen or heard of.

Suddenly, I felt more anxious than a 12-year-old with his first raging boner in class: “Am I too....old? to go to the MMVAs?” I took a deep breath. “No, surely not,” I reassured myself. “These are just the kids who are too young to attend - all the older people are definitely inside...” (they weren’t).

During my final moments in the safety of the minivan, I quickly glanced at myself in the rear view mirror. Big mistake. For the first time, I noticed the lines on my forehead and around the corners of my mouth. My skin looked pale and cadaverous in comparison to RC’s cherubic complexion. My thighs, mercilessly exposed by my scant hemline, were a flesh-coloured canvas of cottage cheese. My knees were saggy; my hair thin and brittle, and my once sparkling eyes camouflaged in Steve Buscemi bags. And I was en route to a pop concert with humans half my age.

Oh my God, I’m old.

Just as I was about to jerk the wheel of the Dodge Caravan and order my aunt to drive me straight back to my house (where I could quickly end my life while I had an ounce of youth left in my rotting corpse), RC was pulling me by the hand onto Queen Street, shrieking with excitement and bounding into the underage crowd.

As we waited in line to get in to the area in front of the main stage, police officers barked at us to raise our arms high into the air to show our wristbands. When we were finally herded through the gates, the good people @VitaminWater were waiting inside to shove drinks into our hands. “Well, that’s nice,” I thought.

Here’s how the next 5 hours went down:

6:30 pm: Inside the gates. RC and I are among the first 100 people here, even though our tickets said we HAD to be inside by 6:30 pm. Super.

6:35 pm: I look around and realize that there is not a single person in a 300-teenager-radius that is over the age of 16. Everyone but me is wearing jeans, a tank top, a hoodie, sneakers and 16 bracelets.

6:45 pm: It dawns on me that I will be here for another 4.5 hours, and there’s nowhere to pee, so I better not drink this #VitaminWater. Every other dick-eating kid has the same thought, and drops their full, open, neon-coloured drink to the ground. Within 10 minutes, at least 11 tweens have spilled on me and my silk dress without remorse. I want to say something, but I am outnumbered and I fear them. Have you ever been in an enclosed space with 750 teenagers? It’s like being the only sheep at a wolf convention, except all the wolves are also drunk, horny and stupid.

7:15 pm: I’m fucking sweating. So is every other acne-ridden bag of scrotes in this wretched stink pit. It smells like unwashed balls, used jock straps, #CoolWater, Doritos breath, McDonald’s farts, Old (Yonge) Spice, and sweaty pads (these girls are too young to take a tampon, let’s be real).

7:30 pm: Teens start loudly comparing stories about their weekends. They speak almost exclusively in acronyms, with the words “gay” and “like” thrown in for good measure. #FMITFTITWDOML

7:45 pm (show still starts at 9): The walking pre-pubes are becoming restless. The initial high has worn off, and suddenly all one thousand of them are becoming aware that we still have an hour and a half to go before the show. I know that death is near.

8:00 pm: Finally, someone takes pity on us. One of the VJs (Gary Blazer or something) comes out on stage to entertain the crowd. He’s wearing jeans, a white shirt, black tie and suit jacket. My first reaction is “who is this OLD guy!?” before I realize that he’s my age. Fuck me. He claps and sings along like a monkey to song after song, which the good people @MuchMusic have started blaring, presumably to get the audience excited / stop them from destroying downtown Toronto.

I vaguely recognize the first song that is played thanks to my recent stint in #LasVegas. “Who is this?” I whisper to RC. “Duh, @LMFAO!” she says. Yes, there is group called “LMFAO”.

The next song is by @Ke$ha, according to RC (had to ask again), followed by 7 other songs I’ve never heard before. The young bastards know every word to every song, and I know none. Luckily, almost every song has fewer than 10 words, so I’m able to pick up the lyrics after one chorus. I chant “shots! shots! shots-shots-shots-shots!” with the rest of them. I sing “Never felt-like-felt-like-this before.... oh oh oh oh oh oh oh ohhh-oh!” to fit in, fist pumps and all. For a few songs, I actually start to have fun, feeding off the energy of these hyper little accidents. #condomfail

8:30 pm: Not surprisingly, the kids have lost interest in the music. It’s been half an hour, after all. Within seconds, all hell breaks loose.

I spend the next 15 minutes yelling at every teenager I can see. I snatch cigarettes out of mouths, stop #VitaminWaters from being flung into the crowd, break up makeout sessions. I’m shaking with rage. These kids! These dirty, disrespectful kids!

8:45 pm: I start silently weeping out of exhaustion, rage, withdrawal, heat stroke and the realization that I am no longer young. I begin to negotiate with God to please just make it stop - send me a sign that I will get through this alive...

8:55 pm: A figure appears behind a billowing curtain on stage, with giant shoulder pads and a cropped wig. A hush falls over the crowd, followed by audible gasps and finally chanting, quiet at first, then so loud I have to turn my hearing aid down:

“GaGA! GaGA! GaGA!”

For the first time in the past 3 hours, I don’t feel old or out of place. I belt along with the rest of the crowd: “There ain’t no reason you and me should be alone, toNIIIGHT, yah baby! ToNIIIIGHT YAH BABY!” I am conscious for the first time since I arrived in this death trap that I’m only 4 rows from the stage, so close I can almost touch Gaga’s 6-inch platforms and I can count every strand of blue hair on her merkin. Suddenly I’m 15 again, screaming with tears streaming down my face, jumping up and down yelling my favourite singer’s name until my voice is hoarse.

I’ll skip the part about how none of the other performances compared to @Gaga’s, how I lost hearing in my left ear when @JustinBieber made his surprise appearance, and how the after party was full of overly made up try-hard dildos. When RC got home at the end of the night, she texted me: “U R the Best Big Cousin Ever! I had soooooo much fun! I love you!” (#heartmelt) Maybe some kids aren’t so bad after all.

But God help anyone under the age of 19 who ever crosses my path again. I will pop your head off like a fucking #BarbieDoll.

xoxo,

@m

Suck it, Solstice!

Guess what? It’s almost summer! SUMMER!!!!!!

I say “almost” because everyone knows that summer doesn’t officially start until the Summer Solstice on June 21st, aka the day when the earth’s axial tilt is most inclined towards the sun at its maximum of 23° 26’ (obv). All Hail Axial Tilt!

Ignore the fact that in other parts of the world it’s already been summer for months, or is summer all year round. Who needs those places! Not us Canadians, that’s for damn sure. No, we are a people who relish four to five weeks tops of partial sunshine and moderate warmth a year, thank you very much!

Wait...

Summer, you cock! Why won’t you call me back?? In all fairness, today has been a little bit summery - it’s a whopping 20 degrees, after all! But the forecast calls for garbage juice and slimy worm corpses for the rest of the god forsaken week. Plus, while 20 degrees in November feels like a Mexican sweat shop, on June 20th it feels like NOTHING! Or rather, like being credit carded with a bag of frozen peas.

The reason I mention the Solstice (or “Soulstice”, as it also represents the day my shivering soul awakens after dying a slow, wintery Canadian death for the previous 10 months) is that this is really, in my mind, Summer’s LAST CHUGGIN’ CHANCE. With the almost daily JUNE showers (of lies!) , the only thing that stops me from killing all living things is the promise that the Solstice will not, CAN NOT let me down!

I’m like Homer with the runaway pig at his BBBQ:

[Homer and Bart are chasing the rolling pig. It rolls through some bushes]
Homer: It's just a little dirty! It's still good, it's still good!
[the cart falls off the edge of a drainage culvert, and the pig floats down the stream]
Homer: It's just a little slimy! It's still good, it's still good!
[the pig reaches a dam at the end of the stream and plugs the drain hole. The water pressure builds up behind it, until it launches out of the hole into the air]
Homer: It's just a little airborne! It's still good, it's still good!
Bart: It's gone.
Homer: I know.

I’ve been clinging to sweet summer hope like a fat man clings to his suckling rotisserie ham. And I won’t give in until June 21st! Because until then, it’s still good, it’s still good! (I know).

At the crack of dawn on June 21st, if it does not immediately hit a menopausal hot and dry 29 degrees with a slight tropical breeze, no clouds and perfect non-blinding sunshine everywhere, I WILL seek vengeance upon the Earth, Mother Nature, God, Al Gore, Santa and anyone else I hold even partially responsible for this temperature terrorism.

Let’s be real though for a second. You guys know me (you don’t), and the true reason I haven’t snapped yet (she had) has nothing to do with the suckin’ Solstice and its promise of hot and balmy excitement for all (axial tilt be damned!). It has everything to do with the fact that I don’t get a summer this year. I secretly want the weather to continue along its dream-crushing path so that no one else can have fun either! Mouhahahha!!

What’s this about me not getting a summer, you ask? Let me tell you! Summer 2011 has been kidnapped, probably molested and locked away in some dark, dismal dungeon by its arch nemesis (!): Not-Summer 2011 (alias “Weddings Forever”).

Yes, it’s wedding season, kids. And why WOULDN’T all of my friends decide to (a) get married in 2011, and (b) do it exclusively during the 3 remotely tolerable months of the year in Ontario?

I have - wait for it - 9 weddings this summer. This is not ok. I actually had to turn down 3 others on top of the 9 because one had a scheduling conflict, one was in the Cayman Islands (the wha?) and the other was in Spain (why can’t I go to only that one?) and I don’t have enough vacation days (money) to haul ass outside of the Americas.

How did I find myself in this matrimonial mess? I imagine it’s some combination of the following:

1. So popular. Have too many friends.
2. Have boyfriend. Boyfriend has too many friends.
3. Am 29, meaning all friends are 26 - 33, meaning HOLY SHIT IT’S TIME TO GET MARRIED!
4. Universe punishing me for making a mockery of the Holy Union of Marriage by getting hitched to a stray dog in Vegas (we got it annulled like 30 minutes later!).

Before the 18 people who read this blog (aka the 9 couples who are getting married this summer - hi, guys!) hit “send” on the angry text that they’ve started furiously typing to me, let me clarify a few things. I like weddings. In fact, if it’s a friend of mine getting married, and not my uncle Gary’s second cousin Wendy (or anyone I work with), I actually REALLY like weddings. Guys in suits! Delicious food! CAAAAAKKKE! Drunk old people! Slutty dance floor grinding! Shots of homemade whisky! Everlasting love!! What I don’t like is having 9 weddings in one already-too-short summer. It’s like finding out you’re going on 7 vacations (yah!) with your family (no!). Or going to the cottage every weekend (wooh!) but having to wear spanx and go to church in the morning (aah!!).

Basically, as joyous, lovely and moving as a good matrimonying can be, there’s just something about it that screams “I’m not going to be as fun as the beach or that outdoor concert the rest of your friends are going to! Haha!"

So fine, Solstice. See if I give a rat’s peen if you forget about Toronto this year. You’re dead to me anyway.

Wax On Wax Off!

Warning: this post may contain entirely too much information. Fun!

A few Fridays ago I had my first bikini wax in a long time. A Brazilian, to be specific. The reasons I recently turned my back on this barbaric form of follicle annihilation are many, but mostly it’s the whole torture thing. You know - the mind numbing pain? Yeah, that. It’s not on the same level as say, child birth, but I imagine it’s up there with a swift kick to the balls or a wolf attack.

Why did I venture, eyes and legs open, back to the ruthless land of pelt removal? Las Vegas. Or “Las Vag-as” as it shall be dubbed henceforth. I took a trip to the Land of Fake Tits with 7 other hairless tramps a few weekends ago to film our own version of Bridesmaids, only with more trips to the hospital and less Jon Hamm. This being my first time in L-Vag, I had many preparations to attend to before the big trip: losing 10 pounds (fail), updating my will (check), spending ridiculous amounts of my hard earned money on slut outfits (check) and ensuring that should I die over the course of the weekend, my corpse be fully removed of all evidence that I am a grown woman with p-hair (check).

Anybald, my “friend” (she’ll pay) recommended her preferred salon to me, since I couldn’t remember the name of the last place I went. Her reply to my “anyone know a good waxer?” email stated, and I quote: “Go to X. Ask for Ivy and don’t let anyone else there wax you. It’s $32.” To the untrained eye, this should seem like nothing more than a comical caveat. To those who frequently allow other women to tear fistfuls of hair out of their bodies, however, there are 3 obvious warning signs here (I was too hungover to notice at the time - damn you, me.).

1. “Ask for Ivy”: Clearly this woman is a stripper on the run, and not an aesthetician.

2. “Don’t let anyone else there wax you”: Are all the other people working there tigers? I don’t understand.

3. “It’s $32”. Most brazilies are upwards of $50. This is probably the one place you shouldn’t be trying to save money. Lesson learned.

Nevertheless, in the interest of time, proximity and most importantly TRUST (in my friend, who happens to be the most well put-together babe I know), I went to see Ivy.

Things seemed fine at first. The salon looked clean, they had the latest issue of People for me to peruse while I waited, I couldn’t hear any audible screams...Win! Ivy soon emerged from behind a white curtain and introduced herself. She was cute as a button, polite, and looked disease-free. All signs point to yes.

Shit started inching towards the fan when we went into the waxing room in the back. Ivy said something I couldn’t understand as she ushered me in and quickly left, attempting to close the sliding door (that doesn’t close) behind her. I suddenly found myself alone in the dimly lit, not so sterile looking “room” (closet), door slightly ajar, wondering what the hell was going on. Summoning all of my powers of deduction, I decided that this was probably the part where I was supposed to strip down and wait for her. Usually, you’re given clear directions by the aesthetician before she leaves the room: how naked to get, where to stand or sit, whether to cover yourself with a towel or not, how to call for help, etc. Instead, the only instructions I could find came in the form of a picture of a busty blonde in a bikini, laying on a beach, presumably with no south hair under her spandex suit, looking thrilled to be alive, with the caption “you deserve it!”. I wasn’t sure what to do with this.

Before I had too much time to think about it, Ivy was back, laughing at the fact that I was still fully dressed. “Take off clothes!” she giggled. I complied.

Deciding that communication wasn’t her forte, I took it upon myself to stop waiting for her to verbally hold my hand through the process and just climb up onto the waxing table, grit my teeth and wait for the pain. I didn’t have to wait long.

Before I could say “what the fuck are you doing to me”, Ivy’s “hands” were fast at work. I use the term “hands” cautiously since I had my eyes closed at this point and I honestly can’t rule out the possibility that she was actually yanking out clumps of my hair with her teeth. For the next 20 minutes (yes, 20), I pleaded with God to kill one of us while it felt like some kind of shark-bear practiced its clawing and gnashing skills on my box.

For the men out there who may be reading this, here’s how a normal bikini waxing goes:

1. Aesthetician introduces self (check).
2. Aesthetician leads you to waxing room (check).
3. Aesthetician leaves room so you can undress in the specific way they ask you to (fail).
4. Aesthetician knocks before coming back into room (fail).
5. Aesthetician takes a minute to make sure you are comfortable and to remind you that they are a professional and that you should probably just relax since this is their job and they don’t give a shit (fail).
6. This is fucking crucial: Aesthetician begins process of waxing on either the left or the right side, following a very clear, predictable pattern (aka right to left, front to back, top to bottom - whatever) so that every excruciating second along the way, you have a really good idea of how much longer there is to go, thus allowing you to not scream out for your mother or threaten to blow up the salon (FAIL!).
7. Aesthetician asks you if you want her to pluck the odd remaining hair(s) and waits for your consent before doing so (FAIL!!!!!).

Failing steps 3-5 is annoying, but can be overlooked as long as steps 6 and 7 happen. Failing steps 6 and 7 is like throwing you blindfolded into a crawl space full of spiders and stabbing you repeatedly with 700 knives after announcing that you will have to wait indefinitely for the results of your pregnancy test. NO. Most women could handle the blindfold, the crawl space, the knives, the spiders and even the preg-results because, well, we’re fucking women. It’s the UNKNOWN that can break even the woman with the thickest (vagina) skin.

Ivy seemed hellbent on breaking me on that blackest of Fridays. One minute she was at the top of the landing strip, the next she was inside left. Suddenly she was centre-right. Three minutes of nothing later (WTF was she doing over there in the corner, inventing a new kind of wax??) she was back and tearing a strip off my lady chode. Her pattern was schizophrenic at best. Every time I dared to open one of my eyes and look down, I was greeted with what can only be described as a dying, homeless dog. Patchy and pathetic, whimpering and shaking in the cold. I almost slapped her.

After what felt like an eternity, she tore out the final strand...or so I thought. I started to sit up, flush with pain and humiliation, when she pushed my shoulders back down and brandished a gleaming silver set of tweezers. “Just a few tweezes yes ok? good!” Before I could open my mouth to whisper “Step the fuck back” she was plucking away with her new tool, which was even more violating and merciless than the wax, which I now remembered fondly as a soft warm hug in comparison. On and on she went, pulling out 30, 40, 50 refugee hairs, while a single tear slid down the side of my face.

I don’t even really remember how or when it ended. All I know is that I finally had clothes on. I quickly threw money at her (yes - I PAID MONEY to someone for this adventure in tolerance) and ran screaming into the night.

I immediately texted my friend. The below is the exact transcript of our exchange:

Me: um... i did NOT like that wax :( :(

Friend: really?!?!? was it ivy??

Me: yes! she called you the tall girl. i’ll tell you in person. i feel like i was mauled by a beat.

Me: *bear (autocorrect, sigh).

Friend: lol! she is amazing with me.

Me: haha! not funny!

Friend: she gives me the most perfect wax every time in literally 5 mins.

Me: no. this was 20 minutes of her laughing at me through wax.

Friend: R u sure you got ivy?? I don’t think u had ivy. Did she have an accent?

Me: Yes! I made dead sure as per your terrifying instructions. Re: accent - She was Asian so... yes? She also talked about how you get pedis and manis there sometimes. Also, everyone was calling her Ivy.

Friend: hmm. Ivy has no accent...but if she said it was her... hmm.

Me: she was nice and kept calling me honey. “you ok honey?” me: “sure!” in my head: “I’ll find your children, and I’ll kill them, slowly.”

Friend: Jesus.

Me: I know.

After a day or two of licking my wounds (boyfriend’s job), I felt better and, I’ll admit, looked great (like a sexy 3 year old!). But every time I walk by that salon, I narrow my eyes and vow “never again”.

I’m looking into laser.