Archive | 5:37 PM

Re-Blog from 125: A TMI Envy

13 Dec

I am stealing this post, because it is of great interest to me.  And yup, bold is required, because the subject is just that.  Yes, I would love to do this:

shave the cat

If the world ended or if Cool became a hair-wax person.  I freely admit it–I am a prude, and would never, never, never in a bazillion years show my business to a stranger.  For perspective, know that I sustained a 4th degree laceration to my parts in an unfortunate rainy day bicycle accident–and delt with the pain (the horrific, terrible pain) for 36 hours because I couldn’t stand the thought of ever going to the gyno.  Like ever in my life.  When I finally did go because the pain was unbarable and I couldn’t sit, sleep, bathe, or pee, they said I should have gotten sutures.  But it was past the time-frame that they could do them.  So gratuitous waxing–not ever going to happen.  Even though I’m intrigued by heart designs and I’ve never even heard of bedazzling or whatever, but love bling. . .  And am disgusted by hair and admire those with the courage (and money) to get it done.  Nope still just. . .  No.  I can’t blame it on the fact it’s decidedly UN-feminist, because if I wasn’t prude and shy I would get it done in a heartbeat.  So here, from my (secret) internet bestie, Liz:

Brazilian. Let’s Do This.

My brain is a little scrambled on where to start this post. On the one hand it’ll probably be the most personal thing I’ve ever posted (hawho am I kidding?), but then on the other hand everyone I mentioned it to seemed shocked I had never got one.

That totally threw me off; do most of you ladies go bare, down there? Huh. I had no idea!

I suppose the main reason I never looked into doing it was because of the two obvious reasons:

  1. The pain. Ripping hair from my where? And even back there? Holy hell no.
  2. The awkwardness. Knickers on? Knickers off? She’ll be tweezing where? What’s the etiquette going in? I’ll pass athankyouverymuch.

Truthfully, I’ve never really cared that much about it. I’ve never felt pressure from the media, or guys to go bare down there (although, I see/hear that’s a thing?) so ever since high school I’ve always been a Nair cream & Venus razortype of gal. And up until this week that suited me rather well (cheap, easy, simple). And then, for whatever reason, (cough, going away this weekend & didn’t want to think about it, cough) I decided to do it this week.

The website was daunting. But nonetheless I closed my eyes, hit the radio button, chose my time and waited for the confirmation.


And then I blocked it out until today. And by ‘blocked it out’ I mean started FREAKING OUT. I seriously had no idea what the pre-etiquette was, how much pain it would be, if my skin would react, if Matt would like it (it’s totally a surprise for him), or whether it be worth the money.

So. So despite being THISCLOSE to skipping my appointment, come 6:10pm today I was trying to play it cool in the waiting room of Brazilian Butterfly. I signed the waiver, fiddled with my nails, took sneaky photos (oh the things I do for this bloggy!), and tried to cool myself down – I was ridiculously sweaty from the 34C (93F) weather, a damn hot tram ride, and of course from simply being nervous. Ewww, I know.

My aesthetician, Shannon, led me to a small, tidy, room, but before she could explain anything I blurted out, “this is my first time!” And of course, as everyone had informed me, she was really nice about it, told me not to worry, and I’d live to tell the tale (and I did!).


She told me to remove all my garments on my lower half (f.r.e.a.k.i.n.g. o.u.t. n.o.w.) and left me alone in the room to do so. (First tip: wear a dress – so pleased I did!)  And so I removed my knickers, and awkwardly sat on the little bed (like a massage bed) while waiting & trying to de-sweat myself (God, I’m such a classy broad). A few minutes later she was back, and straight to business. She told me to lay back, and pull my thighs towards my head. Umm what? Okay. (OHMYGOD!! So exposed.) And then she started talking about this, and that, and then suddenly there was hot wax on me. And then suddenly there was not.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the pain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Yes, it hurt, but it was bearable. Nothing like I imagined. More uncomfortable than anything. There was, however, one spot on the side that hurt like a bitch. Had the whole thing been like that I think I would have had to stop halfway, but luckily it was badda-bing-badda-boom and it was done (I’d say it took about 13 minutes).  I was really nervous of going “full on”, but did it anyways as I figured I was already in the hot seat (she actually started with the rear end – TMI!! – then the front, then the sides).


So. Hope that helps someone. And I’m sorry I’m not sorry if that made you cringe (false, I am sorry!), but here some final, quick points:

  • It was $70 (including an after-the-fact cream)
  • Are you in Melbourne? Go to Brazilian Butterfly! So clean and profesh!
  • It’s not as smooth as I thought it would be. True, it’s smooth, but it’s the same as when I Nair. Hmmm. (Update: apparently it’ll be smoother in a day or two).
  • It’s supposed to last about 5 weeks! That’s way better than Nair/shaving (I shall report back!)
  • You should have seen all the “bedazzled” designs they do! WHO DOES THAT?
  • Apparently the more I go, the less pain it’ll be.
  • And, the more I moisturize down there, the smoother it’ll be. Wait, what? We’re supposed to put cream down there? I did not know this.
  • Why yes, I too am shocked at the length of this post.
  • Fun fact: I think I was more nervous of her seeing my stomach than my hoo-ha. And yes, I sucked in the whole time.
  • In the spirit of really trying not to put myself down these days, I bit my tongue and didn’t make a joke about my stomach to her.
  • I did NOT take advil/tylenol beforehand – I forgot.
  • WILL I DO IT AGAIN? I would yes, except $70 is like my groceries for a week, so umm, sadly no. At least not until I get back to Toronto and a better income.

Okay. That’s it! Hope I covered everything & of course leave a comment if you have any questions OR if you have a good/bad/horror experience. GIRL TALK!

PS:  Yes, I was embarrassed just reading this post.

Get Serious about the Clogging Essay

13 Dec

This thing is all but due, and I am still in the brainstorming stage.  I need to get busy.  Like yesterday.  To do:  Answer the question (see below), shorten the essay, and provide showing statements about the characteristics I want to convey.  Easy peasy.

Knowledge or creativity in a field: Describe any of your special interests and how you have developed knowledge in these areas. Give examples of your creativity: the ability to see alternatives; take diverse perspectives; come up with many, varied, or original ideas; or willingness to try new things.

tongue, Muscle of the tongue


At least I didn’t have to do the above dissection and anatomy & physiology study of every animal species.  OK, I can DO this.  Writing is the easy part of school.  And writing about a topic of my choice, about me–should be the easiest thing ever.  Do it, do it!  And honestly readers, I just wanted to use this photo because I just found it again, and I think it is awesome.

You will quit pasting the snippets you already wrote in different orders, and answer this question!  Here goes:

Knowledge or creativity in a field: Describe any of your special interests and how you have developed knowledge in these areas. Give examples of your creativity: the ability to see alternatives; take diverse perspectives; come up with many, varied, or original ideas; or willingness to try new things.

I was a rebel just for trying clogging.  My school friends were all involved in the more socially acceptable, and notable endeavor of ballet.  They wore pink tutus and displayed careful femininity.   I was always different, and my choice of dance genre reflected that.  Cloggers did not wear sheer, pastel wrap-skirts or practice soft body-lines and decorum.  Clogging, a dance with Appalachian roots, featured stomping on double taps.

While my friends were able to take dance lessons in our small town, my mother and I drove a half hour, working on that week’s spelling words and eating a dinner of string cheese and an apple as we went.  Once inside the larger city’s blue two story Pinkerton’s Studio of Dance, all of the lean and graceful ballerinas could be seen leaning nimbly on the benches in the hallway.  Jazz dancers in black spandex pants and soft shoes stretched on the floor.  The tap dancers with their shiny black shoes did homework on the stairs between classes.  And then there were us cloggers.  We had a hardier build, and were loud compared to the lithe, graceful dancers within Pinkerton’s walls.

I walked into the mirrored room and put on my worn, white practice shoes, tying the purple sparkled laces extra tight.  The toes of my shoes were black from working on my buck steps and a hole was just starting to form on the ball of both shoes, since the majority of the steps required slamming the ball of my foot to the floor.  Since most of the other types of dance required leotards for practice, the studio was uncomfortably warm for my tee shirt and gym shorts.  I was sweating already.  Our teacher switched on a country song to warm us up.  It sounded extra loud and twangy over the soft, classical echoing down the hallway.  We had to have loud music to hear the beat over our tapping.  We danced “Twist and Shout,” one of the first songs you ever learn as a clogger, and went into “The Sign” by Ace of Base.

Though it was no fun to be the only girl in my peer-group that was not a ballerina, I do not regret my enthusiastic participation in clogging.  While my friends were pointing their toes, I was working my calf muscles and strengthening my lungs by doing a series of fast double-steps, stomps, and windmills.  Instead of learning the strict choreography of the Nutcracker year after year, I was using my mind to memorize not only countless steps, but a wide variety of songs, as well as designing novel routines.  By missing that extra time with my schoolmates, I was learning to work with a diverse group of people in a team, adapting to variable audiences throughout the Western United States, and taking instruction (and criticism) from clogging teachers and judges.  Being an individual and participating in an alternate form of dance as a student, show dancer, competitor, and instructor for eight years enabled me to accrue many more life skills than sticking with the group in a more acceptable past-time.

symphony hall 3It needs more work, but this may be the track I will follow.  It answers the question at least.  I am just finding it very difficult to edit anything out, because clogging was such an important aspect of my school life, and it all seems imperative and telling about my character.  We’ll see if I still like this one tomorrow.  Maybe next year I’ll randomly write all of my essays based on clogging so I can include everything!