Christmas cheer tip

The Jews party it up on Christmas Eve before waking up Christmas Day for some bagels for brunch, a movie afterwards, and Chinese food for dinner. It's kind of a good time. Follow through...

Twas the night before Christmas

And all I wanna do is get dolled up and hit the town. It feels eerily empty without family around, and that makes me seek some sort of antidote to loneliness slash substitute for love in crowded bars with confused (but perhaps perfectly content to be so) others seeking the same. Follow through...

Why you should pay someone else to touch your koo

Because your pubic hair isn't going to go away on its own. In order to maintain a groomed nether region, women resort to various methods of hair removal, none of which are more painful than the Brazilian bikini wax, which was, little known fact, handcrafted by the devil. Alas, this cruel but effective form of hair removal is a necessary evil. When I lived in LA, there was this great little beauty salon called Beba that only charged $35 per bikini wax. Think about it from the waxers point of view: there is no guarantee that every veej is going to be pleasant to look at, and certainly not something everyone is going to want to put their hands all over, but it's their job, and they are brave souls. Sure, the process only lasts 15 minutes, the pain is excruciating, and the fact is that some stranger is touching your koo, but that is a small price to pay for walking out of that room feeling like the sexiest bitch in town.

After moving back to the East Coast, jobless and destitute, I tried the whole au natural thing for a while but felt gross about it. Tried shaving, but didn't like the sharp stubble that kept growing in. I needed a wax, but the salons in the area charge $50 a pop and I can't afford that every three weeks! So instead I found a microwaveable Brazilian bikini wax kit online (GiGi at Amazon.com) and decided to take my chances.

I won't go into the awkward details of where I had to place my legs or the poses in which I had to hold my balance in order to reach some of the places that had hair in need of removal. Let's just say my yoga instructor would be proud. And that my mother would not.

It's not that it's impossible to perform a bikini wax on yourself. It would just be easier with two for a couple of reasons. (1) Two people requires less contortion. You have to put your legs in strange acrobatic positions even when you go to a salon, but it usually isn't any more complicated than lifting one or both legs and propping them up on the waxer's shoulder or the wall. That's for amateurs. When going it alone, you must be very flexible and have very good balance. (2) After the first rip of the wax, as the now-empty follicles from which you have mercilessly torn your pubic hair SCREAM in agony, you remember how much it hurts to gets waxed and each successive pull becomes more and more difficult to accomplish mentally. It's hard to keep going because it's your own body, and there is something wrong about being the hand that causes pain unto yourself. Unless you're into that kind of thing, I guess, which I'm not. So even if the pain is the same with one person or two, it's just better when you don't have to inflict it on yourself.

The home wax kit costs $12 plus shipping, and you get three waxes out of it. So you're talking 20 bucks versus 150 at a salon. I've floated the idea to my two best friends, and they said they'd be willing to help me out with my wax, but as much as I love them, I am not entirely comfortable with having them look full-on at my veej. An accidental glimpse while changing is ok. But an extended experience? That could be a little too close for comfort.

Sometimes you just gotta suck it up. Follow through...

Silent audience

I love this piece, from which I stole the title for this post, by Pete Revonkorpi. It might have a little something to do with the fact that I played the violin for twelve years, from the tender age of six until I turned eighteen and was finally allowed to quite taking private lessons. I loved to perform, but I hated practicing. I loved the attention, but I lacked the discipline necessary to perform well enough to deserve any. The only reason my parents refused to let me quit sooner was because my teachers convinced them that I possessed some degree of natural talent; because I could play fairly well by ear, imitating my teachers came more easily to me than some other students, infusing them with false hope for the next mini-virtuoso. Apparently, they thought I could be great, but I found that talking on the phone with my non-musical adolescent friends was a more desirable use of an hour than one spent alone in front of my sheet music.

Man, am I ever sorry I didn't listen to my parents. Sometimes I'll hear a song I once played and freeze in my tracks, spellbound, to listen. And when a certain mood strikes, I want to play a gypsy tune full of life and longing and drama. Recently, I tried, and all those years of not practicing have taken their toll. My fingers no longer feel like my own because my brain remembers how they are supposed to move and what it's supposed to sound like, but those treacherous, traitorous fingers of mine will no longer comply. Follow through...

Sometimes I get lonely, too

There's blood in my mouth 'cause I've been biting my tongue all week
I keep on talkin' trash but I never say anything
And the talkin' leads to touchin'
And the touchin' leads to sex
And then there is no mystery left

And it's bad news
Baby I'm bad news
I'm just bad news, bad news, bad news

I know I'm alone if I'm with or without you
But just bein' around you offers me another form of relief
When the loneliness leads to bad dreams
And the bad dreams lead me to callin' you
And I call you and say "C'MERE!"

And it's bad news
Baby I'm bad news
I'm just bad news, bad news, bad news

And it's bad news
Baby it's bad news
It's just bad news, bad news, bad news

'Cause you're just damage control for a walking corpse like me... like you

'Cause we'll all be
Portions for foxes
Yeah we'll all be
Portions for foxes

There's a pretty young thing in front of you
And she's real pretty and she's real into you
And then she's sleepin' inside of you
And the talkin' leads to touchin'
Then touchin' leads to sex
And then there is no mystery left

And it's bad news
I don't blame you
I do the same thing
I get lonely too

And you're bad news
My friends tell me to leave you
That you're bad news, bad news, bad news

That you're bad news
Baby you're bad news
And you're bad news
Baby you're bad news
And you're bad news
I don't care I like you
And you're bad news
I don't care I like you
I like you

This Rilo Kiley song "Portions for Foxes" is an honest song. I dig that. It's a song about filling our loneliness with meaningless sex, quite simply. The mystery of the human form is unveiled in a desperate attempt to satiate a certain hunger, but when that mystery disappears, there is little left to be desired and we're empty all over again. We fill ourselves, if only for a little while, with these fleeting carnal pleasures despite knowing better. And somehow we find ourselves trapped in loveless non-relationships we keep falling back into... The music video (click on the title of this post) is a clever play on the fox bit and the emptiness bit, featuring taxidermists stuffing animals, making them appear to be alive when all they are are empty shells stuffed with fluff. Follow through...

The things we cannot say

You know why therapists will always be in business? Because we will always need people to listen to us talk about ourselves without interruption and without (apparent) judgment, even if we have to pay them to do it. And no one, no matter how saintly, can put up with listening to a perfect stranger blabber on about the same problem incessantly without compensation.

Sure, ease of access to the Internet and the relative anonymity it provides can give you a soapbox to shout from, but there's no guarantee anyone is listening and even less of a chance that anyone cares. It's funny how so many bloggers take their comments so seriously, as if their own thoughts can only be validated if someone else agrees. I've been there, too, so it's not that I'm trying to sit up on my high horse and laugh at those spineless twits. I have been one of those spineless twits and I'm not entirely convinced that I've left that behind me.

So in the battle of Shrink vs. Blog, the therapist usually wins. Even if they are sitting there silently judging you and counting down the minutes until your session is over, they'll at least pretend that the daily vicissitudes of your life are fascinating and complex, if only by asking you questions that you will have to find the answers to yourself. Plus, if you are being a dumbass, your therapist is more likely to try and help you realize that in a constructive way as opposed to the anonymous commenter who has no responsibility or liability in haphazardly typing how stupid you are and how much you suck. But those unwilling or unable to part with hundreds of dollars an hour to talk to a professional, well, at least there's this.

Shrink or blog, however, can both serve the same purpose. They both allow us to vent, think through, and work out complicated ideas, thoughts, or issues... the things we cannot say, for one reason or a million. Follow through...