Let me be blunt gentlemen; how often do you feel compelled to let someone put warm wax on your testicles and then tear the hair out, just to make your gal’s ride-along more pleasant? Hmm?
I thought so. Unless you want your scrotum to expand and shrivel like a slinky, I’m quite sure you settle for a bit of manscaping and a good scrub.
Usually I don’t mind my monthly visit to tame the jungle-book-down-under. I am loyal to my aesthetics guru, and she knows me.
Today when I showed up for my appointment, the receptionist let me know that Maria had been admitted to the hospital last night and was ill. Immediately my first thought was; What’s the appropriate thing to do in this case? Send flowers? Send a card? After all, Maria was the gatekeeper of my she-dragon, and person in whose delicate hands rested the scales of whether or not I would be the lounging, sensual recipient of the skillful cunninglingus of which I have become accustomed.
In other words, she plays a huge role in my ability to enjoy life to the fullest. Maria also guards the secret identity of the little-man-in-the-boat, whereas even my most intimate of lovers only gets to view the magician by candlelight, or the shadow of my thighs.
After disrobing, and stretching out on the waxing table, ‘Quiny’, as she introduced herself began the most painful, ridiculous bikini wax I have ever had, and I’ve been doing this for a while folks. I’m quite sure the first layer of skin on the left side of my veil-of-pleasure is still stuck to her last waxing strip, but was afraid to look.
If an aesthetician has to ask, “That hurt you”, more than once, the outcome may be gruesome.
To her credit, Quiny was good with a mirror and asked on several occasions that I look and make sure she was doing a good job. I began to wonder about Quiny’s motives.
I also thought that perhaps having my woo-hoo waxed immediately prior to an hour and a half long sitting-mediation at the temple was not such good planning.
Finally, after what seemed like hours at the hand of Quiny-the-Torturer, I sat up on my elbows, looked down at my girly-bits and said, “That’s enough”.
The pain was so intense that I wasn’t sure whether she was pinching or pulling, and I sure as hell didn’t know what she could possibly be pinching or pulling at. I was convinced my outer labia had already been ripped off and tossed in her little white trash can.
Quiny held the mirror up, “You look”, she said. And she smiled. I’m not a violent woman, but I wanted to smack that smile off her face with that ridiculous mirror like I was using a squash raquet.
“I’m sure it’s just fine,” I said, quickly squeezing my thighs together. I made a mental note to go see my regular Goddess of the Wax tomorrow at the hospital and take on advocating for her medical care.
So gentlemen, don’t give me any bitching or moaning about having to act like a gentleman to garner the attention of a lady. Real ladies care about what they bring to a relationship, including a neat and tidy valley of delight.
The next man I hear whining is being sent to Quiny so she can have a go at your hairy man-bits. Then we’ll talk.
Today I had to send regrets to an event I’d been looking forward to for months, and I felt awful about it.
Yesterday, after much planning on my part, and much coordination of transportation based on the almost impossible traffic situation in the GTA, four out of 7 of us arrived at our Summerlicious ladies lunch destination.
I was disappointed that there were only 4 of 7 of us there, and I had a serious self-talk in the morning about why I would never bother to organize a bunch of women again. “Like herding cats,” I grumbled to myself.
Some cancelled last minute, an other was the victim of the traffic-hell that we have become so apathetic about in Toronto.
But the dynamic of the group never ceases to amaze me. For every situation, whether it be social or professional, no matter who shows up, it’s always worthwhile.
For the press, these dining events have become a battle of dining between what I consider to be ignorant servers, and customers;
“For you, it is a chance at a satisfying meal at a restaurant you might not typically be able to afford. For the people who get your meal to the table, it means weeks of unpaid overtime, exhaustion, unforgiving diners and crummy tips.” by Siobhan Morris , as posted at Newstalk 1010.
In any business, there are going to be customers you want to kick out the door, and in some cases, you should absolutely take your patent-leather stilettos and shove one up a backside or two. Employers should also be paying fairly, but this just isn’t a mark on the food-industry, it’s a symptom of greed at-the-top in every industry.
Despite the spin the press puts on these events, it’s usually been a lot of fun. And these events are meant to be fun. We want to be there. We want to know about your restaurant, your menu, your wine list, and we want to find a place that we can depend on to offer excellent food and service.
Yesterday one of the gals tried a wonderful grapefruit, rosemary cocktail, one stuck to a juicy cabernet, and I tired a micro-brew lager that was delicious. We all ordered coffee, and left better than the minimum expected, 15% tips.
As in; the staff didn’t look down their noses at the middle-aged table of women who were only half in number of their initial reservation size.
As in; the staff were knowledgeable, polite, prompt, and seemingly unrushed, despite hosting a packed house. That is a mark of good management, and happy employees. We all know that happy employees create happy customers.They were smart enough to realize that we’re tired of cooking and coddling, and we’re the market who doesn’t just celebrate events, we’re experienced lushes who prefer to have someone cook for us. We are good business.
So, to the chefs and servers out there who don’t want our business, don’t worry, we won’t’ be knocking on your door any time soon.
For the folks at Destingo, I know that they will have repeat business from our group who were so well treated and well-fed yesterday.
Finally, for the ladies who tried to make it, but got caught in traffic hell, and the ladies who couldn’t make it; we missed you, and we understand. Winterlicious is only 6 and a half months away.
And for my impatient, overworked – self; remember it’s ok to change plans once in a while to keep oneself on that sexy-even-keel, remember what a wonderful feeling it was to have everyone together yesterday. I think I’ll go ahead an organize a Winterlicious that’s wonderful.
Instead of planning a blow-out for the twelfth anniversary of my 28th birthday, I should just bite the proverbial bullet and book the silent meditation retreat that falls on the big day.
But I’m having so much fun, and fun has been hard to come by the past couple of years.
When you drag your tired butt home on Friday night carrying a brand new bottle of ibuprophen and a pregnancy test to recuperate from your personal life, and your work week ended at 11pm following a ten course meal seated at the VIP table with the likes of Canadian Senators, a gal has to think to herself, “What d’ya know? Life ain’t over yet by a long shot.”
Not only have I indulged in the carnal knowing of a lovely man-pudding, but I have rooted for a pal to get her happy-on, even if it means some tough love in her marriage. I’ve over-slept, drank more than a moderate amount of delicious wine, and totally flubbed my fitness routine.
It all sounds a bit indulgent doesn’t it ladies? It all sounds like I’ve tipped the balance in favour of lustful gluttony of all sorts, right?
As I sip my 2010-smooth-as-satin-deliciously-rich-and-reminiscent-of-melted-chocolate-BV-Cabernet, I know that the pendulum always swings back from whence it came.
So I will enjoy the joy that is upon me in this moment. It will not last forever, nor its memory fade. Life is nothing if not a winding road hiding splendor and sadness around corners which we cannot yet see.
Am I really a terrible Buddhist?
No, not really. Just one who enjoys the joy as much as the suffering.
After a bottle and a half of wine, and various and sundry acts of debauchery, a kazillion clichés came home to roost tonight;
Sex is a powerful drug. Be careful what you wish for. Thank ‘god’ for unanswered prayers. Only the good die young. Never mix business with pleasure. A young stud is better than an old cow. Ok, that might not be a cliché. I just made it up, but I think it has a ring to it.
Like the finest of wine, I have mellowed with age. Don’t get me wrong darlings, I still like my men young, virile, with a twist of kink and bad-assery. I still enjoy sensual pleasures that don’t involve linen table service or early-bird rates, if you know what I mean.
But I have, indeed mellowed.
Having had a terrible relationship experience a few years back with a man who makes women dry-heave at the thought of being near a man, I left it well jaded, and feeling rather depleted. Depleted as in; I could care less if another man ever touched me again.
Much to my delight and yours, I’m sure, I have made a hearty recovery and am back in the saddle of all things delightfully-of-the-man-flesh. Miracles do happen darlings. Do not despair. To despair is to turn your back on the goddess who slumbers deep inside your warm, wiggly bits.
But I digress. Back to the clichés. Back to tonight. Back to what I started to tell you in the first place.
Even though I’ve got Ms. Mojo back, it is with a much more mellow demeanor. Instead of being reactive, I’m able to observe my thoughts, and well, what goes on in my head is entertaining as hell.
All of the things that I wanted in the past have flown out the window. What I thought I knew for sure about myself and relationships has died a rather unremarkable death.
Most of us, including my wonderful self, love to live in a black and white world. It’s easy; Right and wrong. Bad and good. Should and shouldn’t.
But it’s never really that easy is it? Life is lived most fully in the grey areas that we struggle so hard to escape.
Tonight, as the candles flickered their last pale light, and the wine glasses stood empty and at attention, I lolled in the soft sheets listening to my favourite songs, much to the chagrin of my lover.
Him: “Aren’t you going to get up and lock the door?”
Him: “I’m not comfortable with that. What if there’s some weirdo out there?”
Moi: “If he looks interesting, send him in.”….and that was the end of the evening’s adult events.
Nothing is for certain. All of the clichés anyone has ever told me about life and relationships flitted through my head, one contradicting the next. I observed them rise and sputter like falling stars.
Tonight I was just thankful to enjoy the moments of delight that came my way; a good meal, a thorough and proper lover, one of my favourite bottles of wine and a deep feeling of being completely sated.
When that feeling fades darlings, as I know it will, there’s always a bourbon night with Mr. C. Rush to make it all better.
“Not a morning person”, does not even begin to describe me.
Nope. My mornings start early, and as soon as my alarm goes off (not my eyes open, well, because they open about 20 minutes later), I run a sequence of my day through my head. After that, I think about what I’ll wear, and after that, I press the snooze button a couple more times. Just to make sure it works.
Don’t worry my lovelies, I get my gratituding in before I drift of to sleep.
My days are non-stop, and can run into the wee hours of the morning. Alas, my alarm clock is a cruel master, and I must, no matter how late I stayed up working on a presentation or meeting material, get my sorry petunia out of bed and carry on the next day.
A Twitter-Pal recently asked; What’s your favourite part about waking up early on the weekend?
First of all, early usually involves work or some ‘have to’ activity. So, waking up early for me (without alarm clock or agenda) means getting out of bed and staying out of bed before 10am or, getting out of bed and achieving one cup of coffee before my teenager wanders out of his room.
On this Sunday morning, I offer you a list of things that I love about waking up early on the weekend (using my definition of early)
1) Opening my window so I can feel the cool morning breeze, and listen to the rain (like this morning).
2) Not rushing my morning coffee… x2.
3) Catching up with the social media my friends post.
4) Reading in bed.
5) Listening jazz music while I make breakfast.
6) Crawling back under the covers and being fully awake and aware of how cozy it is at home.
I hope you had a wonderful weekend to wake up at your leisure. Wishing you sweet daydreams…XO
Sounds sweet doesn’t it?
But it wasn’t. He was, and likely still is a man full of hatred and fear. His message carried the sinister connotation of not letting yourself forget the shame you came from.
Remembering your roots should be about joy, triumph, and a legacy that leaves you proud and happy to have the roots you do.
Almost 20 years ago, I trimmed out the rotting, diseased roots, and kept the good ones. Someone sent me an email today and referred to their stubborn Irish relatives and the ‘loud-mouth soup’ they needed in order to engage in meaningful conversation.
My stubborn Irish relatives are the roots I tend. We’re crazy, straight up, would give you the shirt off our backs and do anything for you. Unless.
Unless you mistreat us. In other words, the golden rule rules. If you forget that, you can forget it. As in, don’t even look at us.
Sometimes a quick trip to reconnect is the balm I need to inspire myself to live more fully. In a world seemingly surrounded by people with ulterior motives, whose actions contradict their words, it’s nice to see my own refreshingly naked communication style reflected back by someone with the same genes.
After all, I like the woman I’ve become. Being happy with myself, confident of my abilities, and strong-willed has served me well. An afternoon in the hot tub sipping wine with my Auntie set me straight, and inspired me to keep on keeping on.
I’m all for remembering your heritage and ancestry, as long as you drop the shame, guilt and dysfunction that casts a shadow over your fabulousness.
Remember your roots darlings, but be sure to prune the poison.