I really get tired of men complaining about women and how unbalanced the world has become since we’ve demanded educational, professional and wage equity.
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.
~Wishing you a happy Friday, and an evening filled with delightful company and an abundances of silliness.~
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.