Death by Wax Nazi

"We're just going to take a straight shot, bum down, I've left you a dignity towel and I'll be back in two".

Militantly she about-faced, which was similar to her tone, and left me with said 'dignity towel'. "Dignity Towel"... really? Who came up with that name? How much dignity is there really when your stark ass nude on a table paying for the modern equivalent of being tarred and feathered? Regardless of how undignified the dignity towel - this waxer was not to be fucked with. All things considered however, anyone who is in control of hot wax while you lay sitting duck - or in this case spread eagle - probably should be left well enough alone. So there I am, blinded by flickering fluorescents, clutching my dignity towel for just that - an ounce, an atom, of dignity.

The door opens, in comes Chris. Like the seconds before you get on a roller coaster - only a glimpse of time to cut and run. Running in this particular situation wasn't such an option as outside the netherworld, there is another word for 'dignity towel': washcloth; and it only reinforces how large and naked you truly are. Once you hear the click of the door meeting the door frame with the Wax Nazi on the same side of said door as you are - you're in for the ride.

"Have you ever had a wax with me before?", she asks, as if there is something different about her waxes than the countless other's I have had. To be frank - I didn't know there were personal brands of Bikini Waxing. In the moments to follow I would realize however, there was. Something that could have been brought to my attention 15 minutes ago when the receptionist was booking my appointment.

"There will be pulling and holding and breathing. With me, it's an interactive experience",... The first place my mind goes? Do they charge extra to have a brazilian done by Bill Nye? The second thought? With every other waxer on the planet, I just lie there - now I've got a to-do list: maybe they charge less.

Either way, now was not a good time to be having such deep thoughts - Chris was having a moment all her own. Catching herself in wax, she starts flailing around and pulling herself apart the way a child does in their first experience with Krazy-Glue. Going on and on about how this isn't her normal room, and how discombobulated and embarrassed she is, I am following her original order of a staying in a diamond shape, propping one knee up with one hand, pulling upwards on my abdomen with the other - a position that is yet another special gift of the Wax Nazi special. You may be spastic, but I'm a stark ass nude contortionist on a table... I can see how embarrassing this must be for you.

Then like a redneck scooping nacho cheese dip at a free Costco taste table, she digs into the wax and with one fall swoop covers 70% of the generalized region. While this may not seem catastrophic to some, spreading wax is not like spreading butter where the entire piece can be condomized and you can take a bite at a time. On the contrary, with wax, what you see is what you get. Or rather what you see is what you get left with. Anything covered by the hot green goo is as good as gone,... and it all goes at once. In one word: ouch. In two: Horse-Shit. And you ask how this presents a problem?

Well call me overbearing, or too curious, or just plain dumb but I asked just that question. "A little ambitious... no?". Based on the fact that she had an answer before I could take another deep breath, and pull - something tells me that she's gotten that one before. "I like to do it big - get it done - much faster - less tedious.". 

Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me then. I must have been mistaken because I thought that when it comes to the tedious nature of pulling hair follicles from my crotch - maybe this one could have been a group decision? What happened to our "interactive" experience? This is shaping up to be as interactive as Hitler and the Jews: yes, both participating in some sense of the word, and in both my case and Anne Frank's, it would seem as if one group didn't have much say in the planning process. So now, in exponential decline, I've gone from victim with dignity towel - to schmuck sans towel to full on fucked who just wants out, and I have no qualms about leaving the dignity behind.

Easy to say, not so easy to do however, when she's leaning over you complaining that you're not pulling your knee quite tight enough. Lady - I pull this knee in any closer it's going to be coming out of my ass hopefully only to knee her in the face. The best part of all of this? After explaining to me the "Chris" method that is sure to be more painful than being bit by a tiger shark - she lets me know that I have no say as to what's going on in my nether regions. It's her way or the hairy-way and when it comes to me and places just 15 minutes ago I thought of as private, "She likes control". So what do you do when a woman whose eyes light up at the sheer thought of crotch-control happens to be holding a cup of hot wax? You grin, grit, and literally bear it. Besides, how much longer could this go on?

Well, I found out. About another half-hour longer of "okay pul - and breath - okay - and how are we on time - and stick your head between your legs and whistle dixie."

Just when I thought this experience couldn't get anymore degrading, life, and apparently the Wax Nazi, has ways of surprising even me. Switching gears from drill sergeant to shrink, Chris decides to open up. "Everyone's coming in this time of year,.. (nodding towards my nether regions with a wink) Sharing this with a special someone?".

Whoa, okay - hold the phone. I put up with all the strange holding, and interactive pulling and the unnecessary "okay and breath and hold and time check's"' as if we were producing something far greater than the equivalent of a mowed lawn - but let's get one thing straight. A. Even if I wasn't a party of one, referring to my waist down as something you can share with someone like cheesecake,... weird. and B. not since the kindergartens reading of "Everyone Poops" have I wanted my womanhood even in the same hemisphere as a "wink". Got That? Lets keep the personal away from my p-word.

Hindsight being 20/20 that could be a fundamental flaw in my relationships but again, there are some people who you don't want to have a personality. a bikini waxer is one of them, but I didn't get that lucky. Instead once she assumed that, and I quote, "we are both going through all of this for nothing", she loosened up her grip as if she can slack off a bit because her new work wasn't about to be displayed atop the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree!

Only furthering her rambling on how her breaking a sweat while breaking my skin would be as useful as arranging deck chairs on the Titanic, she would pause her rant only for a time check. "And how are we on time,..." Every time I would think it was the last time-check, but there always seemed to be just one more. She could go on all fucking day - I however could not: Death by Wax Nazi.

I need to put an end to all of this - ASAP. Finally Chris backs herself into a corner with, "Well, anyway,... I'm sure there are plenty of guys just lying around..."
And there was my in to say something offensive to shut her up for hopefully what was to be the last check on the time.

"Yea - they're all lying there... the question is whether or not I want to get on top."

How to Lose a Guy in, say,... 10 seconds.

I have forgotten what it's like to be completely single again in the city of Boston. As it turns out, the brief stint of my 'relationship' era came to a screeching halt largely due to the fact that my choice of boyfriend happened to be able to out-stupefy a bag of bricks. Note to all: if you're going to be dumb, you better be gorgeous; otherwise you will fall into the trap of what I now lovingly call a case of the Jonathan's: too stupid not to be cute, and not cute enough to be stupid.

After this weekend however, there is increasingly more evidence that the idiot here may, in fact, be me. I thought, optimistically, that I could go out in the Bay State and actually enjoy myself. I also thought, that there maybe another human being in a 50 mile radius that I would also enjoy being with. On both counts; I was wrong.

The disaster began on Friday, as most weekends seemingly do. A friend was walking in a Harvard fashion show and although I am always hesitant to cross the river, on this particular night, I had an agenda. Last Saturday, in the real city, I stumbled upon a dress/shirt that changed my life. Short, Black, Backless, Sequins. Need I say more? Nope, didn't think so. In any case, I wore said shirt/dress in said city to garner looks, winks, smiles, drinks and everything short of marriage proposals from men, women, and inanimate objects alike. Thanks to modern technology, arguably one of the best outfits of my life would be stored on a magnificent little chip known as a digital camera that from this night on would always provide me with a small dose of self esteem.... or so I thought. Needless to say karma has struck again and both the camera and my ego are in the back corner of some NYC taxi cab rotting next to old fries and mold. So what is a girl to do? Find any excuse whatsoever to wear my backless shirt/dress of sequins in a city like Boston whose fashion sense rivals only that of Jurassic Parks. The best excuse I could come up with? The Harvard Haute Fashion Show.

Once I get to Harvard however, I remember why I hate going there - I consistently get lost, with no hope of finding anyone useful to just say "go that way" without having to hear about some bullshit tradition, or "I'd love to help but we're reenacting the Salem Witch Trials". You would think that a school with the largest endowment in the world could invest in some signage. I'm convinced the only required Harvard reading is "Where's Waldo", but on this fateful night I was playing "Where's the SOCH".... another thing I don't like about my Cambridge constituents, acronyms for sign-less buildings that couldn't possibly make sense to anyone outside of Harvard Yard. The third thing I hate about Harvard? They fail to see me as a constituent however, I had an answer for that too. In response to the "oh so you don't go here" look, "Don't worry! What I lack in smarts, I make up for in sequins... here, see! Look at my dress... want to take a picture?"

After chasing through a quad after some kid in a bow-tie (yea,.. let that one register for a second), he finally gave me directions that as a New Yorker I can understand: An arm flail, a pointed finger and "there". Katherine was wonderful, by far the best walker of the bunch, and the DJ happened to be great. What was not-so-great however was that by the shows end Katherine was already plastered, she and her impossibly cute in that "wow, perfect couple way" boyfriend had their own idea's of an after party and I still didn't get to truly wear my dress. I will be damned if I didn't eat all day for my sparkly self to only see the inside of what appeared to be a study hall with a stage. So, on the road again.

First Stop: City Bar at the Lenox Hotel. City Bar is entirely dependent on the people inside it; you either get attractive, young, cute guys... or AARP cards in suits. This night was a mix, however we only met the latter. I don't know what it is about men who don't have a shot in hell, but they always seem to have more cojones than anyone you'd actually want to talk to. None the less, like Japanese pilots on a kamikaze mission, social retard after social retard made their way over to our table. The only solution? Run, and quickly. 

From City Bar we go to Sel de la Terre, where our friend is a bartender. Seeing only a backside, blond spiky hair and a green shirt, I go up behind him and somewhat provocatively say hello. When the man in the green shirt turned around however, he was not Sean, but instead one of his co-workers. Looking around it would seem as if the green shirt is what some may call a 'uniform', making it very difficult to pick any one bartender's backside out of a crowd. Lesson learned: keep your hands to yourself unless you are absolutely certain your not finger crawling your way into a harassment suit. Alls well that ends well however; we got a few free drinks,... and he's not pressing any charges. Sel begins to die around midnight, and if that is not proof alone that Boston is like living in the stone age, where we went next only verified that we are surrounded by cavemen.

We hike across the street to Vox; trashy Boylston Street's attempt at a legitimate bar. Around every corner were men in chunky heeled shoes, thinking themselves sly when really they're just sloshed. Every girl knows that one of the worst experiences in the world is slinking through groups of drunkards who not only smell like they're first love is beer, but also have the guts to prove it. Making this the third venue of our night however, I am sober, it is now past midnight in a city that closes at two and I no longer have time to worry about my shimmering, sequins - I will just have to wear them again tomorrow. 

We head to the bar in full force only to be plagued yet again by men with way too much self-esteem for their own good. I swear everyone from Quasimodo to his uglier, estranged brother found some way to interfere in our walk to the watering hole; but then alas, we found the light. If you struggle passed the narrow entrance hallways of Vox and up the back stairs, there is open space, a decent sound system, and remarkably normal human beings.

Finally, we find our niche with five cute guys, 26 - 29,... and one really crazy girl. Assuming that Loretta Bobette must be one of their girlfriends, she and I start talking only for me to find that she is far more psychotic than what simply meets the eye. Bad bangs, caked on make-up, wearing a strapless dress that has been knocked off center taking whatever was in her chest area with it, she set her sights on one man, who just happened to be more interested in talking to me. K cera? Well, clearly "Jessica" does not heed the words of the great Doris Day. Instead, she thought it a better idea to harass me, and then try to tell me how much she "loved" me. She then would literally jump on our actually quite hot, 6-foot-three, brown hair, blue eyed friend, and forcefully pull him by his collar when he uttered syllables in any other direction but her own. It was like watching a sequel to "how to lose a guy in 10 days" but instead, "how to lose a guy in, eh, ... 10 seconds"... informative, hilarious, and non-threatening. Besides, to be honest, I had no intention of hooking up with anyone; all I wanted out of the night was a picture to replace the one I had envisioned hanging above a free-standing Home Depot fireplace... but, the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.

Never one to stand in bad judgements way, I leave Jessica and hot boy alone but every time the rest of the group would start a conversation, he would do his best to leave his baggage behind, and come and join the dark side. Once again, not my fault, but then as it turned out he happened to not only be hot, but really funny and quite smart. (Two qualities that would not define 'a case of the Jonathan's.') Although I might not like this Jessica, even drunk I wouldn't stoop that low. So what? The girl might be a train wreck, but she wasn't a bitch, or at least so I thought. Hot boy goes to the bathroom after practically ignoring her for multiple minutes. She wobbles over to me like a child in her mother's high heels to inform me that, "I'm actually his sister, and I'm sorry... but I am just very protective of him and the people that he talks to.. especially other girls when were together,... so..."

Whoa. Hold the phone... bitch please. Did she just pull the "I'm his sister, you should go away now" routine. I have done that for guy friends who were in on the joke to get unwanted people to go away... however a. in these parts of the North east, some would call your sticking you hand up and down your brothers jacket incest and b. I'm wearing fucking backless sequins. I am not the unwanted! Can someone just take a god damn photo so I can go home!?! But now it's too late. Now I can't just walk away.... when you mess with fire - this bitch is about to get burned.

Hot boy returns, and I am on the move. My life would have been much simpler if I could have just had my vodka in peace... but clearly that was not in the cards for me tonight. He comes back to talk to my friend and I only to be thwarted by his loving 'sister'. "So, I didn't know you too were related..." Just when crazy girl had the open to make me look like a psycho, as I knew she would, she took the cake. "Yea... I was telling her how I am your sister,.. and how protective I get." Oh here we go,... dinner and a show: if there was ever, anything that you should never say to a random guy in a bar, it is probably "I am protective of you".

At just that moment when most girls would walk away, I must give it to Jessica... she is persistent. Continuing her story line in the same knee-deep fashion Bush held tight to WMD's, she dug her tunnel to the funny farm deeper and deeper with each ridiculous story coming out of her mouth. It wasn't until she was literally becoming a buzz-kill that both Hot Boy and I had had enough. Cutting her off mid-strange "family" memoir, "so... what was it like on Christmas morning in your family?" ... stymied and stunned, she baffles some absurd reply outing her as full on lunatic. It is now game point, and I want to go home. "Hey Hot Boy.... want to put an end to this once and for all?..." and with that, we started making out. Two things you should know about me: 1. I'm shameless, and 2. My claws do not retract. Needless to say, set and match.

The next day I awoke as all girls do, giddy with the prospect that maybe he could actually be cute, funny, and normal. By noon, those hopes had already been shattered. After the civil, "It was great to meet you, what are you up to today texts" I get this:

"When are we going to make out again?".... "Are you going out tonight?"...

I should have never responded to the first text... but I did. When I told him that I had to finish a term paper, but hoped to be done by ten: "Then can we make out?"

Good god! Even the kid I kissed for the Make-A-Wish foundation did a better job at hiding his desperation... but then it got worse. At 10:41, the final nail in the coffin came ringing to the tune of my John Mayer 'you've-got-text' signal: "Ready to make out yet?"

Well,... another one bites the dust. My only response,... "Try me on February 30th"