Snatch You Bald-Headed

Did you used to play truth or dare when you were a kid? I recall chaperoning for one of E’s field trips last year and listening to the fifth grade girls playing. Truths in fifth grade are more boring than benign, involving lying to parents or stealing your sister’s candy from her Easter basket. And dares? Well, short of picking your friend’s nose or talking to a boy, how exciting can a dare be in the fifth grade? Those girls thought they were so bold, but really, they were as naïve as a bunch of ten year olds from the suburbs should be. As a friend of mine pointed out, truth or dare is a game wasted on the young.

Allow me to illustrate. My friend MJ and I recently indulged in a little grown up truth or dare. If you think about it, and come on, you know almost as much personal stuff about MJ as you do about me, you would think there would not be much territory left for us to discover about each other. And if you take that a step further, you would think there would be little left to dare one another that we haven’t already done. Well, it turns out we were wrong. And yes, that includes you.

MJ and I were having some down and dirty discussion about our lady parts (doesn’t everyone?) when it came to both of our attentions that neither of us had ever had a Brazilian bikini wax. Now, for those of you who might not know what a Brazilian wax involves, it is the painful removal of all pubic hair. All. No landing strip. No trim little Hitler’s mustache. No adorable little heart-shaped patch of thatch. It is a bald kitty, a sphinx, a Mexican hairless. And what happens to the front also happens to the back. When I say no hair, I mean none, even the outer planets of the solar system, namely Uranus. So there we were, having a conversation about our respective pubic hair styles when somehow the idea arose to dare each other to get Brazilian bikini waxes.

I have never been one to turn down a dare. I once ate a dog biscuit out of a bulk food bin at the grocery store, thanks to my sister. I have pretended that an odd-looking stranger was a long-lost friend of mine. But show my asshole to a perfect stranger? That was a new one even for me. After MJ pointed out that I show my vagina and its back door neighbor to more than one doctor during the course of a year, and that whoever does the waxing would be not an asshole fetishist but rather a professional , I couldn’t seem to find a good reason to turn her down. Well, there was always the pain factor, but who wants to look like a wimp? 

We hung up the phone to schedule our appointments, and then I called her back to let her know mine was in a couple of days. MJ was delighted, hoping that:  A. I would allow her to share in the fun via Facetime, and B. that I would scream “Kelly Clarkson” when my hair was ripped out. Think “The Forty Year Old Virgin,” only not with chest hair. I told her neither would be happening.

When the big day arrived, I went to the gym, came home, showered thoroughly, and selected a comfortable dress to wear along with the biggest pair of granny pants I could find in my underwear drawer. I was not interested in any chafing, or rubbing, and I had heard from my friend SF who heard from one of her friends, because yes, I discuss my pubic hair styles with lots of people, what’s it to you, that wearing jeans post Brazilian was, and I quote, “a really bad idea.”

I checked in at the spa and sat in the waiting area, with its soft lighting, overstuffed chairs, and New Age music clanging in the background, and I thought, I am going to have a heart attack. I was so damn nervous. You would think I was there for a mammogram or a colonoscopy, my heart was beating so fast. I thought about sneaking out before I was called back for my appointment, but I knew MJ was going through the same thing, and I couldn’t let her down. Finally, after the longest three minutes in history, the waxing specialist came in the waiting area. She led me back to her room, which was also very spa-like, but after she left to allow me one last moment of privacy and I got up on the table, sans granny pants, I noticed I was sitting on doctor’s office paper. The stirrups at the end of the table were strangely absent.

She knocked and came in, then turned on the overhead light, which I stared into like it was a solar eclipse in an effort to avoid any eye contact.  She instructed me to put the soles of my feet together on the end of the table and open sesame my knees. In yoga, this is known as cobbler’s pose. I will never do this pose again without cringing. She made small talk, asking me about my waxing experience (none), why I chose to do it now (dare), and how much I was going to love it (not likely). Then she smeared hot wax all around the main attraction, first on the left and then the right side. It was hot and similar in texture to peanut butter mixed with oatmeal and hot tar, only less lumpy. The heat was almost soothing, except that I knew what was coming next.

And then it was time for the big moment. Have you ever had your eyebrows waxed? You know how it kind of feels like your eyebrow is being ripped off your face, even though it’s really just a small little strip of hair? Well, this felt like I was being scalped. I had to hold my skin very taut as she tugged on the edge to loosen the wax, and then in a series of small painful tugs, she ripped the hairs, their follicles, and any extraneous skin off my body. It wasn’t like one big band-aid. It was like five or six big band-aids, all left on too long, so that your skin rips a little when you finally nut up and pull it off. It hurt, but not as bad at the right side. The right side of my pubic region was shaking, it was so scared. She went through the same process again, little tug, little tug, RRRIIIIPPPPPP.  I did not scream nor faint. I could have, but I chose not to.

After the pubic mound had been deforested, it was time to go on to more intimate locales. This involved the spreading of parts and more hot wax and more holding skin taut and more tugging and ripping. It still hurt. Then came the inspection. She got really close to my va-jay-jay and looked around, examining and searching. At one point, I expected her to scream “halloo in there!” to see if there was an echo, or maybe get out a flashlight and look for petroglyphs. Once she was satisfied with her handi-work, which yes, did involve touch up hot wax and subsequent snatching of hair, she was ready to move to the anal region.

“This won’t hurt as bad,” she informed me as she coated my ass with hot wax. Yeah, right, I thought but didn’t say, because, a little piece of advice, it’s not a good idea to piss off the person who is waxing your asshole. When the tugging and pulling and ripping began, I was pleasantly surprised. She was right, it really didn’t hurt as bad. On the scale of things that hurt, it was more than a splinter in your finger but less than having the hair ripped off the front of your pubic region. She treated me to a refreshing mist of witch hazel on my nether regions and stuck a couple of witch hazel soaked paper towels on what used to be my bush before excusing herself so I could change. I re-pantied, paid for my services, slammed back a plastic cup of water, and fled the scene.

At home, I inspected myself with a hand mirror. The first thing I noticed is that I lost a couple of chunks of flesh in the melee. Secondly, the paper towels stuck to my puss were covered in little dots of blood from my angry pores that did not want to give up their follicles. And thirdly, I was looking at my private parts with a mirror.

I called MJ to see how she faired. “Ooh, tell me all about it,” she squealed with delight. So I did, in graphic detail, because she hates to miss any of the good parts. I even told her about the little exfoliating pussy brush I bought, so I can prevent the dreaded ingrown hairs.  ‘Will you take a picture for me?” MJ, as you may recall, has moved to another state, so there would be no opportunity to show her in person, which may or may not have happened, depending on how much I had to drink.

“I am forty-two. Hairless or not, it is not camera ready,” I said. “But enough about me. How was yours?”

“Are you nuts?” she said. “I’m not doing that crazy shit. That shit hurts.”

I guess I won the dare. At least my husband thinks so.

Hell in Georgia

“All I wanted was a freakin’ pretzel!” my daughter E said. Who could blame her? We drove all the way to Helen, Georgia, for some sightseeing and a little October-festing, and not a pretzel to be found in the whole godforsaken town. How was I to know that Helen was going to be a total waste of time? I expected cheesy; it is, after all,  a Bavarian-themed alpine town in the north Georgia mountains. It should have been dripping in fondue, but sadly, it wasn’t. It wasn’t even drenched in beer or drowning in oompah music. Instead, it was much like that boulevard in every town where all the big box chain stores have moved on to newer shopping areas, leaving dilapidated strip malls that fill up instead with odd Asian restaurants, check cashing stores, and head shops. Played out comes to mind, as does used up, road hard and put up wet, and spent. Helen is an old whore.

I had this bright idea, you see. It was fall break from school, and the girls had off for two whole days . We had to be in Atlanta by Friday night for my nephew’s bar mitzvah, but I still wanted to fit in a mini-vacation before the family fun/obligation took over the rest of the weekend. I thought about places between our hometown in South Carolina and Atlanta that we could visit, somewhere that might normally be a day trip that we had yet to explore. Stone Mountain first came to mind, but I rejected it because E is solidly in her anti-nature phase. It’s not that she litters or hates animals. It’s more the idea of hiking and seeing bugs and snakes that makes a trip to a mountain more trouble than it’s worth.   Another possibility was Chateau Elan, a golf resort that isn’t exactly a hotbed of family friendliness since children are frowned upon at both a wine tasting and a day spa. I kept coming back to the idea of Helen. Fake Germany, Oktoberfest, pretzels, all in a redneck mountain too. I figured we could stay in a hotel and really get the local flavor. 

My husband quickly pooh-poohed the idea. “Helen’s boring,” he said. “It’s a day trip at best, but we can’t stay there. All the motels will be disgusting. If you really want to go, let’s just go for the day and stay at your sister’s house.” I didn’t want to do that, since my sister had enough on her plate with the bar mitzvah weekend. The last thing she needed was an extra night of house guests. I also didn’t want to come back home. What kind of a vacation is that? I can’t even sit down in my house unless I hear the washer or dryer running.  We compromised on a night in downtown Atlanta followed by a morning at the Georgia aquarium, in exchange for a full day at Helen.  I booked a hotel room there and got everyone packing for we could leave the next morning.

We all woke up late because the steady rain blocked out the morning rays of the sun. The day could not have been grayer and dingier if it were a movie set in Poland in 1939. Nobody seemed too keen on walking around outside, but I remained optimistic that the rain would pass and leave us with a beautiful day of sightseeing. I knew there were shops to visit, a few small museum type attractions, some gem mining, and even an old village with a grist mill to explore. I took the wheel so that I didn’t have to listen to my children complain about my husband’s driving, and off we went. We drove a good hour before any real whining started, and by that time we were off the interstate and on small Georgia back roads, tooling up the countryside.

Before I knew it, we were at Sautee Village, home an old general store, a winery, and a grist mill. It was also the first stop on the assisted living day trip circuit, which meant that all the bathrooms were occupied and the smell of moth balls hung heavy in the air as my family, the youngest people in the place, picked our way through the candy barrels and overpriced t-shirts. The building was interesting, but that is where it ended, really before it began. It poured rain while we were inside, but let up enough for us to run back to the car and continue into Helen town limits.

When we first turned on into town, we were all excited. Here was what we were looking for, gingerbread cutouts and Tudor facades, with even the fast food restaurants and banks getting in on the theme. I wanted it to look like an Epcot version of Germany, and I wasn’t disappointed as I drove past the edge of town. Then we hit was must have been Main Street. We passed an indoor bear exhibit, a Mexican restaurant, a Korean restaurant, and some candy shops. After a few blocks, we realized that we were the tourist part, which meant that we saw everything Helen had to offer in five minutes.

I turned around and went back to the alpine village area to look for a parking place. No free spots were on the main thoroughfare, and all the lots on the side streets were paid parking lots, which ticked off my husband. After skipping the five dollar lots and the four dollar lots, we found a three dollar lot, parked the car, and got out. We walked up to the main street and decided to head to a little German bakery and café for some lunch.

We were seated and immediately a large woman, a former shot put thrower who now donned a pinafore and a steely look in her eye, handed us menus and took our drink orders. Near us were several elderly tourists and one young unwed mother whose preschool aged child was busy licking the wrapper of a pat of butter. My husband ordered a Reuben, my daughter S ordered the knockwurst after I convinced her it was a hot dog, and my daughter E and I decided to split the German bread basket, the chicken spaetzle soup, and a side order of German potato salad.

When the food finally was served, the Reuben was a sad little sandwich, not even grilled so much as toasted. The skin on the knockwurst freaked out S that I had to peel it off, leaving a pile of thin foreskins on the side of her plate. The spaetzle soup was a thin salty broth with a few noodles floating in it, hardly enough for one of us, let alone to share. And the bread basket? Not a single hot pretzel. It overflowed with standard dinner rolls, some with sesame seeds, some without, none of which look particularly German in origin.  No wonder that kid was eating butter.

We left and began to stroll the town, thinking we could find some nice dessert somewhere, or at the very least, some tasty German chocolate. We stopped in a Dutch imports store after bypassing the frequent and obligatory t-shirt and shot glass stores. S contemplated the tarantula museum, but I said no, figuring it was probably a collection of snakes and spiders belonging to some unmarried 45 year old man with a skullet who still lives in his mother’s basement. We did go in the Hansel and Gretel candy kitchen, but we all lost our appetites inside because it didn’t smell like candy. E said it smelled like a combination of burned oil and a turd, and she was right.  We also skipped the lone fudge store due to the lack of air conditioning but plethora of flies. After spotting a Confederate flag bikini fading in a storefront window, I turned to my husband on the street corner where I stood and loudly declared, “You were right!  Let the record show, you were right!” Behind me, a speaker shaped like a rock crackled with the sound of tuba music. I think I might have shed a small tear.

We got back in the car, not even two hours after our arrival, counting lunch, and headed back down the mountain to return to civilization. I felt good knowing we gave it our all and could feel confident crossing Helen off our must-see list. And after reading this, I certainly hope you will do the same. Because seriously,  there was not one freakin' pretzel in the whole damn town, during October no less. Maybe we should have all had a beer instead.

Kumbaya

I have a hard time settling down, being still, doing nothing. I am sure most mothers have the same issue, that constant to-do list that never seems to go away, probably because we live where we work. It isn't easy to relax when there is always another toilet to scrub or lunch to pack or load of laundry to fold, and no matter how hard I try, I can't ever say that I'm finished doing everything that needs to be done. To say I am busy is like saying Michael Jackson liked kids or had trouble sleeping. But lately, I am finding that even I am scared of my over-busyness, that as much as I frighten my family with my bee-swarm-like level of frenetic activity, I too am afraid of myself. I am turning into the Tasmanian Devil, all spin and weird noises and foaming at the mouth, and for some reason, I no longer think that is a good thing. The funny part is that even as I type this, I have pumpkin squares, matzoh ball soup, two apple cakes and a noodle kugel cooling in the kitchen, along with a load of laundry spinning, a clean and unloaded dishwasher, and a sink devoid of any dishes needing washing. As you can see, it’s a constant struggle for me.

I decided that I needed to do something drastic to take care of myself; I decided  that I needed to learn how to do nothing, to meditate. Calling meditation nothing would offend even Siddhartha, but to me, it is nothing.  It is the calming of the mind, the stopping of thought, the halting of the doing and thinking, and just being. Meditation is not for the faint of heart, but I need to learn to slow down before I implode, and I sure can’t figure out how to do it by myself.  

Meditation for me is more than just a little outside of my comfort zone. I am married to a dentist, and our home is deeply rooted in Western medicine beliefs.  I do enjoy the body-mind connection I feel after yoga, but that is about as far out of the box as we go. To my family, chiropractic is voodoo, so the idea that breathing and chanting and burning incense can bring one inner peace is a hard pill to swallow. And we like to swallow pills, big horse tranquilizer sized pills. I realized this alleged relaxation technique was going to require a whole lot of suspension of disbelief, but I need to do something to stop doing so many somethings. So I signed up for a meditation workshop that was held at my therapist’s office.

Meditation workshops are not all that hard to find, but I imagine a big difference exists between one held at a yoga studio or at Whole Foods versus one held at a therapist’s office. Meditation already has a New Age-y, granola-y sort of connotation, but when you throw together a group of people who found out about the workshop from their therapist, well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the general population.

Two people seemed to know each other, almost as if it were a date. The woman was Indian and quite lovely, and the man was neither. They seemed intimate enough to share a water bottle but not the love seat, so I was very confused. Next to them was a thin man with dark hair and dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he could have been an engineer, a computer person, or a manifesto writer. Another man sat beside him, a large man who seemed used to running meetings and company softball games rather than meditating. The last to arrive was an older lady with grown children. She looked like meditation was another thing to fill her time, along with delivering for Meals on Wheels, knitting, and trying to stay out of the liquor cabinet. The woman running the workshop reminded us that this was a judgment free area. Too late for that.

Six of us attended, each trying to not out-crazy the other ones, which lucky for us wasn’t hard to do with the teacher. She looked normal, whatever that means, but once she started talking, it was apparent that she probably had a few squirrels storing nuts up in her attic. On the floor in the small room where we met she had arranged a collection of objects that could have been a diorama at the hippie museum. A smudge stick, a collection of seashells, prayer beads, finger cymbals, and a candle holder in rainbow colors, providing both light and a tolerance for the gays, were all atop a sheer scarf. She informed us that we didn’t need to have props in order to meditate, but she encouraged us to try it if we thought it would help us create a space. Ha, creating a space. I can barely create a space on the toilet for myself without the whole family stopping by for conversation, let alone carve out a physical spot for my Tibetan singing bowl, my vibraslap, and a scented candle so I can slip into an altered state of being. This whole meditation thing was going to prove more challenging than I thought.

We each introduced ourselves, taking turns explaining why we came to the workshop and then lighting a candle on the gay candle holder.  After we each tried not to set her alter on fire, we sat while she tried to explain what meditation is without using normal words and phrases, which meant none of us had a better understanding of what we were trying to do.

After that, she threw us right into our first attempt at group meditation, which is nothing like an orgy, except for the heavy breathing. Because that was all it was, heavy breathing. We were instructed to breathe in and out of our noses without pausing or hyperventilating. We all closed our eyes and began breathing rhythmically. I concentrated on my breathing, in and out, in and out, until my head began to bob and sway.

When it became clear to me that falling asleep was not in fact meditating, I decided to stop concentrating on my breathing and begin concentrating on everyone else’s.  I was convinced someone else had actually fallen asleep. The only way to be sure was to open my eyes and break the spell, so I snuck a peek at everyone else. They were all doing what they were supposed to do, so I closed my eyes again before anyone noticed me gawking. We kept breathing and breathing and my mind went from mildly distracted to wild racing thoughts. No amount of breathing was going to quiet my head unless it included a can of spray paint or Reddy-Whip.  After forever passed, the teacher’s phone alarm went off, a soothing bell ding, and we all opened our eyes and pretended we were calmer. She asked how we felt, and the businessman said he had to redirect himself from wandering thoughts. The Indian lady said she felt calmer. I said I wanted to bolt from the room.

After all that breathing, we needed a snack break, so we wandered into the waiting room for some trail mix and Lance cracker packs, quietly munching while avoiding eye contact. I had to use the restroom and peed forever, thanks to a nervous bladder and a 20 ounce bottle of Deer Park. Then we resettled ourselves for another round of meditation.

This time the teacher passed out a laminated card with twelve uplifting affirmations we could memorize and say to ourselves at home. For the workshop, she read each affirmation twice for us, allowing us to think and reflect on the words while we cleared our minds of distracting thoughts and feelings. They were positive statements, concerning living in the moment, feeling connected to your physical body, accepting people as they are, that sort of thing. When we hit the fifth one, the weirdest thing happened to me. I started to cry. Not the loud sobbing and choking kind of cry, or the muffled sniffling while lying in bed kind of cry. It was more like a waterfall. I sat there listening to her words, and the next thing I knew, tears spilled down my cheeks, all over my décolletage. It didn’t even register to me that I was crying, and I didn’t feel the need to wipe my eyes. I just was.

After that, I began to feel like I was growing very small, that the loveseat on which I sat was growing larger and larger. It was very Alice in Wonderland. The only way I ever feel like that is when I have a fever. I could hear what the teacher said, so I didn’t feel like I was out of the room, I just felt tiny, surrounded by big cushiony softness.

When she brought us back, she again asked for feedback. The Indian woman said she felt very empowered. She talked about that feeling for a while, which involved the word powerful and power quite a bit. No one else commented, so I shared about my tears and my tiny feeling. The teacher found that very interesting, and thus I established myself as the crazy person in a room full of crazy people.

The teacher talked some more about other meditation techniques, including eating as meditation, which wouldn’t work for us overeaters, and even walking meditation. We had about five minutes left, so she decided to lead us in a nice deep resonating round of Ohm, which is really a combination of three sounds—ah-oh-um, repeated slowly and with purpose. Ohming was nice in a group setting, as we were harmonizing like the Whiffenpoofs. I didn’t feel any closer to peace, but I enjoyed bringing up the alto section of the room.

And with that, we were given some handouts, encouraged to take more snacks, and dismissed. I have to admit, I did feel calmer than when I got there. Of course, I had to drive in rush hour traffic to the other side of town by 5:30, then sat in a dark room, breathed myself into a nap, had a deep cleansing cry, a handful of dried apricots, and sang a little tune. It was like the perfect day in preschool. How could I not be calmer? Trying it at home, however, that will be another story altogether, another story for another day.

Namaste.

Purging

If ever there were a better metaphor than a collection of half empty freezer burned ice cream containers, then I can’t think of it. I am fully aware that I said half empty, which for ice cream is more optimistic than it sounds. A glass half full is supposed to sound all optimistic, but if whatever was in it is good, wouldn’t it be better if it were half empty? Ditto for the ice cream containers. Ice cream is yummy, so if the containers are half empty, that is a good thing, right?

Back to the metaphor, which yes, is good, but only if you know what it means, which I don’t. I wasn’t waxing poetic about ice cream containers today. I was cleaning out my freezer. I took out all the half-used bags of frozen fruit (we like a good smoothie in this house), the errant ice cubes that jumped out of the ice maker bin onto the shelves below, the multiple open boxes of veggie burgers with one shriveled patty in them, and of course, the ice creams. I counted four unfinished cartons of vanilla—French vanilla, old fashioned vanilla, vanilla bean, plain vanilla. With those were the unpopular flavors, the Ben and Jerry’s Crème Brulee, the odd mango sorbet, the ancient container of lime sherbet from a few years ago when my husband was all into making cherry limeade floats. The sweetness of life, partially enjoyed, and then shoved deeper into the coldness, neglected, growing hard, stale, and flavorless, until today, when I melted them in the sink, crushed their cartons, and freed up space for new ice creams.

I next turned my attention to the refrigerator door, because if there is an equivalent to freezer burned ice cream, it is, without doubt, the condiments. These required more effort to purge because it takes effort to figure out how old is too old when it comes to salad dressings. Hunting for the printed expiration dates is tricky if any dressing dripped down the sides of the bottle, as the oily residue eats through ink on the label. And jellies, seedless blackberry and seedless raspberry and good old Concord grape and fancy fig orange marmalade that paired perfectly with goat cheese at a party back in 2010. How old is too old? Well, I don’t know, to be honest, but I do know that my daughter is in a peanut-free classroom this year and peanut butter isn’t pairing with anything this season. Gone too went the two bottles of capers, as if one unused bottle weren’t enough, the old black olives, the even older green olives, the bottle with one oil-soaked sundried tomato clinging to the very bottom. What to do with any of them, used once upon a time in this or that recipe, other than to toss them?

Don’t worry; I rinsed out all the bottles and jars and filled my recycling bin at the same time I filled my garbage disposal.  I watched the melted ice creams swirl down the drain, then poured the old Passover wine and Sprite from the last stomach virus on top of them, which left an unusual stain on the white porcelain sink, and an even worse smell wafting from the pipes. So I scrubbed the sink clean, put some orange peel in the garbage disposal, and removed all evidence of the mess that I made.

It’s so much brighter in the refrigerator, and the blast of cold from the freezer hits you unfettered now that all the detritus has been removed. Hmmm, maybe this is the part where the metaphor makes sense. There is something very liberating about being free, unburdened, from whatever you traps you and blocks out the light. Bad habits. Unfulfilling choices. Loss, sadness, hurt, anger, pain. I tend to sweat the small stuff, and if you think about it, what is more insignificant than an old jar of mustard? It is easy to part with, to feel no remorse. It leaves you with room to try something new, like the curry paste. You might end up throwing that one away too, next year, but then again, it might be your new favorite.