My mom is too smart for her own good. We were out on the boat last night when she kissed me on the cheek and said

M- You need to start asking for what you want. Quit apologize for wanting the things that make you happy. You deserve them, but be specific.

J- I hate women that pack around a list of must-haves. Yuck. Unless you’re willing to fit into someone else’s list, don’t make one of your own.

M- Well how has that been working for you?

Good point mom…. good point. So I’m selling out and making my own list.

The perfect boyfriend checklist

  • He must be able to kiss… and with some amount of thought and inspiration behind it. No scary teeth and NO timid little pointy tongues. Gag. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s what makes me cheat. When I don’t like kissing the person I’m with… trouble is on the horizon. I even told my last boyfriend I hated how he kissed me one night. We were drinking margaritas with dinner and I asked him if he’d let me teach him. Didn’t go so well…
  • He must love his mother….and I must love her too. My ex is a dear friend- and he taught me a very good lesson. If you don’t absolutely adore his mother? Run like hell. Even after being divorced for 7 years, I STILL have to put up with the Troll. I can’t stress this enough.
  • He must want to work. I’ve spent enough time with a lazy hippy- and I never want to do it again. HUGE bonus points if he wears a suit to work. Yummy. I’ll happily iron.
  • He must love kids, dogs & extended family. I’ve been accused of being a Martha clone. I love holidays and I love to cook. I love Sunday family dinners and all that goes along with it. He must love it- not just endure it or suffer through it. My mom’s boyfriend said “I could hang out with your Grandma all day, I think you’re incredible for spending this time with her”. See what I mean? That kind. The one who loves the idea of Grandma coming over for dinner.
  • He must be a carnivore… in every sense. No whiny food allergy boys either. Like I said, I’ve paid my hippie dues already.
  • He must love to eat- and love what I cook. I dated the nicest guy who would close his eyes and moan while he ate what I made for dinner. I would have cooked anything for him- and he would have eaten all of it. Not only did he eat well… he generally had me for dessert because I was high on appreciation. Smart guy.
  • He must be my friend. I can’t imagine being with someone I don’t really “like” ever again. You have to be able to have fun together regardless of how bad a situation is. If you’re friends, that’s easy.
  • He must be confident– or at least fake it convincingly. Timid men make me nauseous.
  • He must be jealous– or at the very least protective. Nothing is exciting about a guy who’d be willing to share you.
  • He must have a healthy sex drive. Seriously. No old men either- unless he comes armed with a prescription. It took years in my last relationship to negotiate the slippery slope of erectile dysfunction. I don’t want to do it again.
  • He must be able to dance…otherwise I’m going to want to dance with someone else when we’re out together.
  • He must send flowers, write love notes & surprise me. I get bored easily, be careful.
  • He must know how to cook so it’s not always me doing the cooking….and not just macaroni & cheese either. My ex liked to make brown rice with overcooked veggies & peanut sauce. Puke. I was happy to do all the cooking because it meant I wouldn’t have to eat what he’d made.
  • He must be patient…because I’m a tornado of… everything. I love to sew… knit… garden… build stuff… etc.
  • He must be a good dad if he has kids. Overly permissive parents annoy the hell out of me. Also it would help for someone to understand that my ex is still a member of my family.
  • He must do what he says he’s going to do. Integrity isn’t optional with me.
  • He must make me forget every other man I’ve ever known. See? There’s always some impossibly crazy thing on these lists…but if I’m locking myself into captivity again, it had damn well better be worth it.

Along those lines… there are a few deal breakers too.

  • He can’t smoke. Ugh. Nasty. Never ever again.
  • He can’t be an alcoholic, and he can’t be sober. I want to be able to have a drink, but I don’t want a disaster.
  • He can’t cheat. Like I said before, I will only work to torture him if he does.
  • He can’t be lazy, dirty or lack ambition. IE: no hippies.
  • He can’t have a crazy ex or baby-mama-drama. I dealt with the antichrist of ex-girlfriends for 6 years and every day that I wake up and don’t have to hear about her is another beautiful day in paradise. He also can’t have bratty kids.
  • He can’t be a sissy, or be afraid to get dirty.
  • He can’t be retired or work from home. I’d lose my mind having a man underfoot all day long.
  • He can’t want to live here forever. Some of us don’t LOVE Sandpoint. Some of us have been here FOREVER and would love a break. Some of us HATE snow. I’d be blissfully happy if I could wear a cute little sundress every day and not ruin the heels of my shoes in all that ice & water. I hate boot season.

We shall see… I’m not convinced it’s possible but if this guy existed?

I’d work overtime to make him the happiest man on earth.

If you’re not Brazillian…

Don’t wax like one. If you never listen to another thing I say, ever again, fine… but trust me on this one.

Avoid it at all costs.

A friend of mine was getting married, and she insisted I go with her to the spa for the day. I’m not a huge fan of strangers touching my naked body- but oh well- one must always do what the bride wants. It’s karmic law.

It was my first day in San Diego and I knew with the partying ahead it’d be good to have a nice peaceful day. They handed us bathrobes & flutes of champagne when we walked in the door. Ah. Morning drinking- the universal sign of a vacation. It had officially begun. We had our nails done, eyebrows, massage…. and drank a bottle of champagne between us- at least. We were giggling like a bunch of prom queens, when they came to get us for our waxing.

S- She’d like a Brazilian.

J- Yeah- and a new car. Shut up.

S- Yes, you do- now quit being such a country bumpkin and throw your stupid razor away. Aren’t you tired of always shaving it? Try it out- it’s not that bad. You’ll be hooked for life.

J- Oh alright- fine.

Famous last words, as they say.

The woman led me back to some nice quiet room with what appeared to be a regular massage style table.

W- He’ll be right in.

J- Excuse me? He?

W- Yes, Matthew. You can go ahead and undress if you’d like.

Uh no… I would not like… I would much rather get the rest of my clothes on and get the hell out of dodge. See what happens to me when I’m a freaking pushover? I end up in these situations ALL the time. I sit nervously on the edge of the table… crossing every single available limb. Willing my endangered pubes to fall out spontaneously before Matt gets there.

No luck… they’re oh-so-firmly planted and not leaving without a fight. (I still get goosebumps even typing that sentence.)

He comes in and is fucking gorgeous- of course- and I have to bail.

J- I’m sorry- but I have to draw the line at a hot guy doing this. Sorry.

M- Relax, I’ve seen a million and besides, I’m gay. Have you had a chance to decide from the menu?

J- Oh that makes it all better. The menu… that’s hysterical. Just take it all off. No cute little heart shaped landing strip for me, thanks.

M- Ok…Relax- it’ll all be over in a second.

Oh goody…more famous last words.

M- Ok. Hand me your robe- and get on your knees on the table. Great… now relax and rest on your elbows…

Oh. My. Fucking. Hell. You’ve got to be kidding me. Don’t get me wrong- I’m fond of this position but generally there’s a wild naked man behind me… not a beautiful gay man holding hot wax.Relax… ha fucking ha. Yeah. Like that’s ever going to happen with your naked ass in the air.

I must mention…there are places on your body that feel heat differently. Tender spots… like your asshole. Holy Christ on the Cross- it burns like you’ve been shot or something. Yikes. I bite my lips to keep from shouting “NEVERMIND” It’s too late.  I fight to relax and not shriek every time he puts more wax on… but damn it to hell- it’s HOT.

However. I should have relaxed. I should have laid my head down and enjoyed the fiery paste being applied… because it was NOTHING compared to the white hot suffering about to commence.

M- Ready?

J- No… maybe we should just wash them off.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. I can’t help it, I yelled. So would you.

J- FUUUuuuck. Omg…

To call it waxing is so wrong…. and everything Brazilian is good- something that also makes the name of this procedure completely misleading.

This is good old fashioned torture. Plain and simple. If they’d thought to use this method at Guantanamo we’d have had Osama Bin Laden in seconds.  The pain is unreal- blinding even. As with any waxing- it’s over pretty quickly once they have those little cotton strips on… but my experience prior to this only included legs & eyebrows…

I was afraid to look down at first- absolutely positive he’d torn off my clitoris with one of those evil waxy strips. My poor little vagina- she’s all red and sad. I’m wondering what sick fuck thought this up anyway- and I’m silently blessing my Gillette razor- which will forever have a job with me.

He spreads some sort of gel on my skin after all the torture has ended- which takes some of the sting out. Sort of. Ouch. Holy silky vagina, batgirl… it is pretty cool.

M- That wasn’t so bad, now was it.

J- Worse- but like the Gynocologist- over now, so I can get on with my life.  Thank you- you’ll be the only man I ever do that with.

M- Don’t say that yet- try it out and see first. Have a great vacation.

What they don’t tell you is that it transforms you into Miss Silkymuff Nakedsnatch after this procedure. It has you strutting around, willing any man to challenge you correctly enough that he gets to see the magnificence of your sacrifice. Come on…please- make my day so I can make yours. I could never drink Grey Goose with a fresh Brazilian wax- I’d end up starring in a porno.

Again… famous last words 🙂