What Every Woman Longs To Hear

In preparation for the big trip, I had my eyebrows professionally waxed for the first time in... well, a long ass time. You see, I've had my fair share of bad experiences with letting others touch my already-sparse brow line with utensils such as hot wax or tweezers, and quite frankly I'd rather let someone maim me with a dull and rusty pitchfork than mutilate the only things keeping my eyelids from touching my forehead.

In my younger years, I have to admit that I was a wee bit tweeze-happy, and over did it on more than one occasion. In response, my eyebrows decided that they would grow back sparse and patchy with long, individual hairs poking out in every different direction; the end result not unlike some pre-pubescent boy's pathetic attempt to grow a sexy porn 'stach. Once I had successfully eradicated every hair on my upper brow save two or three lonely strays, I would chastise myself and hide the tweezers for a few weeks, swearing to never step near them again. But my resolve would quickly fade as soon as the hair started growing back farther and farther away from my actual brow line and I was like, I DO NOT WANT TO BE ONE OF THOSE WOMEN WHO CONSIDERS THE AREA BETWEEN MY EARLOBE AND NOSE TO BE AN ACCEPTABLE PLACE FOR FACIAL HAIR. And so the cycle repeated.

One time, after a particularly ugly bout with the tweezers, I had proudly let my brows grow out for several weeks. It was at this time that I had an appointment for a facial, and while the lady was fervently working to empty every pore on my god forsaken face (NOT an enviable task, if I do say so myself), she casually asked, "You want me fix your eyebrow?"

"NO!" I quickly responded. "No offense, but I'm trying to grow them out."

"Oooooh, I see," she said, "How about I just trim them rittle bit?"

"Well, okay," I conceded. "But just clean them up around the edges."


Several minutes later, she hands me a mirror to inspect her handiwork. I honestly thought it was a motherfucking TRICK MIRROR because I was missing HALF OF MY RIGHT EYEBROW. It was just GONE. Like, poof- no more. Now I know that I can pluck myself a little skimpy at times, but for the love of all things holy, HALF AN EYEBROW? Why not just gouge my right cornea out, too, while you're at it? Come to think of it, I guess I won't be needed that entire half of my face anymore! BE GONE WITH YE, FEATURES OF LITTLE WORTH!

Needless to say, I was furious, and never let another soul touch my eyebrows again. Until a few years ago when, once again, I renewed my membership to the Tweezer-inept Hall of Shame by designing myself a pair of eyebrows to rival Joan Rivers'. All of my friends SWORE by waxing, promising me that it was virtually fool proof and so very easy. I was desperate for someone other than myself, standing two inches from a magnified mirror while leaning to one side and squinting, to shape my brows, so I agreed to give it a go. (Keep in mind that after the facial faux-pas, my right eyebrow was NEVER THE SAME AGAIN, so I was quite nervous about anyone touching what remained of the hair on that side of my face). After my first waxing experience, I closely resembled a burn victim who had donned a pair of firey eye patches, because the areas directly above AND below my brows were not only hairless, but skinless and crispy as well. It was at this point that I asked myself, WHY DO I KEEP PAYING PEOPLE TO MANGLE MY FACE?

It has been years since that incident, and during that time I have managed to successfully groom my facial hair in a socially acceptable fashion without any life threatening injuries or gross deformities. However, in celebration of our recent Vegas trip, and in frustration at my ever-expanding brow line (WHY WON'T THEY JUST GROW WHERE THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO?!), I decided to give the waxing another go.

I went to a place far, far away from the place where I get my nails done because, quite frankly, I LIKE those girls and if I were to lose vision and/or depth perception in one or both of my eyes because of their shitty wax job, I would have to stop going there to get my nails done which is a sacrifice I'm not prepared to make since they're like, within spitting distance from my front door. Besides, they are all in their early twenties at best and judging from the way they speak, I'm fairly convinced they come to work drunk on a regular basis- pregnant one included.

So I went to a different salon, paid my 10 bucks for the eyebrow wax, and laid down upon the Table of Doom. The lady came into the room and abruptly asked me, "You want jus eyebrow or eyebrow and lip?" I responded with, "No thank you, just eyebrow. I don't need my lip waxed." Seriously, do I LOOK like a menopausal woman with an overgrowth of facial hair to you? I happen to think that of all places on my body, the area between my nose and mouth looks pretty damn good. You won't catch me dead in a skimpy bikini, but dammit I flaunt my naked upper lip proudly on a fairly regular basis. I'm just a risk taker like that.

"You sure?" she continued, "Because, you got lot of hair on you lip, lady."

AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS WHAT EVERY WOMAN LONGS TO HEAR. Especially right before a stranger rips away your dignity along with the very last stray hair from your furrowed little brow. If there is a God in heaven, I implore you, HELP ME. No one ever told me that growing up involves pouring hot wax on sensitive body parts that you never dreamed would need de-hairing. Thanks, mom, for leaving this important nugget of knowledge out of our Facts of Life discussion ten years ago. Now look where it's gotten me- I am a lady with a lot of hair on my lip, AND I HAD TO HEAR IT FROM A STRANGER!


Viva Las Vegas!

On Sunday, Kam and I will be celebrating his birthday, sinner style, in the wonderful Las Vegas, Nevada. We both enjoyed our first trip to Vegas several years back on Kam's 21st birthday. We traveled with his family, including his parents, two siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and several cousins under the age of 10. Personally, I think that CPS should seriously consider launching an investigation on any parent who brings their young, impressionable offspring to a city like LAS VEGAS, because let's face it, we all know that when they got home, those kids were eating saltine cracker and maple syrup sandwiches for a week while their broke ass parents tended to the hangovers and sexually transmitted infections they brought back from that dirty, disgusting city. Sorry kids, we'll have to live without electricity for a few weeks; mommy's going for another round of craps!

Las Vegas will seriously steal your soul the moment you step off the airplane and spot the display of slot machines stretching from the terminal all the way to baggage claim, and if you have the cajones to ask for your soul back before re-boarding the plane on your way home, Las Vegas will laugh at your insolence and spit in your face. Yeah, Las Vegas is hard core like that, which is exactly why I can't wait to go back.

Vegas is designed for folks like Kam and I who were blessed with genetics that easily predispose us to addiction. Kam's got his cigarettes, I've got my ice cream, and, as we soon realized, we've both got excessive gambling. The second we laid eyes on the Wheel of Fortune slot machines, our pants became soiled, our eyes glazed over, our mouths began frothing, and hundreds of dollars just started disappearing from our pockets. By the end of the first night, we were broke and on the verge of tears, and enduring some wicked D.T.'s from our abrupt retreat from the slot machines. Subsequently, we were forced to self-medicate with copious amounts of alcohol to alleviate some of the withdrawal symptoms. It seemed a fair trade off.

It was about the third night of our trip, and we were so broke and depressed and perpetually drunk that we decided to order room service and charge a butt load of merchandise from the gift shop to Kam's parents' bill. This merchandise included but was not limited to: thong underwear, shot glasses, jewelry, t-shirts, ash trays, decks of cards, key chains, fuzzy rear-view mirror dice, a hooka, an econo-sized bag of Doritos, Red Bull, several mini bottles of Jagermeister and Crown Royal, and a fifth of vodka. We took our loot back to the room and commenced to partying. Those in attendance at said party included Kam, myself, Kam's slightly older sister and their 17-year-old brother, Dillon. We "adults" who were of age heartily imbibed a delectable concoction of Red Bull and Jager, while we permitted Kam's younger brother to experience the wonders of Smirnoff, straight from the styrofoam cups found in the hotel's bathroom. Little did we know, Kam's younger sibling, who was in no way schooled in the art of HARD LIQUOR, was chugging that vodka like it was the last ounce of beer at a fraternity kegger. Before we knew it, Dillon was slurring his words and drunk dialing hookers from the many pamphlets featuring nude hermaphrodites engaged in compromising positions with one of Siegfried and Roy's "Royal White Tigers" that are relentlessly forced upon tourists as they innocently traverse the strip on their way to numerous titty bars. Yes, my friends, poor little Dillon was DRUNK, and it was all our fault.

After Dillon battled with and lost to a bag of snack chips, consequently eating dozens of Doritos off the floor and hiding the rest in the nightstand next to the Holy Bible, Kam decided to go back to the gift store for, yes you guessed it, MORE LIQUOR. His sister and I demanded that he take DD (Drunk Dillon) with him, since we were in no mood to babysit and also wanted to rifle through the pamphlets featuring partially nude firemen, construction workers and IT guys while they were gone.

We had recently discovered (and HOW) that our hotel was hosting some sort of Swingers' Convention at the exact same time as our stay there. It is important to note here that the type of "Swinger" who attends a Swingers' Convention at the Aladdin in Las Vegas is NOT the type of "Swinger" that you or I want to run into in the dimly lit hallway at 4 a.m. Especially not the "Swinger" who stayed across the hall from us; a lady in her 50's who rocked an awesome LEG CAST AND WALKING CANE along with her Swingers' regalia (which consisted of an eye patch and a couple of strategically placed feathers). All of the scantily clad "Swingers" we encountered during our stay have probably been or will be in the very near future one of my patients, if you catch my drift. They were OLD. Very, very old. So old that the flapper costume I saw one of them wearing was probably an actual outfit she wore to a Pimps 'N Hos theme party during her college years.

At any rate, Kam and Baby D braved the dangerous and rugged terrain on their trek back to the gift store, and unfortunately ended up trapped in an elevator with a group of "Swingers", dressed to the nines with their oxygen tanks and Depends undergarments. The women immediately began ogling the two young men, and began lunging forward in an attempt to kiss them with their wrinkled and trembling old lady lips. As soon as the elevator opened on another floor, Kam took the opportunity to dash out of the elevator to safely escape the advances these senior citizens/sexual predators, but when he looked back, Dillon had not followed him. As the elevator doors began to close, Kam watched in horror as the women formed a circle around poor Dillon and began to move in for the kill. Amidst it all, Kam could see poor DD's eyes widen with fright as he reached towards the elevator doors and slowly mouthed the word, "NOOOOOOOOO!" But it was too late; he was trapped.
Kam quickly descended the stairs and met the wayward elevator on the ground level. When the doors opened, only Dillon remained inside, backed into a corner, shivering and disoriented. His clothes were torn and dirty, his hair was mussed, and he had lipstick marks all over his face and neck. When questioned about what happened when the young boy was left alone to defend himself against the pack of elderly hyenas, Dillon claimed that he didn't remember. However, he did deliver a rather harsh tongue-lashing to Kam about leaving him alone on the elevators with the "Swingers" and their out of control menopausal libidos. Baby D spent the rest of the evening crouched over the toilet as his body rejected an entire bottle of vodka that he had consumed in less than an hour. Kam, however, had to wonder whether it was the liquor or the sexual assault of half a dozen old geezers that was truly more vomit-inducing for the poor lad.

So wish us luck as we squander our lives, our money, our souls and our sexual purity away in the city of sin. Also wish my boyfriend a happy birthday, because he turns 23 tomorrow! Happy birthday sweetie, here's to NO SWINGERS at our hotel this time around.


Go Ahead Envy Me, I'm Rap's MVP.

This week I received two pleasant surprises in the mail from fellow bloggers. The first was a series of of items from Home Detention Lady which made me question whether she got really drunk when she went to the post office and confused my package with the one she was simulatenously mailing to Jomama. Not that Jomama would WANT this stuff, but perhaps she might have a better idea of what one should DO with it. The other item came from the lovely Krankipantzen, who sent me a medley of homemade CD's which I have been jamming to while tooling around town in the MINI Cooper (of which she is so fond).

The following is a pictoral representation of what two white honkies in Texas tried to do when their culturally savvy Minnesotan friend mailed them several items for which they lacked the cultural knowledge or jerry curl to effectively utilize. Nevertheless, we tried our best to do with these items what we thought would illicit the most laughs and gasps of horror and disbelief. This is our story.

These were some of the items we found when we opened the package that arrived from someone in Minnesota named "Megadeth". Not pictured are the Twins brand peanuts (which, much to my dismay, had nothing to do with the Olsens or even the Doublemints, but rather some lame ass fucking baseball team in Minnesota), a Spongebob sponge, cat toys, many CD's, a post card, a can of fucking carrots, and a diamond studded pair of underwear labeled JUST MARRIED which will not be pictured here because Kam got so creeped out by them that the moment he saw the word MARRIED he tossed them out the window like a toothless Ukranian hooker with genital warts. Though a diamond studded thong was NOT Kam's idea of a good time, a do-rag and bee's wax, on the other hand, were right up his alley. So the fun began.

No, I'm not constipated. I'm trying to look "HARD", like I'm "FROM THE STREETS". This was Kam's mantra throughout the entire photoshoot, that I needed to stop smiling and start acting Gangsta. This is my gangsta face, so you ninjas better quit laughin' or else I'll pull out my nine a leave a couple shells where yo mouf used to be.

After this photo, I left Kam to his own devices with the camera while I went into the bathroom to try to fashion together some semblance of a hair 'do with the "Silky & Jumbo Braid". Now it's only fair that I note here that while the Silky & Jumbo braid was indeed JUMBO, it was in no way silky nor a braid. It was more like an enormous, matted mass of what I seriously think might have at one time been a giant ponytail fashioned from Elvira's pubic hair. It was OUT OF CONTROL. I immediately began questioning the quality of the Silky & Jumbo pubictail when the strands started breaking off and falling all over the place and I even used a few of them as dental floss to successfully remove some popcorn kernels from my molars. I guess that's what you get for buying hair from the dollar store. I should consider myself lucky that I got some coconut flavored dental pubes out of the deal. So as I was struggling with the Elviranesha hair piece, Kam was keeping himself occupied in other ways:

This is where I started to note that Kam was taking this thing a little too seriously.

Like WAY too seriously.

Soon enough he got bored with his do-rag shenanigans and decided to join me in the bathroom where I was fervently trying to attach the hair to my scalp. "You're not doing it right," he announced. "Oh yeah, and how would you know?" I retorted. "Because, T and I went to Braid Experts the other day, and while he was getting his hair did, the ladies at the shop showed me how to do weave."


Yes, my boyfriend actually took time out of his day to LEARN HOW TO "DO" WEAVE. This is disturbing on so many levels. But not quite as disturbing as the hairstyle he eventually gave me which, he declared, is "for the bitches who have big ass fiveheads."

I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, though as Seymore once sang before feeding body parts to giant talking plant, "I have so many strong reservations".

I didn't like my natural hair that much anyway. It'll grow back.

And in the meantime, I can just use this lovely new hair style to cover up the carnage.

This is the end result. You can call me Beyonce, and this is my baby boy Jay-Z.

We're from the streets of H-Town.

I call this one, "The Combover".

Kam calls this one, "Third Coast, Where Ya At?"

It's a thug life, but knowledge is power, yo.

He's a dirty, dirty boy.

I hope you enjoyed. Lord knows we did, and will continue to do so whenever the mood strikes us to engage in some Bobby and Whitney sexual role playing fantasies. You bring the pipe, baby!


Fats & Fats: Happy Hour Edition

Me: "Do you want to order some chicken wangs?"

Fats: "I always say yes to wangs."

There you have it my friends, take it from Fats, an intelligent and highly educated woman who just earned her master's degree. Let's all take a moment to express our congratulations to the Grand Master Wang. She is indeed a seasoned scholar proficient in wang utilization.

Furthermore, I would like to extend my deepest apologies to Miss Marit who was unfortunate enough to bear witness to my drunkeness last night via an IM conversation in which I bestowed upon her the most becoming nickname of "Dyke Lightning" right before I was disconnected from the internet by the neighbor from whom I steal my wireless access. I hope you can forgive me, Marit, because I don't really think you're a dyke and I would gladly hump your red hair even if it WASN'T shaved on the sides with a lightning bolt insignia carved into your skull. That's just the kind of friend I am.


VH1 Behind The Fatness: How I Became Fat

Most of you know by now that my childhood best friend and I call one another "Fats" on a regular basis. In fact, I'd be so bold to suggest that at this point neither one of us actually knows the other one's REAL name. Eventually, we were even known as Fats to one another's family members. Well, either Fats or That Annoying Child Whom I Did Not Birth But Might As Well Have Because She Spends Every Waking Moment At My House. It's even gotten to the point where we refer to each other as Fats on such a regular basis that when we meet one another's college friends, they feel right at ease referring to this random person that they just met as Fats.

Although many people have had the privilege of meeting one of the illustrious Fats', few have heard the legend behind the moniker. I am here to share that tale with you now.

It was 7th grade, the wee early ages of our friendship, when Fats and I were hanging out at our middle school long after the dismissal bell had rung (yes, we were those kids). Actually, her mom worked at the school so rather than subjecting ourselves to the bodily injury and psychological trauma that is associated with public school transportation, we usually waited for her mother to get off work and take us home in the trusty Suburban; the only place where we were free to belt out the lyrics to Alanis Morisette songs with all of the emotional angst of any 13-year-old who knows with absolute certainty that going down on someone in a theatre is unequivocally linked to true love. Some days, Fats' little sister Stephie would walk over from the elementary school across the street (passing through government subsidized project housing, miles of police crime scene tape, and a few human-shaped chalk outlines along the way) and join us in our wait, much to our teenaged dismay. One day, while waiting in the Suburban for her mom to emerge and drop us off at the mall for a little Gadzook's and Claire's shopping spree, Fats had sufficiently pissed Stephie off to the point that she screamed out a rebuttal, something along the lines of, "OH YEAH? WELL YOU SUCK, MRS. PANTY PANTS MAN!!!"

This only incited more laughter from Fats and myself, who then began calling one another Mrs. Panty Pants Man while marveling at the stupidity of our younger siblings and wondering why God was so generous to bless the eldest children in our two families with enough brains to memorize the lyrics to every Nirvana song ever written and enough beauty to get away with wearing Gumby suspenders with a Partridge Family t-shirt, Mervyn's brand acid washed jeans and Keds every day for an entire year. It was not long after this that my own sister, only a few years younger than Stephie, began to generate her own neologistic form of name calling.

One day I caught my five-year-old Jamaican sister watching her favorite movie, Forrest Gump, for the FIFTIETH time that day (yes, we are products of stellar parenting, however did you guess?) Only this time, she was not only sitting with her face six inches from the screen (common), reciting every line of the movie in her lispy five-year-old baby talk (tragically common) and reenacting scenes from the movie with GI Joes and barbies (so common that it will undoubtedly be the topic of many of her future adult psychotherapy sessions), but this time she took it a step further. This time, I caught her with her mouth pressed up against the TV screen, MAKING OUT WITH FORREST GUMP. And even though it probably scarred her for life, the situation was simply too prime for me to pass up. I had to tease her about it. I teased, and I teased, and I teased and I teased. Then I heckled, cajoled and tormented, just for good measure. "Do you really want to get involved with a single father? Does his breath smell like chocolates? Will the halfway house let him out long enough for yall to get married? I sure hope you like shrimp."

Finally I had pissed her off the point where her face turned bright red and she started holding her breath in preparation for the blood curdling scream she was about to let loose. I waited to hear what she was about to dish out.


Fatty Fat Fat Fat? That was the best she could come up with? I immediately dialed my best friend to share the news. She found this particularly entertaining because at the time, yours truly was nothing more than a stick with an afro. I was so skinny that homeless people used to offer ME food. Those of you who look at my NOW well endowed taa-taa's and are jealous, DON'T BE. I can still vividly recall a not-so-long-ago time when I was in HIGH SCHOOL and still shopping at Limited Too because I had no proportions with which to fill out regular sized teenage garb. Teachers, friends and strangers were constantly lecturing me on the dangers of eating disorders, and sometimes random people would even follow me into the restroom to spy on me whilst performing my stallarly activities. One girl tried for three years to convince me that I had a really bad case of Mono. The marching band drumline nicknamed me Sticks and, as a gesture of their blatant repugnance, would offer me all of their their broken drum sticks after each Friday night half time performance. In short, I was anything BUT fat, and the idea that my sister would call me fat not once but FOUR TIMES IN A ROW was beyond humorous to my dear friend.

From that moment on we relentlessly referred to one another as Fatty Fat Fat Fat, which was soon shortened to Fatty, then Fatso and now just Fats (though often manipulated into other names, such as Fat Ass, Fat One, Fat Loser, Fat Whore, Fat Bitch, Her Fatness, etc). My sister STILL refers to me as Fats, FYI, and I still refer to her as a stupid Jamaican bitch and we call it even.

Tune in next week for the story of how I got my OTHER nickname, "Nighty". (Go ahead, I DARE you to try and guess.)

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?