I’ve been processing some heavy material in my brain lately and I’m just not ready to write about it. I’m emotionally and mentally constipated and I can’t even manage to put pen to paper in my journal. What I need is a laxative for my brain. Oh, wait, that’s right – it’s called Pyrat Rum. Maybe I’ll have a little tonight and try to get to the bottom of what’s going on upstairs.
On an entirely different note. I’ve been psyching myself up for my first Brazilian wax. I keep telling myself I should do it while I’m not likely to be getting laid anyway – So, I went to the spa and blurted it out quickly (incase I would change my mind at the last minute).
The snobby young woman looked at me, and even though I was taller by about 4 inches, she managed to make me feel like she was looking down at me.
“Brazilian waxes are illegal in Utah.” She said, and rolled her eyes a little.
“Illegal? Like parking in the handicap spot illegal? Or decapitating your ex-husband illegal?”
“As in we don’t do Brazilian waxing because it’s illegal.”
Crap. I’d totally been mentally prepping myself to have everything yanked out by the root. I’m never going to have this kind of courage (or stupidity) again.
“Where’s the nearest place that can do it? Idaho?”
“I think it’s technically illegal there too. But if you’re desperate you can drive to Vegas.”
“Can you do just the Bikini line?” I asked.
She was clearly losing patience with me, and sighed before replying. “Nothing below the belt or above the mid-thigh. You’re obviously not from around here.”
“Portland, actually.”
“Ohhhh.” She said as though THAT explained everything.
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