Waxing Helena

I must admit that being the only male therapist at a Salon and Day Spa has many advantages. Besides the daily caressing strokes to the ego, (and free haircuts), I am also commonly privy to classified female secrets and behaviors. However, working in this environment also means that I am frequently exposed to conversations that would shrivel the average man’s testicles to the size of raisins. Commencing Operation Testicular Atrophy. . . . . .

I got into a very interesting conversation yesterday with Bubbles, our newest esthetician, about the whole process of body waxing and hair removal while I waited for my next client. She excitedly told me vivid stories about some of the things they had to do to each other in esthetician school. With immense intrigue, as though I were learning the truth about UFO’s (or smurfs), I listened to how she was taught this dark and mysterious form of torture and what she does to her clients. Holding nothing back, she explained in great detail how no area of flesh goes un-waxed in a Brazilian wax. Apparently, this procedure is similar to the more common bikini wax, however everything from the labia majora to the anus is stripped of its hair, except for a pretty little patch of pubes right above the *VULVA, in which designs are often stenciled in like the back of Bobby Brown’s head.

And then she spoke words that pierced through my very soul. She started talking about how men get their balls waxed too. Slightly wincing at the thought of such discomfort I said, “Surely you are joking madam”. I mean, what man in their right mind would voluntarily pour scalding hot wax on the thinnest, most sensitive area of skin on their entire body, to then have the hairs violently ripped up from their roots, like a hungry gorilla would pull up vegetation? “And that’s not all,” she exclaimed with augmenting enthusiasm. Oh yippee, you mean there’s more? “They also get their asses done too,” she said with a huge grin. “It’s called a “crack and sack”, or a Brazilian for men,” she said leaning towards me as she beamed. How cute. “I, uh, think my client’s here. I gotta go”, I stammered.

Round one . . . . . .Bubbles.



*or for those of you who are sticklers for correct anatomical references, the mons pubis (Latin, pubic mound), or simly mons. Also known specifically to human females as mons veneris (Latin, mound of Venus).

Hiring Squad

We hired a new esthetician, who for now I shall name Bubbles. She’s young, cute, witty, and incredibly funny. Yes, Bubbles has an incredible sense of humor. I haven’t surmised the exact origin of this talent (perhaps from male siblings), but I am intrigued. Very few women, particularly the younger ones, can rival my multifaceted humor, but she does so rather impressively.

I’ve waited a few weeks before mentioning her, because for some reason or another, the Spa industry has high turnover rates and I wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to stay. Our last therapist was a no-call no-show for two weeks, but somehow found time to visit her Myspace page from the morgue (well I’m assuming). Why would anyone not want to be in a beautiful and serene work environment centered around personal wellness where we also exchange services amongst ourselves, so you never have to pay for another massage or facial for as long as you live? I have clients that would donate their limbs for that (well I’m assuming).

Bubbles and I have exchanged small talk regularly in between clients, learning each others back grounds and what we like about our jobs. I’ve learned that she has an obsession with hair removal. Personally I think she’s addicted. She’s confessed that her boyfriend is her guinea pig and she regularly waxes his back and legs. She’s already had me stroke the surfaces of both her forearms, her legs, and her back. And I’d be willing to wager that she also waxes EVERYTHING else as well, but I don’t think she’s gonna let me stroke those though. At least not right away anyway (Well, I’m assuming of course).

Game On II

According to a new study, playing video games helps surgeons operate when using precise techniques as in a laparoscopy. A laparoscopy (Also known as minimally invasive surgery) is a surgical technique in which operations in the abdomen are performed through small incisions with the aid of telescopic lenses, video cameras, and fiber optics. Basically, the area of operation is magnified and projected onto a monitor, so the surgeon can see what the hell he/she is doing. (I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the porn industry starts strapping little cameras to the helmets of penises before they go spelunking, but until then, laparoscopy has the floor).

In this study, Surgeons who had played video games had higher test scores, and that experience had a greater influence than either their length of training or any prior experience in laparoscopic surgery. So, if you took a group of surgeons and gave half of them Playstations for a few months and the other half got to practice performing the actual operation with aforementioned instruments, the doctors who got to slay dragons and snipe communists would fair better in the O.R. Brilliant. And they needed an official study to prove what I’ve been saying all along.

Jaguar kills zoo keepr

Those who know me know that I always root for the animals. Always. At the running of the bulls, I laugh when men are trampled by the herds or speared 10 feet in the air, and then trampled. I tear up when bullfighters taunt and kill their opponents, and rejoice when a cowboy gets bucked by anything he shouldn’t have mounted to begin with. When manatees get too rough, when deer attack, and when elephants snap. I’m always on their side. Now of course I never really wish death upon anyone, but as they say, “If you play with fire . . .” We foolishly cage them, train them, and often time abuse them and whenever one of these wild animals attempts to escape, we wonder how on earth they could do such a thing.

They do these things because they are trying to tell us to leave them the hell alone. I don’t fling my feces at you because you think it’s cute, or take you to the bottom of my 60 foot tank because I’m being playful, nor do I drag your lifeless body across the stage because I’m protecting you. I’m stressed out, I’m tired of working, and I want to go the fuck home.

The only travesties I find when animals do attack, is when people are stupid enough to let their children become the victims, or when these beautiful creatures are inevitably put down. No Suzy, I don’t recommend petting the bear, or snuggling with the 500 lb liger. We wouldn’t let our children go into the cars of complete strangers why the hell would we let them touch “wild” predators?

In the latest incident, a zoo keeper in Denver was unfortunately attacked by a Jaguar. His name was Jorge (reason for the attack number one). Now, I know this was unusual because big cats and zoo keepers are never supposed to be in the cage at the same time, particularly during feeding time (I’m sure you can surmise why). I don’t know all the details of the ambush, but the gorgeous Jaguar was shot and killed after it approached rescuers trying to save the woman. Why it couldn’t have been tranquilized or electrocuted, I’ll never know, but I do wish to comment on the half-witts who wonder why it ever attacked to begin with. It’s a wild animal. It lives in captivity. People walk by every day snapping pictures and ogling him. What part of that daily life in any way resembles what the most secretive of all the big cats would do in its natural habitat? Exactly.

All I ask is that we don’t act bewildered the next time someone who raises bears gets mauled by one, or we don’t try so desperately to “figure out”, using human psychology no less, why a tiger would take the life of an innocent little girl. We all loved Steve Irwin (as crazy as he was,) but we also all knew that it would only be a matter of time before something took him down. I’m just surprised it wasn’t a crocodile.

Snow Day

It’s finally here! The snowy, call in sick whilst sitting on your couch with warm blankets and hot chocolate watching movies day that is. About 4 to 5 inches of beautiful powdered snow has fallen already and the flakes only seem to be getting bigger. My Doberman is looking out the window because he’s anxious to get the fun started. He absolutely loves the snow and always tries to eat as much of it as he can before it melts away. Even though I’ve already reassured him that it’s not time yet, he continues to pace and whine for me to take him out.

A few hours pass by . . . . . .

One movie down and my dog has given me enough shameless pouts to make Gandhi feel guilty. I suppose it’s time to take him out and get some shoveling done in the process. I get dressed and take a few pictures of the pretty landscape, before the neighborhood wakes up to address their cars and drive ways. I take a quick shot of the little bird house I bought last year for the family of Sparrows that prefer to nest in the luxury apartment (aka the dryer vent,) where warm streams of air undoubtedly beat out any other accommodations I could have prepared on my own. After the unfortunate death of its prior tenant, the birds have learned not to venture too close to the source of the heat and I don’t dry clothes too late at night.

I use a 20 ft leash just in case he sees a cat in his neighborhood. To say he doesn’t like cats would be an understatement. I used to be able to catch him, but now I think he could outrun a bullet. We play a game of tag, (his second favorite thing next to snow) but my tennis shoes prove to be a hindrance as he runs circles around me. Just like a little kid he prances around, even ducking his head as he runs to fill his mouth with fresh snow. I chase him around a bit and let him burn off some energy, before I shovel the sidewalk and make a path to the car that looks like a big marshmallow.

After the short work out, I take the puppy on a walk around the block. The half foot of snow makes it hard to go much further. I’m sure he’d like to stay out longer, but it’s a little chilly and it looks like we might be getting another stint of freezing rain. The perfect time to start another movie I think . . . . . and some hot chocolate.

Final Frontier

Do you think that people in the future will also have to wipe their asses with ultra thin, transparent sand paper after using a public restroom? Did the bold crew of the Starship Enterprise have such abrasive misfortune? Surely the successful achievement of warp speed was not the only worthy accomplishment of it’s time. You can’t expect me to believe that in an instant I can have a perfectly balanced meal materialize before me from thin air, teleport to a planet’s surface and back, and disintegrate enemies with a phaser gun, but I’ll still have to wipe my ass with rice paper? I’m so never dropping the kids off at Walmart again.

Spearing Ahead

I told myself that I would fight any urges to write about Britney’s latest follicular fiasco. I figured that I wouldn’t be the only one tempted to remark, but I also didn’t want to fuel the fires of her cause. But as irony would have it, my attempts of avoidance have led me to comment on the vary thing I set out to ignore. . . . . .

It’s now official. Britney’s head has the same haircut as her vagina. I suppose such measures wouldn’t appear so drastic had they been done by any other celebrity, or had they not made her look even more like the trailer trash she so desperately wants every one to know she is. Her blatant plight for attention is undeniable. While her Mickey Mouse Club counterpart simply got implants, a couple of piercings, and made a song titled “Dirty” (as a means of denouncing the pubescent geenie stage and transitioning into womanhood), Britney decided that she wouldn’t be outdone and proceeded to create the perfect outline for total image destruction. What a better way to ensure being labeled a slut than to suck face with the Material Girl herself (the mega slut of them all) on national television. She must have thought we weren’t taking her seriously because she then decided to confirm her celebrity ineptitude by driving around with a newborn in her lap, exposing the baby’s ultra sensitive skin to flesh melting solar radiation, and then marrying a loser with an IQ slightly higher than that of a house plant. (Parading around with the panty-less Paris certainly doesn’t help.) Britney desperately needs a fucking hobby. She should write a book or something. Okay maybe not, but you know what I mean.