Today was an unexpected, yet coveted day off for me.  More than likely the woman who works in the substitute dispatch office is trying to teach me a lesson for daring to take last Friday off, but in honesty, I’m not terribly upset.  Her passive/aggressive jibes live somewhere in the realm of the humourous to me at this point; she warrants no more than a shake of the head and a bemused snicker.  As I stretched my toes to the bottom of the bed in the growing morning light, I had no real plan, so I started with a shower and some yoga poses which’ve become increasingly more important of late (the yoga poses, I mean…showers have always been important….)  I find my joints frozen in place and considerably more prone to popping these days.  The weight of the world really does a number one’s posture.

Facebook had begun to tell me that as people, MY PEOPLE, began to emerge from their battened hatches, they were greeted by sunshine and rainbows, so when I opened my blinds to the dusty greys and off-whites of a cool drizzle, I did not begrudge.  A grey day for certain, but not lost to the chasm.

After some general housekeeping (those forays into tedium that have been looming for that moment I have a second), I settled onto my couch and started something marvelously selfish.  (No, no.  Please recall, and with haste, your minds from the gutter.  This isn’t THAT type of confession.  Heathens.)  I jumped back to my books.  After an uncharacteristically book-free summer, and a rather rancid fall run of the solidly MEH.  On the heels of a good read (ROOM by Emma Donaghue), I’d picked up another promising title (The Night Counter by Alia Yunis), and realized how woefully behind The Moleskine Reviews*** have gotten.  So I reviewed the stack.  And logged each Since-Been-Read title.  And I was struck with a little mini thought that sparked this blog post and incited the stream-of-consciousness that has rambled its way onto your screen.

Who the hell am I writing this down for?

In the back of my mind, my journals, my notebooks, my stacks of folded sheets bearing out the evolution of my handwriting; my voice on pulp and parchment, sit in an attic in the future.  Slanted ceilings barely finished while late afternoon light pours into a single window, setting dust motes on fire and faceless twentysomethings open a wooden box to the contents here mentioned.

Today as I wrote, it was a girl.  My girl.  And I wondered, why do I write things down for a daughter I almost surely won’t have?


***wherein I nerd the fuck out and meticulously rate, review and catalogue every book I read in a fancy Moleskine leatherbound created for that exact purpose.  I am seriously THAT GIRL, so yeah, Old Highschool Classmates: I never grew out of it.  Bet you’re totally surprised.


Fur-well and Good Riddance

The idea is something out of a science fiction novel.  It’s a dream.  A pipedream .  A concept so fanciful as to border on fantasy.  And yet, there I was, IN REAL LIFE, spread-eagle on the table, giggling as a complete stranger aimed a laser at my lady parts and singed off all the hair….

It’s no secret that I’m Italian, and, if you’ve spent any time in proximity to me while in direct sunlight before I’ve had a chance to landscape, you’ll have noticed that I sport a full beard.  I’m not kidding.  It’s a well-established joke that I grow more facial hair than the Old Man.  And this doesn’t even touch upon the Winged Pigweed that I’d sport below the belt if it weren’t for affordable, at-home wax kits.  My life has been littered with a string of hair removal flukes and faux pas.  The ongoing saga of the Vajina Jihad, the Twat Fatwa, is a never-ending source of entertainment for all those around me.

So, the idea of a life without monthly waxes?  Without ingrown hairs or patches of abraised road-rash where I’ve accidentally removed swathes of skin as well as the fine fuzz?  Heaven, I tell you.  A little piece of heaven as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

For months, I’d been trolling Groupon and Living Social.  Searching.  Pining.  Yearning for a deal on laser hair removal.  I gazed at the joyfully hair-free visages of girlfriends who’d spent the fortune on the process, wishing to be less of a penny-pincher.  Why did it have to be so damned expensive?

And then the little alert came through:

60% Off Laser Hair Removal!  One Payment!  As Many Visits As It Takes!  Never Wax Or Shave Again!!!

Yes please.

It was 3am when the email came in.  I called anyway.  Just in case.  They called me back the next day, and this afternoon, I was off for my consultation.  After asking the necessary questions about any fine print, I nodded my head before they could change their minds and paid for a full-face and Brazilian.

When I found out that the aesthetician had time right then for my first treatment, I couldn’t get my pants off fast enough.  (If only the boys I turned down in college knew how easy it could have been for them.)  I stripped down to my shirt and the supplied wrap and jumped on the table, ready to begin my new life as a bikini model.  I shrugged off her warnings about the discomfort, pooh-poohed her stories about other clients calling her unmentionable names and fleeing the office halfway through one treatment.  I have tattoos and a pierced tongue.  I’ve fractured my leg and broken my own nose.  I laugh in the face of pain.

And then that bitch turned on the laser.

I won’t say it was the worst pain ever, because it wasn’t.  but it was a searing and uncomfortable series of red-hot-poker snaps that, when applied to one’s asshole, cause any number of involuntary muscle contractions.  I was, for sure, winking at her, and not with my eyes.

Through the whole ordeal (which I will gladly repeat again in one month, and again one month after that for as many times as it takes), I giggled uncontrollably.  Twittered like middle school girl who can’t stop thinking about the cute boy in the back of class who reads Rilke and listens to the New York Dolls.  It was a mix of glee and pain and unchecked excitement at the prospect of never having to rip the hair from my tender bits or search my chin for errant whiskers again.

Will you miss my misadventures when I become follicle impaired?  Certainly.  Do I care?  Not a whit.  So long, locks, and Godspeed.