Dirty Girls

April 29, 2011 § Leave a comment

Safety first. Reminding you to always carry a condom, for you or for a friend.


Earth Day: Recycling

April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

I know I dropped the ball on the Monday Mind Morsel this week. You’ll have to forgive me. Like all modern women, I’m juggling a lot at once and I’m not a professional. Last week it was Earth Day on the 22nd and that got me thinking about recycling. With the Easter/Passover hoopla and all the spring break madness, I’ve selected a past post that might hit home for those of you trying your best to get from point A to point Get Some. In case you missed it the first time around I’ve got you covered: Earbuds: Status Update of the Jetways

Hope you enjoy the throw back. Cheers!

Bikini Waxing Menu

April 22, 2011 § 1 Comment

You Can’t Judge a Shoe By It’s Box

April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Confession: I live like a college student. Sometimes I eat cheese-its for dinner and I wouldn’t exactly call the space: decorated. But I pay my bills on time and wouldn’t show up to work drunk or in pajamas, so I guess I’m halfway there. I do live alone, which was a huge step and double the financial billing. I had to, for sanity. I was living with 3 boys, 2 girls, and 1 bathroom. Now alone in my big girl apartment, I can do whatever I want.

Dance party of one, naked craft time, midnight munchies, and embarrassing reality show marathons. It’s my lair. Last spring I wouldn’t even leave my apartment on most weekends. Although, I love it, it’s a shoebox. Nothing matches, the couch is orange, it’s hard to make that work.  Most of the time it’s messy, although I try not to let laundry creep into the kitchen. There is never anything in the fridge, not like I have the flatware to put it on. I’m at max capacity and there is no room in the budget for a bigger place. Actually, it’s more of a boot box. My studio is civilized, the bed isn’t next to the fridge, so it’s more of a box for knee highs, flats not hooker.

Like most modern gals, I like to pay my way. I enjoy the independence, I don’t need a man to take care of me. I scoff at that. A fish without a bicycle, right? I mean, he has to have aspirations and a willingness to contribute, but his bank account doesn’t have to swallow my life style. I was surprised to find that Mister Red, son of physicians, truly did live in a shoebox. And not even one belonging to platforms or pumps, but more of something to fit ballet slippers or flops. He’s got a dorm room, but you have to hand it to him, he lives alone, he pays his way. The man is being a man, no handouts, no short cuts. His balls are as big as mine, and I admire his ambition and determination. I’m sure the shoebox isn’t forever.

That’s the thing about living in a metropolitan area in your late 20s while working in an industry with no ladder, you’re life fits into a box. I’m more or less poor, an upper middle class girl, college educated, cutting corners living in the city trying to make something of myself. Working on the day job for the paycheck, working on the dream job for lifelong livelihood. I can’t tell you how hard I’m working to move out of this particular box my life is stuffed into. To move out of the boot box and maybe into a hat box, or something a fur coat would come in, or long stem roses.

As for Mister Red, I’m not one to assume about a shoe before I try it on. I don’t know where it pinches or if it will give me blisters. Or maybe it will be one of my favorites that I will wear for years and years taking it to the cobbler to be reheeled, resoled, weatherproofed. You certainly can’t judge a shoe by the box, I wouldn’t want someone to do that to me, and I am certainly not going to do that to Mister Red.

Sugar Where The Sun Don’t Shine

April 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

If you’ve gotten a Brazilian (wax not a boy), you know how amazing it is. So does your boyfriend. Once you’ve gone bare, you wouldn’t go back if you dare. However, waxing has it’s downfalls, it’s painful and risky. Senior Spring Break, a friend and I attempted to wax our legs. I went first. Let’s just say she never took the plunge and 36 hours later I could finally sit down. For the longest time I stuck to shaving the bikini’s area, even though I have countless friends who swear by the Brazilian. They say it will change your life… like jeggings. It will put a pep in your step, a glowing confidence stemming from a private place. Too bad I have PTSD from the waxing of 2002. I’d prefer the delicate, important skin down there to remain undamaged, sensitive as ever and working properly. I am in search for an alternative. As always, I like to educate my fellow ladies on my important discoveries. Today, we’re talking about something sweet to take the pain away: SUGAR.

I have been sugared into a new woman. Forget waxing. Painful and dangerous are two words I don’t want anywhere near my tender Brazilian area.  Inspired by ancient Egyptian organic hair removal, sugaring is half the pain of waxing and twice as effective. The aesthetician uses a soft warm ball of sugary goop over each spot for removal. Of course it hurts a little when it’s being pulled off (minor compared to waxing as it only pulls the hair not the skin too), but unlike waxing there is no residual pain. Once the hair has been pulled there is no pain. And she can sugar the same spot again and again for a complete job, only exfoliating dead skin cells and leaving the live ones to stay for the fun. Sugaring gets to the root of the problem, and much like laser hair removal, the hair will grow back finer, softer, less and less after every time you do it.

I go to Lisa at Sugar Me LA in Santa Monica, she’s an angel sent with sweetness. Lisa’s developed her own line of sugar with a Food Network sugar specialist, and with years of experience it’s rare to find someone of her caliber. She also makes you extremely comfortable, cracks jokes, and really enjoys making ladies feel better about themselves.

The sugaring isn’t the only thing amazing about Lisa; she’s a one-stop shop. I had an outburst of acne the past 8 months, my curse for going through High School blemish free. Now I have fine lines and zits, it’s not fair. She uses moisturizers and masks during facials for added hydration and after, my skin immediately felt lighter and clearer. In all areas I found her extremely intellectual, always researching next best thing, demanding top, effective products to practice her expertise. Her philosophy is to make her services possible for her clients, because of her low overhead her excellence is affordable. There is no reason to neglect your skin or your cooch.

I can’t tell you enough about how wonderful sugaring is; quite simply it’s sweet. You’ll never go back to waxing after going to Lisa and experiencing her painless, flawless technique. If you’re not in LA make sure you find a licensed aesthetician whos is Certified by Alexandria Professional Body Sugaring. Don’t try this at home, it’s so worth it to get a professional. Now I know what a boner must feel like with the new found happiness in my pants. I mean, the reaction from Mister Red alone was enough to convert.

I Like Him

April 15, 2011 § Leave a comment

I like, like-like him.

Introducing Mister Red

April 13, 2011 § 1 Comment

You’re ready for the gossip, I know. The Ginger Haired Bartender saga begins, so without further introduction, here’s the story on Mister Red.

You know how we met, how naturally charming he is, this is old juice. After we reconnected on Paddy’s Day I had to dash out of town, subsequently leading to scheduling difficulties and facebook stalking. During my 10-day disappearing act I was submerged in a domesticated lifestyle. Ideas of marriage, buying houses, having kids, and naming pets swarmed my mind like a cloud of insects around a street lamp. I swatted them away with no clear escape. Upon landing back in my metropolis of immaturity I knew I had to put blinders on, ignoring the now ticking clock. I called Mister Red before the seat belt light was turned off (which got me yelled at by the stewardess, wtf… this was urgent).

Date #1: Getting to Know You… Getting To Know All About You…

There’s nothing like handsome to distract from big picture worries. We crafted a plan to enjoy tequila and live music locally under the supervision of my airport pickup, who thought I was buying her a drink in exchange for the ride. Ladies, it’s dangerous to go on a date with random man you’ve only met once. Always bring back-up or let someone know where you are. And that’s My PSA on that. Little did she know she was my chaperone that night. Good thing too, Mister Red kept asking me to text him a picture. Whoa! Hello?! Do you not remember me? Perturbed by the creepy offense, I refused the surrender to the request.

We walked into the venue, my heart racing a little… wait, first things first. Drink. Must order a drink. Tequila gimlet, please. Swaying to the music became easier after that, as I scanned the bar for the tall ginger. He’s pretty easy to spot, Irish skin glowing in the black light. I thought I had caught a glimpse of him peering around a pillar. After a quick game of peek-a-boo, he made his way over and we made introductions.

Quickly, my chaperone abandoned the mission after finding someone cute to talk to. That was fine because Mister Red checked out despite his borderline sex offender requests for pictures. He’s harmless like a mama’s boy watching an after school special. Excuse me, please and thank you harmless, and I’m a sucker for manners. After the band’s set (to which I discovered the dude’s got rhythm, a definite plus if you know what I mean), we convened outside and chatted with a couple of the band members loading their gear. Out of this 3rd party discussion we learned that we were born two days apart, exactly. This cleared up huge misconception, I thought he was a 30-something and he was hoping I was really old enough to drink. So I’ve got a young face, I’m going to look great when I’m 40. I also learned he only lives four blocks away from me and his power animal is a shark.

When we parted ways I played it cool, no smooches yet. As I turned back to see his radiant smile, and he blew me a kiss. Normally I would have thought this was completely cheesy, rolled my eyes and dreaded his next text, but for some reason it gave me butterflies.

Date #2: First Kiss or Last?

After noticing Mister Red was able to chip some of the ice off my heart with a mere smirk, I told him find me again. And he did. Now I’m normally against text messaging, but the Ginger uses 5-dollar words, sprinkling adjectives with a snappy whit and rapid recall. Well crafted sentences = total swoon. So a few days later we connected last minute. I had to ditch my plans with a friend and told him I’d call him back to confirm. When I followed up, not ten minutes later, he didn’t answer. I left a rational message, waited impatiently, texted, then let the anger brew. After about 20 minutes I was a firecracker. No one stands me up.

I called my wing-girl in a panic. She was on a date headed south and advised me to join so she didn’t do anything stupid in her drunken state. Needing a drink and someone to vent to, I rushed over (also texting Mister Red to let him know my whereabouts just in case he had been taking an unfortunate shit). I sat down and complained to my bartender, “I think I was just stood up?!” Then Mister Red CALLS apologizing profusely and wanting to know if we were still there. Politely asking for a pardon, and on his way? But I already turned everyone against him.

He swaggered in with a stunning strut and we swam effortlessly through conversation. He said I was wholesome with a natural beauty, probably because I’m from the mid-west. And then he told me I have an ass like a 16 year old in the least pedophile way possible. Which I take as a huge complement considering that was over 10 years ago (yeah, chew on that, ladies, a decade ago). When my partner in crime announced that her and her date were heading for some midnight beaching, we decided to join. Mister Red had never been to the beach at night, I had to fix this.

We spread a blanket and my friend was unfortunately distracted, but the Ginger and I continued our conversation about deeper things than my ass. I couldn’t tell you how exactly it started, but it was good, different, but good and I like to try new things. Venice Beach at midnight was the site of our first kiss. How perfect? So perfect that recalling it now makes it seem like a cheap chick flick starring Ashton Kutcher without the high pitch in his voice every time he tells a joke. But rest assured I’m sure I said something mean or gross to stop the mood from getting completely romantic.

Like a perfect gentleman, he escorted me to my car and we made out some more, this time standing up, capping the night his lips seem to finally warm up to me. Yes, thank you, and may I have another. I have to say, Mister Red just might be shaping up to be the perfect summer boyfriend. For the meantime, I’ll just let him entertain me with textual banter until he invites me out again.

Where Am I?

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