ALL SMILES

I imagine that in most cities, like Wichita for instance, you'll probably get a "Hello!" or "Well, good morning, Bob!... Good morning, Jan!" as you pass a stranger or neighbor on the street (or farm). But here in LA, it's very hit and miss. Occasionally, there's a "Hey" or a head nod if you're on a hike or doing the Santa Monica Stairs and see the same (gorgeous, out of work actor) person 14 times in a row (Please. Who am I kidding. 7. My max on those effing stairs has been 7. So?)

It's not that I'm cold and aloof. I want to be a sweet citizen... a part of "the community." I just don't notice and am typically the jerk guilty of not looking up or saying hello unless it's time to pay for my grande drip. But today, my inner Kansas must have come out...

After I dropped Baby-Ko off at day care, instead of heading up the block to make a pit stop for said grande drip, I decided to kill two birds with one (cheaper) stone and go to 7-Eleven since I also needed cash from the ATM. For whatever reason, as I waited in line with the 99 Cent breakfast sign next to me, thinking about the ten dollar oatmeal I might have just spent at S-Bucks made me laugh.
I whipped out my new iPhone and took a pic. I know. I'm sooo LA, I thought to myself and smiled to the guy standing behind me.

As I plopped my coffee, bottle of water, and the new InStyle Magazine (hello, Fall Fashion) on the counter, the clerk and I bumped hands.

"Sorry," she said.

"No problem!" I said right back.

"$9.06, please."

I handed her a 10 dollar bill. "I think I have 6 cents" I said (I guess nicely).

"Wow," The Guy behind me says, "We don't get enough like you."

"Huh?"

"You smile at me, you're pleasant to her.... There's not enough people like you in LA."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks..."

"We need more like you."

"Ha. You just caught me on a good day," I said grabbing my stuff.

"Bye," said the clerk. "Have a good one."

"You too," I say to my new 7-Eleven friends. "You too...."

Hmm. They need more like me. Like me. That's so nice....

***

Ten minutes later, I entered Sofya's- the goddess of waxing/torture and all things Russian....

Needless to say, you can say goodbye to the "sweet" hello for this portion of the story....

UGLY BETTY

Tonight I saw a promo for a local news segment on a product called Betty Color and I literally had to pause it and rewind it like ten times. Granted, it was channel 9 news which is generally garbage, but they were running a segment on an apparent growing trend:  Dying Pubic Hair.  

I KNOW.  I mean, we all know that for most women, the carpet doesn't match the drapes.  But does it matter? No one's ever met a dumb blonde and looked at her black pubes and thought, "hmmm, maybe she is smart after all."  

When so many women, including myself, put themselves through torturous scenarios to try to tidy up and get rid of "split ends" so to speak, what I find hilarious is that this product seems to encourage the idea of a "full head of hair."  Obviously, there are times throughout the month and year when your "do" could use some upkeep and some tendin' to (I'm all for hibernating in the winter). But this product seems to endorse length. In order for their plethora of color dye options to work, you've gotta have something to work with...  Unless, of course you want your crotch to look like Susan Powter's head back in the day....

Ever wanted to dye your hair crazy colors??? Welllll you are in luck!  Use "Fun Betty" and you can shock your lover with a big PINK hoo-ha. Feeling BLUE?  Just try "Malibu Betty." Need a stocking stuffer? Just buy your gal "Holiday Betty!" This festive one comes in GREEN or RED and is sure to make your man say "ho ho ho!" 

AND... For those of you that are feeling  like you need to literally MARK your territory, try Betty's "CHARM-CILS." That's right! For $7.99 you can choose from one of 8 stencils. Feeling groovy? Try a PEACE SIGN. Need some cash?  Pimp a $ sign.  Ever wanted to be a FIRE CROTCH? Just stencil in a LIGHTENING sign!  Yes, my friends, the possibility for a truly unique hoo ha is endless....   

And here I was thinking that Obama's in and Bush is out.... (Ba da dum)...

A BARE NECESSITY

I normally would not share a story of a  bikini wax from hell with my readers, but I'm watching "The Rachel Zoe Project" and for some unknown reason, something about this show is making me want to dish... 

**

We're leaving for this week to go to Maui for my brother in law's wedding. (Twice in five months. I'm a lucky girl, I know!)  Of course, leaving for a tropical vacation means beautifying from head to toe...  I found an amazing waxer close to my house who charges a lot, but who's meticulous, CLEAN (key!), fast and painless. BUT, since I'm a working mama now, I kind of need one-stop shopping. SO, at the urging of the woman who owns my nail salon, I decided to try her Waxing Lady. 

When the WL took me back to the private room, I was a little taken aback by the fact that she put on a surgical mask. Perhaps she's sick?  "Are you sick?" I ask, as I start sliding off my jeans. "No. Duck chicken school." Ummm.... okay. She is Vietnamese. Her English isn't great, and under the mask it's much worse. I lay on the table, fully nude from waist down, and she takes a big magnifying light, (the kind that the dentist uses when he's digging for a cavity), and shines it down there.  I take a deep breath.

"What we doing today, honey?" she asks, "Brazillian, Playboy...?"

"Um, both?" As if I really can ever tell the difference.  She reaches into her little caddy.

"Whoah. What is that? What are you doing??!??!" I ask shocked. SHE IS SPRAYING SOMETHING. LIKE A FUCKING ODORIZER OR SOMETHING!

"Don't worry. You don' t want to know." WHAT?! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW? WHAT????? Just for the record, this isn't my first trip down bikini waxing lane. Been doing this for quite some time. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER has someone SPRAYED something near my hoo ha. Never.  HOWEVER, I am now naked waist down. Hot wax is about to become my worst enemy, and an unclear Vietnamese lady is in charge. I take the second of MANY deep breaths, and decide not to respond.

The WL sticks the popsicle stick in the wax and approaches said area, "Hold, " she demands, "HOLD!" she says again putting my hands on my thigh and stomach, making me pull back my skin, fat and organs so as to make the skin taught. "I'm holding," I say frightened. 

"Tighter," TIGHTER?! How much more can I pull?! She YANKS my thigh back. "THERE!" She screams. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. 

"You see. Tighter. I get heaven." Huh? Did she say "heaven?" Did she mean it gets "even?" I have no fucking clue. As I start to internally scream at myself for agreeing to let this wacky broad tear at my privates, without missing a beat, the WL has my hands pulling my other thigh and stomach tight again. Literally, she has me pulling, lifting, flattening my body out so much that you'd think I was a morbidly obese person who's lost something in the folds of their fat. I think about asking her what the purpose of me groping myself like this is, because clearly it's not to minimize the pain, but she's already so busy proudly muttering something else about how "other people don't do like I do" that I realize it will be pointless. 

I sit up slightly to see the work that she's done so far. She pushes my head back. "You look later." Okaaaaaaaaaay. I guess she likes her clients to be surprised... 

Next thing I know, she's shoving a popsicle stick in my hand. "HOLD," she says and positions my hand and the popsicle stick in such a way that I wonder if I'm causing physical damage. "HOLD." She says again, pushing firmly. "Ow," I say meekly, praying that this will be over soon. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  

"YES!" She exclaims and shows me the muslin. "You see. Very curly. Chicken. Pad thai bullet proof," is what I can make out. Whatever. Just finish. Please. FINISH.

For the rest of the session she pulls, tightens, pushes and violates my hoo ha and has me in positions that I don't think my husband has even seen.  After a grueling 25 minutes, she finally finishes. I grab my underwear and jeans and pull them up.  Was I just her bitch??

As I walk back out into the nail salon to pay, I can hear whispers in Vietnamese and I can only imagine what she's telling them.  Omg... So embarrassing.

 And to quote Rachel Zoe: "DIE. I DIE...."