Hot Wax and Lies - The Makings of Any Good Relationship

Despite deriding the TMI girl in my previous post, I'm going to have to become one ....

This evening I went to my local salon to get a bikini wax. Bikini waxes are incredibly awkward, and what makes it even more awkward is that the waxer often talks to you. Not that I'm all Karen Walker "I don't talk to the help" or anything, but there are some instances where a conversation is inappropriate. When I'm practically nude from the waist down is one of those times.

After getting me a glass of red wine (What?! This is a painful process! Way worse than getting a tattoo. And everyone knows that the quickest way to get my pants off is to offer me wine . . . but that's neither here nor there.) she starts doing her thing while making small talk. She asks me about the weather ("It's a normal temperature out!"), about my job ("It's too far from my apartment!"), and what I'm going to have for dinner ("A salad with salmon on it!").

Then she asks if I have a boyfriend. Now I KNOW she'll think I'm a slut if I say no. I mean, if you're not getting a bikini wax for your boyfriend, you must be getting a bikini wax for all the Pauly D-type dudes you're banging every night in the bathroom of Rumours, you whore. She'll never believe that I do this because I'm remarkably lazy. So I say.... yes.

Waxer: Oh really! What's his name?

Me: Uh... Mark.

Waxer: How long have you been dating?

Me: About six months, give or take?

And as she's asking me, I find myself making up this elaborate relationship that I have with Mark, a Secret Service agent from Portland. She asked if I was meeting him for dinner, but unfortunately I only get to see him about three times a week because of his job. But for his birthday we went skiing for a long weekend in Maine, which was awesome. Yes, waxer, I DID meet his parents. I was nervous at first, but they were really welcoming. Thank you so much for asking.

Finally after detailing how Mark and I first met in the metro and our plans to go to to New York for the weekend, the wax had come to an end. I put on my pants, paid the tab, and ended it with my Secret Service agent. (My relationships usually end with those three components, but never before in that order.)

And then I was off to Rumours.

Ode to the TMI Girl

Look, we've all been there. We've been to the place where we drink too much and we let just a liiiiittle too much information get to a stranger. But this girl, this girl, she takes the cake. Here is the scene: My co-workers are outside at our favorite bar in Arlington, and this girl comes over and talks to us.....

Her: Oh holy shit, it's so cold. I used to live in Florida; I'm not used to this shit.

Us: Where in Florida are you from?

Her: I'm not from there. I was adopted. Three years ago I finally found my birth father. He lives in Ocala, Florida [This may or may not be a real place]. He has liver disease and is going to die. It turns out I have a sister who is 5 years older than me and a brother who is 3 years younger than me.... but they kept them!! HAHAHAHHAHA. My therapist and I are working that out. So many issues. Wow.... I'm drunk. I shouldn't be telling you guys this. I mean, I've been divorced for 10 years too! Hahahahaa!

Us:.......

Her: I'm Katie. I work at Hard Times. Come visit me! Wow, I've been off work for two hours and I'm WASTED.

Us: ................

Me: Thank god I have a blog.

Is All This on Your Match.com Profile?

A couple of weeks ago I met this guy on the Metro. He was cute and texted me right away, which was shocking. We've hung out a couple of times. Three times. In these three times, I have learned the following things about him:

1. One time, following sex, a girl he was with asked him to pee on her. He did it. "Don't worry," he said. "I didn't enjoy it." This came up during a discussion about politics. He was trying to explain that despite his fiscal conservatism, he's quite socially liberal. For example, he gives golden showers on request. Apparently he believes that we liberals urinate on people and then bring it up in first dates over charcuterie plates and vodka sodas.

2. He's had "4 or 5" threesomes. Some with two girls. Some with two guys. I make no judgments on people's sexual proclivities, but this really should have been information I learned about way later on.... like around never.

3. He watches porn 5 times a week. Porn somehow came up in conversation and I asked him if he watches a lot of it. (I had a sneaking suspicion that he did. Actually, I wouldn't have been surprised if he told me that he had been the pizza delivery man in "Sexxxy Bimbos II: Sexier and Bimboier") He replied that "'a lot' is a relative term" and tried to downplay this by explaining that "It's not like I watch 2 hours of porn 5 times a week. It's more like 5-10 minutes each time I watch it." Again, how people get their rocks off is none of my business (unless I'm somehow involved). But 5 times a week??? This man clearly makes his sexual gratification a priority. I can't find time to do anything 5 times a week. And if 5 times a week is not a lot of porn watching, what, exactly, is a lot of porn watching? Do you have to watch it at work for it to qualify? Do you have to have the soundtrack for "Nailin' Palin" on your iPod? I'm very confused.

(As an aside, he said that one day this week when he would normally have watched porn, he instead browsed through my Facebook photos to get the same . . . effect. After the initial holding back of vomit, I became strangely flattered by it. Take that as you will.)

4. He doesn't like cucumbers. This is totally absurd. Who doesn't like cucumbers? Seriously?

So, yeah. We're hanging out this weekend. I'm bringing the rubber sheets.

Oh, Hello There.

This is Crap on a Pancake. I don't really know what the title means, other than it's a phrase I made up because I'm totally crazy. "Crap on a Pancake" is meant to be used as an interjection, not as a descriptor for what you had for breakfast. For example, if one were to say "Crap on a pancake! That's a huge rat!" this usage is consistent with the intended purpose of the phrase. However, if I were to ask you what you had for breakfast and you said "I don't know, some crap on a pancake," this usage, while possibly both true and delicious, is inconsistent with the intended purpose of the phrase.

I am writing this blog because I fear I may have over-saturated my internet and real life friends with Facebook status messages and wall postings, Twitter, Google Buzz, Gchat status updates, and probably just generally being around. With Crap on a Pancake, I now have an outlet and no longer have to force my friends to listen to me, because you're listening to me, blog. You're listening. Now, if any of my friends get the urge to be bored or have a liiiiiiittle too much information about me than they need, they can come here. They won't. But they can.

I will not write about the following things on this blog: anything praising ketchup, specifics on who I am or what I do (I've seen the Lifetime movies. I know that anyone with a computer and internet access eventually gets a stalker who tries to kill everyone in her family. I'm not interested in a stalker. Unless he's cute. Or rich. Eh, fuck it. I'm totally interested in a stalker), the goddamn Olympics, Two and a Half Men, Dan fucking Brown, and college football. And I promise you this, internet. The day I write a blog post drunk at 4am about how pathetic my life is is the day I quit blogging.

So, let's see how this goes.