July 26, 2010

5 days in denver, 5 days in a hospital, and the things that actually matter

It started out as two different trips that were to take place side by side. James Bond would fly to his hometown of Denver for 10 days to visit his family and friends, and I would fly to Denver for the last four days of his trip to visit my friends. We’d be in his city, but on our own terms, and we’d be able to fly back to San Francisco together.

That was phase one. But our relationship evolved and all of the sudden we were in phase two, where we’d be in his city and we’d be on our own terms but we’d also allow for overlap – he’d meet my friends, I’d meet his. And then came phase three, where in addition to the meeting of each other’s friends, there would also be the having dinner with his mother.

I reacted calmly. Which is to say that in a dictionary where “reacting calmly” translates to “freaking the fuck out,” I reacted very calmly, thinking rational things like, “What if she shakes my hand and senses that I write about my vagina on the internet?!”

And then there was the picking of the outfit. “It’s going to be too hot for long sleeves!” I yelled to Jamie. She asked why I needed to wear long sleeves. “The wrist tattoos! What if she hates the wrist tattoos!”

Two days before my flight: Reacting. Very. Calmly. Indeed.

But then the phone call came and all of the sudden we were in phase four, the phase where he was getting rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix and I was spending whatever I had to spend to get to Denver on the next available flight.

In the five hours that passed between that phone call and the one telling me that he was out of surgery and in recovery, I realized two things.

Thing one is that you really don’t know how deeply you’re in the hole of I’m-unlimited-crazy-about-him until you look up and see that ground level is thundering light-years above your head.

Thing two is that the tattoo crisis and the insecurities don’t matter. The wondering what to talk about over dinner doesn’t matter. Showing up at the hospital makeup-free and altitude-sick with tattooed wrist in full display – none of it matters.

What matters is spending more than 80 hours at the hospital and getting the chance to join an overwhelmingly wonderful group of people in taking care of the person you all can’t stop caring about. What matters is that he says yes to my wrist tattoos and yes to me writing about my vagina on the internet and yes to me as I am, even if it’s challenging.

What matters is that I found someone to give that card to, the one I bought in Arizona last August and promised myself I’d save until I meant the words on the front:

“I’m not sure,” she said, “at what point it is advisable to admit to liking you a great deal more than I planned.”

**
Update – James Bond, who’s still in Denver and just got out of the hospital, emailed and asked me to include his insanely lovely response to this post:

Cramped in my bed, graciously accepting another visitor, Nicole and I exchange looks. With a look I feel her unspoken sympathy, and I express thanks adding, I will add details later. At certain points I was done and Nicole filled in. She so sweetly and adeptly took over in ways not easily understood.

One of my best friends asked me, so what is the moral, what is the bigger picture. I actually, being known for a bit of verbosity, responded simply, “…. I could not prepare for what happened. Each day provides for different circumstances. It doesn’t help to worry about yet unknown factors. And it really helps to have a partner [looking to Nicole as my co-conspirator].”

As James Bond, I must maintain a certain amount of independence. Right? Well I would happily trade the golden gun, access to SPECTRE, all the Aston Martins, and other gadgets (even including the jet pack) for Nicole to continue taking me on.
**

::heart explodes::

{ 51 comments }

July 18, 2010

my employment history, predicting the future, and the thing that happens when you watch too many episodes of grey’s anatomy in a row

When I found out that Jamie hadn’t seen the first two seasons of Grey’s Anatomy I was all, “Um, THE FUCK?? Those are the best seasons!” and she was like, “Uhhhh” and I was all, “Sit down right now, we’re watching them.”

And so we did. Four, five, six episodes in a row. We even stopped going out for a while, making our friends (HI DREA) come over and sit on the couch and watch it with us because we were too invested in the process to waste time with things like “outdoors” and “public” and “three dimensional people.”

But do you know what happens when a few women spend hours upon hours watching wildly dramatic television? They get just a little bit too into it, and one of them starts yelling at the characters on the screen and is all, “Don’t worry Meredith! No! Stop crying! You and Derek eventually do get married! On a post-it note. Also, you get pregnant with his baby. But also, you have a miscarriage before you can tell him you’re pregnant. And also, he gets shot and we’re pretty sure it turns out fine but we’re not entirely sure because season 7 hasn’t started yet.”

And then another person on the couch yells, “Don’t worry George, you marry Callie. And then you drunkenly cheat on her with Izzie. And then it doesn’t work out with Izzie because the sex is awful. Also, your dad dies. Also, you die.”

And then another person on the couch chimes in with, “Seriously, relax Izzie. This thing you’re going through? It isn’t nearly as big of a deal as when you get fucking brain cancer and start seeing visions of your dead ex-fiance.”

God, can you imagine if we could do this to ourselves? If I could go back in time and be all, “Don’t worry 17 year old Nicole, you get into NYU. But then you’re in debt for like, ever. Also, that relationship you’re in? It doesn’t work out. Neither does the next one. Or the next one. Also, you drink too much vodka and make a series of unbelievably bad decisions. And then you have to leave in the middle of class one day to take a pregnancy test. And then you almost have a heart attack from drinking 13 cans of sugar free Red Bull in a 22 hour period. Also, despite your bizarre employment history wherein you spend five years as Director of a children’s summer day camp, four years as a nanny, three months on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange, two years at Williams Sonoma, and one year as manager and part owner of a create-your-own-cookie shop, you wind up managing business operations for Shatterboxx Media and writing a totally irreverent and inappropriate blog that gives people way too much information about your vagina.”

Which is to say, life is unpredictable. Stop freaking out. Things are either going to turn out the way you planned, or they’re not. And sometimes the “not” is the best thing that could ever happen.

{ 49 comments }

July 15, 2010

the vajacial, the yogurt tampon, and other tips from my very wise vagina

Somewhere along the way I seem to have become the go-to person for all things related to vagina. The emails and blog comments I get are just, well, vulva-tastic. So, when I found out that Stript Wax Bar here in San Francisco offers a Vajacial service that’s basically a facial for your post-Brazilian waxed vagina, I knew I had to try it. You know, for the sake of my readers.

The lovely people at Stript let me come in for free (proving yet again that my vagina is so much more high maintenance and spoiled than I am), and the entire thing went something like this:

Discuss the procedure with Jamie before leaving the apartment. Debate whether the esthetician is actually going to massage my vagina the way they massage your face during a facial. Evaluate what to do if I accidentally get turned on. Question why in the hell I’m doing this. Falter. Go anyway. Arrive at Stript Wax Bar and wait for my appointment. Look around at how ridiculously adorable the place is. Read over the list of services and wonder about the particulars of a Boyzilian. Question what’s more painful, waxing a man’s sexy parts or a woman’s sexy parts. Struggle to think of a single guy I know who would let hot wax anywhere near his penis.

Meet Katherine, the owner, and get escorted back to the treatment room. Take off my skirt and underwear. Lay on the table. Feel sad that the table is more comfortable than my bed. Contemplate stealing the table. Chat with Katherine and get talked through the $60, 50-minute process: cleanse, exfoliate, ingrown hair removal, calming mask, lightening cream. Continue talking. Learn that for the 24 hours after getting a Brazilian wax, you shouldn’t work out or do anything with hot water, but you should apply Neosporin to minimize bacteria/ingrown hairs. Tell myself to remember these tips because fuck, ingrown hair removal hurts.

Get up and leave. Let my skin calm down. Stand naked in front of the mirror and investigate. Make James Bond investigate. Decide that in spite of the seemingly absurd and unnecessary nature of this treatment, my vagina actually does look the best it has ever looked. Find out that Katherine is offering my San Francisco readers 20% off a Vajacial of their own. Think that blogging comes with some very strange perks…

**

In other (and notably less glamorous) vagina related news, I have recently discovered that inserting a yogurt covered tampon into your hoo-ha can help with certain bacterial imbalances and infections. Yes, I learned this on the internet. Yes, of course I tried it. Yes, Jamie was with me at the grocery store asking my vagina which flavor it would like for feeding time. Yes, you’re only supposed to use the plain kind and she was kidding. Yes, we know we’re sick and weird. Yes, you’d think that removing the yogurt tampon after like 30 or so minutes would be messy, but it’s not. Because your vagina eats the yogurt. Or like, your vagina absorbs the yogurt. Or, I don’t know.

Ladies: You’re welcome.

Gentlemen: Until you’re willing to try out a Menstruation Machine (a suit for men that mimics what having your period is like by releasing blood from a reservoir and using abdominal electrodes to simulate cramps), you don’t get to have an opinion about vagina stuff.

Ladies: Would you seriously want your man to try this ridiculous machine?

Gentlemen: How far would you go to appease your girl?

Everyone: Are there any other bizarre things that my vagina and I should try?

{ 57 comments }

July 9, 2010

vending machines, shit that doesn’t work, and vegas. yes, i’m going to vegas *again*

We were making cocktails a few weeks ago and I was trying to recreate the glory of the ginger vodka plus Sierra Mist drink that should unquestionably be illegal, but we didn’t have any Sierra Mist so I rode the elevator down to the basement with a handful of quarters and a mission to empty the vending machine of all of its Sierra Mist-ey goodness.

Except the vending machine didn’t have Sierra Mist either. Or Sprite. Or ginger ale. Or anything that’s clear and carbonated and mixes well with ginger vodka. So I looked at the selections, settled on Sunkist, put my quarters in, pushed the button, heard the thud of the can coming down, and grabbed it. Then I looked at it and realized that it wasn’t Sunkist, it was orange Fanta. And like, what? Who does that? Who puts the totally wrong beverage in a vending machine and doesn’t warn people??

Frustrated, I decided to pick a second choice. I put my quarters in, selected unsweetened Nestea, pushed the button, heard the thud, grabbed the can, and guess what? No unsweetened Nestea. You know what I got instead? Fucking diet lemon flavored Brisk tea. Not unsweetened. Not plain tea. Not even the same BRAND. And like, I stood there for a few minutes and looked at the vending machine and wondered why this type of thing *always* happens to me.

Also, why is it so absurdly impossible to get a real person on the phone when you call a customer service number?

Also, how the fuck am I going to Vegas again on Sunday and what do I do with the fact that it’s going to be 108 degrees??

Also, please remind me to tell you the story about my Vajacial (facial-esque procedure for the vagina) when I get back. And the story about the yogurt tampon. You definitely want to hear the story about the yogurt tampon. In fact, you should probably just prepare yourself for an entire post full of my new found vaginal wisdom.

Yes, I have a very wise vagina.

{ 31 comments }

July 4, 2010

independence day, the geographic inaccuracy of stupid fucking alaska, and a placemat that basically ruined my life

It’s not that I didn’t know where Alaska was. Okay okay, fine. FINE. I didn’t know where Alaska was.

I blame the placemat. Do you remember those placemats? The ones that had a map of the United States on one side and a blank map on the other side and the point was to study the first side and then flip it over, take a washable marker, and test yourself on which state was which? I grew up with a collection of these placemats – one of the US, one of the world, one of the planets, the world’s flags, the multiplication tables – my mom was all about mealtime education.

The map of the United States though, that one was my favorite. It just made the most sense. I mean, how is a seven-year-old brain supposed to wrap itself around there being countries named Uzbekistan and cities named Srednekolymsk? I found it much easier and more comforting to be all, “Florida! This one’s Florida!” and leave it at that.

I’ve recently learned, however, that the problem with my beloved US map placemat is that it fucking lied to me. It fucking lied by putting Alaska and Hawaii in the bottom left corner and making them both look like islands. They were just floating there, you know? Sectioned off by this white box that screamed “THESE STATES ARE NOT CONNECTED TO THE OTHER STATES AND ARE IN FACT ISLANDS OF THEIR OWN.”

Which is how I nonchalantly came to believe that Alaska was an island and that it was floating off to the left of the United States.

I guess I just never really looked at a map of the US after childhood, not carefully at least, and it wasn’t until Jamie and I bought one of those huge wall maps a few months ago that I realized my entire life has been a dirty web of geographic lies.

We were going over the map, listing out the places we most wanted to visit, and I’m all, “Woah, look at Alaska” and she’s like, “What about it?” and I’m all, “Since when the fuck is it connected to Canada??” and she’s like, “Shut up, no it’s not” and I’m all, “No seriously, look! Alaska is part of Canada!” and then we stood there for a few minutes, looking at each other, looking back at the map, looking back at each other, trying to figure out what it meant to live in a world where a) Alaska is not an island, b) Alaska is connected to Canada, and c) neither of us knew about it.

And I get it, okay? I get that you’re second guessing our status as grown women because the two people we told in person looked at us like we had horses growing out of our torsos. It’s just. I don’t understand how no one ever told me about this. And the real question here, the real question is what else don’t I know?! Is Michigan really in Saudi Arabia? Is Saudi Arabia next to Australia? Also, does Denmark seriously own Greenland?

Which is to say, happy 4th of July everyone. Jamie and I are belligerently idiotic.

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