Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Scrunchie




Earlier this summer I went to a "white-trash" birthday party.

For those of you who don't know, I am slightly white-trash by nature. I'm from a very small Texas town; I went to Homecoming my Sophomore year with a 4th cousin whom made-out with afterwards; my favorite fast food is the Dairy Queen and every male member of my family bears the name "Earl".


So given the blood that runs through my veins, getting dressed up for this party was a piece of cake.


Cut-off shorts? CHECK.



Colored Bra under a wife beater. CHECK, CHECK.


House shoes and a cigarette. CHECK.


When contemplating what to do with my hair, the infamous scrunchie immediately popped into my head. I knew that I had to have a scrunchie to make my fashion statement. That being said, I was a bit hesitant because this meant I would have to venture out, leave my comfort zone of Target and visit the great unknown; Wal-Mart.



I should mention that I'm not the biggest fan of the Wal-mart. The people are barefoot; poopy diapered toddlers are running amok; someone in a spandex onsie is squeezing an avocado next to me saying, "Take this one home. You can chew it. It's delicious".


Plus you can buy tires at the same place you can buy your meat. Basically, it's just not for me.


However, if I was going to get that scruchie I would have to put on my big girl panties and go to the Super Center. Upon entering, I knew I had come to the right place. Wal-mart has to be what is keeping the Scrunchie makers a-float because they pretty much had a designated Scrunchie aisle.


There were Velvet Scrunchies; big scrunchies; multi-colored scrunchies; tortise clips from the maker of Scrunchie. denim scrunchies; and banana clips. Yes, they even had banana clips!


Instantly, I began to channel my inner 90's child and fell back into the days when Save By the Bell's Kelly Kapowski was my idol; the idea of fashion was neon girbaud shorts and a No Fear t-shirt; and throwing around little paper circles called Pogs was a sign of a good time.


Yes the era of the scrunchie was a happier time. When I was growing up prostitution was cool because Julia Roberts played one and got to end up with Richard Gere thus changing my idea of future job paths. Pee-Wee Herman was still just a creepy looking adult that had a playhouse and not a guy that was arrested for charming the snake in a parking lot. Mark Walburg still ran around without his shirt off; I had a dance routine for every Ace of Base song on my tape track And As if! Clueless was my all-time favorite movie.


Walking out of the Wal-mart with a bag full of scrunchies made me recall the seriously awesome aspects of being a teeny-bopper in the 90s. All I wanted was to go back to a school dance and rock out to the Macarena with a head full of scrunchies and a pair of Doc Martens on my feet.


So, call me classless but ever since I got the scrunchies, I can't stop wearing them! I big pink puffy heart the scrunchie. They're convenient, they don't pull out my very expensive Asain hair, you can sleep in them AND let us not forget that they come in tie-dye! How could something so great disappear along with the Spice Girls?



I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really, want. I WANT MORE SCRUNCHIES. Yes, if you want to be my lover, you gotta get me more scrunchies.


Am I relatively mortified that I go to the gym in a hot pink scrunchie? Possibly.


But, if we would all make a stand and say, "NO MORE. I REFUSE TO BE THE VICTIM OF FASHIONABLE HAIR WEAR" and say, "YES" to the scrunchie. This world would be a better place and maybe, just maybe Hanson would make a come-back.






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Monday, June 20, 2011

Caveman Crawl 2011

I ran.
I swam.

I climbed.


I invented the wheel.







I crawled through mud trenches. I created fire. That's right; I completed the Caveman Crawl of 2011. It was the hardest thing I've physically ever done but it was such an incredible experience. The Monday follow is finding me walking with a gimp leg but it was so worth it!


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Friday, June 10, 2011

Groupon = Laser Hair Removal = PAIN

Before I begin, I must note that this blog post is about hair removal. If you don't know me that well, I tend to be somewhat graphic in my tales. So if you don't want to know what happened between my butt cheeks this morning. Look away; please, please, look away.


Now, I assume most of you know about the wonderful, mystical world of Groupon. A flying unicorn that farted glitter couldn't get me more excited than when my email bings with an out of this world good deal on Groupon. So, a few weeks ago when a laser hair removal coupon-Groupon was posted, I immediately jumped on that smooth deal. Mind you, I could have selected any menacing section of hair to remove but I chose to "de-hair" my private lady parts.


It sounded like a good idea at the time. Although I thought I was intricately prepared for my 9:30 a.m. appointment for my first out of six sessions, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.


I was told 45 minutes before I came into the appointment to apply a numbing cream that I bought at the consultation. Fervently, I applied the cream, getting every nook, cranny and crevice completely covered. Then I washed my hands. Apparently not good enough. Within 15 minutes my lady parts, three fingers, my right eyelid, half my tongue, my bottom lip and an ear lobe were completely numb. But, being the optimist that I am, I looked at this as a positive. I figured with the cream's potency I wouldn't be feeling a thing from the laser treatment.


Wrong again.


Now, if you remember a blog post of mine from a few years back, this ain't my first rodeo with hair removal in a "delicate" place. I have had many moments in the back room of a nail salon, being tortured by a lady named Ping. That was painful, but I had gotten out alive. Surely, this wouldn't be any worse.


The place were I was getting the laser treatment done was at a medical "spa". Medical Spas are almost as common in Dallas as a Starbucks. There is one on every corner. The mass amount of money women will spend in Dallas to be brought close to the brink of death for beauty is insane. Sure, peel 10 layers of skin of my face, just make sure the room smells of lavender and I get a foot rub at the end.


Yes, the spa setting is very deceiving. Walking into a beautiful room, with fresh flowers and calming music makes you believe your their for a Swedish massage. The cushy bed was far from a examination table and the cucumber water added a nice touch.


Perhaps it was the esthestican advising me to let her know if my pain got above an eight that got me realizing this wasn't going to be a walk in the park.


"An eight?!?!" I thought to myself. I cry for 20 minutes and ask for a bag of ice if my pain scale hits a 4. But, "an eight??!" I needed some liquid courage, but there wasn't a margarita in sight. I was going to have to be on my own on this one.


Crap.


One. Two. Three.


ZAP.


Explicitive. Explicitive. Explicitive.


After the first zap, you could have stuck a fork in me. I was done. My common sense finally kicked in and I was thinking, was the heck am I doing? Why in the world would I subject myself to such pain? No scratch that, why in the world would I PAY to be in such pain? It felt as if Chuck Norris had shot laser beams out of his eyes and onto my....you know. The tech had to coax me into staying on the table, assuring me I would get use to the zap and that it wouldn't take much longer.


30 zaps later and 5 minutes in a position where I had to be on all fours; I was finally done.


After the treatment, I looked as if I had run 10 miles, in 100 degree weather through a hurricane. I was drenched in sweat and yes, I was crying although I blamed in on allergies.


One treatment down. Five more to go.


Ouch, ouch, ouch.



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