What would the first task you would embark on if you lived in the woods where it snowed from August 31 until July 15th and suddenly found your self on the beach in  Miami smack dab in the middle of your bush growing season? Short of searching out a South American landscaping crew I think you would look for a South American landscaping crew, right? 

Is anyone tired of my waxing adventures because apparently…. I’M NOT! 

While this, by far, was not the worst waxing experience I’ve ever had it probably could be categorized as the most bizarre experience to date.

First call, we will come to your room. 50 for bikini. 90 for Brazilian. Okay. I have very sensitive skin. I want to see what kind of wax. Is it hard wax? Is it strip wax? Hard wax is good. I will decide when the technician gets here. Okay. Bye

Second call. We will only come to your room for 90 Brazilian. Of course by all means. FUCKERS. I’m in Miami. It’s 80 degrees. The only thing separating me from the beach  is the giant Side Show Bob Afro sticking out  of every possible opening in my bikini.

 By all means come to my room for 90 Brazilian and to watch me cry.

Knock, knock.

The lovely spa coordinator arrives to set up the table and to talk about my cute dress I’m wearing. And to get my money and to tell me that the gratuity is not included and to tell me that they prefer cash and to tell me that the technician is older and she has waxed Hayden Panitierreiolio.

 Which made me feel so much more at ease.

Apparently Hayden wanted to get rid of everything too, including her ears.

I sign. She leaves.

Knock. Knock.

Come in. We talk. Her name is Marianella. Yes. Yes, of course it is. We wait for the wax to warm up. We discuss the wax. She prefers strip wax. I prefer hard wax. I have sensitive skin. I bruise easy. She says the strip wax is easy. Easy on the skin. She’s been doing this for a long time. Nine years.

Trust.

We wait for the rubber gloves to arrive that Marianella forgot.

Dinc. Donc.

Marianella answers her phone, but first.

“Sorry, me.” Right. Of course. Take that call before we get started.

On the table. Robe off. Hot wax. Muslin.

Rip.

Again. Hot wax. Muslin. Unstick rubber gloves from me. Rip. Repeat.

Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.

“Sorry, me.” Really another call? Now during? Uh…

We go on and on with this process. Until we get to the most sensitive of places yet she continues to answer her phone. And becomes increasingly nervous. And weird. And the “Sorry, me’s.” keep coming.

Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.

Oh Marianella.

For CRYING THE FUCK OUT LOUD.

It’s

Finally it’s over. She packs up the table. Returns it to the spa. Comes back to gather the wax. Her personal belongings. Her phone. Her phone that in her absence rang.

Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.

With what could only be the thousands of FB, Twitter DM’s and BuzzFeed notifications of comments on the photos of my hoo haa she posted as she live blogged  the service.

So  my mind imagines.

And as she gathers up the basket of wax, forgetting her bag and phone she leaves a trail of hot wax starting in my room and winding down the carpeted hallway where I yell to her that she is leaking and she forgot her other stuff and before I know whats happening she is franticly  spraying oil all over the place and rubbing it with a napkin and by now her pants are coated in wax and frayed bits of papertowels, the carpet looks like it isn’t enjoying it’s waxing service either and I’m on the floor in my room rubbing oil into the wax trying to pry it up withmy fingernails and why the fuck am I dealing with this.

A Flustered Marianella leaves .

The Dish is now back in the room.

The door is shut.

And the sound that came next could only be described as someone punting poor Marianella down the laundry shoot but, what ever.  A moment later, the sobbing erupts and I can’t stop my self from pearing through the door and I try to get a picture because if Marianella is live blogging my wax then I sure as hell want  pictures for my blog.  But I refrain.

The sight of Marianella. Crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Sobbing.

With hot wax strewn about like she had tried to wax the Tasmanian Devil was to say the least….

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

The rest of my stay in Miami, I kept running into Marianella in the hotel and she kept giving me these really creepy stink eye vibes that were a blend of  ”il malocchio”, desperation and crazy.

Sorry. Me.

Unrelated footnote: Just in case you’ve been punted down a laundry shoot  since last week go check out the amazing thing that The Bloggess has done. And when you need more inspirational things to read please go vote for me over at Twaggies Caption Contest. Mine starts with “Every freaking time…”  I need that t-shirt.

I would like to properly introduce y’all to The Dish. (because I think I have made fun of him a bit here on A Vapid Blonde and for that I would like to apologize) Who is the  light of my day, the ruler of my heart….

Who happens to be in California right now!!!! And  probably getting felt up by Morgan Freeman… I know what you are thinking. Silly little Vapid Blonde trying to glom onto  Jenny’s  post NO!!! This is fair warning. He will show up and try to wreck your home with his celebrity and his cunning.
(did you see the look on his face in the picture with the kitten on his head….it SCREAMS: Hey Jenny, Watch your back, I got kittens on my head, mittens on my hands and Victor in my sights!)

I thought my husband was merely in California on a business trip until I read TheBloggesses post about good old Morgan and remembered back about  four or five years ago, when Morgan totally felt up  The Dish at a bar in California while he licked his lips and uttered the words ‘Hi there’ Are you kidding me…HI FUCKING THERE!!!!  You cannot tell me this is all a coincidence. Morgan totally stalks my husband. And he set this all up BECAUSE…he knows about the girl crushes TheBloggess and I have on each other. ( I know I am sounding like a stalker but…YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME)

Every time a commercial comes on with a voice over The Dish says to me “Who is it…”  (its always Morgan…if not it’s David and well one likes my husband and the other doesn’t even know I exist!)

He is trying to wreck my marriage.

And yours.

Isn’t it bad enough that I can’t leave my fucking house because my drive way is so steep that it’s kind of like the luge…no its not enough. I have to be reminded that at any moment Morgan is going to show up and try to fuck up this life I have created with cotton fucking candy???

Stolen from comment # 110 on TheBloggesses Post about Morgan

 MOTHER FUCKER. 

I wasn’t even thinking anything of this trip when The Dish asked me to go…then *WE* decided it was best I stayed home. All I was thinking about was my hair. Because hello…I am currently in my meltdown so what’s more important…gallivanting around California in a yellow corvette wearing lipstick and beating off Morgan…or getting your hair done by The Coquette in the middle of a fucking blizzard and wondering how are you going to walk up the drive way in these heals? I think getting your hair done is where to set your priorities.

She moves really fast and I am cross eyed...Who knew?

Apparently the Internet, or more ACCURATELY…Accuweather and Morgan Freeman are one and the same because as soon as she put the goo on my head…it started snowing. And I was stuck….for three hours while the snow piled high on my driveway and I had to walk the entire way up…which is no small feet. And by the time I got up to the house my mascara was streaming down my face and I looked a lot like this but with makeup.

Which sent me into a total panic for the next two days. Seriously…I sat in my house checking my self in the mirror every twenty minutes to see if it was a dream…*sobbing at this point because? nooooo, it was not a dream* 

I REALLY LOOK LIKE THAT!!!!

So I succomb and I plow the driveway and I eat steak alone at the table by myself with a dogs head on my lap by candlelight and I raise my glass of wine for a toast only to not hear it clink with another.
As much as I would like to be a recluse…I need you. I need people.

I need My Dish.

P.S. Does anyone else see the eerie similarities between The Dish offering champagne and Morgan offering cotton candy?

P.P.S. Morgan Freeman is in no way affiliated with A Vapid Blonde or The Dish (as much as he would like to be) Every thing here may or may not be figment of your imagination.

Update: I plowed my driveway and made it out and am no longer in a panic over my hair. (very important I know)…why the need for an update? well here is why.