I'd like to buy an "OW" please.

Due to the graphic nature of this post, viewer discretion is advised.

I may be crossing the blogging line here. What I am about to divulge is not for the overtly shy or prude person.

This is a story about The Brazilian Wax.

You see, I've only had two brazilian waxes (the latter performed this past weekend) and I think that's a good number to stop at. The first one, done by an actual Brazilian lady in San Francisco, is why I opted for BW #2. She was gentle, kind, almost motherly. Her waxing room was filled with warm light and soothing music. She engaged me in interesting conversation about the origin of the BW and how, after experiencing the many post-BW benefits, I'll become a BW regular. I felt very positive leaving her salon.

Then I came to Texas.

For a while now I've been thinking it would be cool to revisit the BW world again. So, I made my appointment and sealed my fate. Enter my aesthetician: young, almost-anorexic brunette with a forced smile and not-too-interested eyes. Small talk was not her forte. As she very professionally told me to undress from the waist down, my dread started to build. Why do I feel like I'm about to get my annual pap smear from some Nazi nurse technician? C'mon! Snap out of it! But my feeling of dread was there for a reason.

I position myself on the table. Feeling the warm wax against my skin, I steady my breathing and tighten my stomach against the anticipated moment of discomfort. There was a loud sshhh-rripp! and my body jerked off the table. Holy.Mother.Of.GOD. Beads of sweat started to form on my forehead. Before I could recover another sshhh-rripp! filled the room, followed by two more sshhh-rripp! sshhh-rripp! Ignoring the "This area is a Quiet Zone" sign on the wall in the hallway, I belt out an "OOOOWWWWWWUUUUUUUCCCCHHHHHHH!!!!!"

This woman was no Brazilian lady from San Francisco with the gentle touch who worked in very small sections. I was dealing with a "let's remove your womanhood with wax and a cotton strip" monster.

She tells me to breathe. Wha-?? All I see are tiny white lights in front of my eyes. I force a deep, long inhale and the pain somewhat subsides. She tells me we're almost done. I tell her to give me a second so I can wipe the puddle of sweat off my forehead. Both hands drop to the sides of the table. I grip on to the metal and tell her to finish. A few small swipes later she tells me she's done. With the front.

WHHAAATTTT???

She then proceeds to tell me to flip over on all fours, place my chest against the table and stick my butt in the air.

(Did your jaw just drop because mine sure did)

I have NEVER in all 28 years of my life felt like a bigger WHORE than I did at this very moment. I'm sorry, Ms. Aesthetician, but I didn't know we'd be taping Deepi Does Dallas during my waxing session. Thank God I'm brown otherwise my face would have been redder than Rudolph's nose. Though this position only lasted a couple of minutes, I was already scarred for life. And to make matters even MORE uncomfortable, she asked me to "go ahead and check to see if I like it." Seriously. As if I'm not mortified enough, now you want me to examine myself in front of you???? Lady, you're on some serious day spa crack.

So to lighten the moment and kill my embarassment, I try dropping a few funny little comments. I now felt very intimate with (and somewhat violated by) this person and damn it, I needed some humor NOW. She wouldn't have it. I got a couple of sympathy half-giggles and that was it. Bedside manner of an icicle, I tell ya.

I don't think I'll be venturing down the BW path for a very long time. However, if I decide to subject myself to such torture again, I will either have to fly back to S.F. or find a brand new aesthetician every, single time. I hope my embarassment has shed some light on this topic.

I will never speak of this again.

Tunnel vision.

I've been a bit uncertain about whether or not I should blog about this (mostly because this incident pissed me off so badly that I didn't want to have an entire blog with "fucking piece of shit bastards" as every other phrase) but finally said "WTF" and decided to go for it. I'm not one to get all preachy about religion but I feel like I need to get this off my chest.

Last weekend my family and I were headed back home from attending a dinner at a family friend's house. We needed gas so somewhere on Hwy 121 (near Lewisville) my pops decides to pull over at a gas station. Nothing too rural; there was a Kroger and new shopping strip to our left. In fact, it was one of those developing areas which will soon have 15 other strip malls and large, brick houses. So dad gets out and starts pumping gas when a car pulls up. There were two teenage kids, one boy and one girl, sitting in the car and, who I'm assuming is the father, a man who gets out to pump gas.

Not too strange, eh?

Well, my problem is the blatant STARING. The type of staring where you seriously have to give a long, hard look before this person turns his/her head. Why were they staring?

They (most probably) thought my father was part of the Taliban.

I fucking kid you not. You see, my father wears a turban because we're Sikh. Not Muslim, not Hindu, NOT THE FUCKING TALIBAN, but Sikh. Sikh men, generally, wear turbans and have beards. Now, I'm sure the ignorant family pumping gas had no idea of this. In fact, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that they've probably never even heard of a Sikh before. Because in their sheltered little world where people are either white, black or "for-ners" they've never been exposed to people of other cultures, creeds or religions. But what fucking gets ME is that instead of simply and intelligently walking up to my father and saying "Excuse me, sir. I don't want to bother you or seem rude, but I was wondering if you could tell me what religion you are?" these assholes CONTINUED.TO.STARE.

This is the great American melting pot, eh?

Give me fucking break. How many times have I been with my father or my fiance (who recently started wearing his turban full-time) in a public place and I feel like we're some circus show freaks? Imagine that for a second, will you? Imagine going about your day-to-day business and having people either stare at you head on or try to steal glances in your direction as if you forgot to put on pants that day? Imagine that. Wouldn't that make you angry? IT BOILS MY BLOOD. And each and every time I feel like I'm on the defense. "Go ahead, asshole, LOOK. I fucking dare you." But my pops goes unfazed as does my fiance. They're used to it. I love them so much for being that strong when I know that if it were me, I probably wouldn't be able to contain my anger.

You would think that in the year 2006 people would have a better understanding of what makes up this world. All the people, the cultures, the religions, the diversities that make us humans so unique. I feel sad for that family at the gas station. Chances are they're never going to be inquisitive enough to figure out who that turbaned man was pumping gas next to them. The cycle will continue. Ignorance will breed more ignorance.

Destination: ___________.

I've got the moving itch. Yep. It's been a slight tingle for the past few weeks and I'm afraid to say that it's headed into a full-blown rash.

Now, I'm not sure if this is normal for most folks or if us ad school cats are more susceptible to this "itch" (please, feel free to comment). I know that living in San Francisco for a year, then moving to Chicago for six months, then to London for three months and then back to San Francisco for my final three months of ad school probably had something to do with my symptoms.

I'M GETTING BORED.

Sorry die-hard Dallasites. Your city now bores the living shit out of me. I'm tired of the sprawled out splendor called the DFW Metroplex. I don't want to hunt for those pockets of unique, non-mainstream coolness. In S.F./London, it was a matter of walking down the street and finding yourself pulled in five different directions because that shop looks cool! or that gallery has some new pieces! or man, a killer chai would definitely hit the spot right now! I miss the feeling of being in the city. I watch reruns of Sex and the City just to get a quick fix. I love the concrete jungle. It's my beautiful grey oasis.

You're probably thinking "Well shit, Deepsters! Pack up and get the hell out!" If it only were so easy, my friends. It's all about timing. So until that glorious day comes when I'll be walking the city streets again, filling my nostrils with exhaust fumes and my ears with the sound of heels on concrete, I'm going to have to keep hunting for that stupid silver lining.

FYI: Since HBO can't replace the real thing, I'm taking a trip to NYC in a couple of weeks. I'm so fucking stoked I'm gonna pee myself.

Who's gonna be IN?

Tonight is the night. I've been watching reruns all week waiting for tonight's season finale of Project Runway. Not only have I been obsessed with this show but I've actually managed to pass the sickness on to my family. Now, I'm not a fan of reality TV by any means. In fact, I quite hate it. But shows like THIS, where people actually use their creativity and talent, I totally am a sucker for.

So here's my breakdown of the Final 3:

Chloe: Adorable. I think she's the cutest thing and by far she's been the most consistent thus far design-wise. I wasn't so crazy about the whole "am I really passionate about this/do I really want this" crap she was spewing a couple of episodes ago, but in all fairness, who doesn't go through that? Shit. I go through that almost every week (see previous previous post). I dig her clean, sophisticated style but I am a bit worried about how her final collection will do (I saw a lot of shiny material; scared me a bit).

Daniel V.: I really like this one. He just seems so...chill. His design skills speak volumes as well. Talented. I kinda envy him. But sadly enough, I'm not sure how his final collection will do. What's with the giant wooden handle bags? I mean, I can see where he was going with it but not so crazy about the outcome. Hmmm...we'll have to see about this one.

Santino: OK. I love this guy. I know! He's such an arrogant ASS! But that's why I love him. He cracks me up. I know if I was actually there, in person, I might have a different opinion of him. But I think he's just brilliant. He's not scared of a challenge. He does go above and beyond (or simply ignores) the call of duty but isn't it better to be crazy/way out there and let your mentors reign you back in vs. being mediocre and safe? That's what I was taught in ad school and damn it, I'm sticking to it. Plus, I think his final collection looks SASSY! At least what I've seen of it. And he's funny! C'mon! "What happened to Andre?" Ha! Awesome.

So there you have it, folks. Tonight we'll find out. I'm gonna actually watch last week's episode again. I know. Sick. I've already seen it three times.

Auf Wiedersehen!

Ahhh...let's retract that last post.

Yeah, so, nevermind. Apparently all I needed was a Pilates class. Now my endorphins are soaring. All is well again.

But it was a nice bit of drama, wasn't it?

The flu is gone so what the hell's the matter with me?

I recently got over a week and a half of absolute flu-crap-dom. It sucked. So bad. I seriously haven't felt that miserable in a while. So you'd think, the flu is gone and I should be all bright and chipper again, right?

Wrong.

The bastard flu fairy took my happiness when it decided to leave my body with the flu. I am in such a FUNK. And I can't explain it. Nothing is worth doing anymore. Forget the typical not caring about how I look or that I haven't worked out in 3 weeks. I sleep until the last possible second (which is usually 45 minutes past my wake-up time) because even going to work is something I'm so over. Apparently my creativity also went down the shitter.

Seriously. Is this normal? Or has the flu damaged the oh-so-fun-and-motivated part of my brain?