Bonnaroo 2014: The Start.


Not knowing what you’re about to live through for the next five days can be overwhelming. Especially when you’re in Tennessee during the scrotum of Summer with two of your best friends and you’ve all ended up having to share a tent. So far it’s pretty fun, (the tent is pretty-baller-shot-caller,) so I think we’ll be fine. Plus we’re just awesome.

12 hours and a questionable Mexican lunch adventure later, we’re in line for the campground, watching everyone’s shit get poked, prodded and confiscated. We were all on fashion patrol too. The rainboots-and-overalls combo must be stopped, feather headdresses still are still being worn by the white man, some girls are dressed totally ridiculous for a camping festival.

But the good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of the visual aesthetic and culture of the festival. And it’s nice to be among the funky. To dance fucking weird in a silent disco to songs about pussy. To watch new up and coming bands charm the panties off of you. Even dude’s panties. (Check out Catfish and The Bottlemen. Amazing.) Oh and probably to watch Kanye West interrupt some white bitches, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Festival cuisine isn’t that bad – that is, if you make good choices. You have your hotdog/corndog/funnel cake booths that tug at your inner fat-kid-tendencies ( aka overindulgent 20-something-ness) and booths with mouth watering, real human food that your mom would be proud of you for eating.

We devoured some enormous Greek wraps stuffed with an abundance of sex selected from a Zeus-like salad bar and sat in the grass like field mice. Field mice wearing crop tops and camelbacks.

Acoustic music was encircling us and girls were dancing with silver hoops running up and down their arms. The sun was setting and it was hitting us: the slow tornado of the money spent, the money fretted, the months, the days, and the hours spent planning this has stopped: it’s here. We are trapped in a 4 -day music party with amazing food and friendly people.

All three of us work so fucking much that we don’t get to do enough fun things with each other. It’s nice to be out of touch with worries, Orlando, obligation, traffic, I-4, termites, angry truckers, SEO, how you want your fish tacos cooked or working 13 hours for under a hundred bucks.

I feel like this festival will help put some things into perspective for all of us. Sometimes you need to step out to assess things in a new light.

After this nap we will see what’s in store…were gonna go get weird at a rap show.

Truth Or Nair

My left arm is covered in hives and it burns like someone dropped me on to the surface of the sun. I’m pretty sure my pores want to bleed but they are so burned shut that the blood can’t surface. Even my own fucking blood doesn’t want to be near this shit the people call Nair. What does that even mean? No + hair = Nair? Clever, you fuckers, clever.

It started so innocent...

It started so innocently…

I guess I should stop hashtag-searching #Fail on Twitter and continue to write about what happened to me tonight. I’m not sure what direction I want to take this post: Do I focus on the fact that Nair is devil cream shot straight from the phallus of Satan and if it’s burning and dissolving the hair out of your follicles that you probably shouldn’t be putting it on your skin at all?

Or do I run with the fact that you shouldn’t speed in a 45 to Walgreens anytime a hairless co-worker recommends something without doing a little research first? I mean, it’s a good thing that I decided to test this out on my arms and not my vagina…but damn. When you have two silky smooth friends at work combing through your lady-arm hair with a judgey tone, it’ll make you do that.



I was thinking that I didn’t want man arms, but no one said that I did in the first place and I’m blonde…so what the fuck did I do this for? She – the sexily hairless Ukrainian – made it seem so easy. I can imagine she is naturally a tougher breed than I being from the fucking Ukraine and all…so let’s consider this Jill’s “lack in judgement move number one” for starters. Jill’s “lack in judgement move number two” stems with not reading the warning label. Number three is letting it sit on my arms for too long and number four would be reapplying it for a second go around when I didn’t scrub all the hair off the first time.

Enter: my first chemical burn.

I almost wasn’t surprised when my arm exploded into tiny, white, blistery hives and turned a beautiful shade of red you would only see in a structure fire caused by a meth-lab explosion. My friend Brittany was running around in circles in my kitchen Googling “allergic reaction cure ” and for all I know “closest hospital to Downtown Orlando” while I’m basically lying in my kitchen sink under the cold, running water. I was rolling my eyes at myself, breathing exasperatedly. “Of course,” I said over and over again, “of fucking course.”

This was like the time I impatiently tried to cut bangs into my hair with my mom when I was 20 and home from college. My hair was wet and I was pulling it down in front of my face. My mom entered the bathroom saying, “let me help you.” Letting her in was probably the worst move I could have made that summer besides hooking up with a friend I once wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy in high school. With a sharp snip of the scissors, my locks bounced up to their real place and just like that I had a sexy chunk of hair missing out of the front of my jaw-dropped, naïve face. Spatial relationships were never my strong suit and they clearly weren’t my mother’s either.

Maybe I’ll sum this up by saying that impulse decisions can be either the greatest or the worst ones you can make. Maybe I’ll also sum this up by saying you should not be impulsive about your hair removal tactics. I’m not saying Nair isn’t a product that works for some skin types, but this was my experience and boy, was it fun. Why a girl who uses organic, paraben and sulfate free soaps thought spreading acidic cream cheese onto my arm-bagels was a grand plan, I’ll never know. My arms are smooth, my sanity is temporarily broken. Tomorrow is a new day. And now I want a bagel.

The Server Life (Part 1)

Lately I have been sitting on the floor of my shower a lot. I lay back and let the steamy, hot water wash away the dried sticky soda, spilled buffalo sauce and unwanted cooties from the horny old Server Assistant that likes to rub his junk on my leg. (For the record he rubs his junk on everyone. He is also an extremely skilled dancer, but this is irrelevant for now.)

I stare at the wall or shut my eyes to feel the day melt off of me so I can think. Think about my own thoughts – not about how many potstickers come in an order or about how your super fat kid needs a cup of free cherries RIGHT NOW or he is going to fucking explode and take the rest of Disney World with him.

Yes, this shit does drive you crazy.

Yes, this shit does drive you crazy.

When all the bullshit (including the SA’s balls) circles the drain, I’m often thinking of all of the things I’m not doing enough. I’m not seeing my friends or family enough. I’m not writing an adequate amount or going on random adventures nearly as much as I’d like to be. I’m not really doing much of anything because after working 10-12 hours a day busting your ass for other people, all you want to do is sleep.

After the day I had today, the last thing I thought I would be doing is writing this entry. I wouldn’t have even been surprised if I had fallen asleep in the bathtub earlier.

I dig my job a lot. I like the people I work with a shitload, I love making a guest’s day and I realllly like making that sweet, sweet cheddar.

However, as with any job, it’s not without its obvious woes that really sting your B-hole. I hope you find them as entertaining as I do.

Said every server ever.

Said every server ever.

Maybe I Have Adult Braces…

And I say adult in the least sexy way you can say it. I say adult in the “you-have-to-pay-out-of-pocket-because-your-insurance-hasn’t-kicked-in-yet” kind of adult. I say it in the “of-course-you-would-get-braces-while-you’re-trying-to-be-single” kind of way.

The line is around the corner gentlemen…

The real ass-burner here is that this isn’t the first time I’ve had them either. (Thank you wisdom teeth, you’re all a bunch of assholes.) Without getting too deep into the vast subject of body image issues, I’ll focus on a couple common annoyances with having little pieces of horror cemented to your teeth.

It goes beyond the inevitable soreness and pain which some of you may remember friends complaining about in…you know…MIDDLE SCHOOL. You can’t chew properly, talk without stuffing wax in the back of your mouth, or smile too fast because you WILL rip your lips open. Cons, cons, cons.

I am painfully self-aware of my face at all times. I might have straight beautiful teeth in the end, but it’s highly possible that I’ll also have PTSD from having to keep my mouth’s shit together at all times. I can’t just bite into things like a normal person. To your inner, ravenous, fat-kid…this blows total ass. It’s not that you can’t swan dive into that Gringos Locos burrito at 2 a.m., but you better be around people who love you. Your mouth will look like the grill of a car after a cross-country road trip – except instead of bugs it will be black beans. Or dangling tortilla. Or sexy green cilantro. Mmmm….who’s hungry?
Ripping things into little pieces so that you can place them into your mouth makes you look like a psycho. CONS, CONS, CONS.

By the way, Gwen was 30 when she rocked these.

At a whopping 30 years old, this wasn’t a good look for my Queen – Gwen Stefani.

It’s like having volunteered to be in jail for 8 months because not only do you feel emotionally and physically trapped in a certain circle of hell, you’re also not getting laid as much as you want to be getting laid. Even when you think to yourself – “I’m an adult, I’ve done this before, fuck other people!” – one immature comment from a douchebag in a Metallica shirt can send you home crying in the back of a cab. Or sometimes you get the “you look like my high school crush” comment. Or the ever too popular question, “Can you give blowjobs with those things?” Well let’s not find out, shall we? Again, FUCKING CONS.

I’m not alone, I know this. One of my best friends is also on this messy, wire-laden adventure with me. We can both attest to this leaving you feeling super uncomfortable, unsexy, insecure and ugly. Beauty is pain, ammirite?

I also realize I have provided you with ZERO Pros in this post. But here is the shining nugget of greatness: If you’re considering adult braces, it’s going to suck. However, you will have a traffic stopping, confident smile after this is all over. The people who love you and who are attracted to your light won’t give a shit. So cheers to that! 3 months and counting…Wish me luck! Or good luck to you!