You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery (13 page)

The Aerosmith lyrics faded out as everyone turned to look as our pole-dancing goddess walked in with her boom box and midriff top.

“Everyone, this is Sienna.”

I could tell Sienna was the best in the biz . . . mainly because she was old enough to have
invented
pole dancing. I had a flash of a young Sienna doing a jitterbug around a pole in the ’20s.

She had long, flowy hair and tons of silver jewelry. I checked her wrist for a Life Alert bracelet but saw puka shells instead. But as the late Aaliyah said when she wanted to marry the world’s grossest man, R. Kelly, “Age ain’t nothing but a number,” and I agreed. I couldn’t judge Sienna because the first tip she’d ever gotten in her thong was probably a buffalo nickel. However, I could judge her because she was a total space cadet. You know how there are hippies who are really into the healing powers of rocks? Then there are the hippies who are really into smoking rocks? Sienna seemed like
that
kind of hippie. And homegirl had definitely indulged before this gig. She was high out of her mind and speaking in
sloooow
motion.

Let me remind you that this was my first impression with these girls attending the bachelorette weekend. These are the type of girls who have monogrammed tampons, so I can only imagine what they were thinking when Sienna walked in.

Oh, this is charming, what are we doing next? Breaking into someone’s grandma’s house to steal her medication?

Great planning, Mamrie. What’s our dinner reservations? Canned pinto beans heated off a hobo’s garbage can fire?

Before I could apologize to the girls for the live episode of
Intervention
happening before us, Ashleigh stepped in.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to learn how to dance! But first, let’s have another drink!”

She winked at me and ordered another round for the group. With the bride’s enthusiasm backing me up, everyone was on board and I felt a little relief. I treasured this feeling, as I knew it wouldn’t last long.

The first thing Sienna wanted to teach us was a floor routine. It was your basic, run-of-the-mill lap dance, where every movement feels like it is dipped in molasses. By the time she started counting off “five, six, seven . . .” I could have taken another shot from the bar and been back without missing a pelvic thrust. Step by stumbling step, she slowly taught us choreography to the Ying Yang Twins’ magnum opus, “Wait (The Whisper Song).” She incorporated chair work, but really I think she just wanted a rest.

I looked around the room. Every face looked like a what-the-fuck emoji. It felt sad. Like an injured animal that you just want to put out of its misery. Gingham Dress whispered in my ear, “Should we call a paramedic?” I stood there disappointed. I’d wanted it to be a fun bonding experience and now I was about to take the pulse of a meth-head hippie on a barstool.

I started to walk toward her, defeated, when she popped right back up onto her feet. “All right, girls,” she let out like a death rattle, “time for the signature move. I’m telling ya, this move will have the boys eating out of the palm of your hand.”
*

I saw everyone’s ears perk up. Maybe this wasn’t a lost cause. She had us follow along (and I encourage those of you reading to do the move too).

“You take your hands and put them in front of you like a triangle, thumbs and pointer fingers touching.” We did. “Then, you take that triangle and you put it right in front of your pussy.” At this point I heard audible gasps. “This, girls, is called ‘Framing the Cookie.’”

We all stood there with our hands framing our crotches, waiting for her to continue. . . . Nope. That was it. Framing the Cookie was her big move. You could’ve heard a pin drop if the Ying Yang Twins hadn’t been screaming about sweat droppin’ down their balls.

You know how when you look at a word for too long, it doesn’t look like it’s spelled right anymore? (I do this on every page of this book.) Or when you hear a dumb song multiple times in a row, and it just makes you laugh instantly (every Toby Keith song ever written)? This is what Frame the Cookie became to us. Sienna reminded us to frame the cookie upward of eighty times in twenty minutes.

Slowly run your hand down your thigh and frame the cookie. Take two steps left and frame the cookie.

The gesture looked more like “Put a Pizza Slice on Your Coochie” or like your vagina had just joined the Illuminati. Our cookies were framed harder than Roger Rabbit.

I stood there, cookie framed, wanting to crawl into a hole, when I heard Ashleigh behind me. “If this bitch keeps talking about cookies, I’m gonna have to leave and find me a Mrs. Fields.” Everyone lost it and never came back.

This was the turning point! I had been so worried about everything not being perfect that I failed to see people were having fun. They were laughing and being good sports, framing their cookies as they were told. Maybe they weren’t as uptight as I had feared. Actually,
I
was being the uptight one!

We were all dancing along, repeating after Sienna when she told us to frame the cookie, giggling so fucking hard. I think she
thought we were giggling because we were so prudish that doing these dance moves made us uncomfortable. We were fine with all the moves. What got everyone was watching a senior citizen keep going on and on about her cookie while giving a lap dance that made her look like she was underwater.

Why a cookie? Sure, I can see how that might be a compliment in the “it’s so moist and delicious” way. But there are several variations on the word
cookie
. She didn’t say, “Frame the sugar cookie with pink icing,” which would’ve made sense. She didn’t say, “Frame that Double Stuff Oreo,” which also makes sense (don’t judge). For all I know, she was telling us to frame a dry, crumbly pecan sandie chock-full of nuts. Which actually did make sense in reference to her own goods. It would’ve made more sense if she’d told us to “frame the doughnut”—still a sweet treat, but at least a doughnut is glazed and has a hole in it.

If we’re going to go ahead and assign a snack name to my vageen, there are a wide variety of other treats that work. And being someone who doesn’t have a sweet tooth, how about:

1. Doritos: It’s already a triangle shape and beloved by millions.

2. Pretzel: It’s super bendable and of German descent.

3. Hummus: It’s tahini-tiny (hey-yo!).

4. The popular ’90s gummy treat Gushers (I had to).

The rest of the class was beyond ridiculous. We all self-medicated (drank) as one has to in these types of situations. After sufficiently twerking in slo-mo for a half hour, we moved on to the pole portion of the class, the part I was most excited about.

Just as I was about to hop on and show off to the girls what I had learned at that pole class in NYC, I heard a bloodcurdling “
Noooooo!
” from Sienna. At first I thought someone had opened a window and sunlight had hit her for the first time in years. Apparently, we weren’t actually supposed to touch the poles in this
pole-dancing class, which made zero sense to me. If I go apple picking, you’d best be assured I’m going to pick a damn apple (and then Instagram the fuck out of it so people know I do cool, active things).

Sienna had assured me during our previous phone call that she’d install her portable poles, which would work just as well as the dance-studio poles. Looking back, I’m not sure if there ever really was a “studio” like the website said. I wouldn’t be surprised if I went back and found that those glowing Yelp reviews were by users Sienna69 and Sienna420. (I realize these aren’t clever fake names. I wouldn’t expect her to make up clever fake ones.)

These “stripper poles” we were supposed to be twirling on were looser than a rabbit in heat. Imagine trying to pole dance on a seven-foot-tall piece of spaghetti. They were so flimsy, in fact, that we weren’t allowed to put
any
weight on them. We may as well have been wearing pigtails and lederhosen, framing our cookies around a goddamn maypole. It was a mess and only added to the giggle fest among the girls.

After a few songs of framing the cookie around the poles, I pulled Sienna aside. “Thank you so much for teaching us. I think us ladies are a little too inebriated to go any further, so we can totally call this one short.” Sometimes I overcompensate for being shitfaced by using big words like “inebriated.”

Then I tipped her generously and thanked her for teaching. She said it was no problem, that she was going straight from the bar to teach another class in someone’s home. I, being just drunk enough to give unasked-for advice (my specialty), told her to bring mace and how dangerous I thought going to someone’s home was. And then she left as quickly as she had come. Which wasn’t that quickly, ’cause let’s face it, she was a senior citizen and high on methamphetamines.

I went back inside to see all the girls laughing and framing their cookies. We left the bar and stopped by the grocery store to pick up snacks and booze. I rounded the chips aisle to see some of the girls taking a picture as they framed a Chips Ahoy! display stand.

“Mamrie, get in here!” one of them screamed.

I did it. I knew the inside joke. I had successfully wedged my way into this group of girls! The pole dancing wasn’t just an icebreaker—it shaved that ice, threw it on a cone, and poured tutti frutti syrup all over it. We continued doing Sienna’s signature move all weekend and even broke it out at Ashleigh’s gorgeous wedding reception. Turns out, Ashleigh’s Grandma Nuni frames a good cookie.

I think of Sienna often these days. I wonder if she found happiness, or if she went on to be an extra in the really fucked-up
Breaking Bad
scenes. Sometimes, I’ll be walking down the cookie aisle at Vons and stop dead in my tracks. I’ll pick up a box of Oreos, smile down at it, and think,
Oh, Sienna, you weird and wonderful woman. I really hope you weren’t murdered at that other party.

Ash and me on her perfect day. She was a vision. Later that night, she would get in a fight with her groom because of how badly she wanted pizza. That is why we are friends.

4 lime wedges

1 oz simple syrup

Jalapeño-infused cachaça

Club soda

To infuse the cachaça, just throw a handful of whole fresh jalapeños into it a week before you want to make this drink. Don’t slice them or it will be too spicy. Also, don’t get freaked out if the jalapeños turn white. That is the liquor sucking out all the flavor like Bunnicula the bunny used to do to his vegetables.

Muddle the lime wedges in a tall tumbler. Add ice, simple syrup, and however much cachaça you need to soothe your wounds; top with club soda. Throw in a swizzle stick and give it a swirl.

T
here are a lot of wonderful things about being a woman: The miracle of birth. Supercute clothing options. Having three days a month when you’re allowed to be a total cunt.
*
But one of the things that sucks about not rocking a Y chromosome is grooming. Grooming is a motherfucker. Men can walk around looking partially homeless and it’s considered hip—sexy, even. But ladies are
expected to keep their bodies smoother than a swimmer with alopecia. It ain’t fair.

When I think about the hours I’ve spent in my life shaving my legs, it makes me sad. I could’ve gotten a master’s degree with that much time, specifically in women’s studies, so I wouldn’t give an F about having furry gams. But I do give an F, and it takes forever.

Now, I know, I know, guys have shaving responsibilities too. Pipe down, two dudes reading this! Whenever a guy hears a girl complaining about shaving her legs, he says, “Oh, but we have to shave our face every day!” Bitch, please. You are not Eric Stoltz in
Mask
. Your face does not have that much square footage and couldn’t possibly take that long. Besides, if you decide not to shave, beards are hot. You lucky bastards can use laziness to your advantage.

Ever since I was little I’ve thought that beards were super attractive. This, of course, manifested itself in me having crushes on fictional characters, including:

1. The Brawny Man

This one is a stretch because it wasn’t a full beard, but he did rock a major ’stache in the ’80s. This was before Brawny modernized him and made him look like Dean Cain. A man who can pull off plaid
and
cleans up in the kitchen? Sign me up!

2. Johnny Appleseed

Admit it. If Johnny Appleseed were living today in hipster Williamsburg, Brooklyn, he would be dropping panties harder than he drops seeds. Urban farming is super in right now! That, paired with his eclectic choice of wearing a backward pot on his head? He’s practically a two-episode love interest arc on
Girls
.

3. Paul Bunyan

This is a no-brainer. Paul was my first love. Right off the bat, you have his sheer size. The man was a giant, and there is nothing better than a large dude to make a broad like me feel petite. He also had a love for animals, which is the ultimate turn-on. And not just any animals—weird ones. I mean, his pet was a blue ox named Babe, so he clearly goes by my pet motto of Adopt, Don’t Shop. And last but not least, the man liked to eat. I remember reading a story about Paul when I was little and it said that normal-size men would strap big pats of butter to their feet and then skate around Paul’s massive cast-iron skillet, greasing it up for his breakfast. I want to skate with butter shoes! If Paul gave me the honor of letting me taste his massive pancakes, trust me, I would show him my flapjacks. Hey-yo!

But you know what isn’t hot? Beards between women’s legs. Wait, that didn’t sound right, because thinking of a man’s beard between my legs is
extremely
hot. I’m talking about if a woman let her lady business go wild for a few years, à la Bunyan & Co. No one wants to disrobe in the heat of passion and look like they are riding on the shoulders of Si from
Duck Dynasty
.

Rutabaga!
Dad, this is the part of the chapter where you stop reading and tell me you’re proud of me despite my life choices.

As far as my crotchal region goes, I would say I’m into light grooming. I’m not sporting dreadlocks or anything—it’s more of a crew cut. But I’m definitely not hairless. My skin is
way
too sensitive to razor it on the regular. Fact is, I think a sexual partner would find my bush more attractive than the red, irritated, plucked-chicken look I would achieve from shaving.

Besides the sensitivity issue, the idea of going down there with an object that’s used in street fights and just blindly swiping around is
terrifying
to me. You can’t really see what you’re doing down there! You might as well go to third base with Edward Scissorhands.
Things might be different if I could stroll up to an old-school barbershop, be lathered up with a brush, and get the straight-razor routine, then end the whole shebang with a hot towel on my gal as a barbershop quartet sings “Mr. Sandman.” But that ain’t gonna happen.
*

Regardless, this story is about waxing. It was the summer of 2008 and the first time I’d had a boyfriend since college. I’d always heard about girls keeping their nether regions on point for their boyfriends, but the desire never really crossed my mind.

Oh, I couldn’t care less
, you hear guys say.
I prefer grass on the field. I don’t want it to look like a twelve-year-old
, dudes-who-I-would-never-date-because-they-talk-like-that would say. But maybe there was something to making a little extra effort in the bikini area. I had never given it much thought until my friend Hely offered to do it for free when she started running an upscale sugar waxing place in Soho. You could get most of their treatments for free, because the girls in training needed to practice. Yes, you were a guinea pig of sorts, but it was a spa for God’s sake. It wasn’t like I was doing medical research testing and was going to grow a baby arm on my forehead. Did I mention it was
free
?

At this point, I had been living in New York for almost three years, but someone had failed to tell that to my bank account. I was still living from one night’s bartending tips to the next, and a day at the spa meant splurging for a three-dollar bottle of Mr. Bubble and putting some peppermint tea bags on my eyes. Sugar waxing was so fancy! If you don’t know what sugar waxing is, it’s simple. Instead of a traditional wax, it’s actually a combination of heated sugar, lemon juice, and water. Lovely, right? Doesn’t it sound like your cooter is popping by a lemonade stand? Think again.

I arrived at the spa, and it was gorgeous—all beautiful Indian silks and cozy places to sit. I was offered cucumber water from a bejeweled glass container. It was the coldest, most refreshing H2O I’d ever put in my mouth, with just a whisper of cucumber flavor. What kind of
sorcery was this?
*
I took my crisp cuke beverage and settled in to catch up on my reading:
Us Weekly
. Look, if you don’t think that deciding whether Jennifer Garner or Kristin Chenoweth wore a bandage dress better is hard-hitting journalism, we cannot be friends.

So far, so good. I’d gone almost ten minutes already without making an “I’m so sari” joke. I was just about to find out the secret to Kingston Rossdale’s effortless swagger when they called my name. Or at least they attempted it. Let’s be real, no one ever gets a name like Mamrie right. I basically just wait for the person to make a weird face with a twisted-up mouth and then I save them the trouble. I know the look. From professors calling roll to Starbucks calling my order, it always looks like they are trying to hold a fart in their mouth.

Back to the spa! Two women escorted me into a small, dim room that smelled like lavender and had soft, soothing music playing. It was the type of atmosphere you always try to create when you need to unwind in a bath at the end of a stressful day. I, for one, love a hot bubble bath—filling up the tub, lowering myself in, and quickly realizing that the finale of
Master Chef
is starting in two minutes, and hopping out to track water all over my living room.

One of the ladies told me to take my time undressing from the waist down and then to lie on the table. “We will knock before coming in,” she said, closing the door behind them. I won’t lie to you. I was nervous. Every time you see waxing in a movie, it has more screams of agony than a war scene. But this place was so peaceful. Surely, I wouldn’t be screaming with this harp CD playing in the background. I imagined the hairs coming off with ease, like a Persian cat being brushed.

Things started to feel not quite as harmonious once I was lying ass-naked on the table. Having your cooter on display in
front of two women speaking a foreign language makes you feel extremely vulnerable. We’ve all gotten pedicures and thought the women sloughing off our raggedy calluses were talking mad shit about our feet. This is how I felt, except this time, they weren’t chatting about my feet. They were chatting about my lady meat. (Too far?) Needless to say, my butthole was clenched so tight that if you’d stuck a lump of coal up there, I would’ve shit out a diamond.

After a few rips of my epidermis, I settled into the fact that this was gonna hurt like hell and I just needed to take deep breaths and deal with it. But then began the slow parade of people. I guess there were quite a few ladies who needed to get their Brazilian tutorials in. So, before I knew it I was lying there with a wall of six women staring into my vagina like they were looking at an animal diorama at the Natural History Museum. I imagined this crew of students going room to room, looking at each vagina with audio-guide headphones on, nodding along to the voice-over.

As you can see here we have a Caucasian vageen. This one is particularly hairy, as it has been in the wild since 1983. Do not get too close. Unlike a skunk, it may not spray you, but it can project a foul odor. Next, we have the national vagina of our country, the great bald spread-eagle. . . .

As mortified as I felt with an audience looking down my hatch, the most painful thing of this experience was the actual
pain
of this experience. I guess I had expected that these women had had a little more training. You know the dummy heads that students practice cutting hair on in beauty school? I expected the same for waxing school—dummy vagina molds where these gals could get in their hours. But according to the amount of failed rips that I felt, I was gravely mistaken.

One woman just didn’t have the strength to rip it off. She
poured on the hot wax and anxiously applied the paper. I swear I saw her mouthing a prayer, and then I watched her close her eyes as she pulled with all her might. It didn’t budge. The only thing that hurts more than someone ripping deep-rooted hairs out of your crotch is someone trying and then
failing
to rip deep-rooted hairs out of your crotch. In fact, I think she pulled so hard that my hairs grew out an inch, like one of those dolls in the ’80s that you could cut its hair then lift its arm to make it grow back out.

She tried again—still nothing. She and my vagina were having a high school courtyard catfight: two girls start pulling each other’s hair and neither refusing to let go. I watched the instructor tap her out. A new one, clearly the teacher’s pet, stepped in for clean-up duty.

This woman approached me with a smile on her face, totally at ease and super confident—a little
too
confident for my taste. There’s something unsettling about a person who really enjoys administering pain as her job. You wouldn’t want your dentist to say, “Oh boy! Looks like we’ve got a root canal today. This should be fun!” then crank up some AC/DC as he puts the laughing gas over your nose. I half-expected Teacher’s Pet to crack her knuckles and have the instructor squirt water into her mouth as a bell rang. Round two!

She grabbed the paper with one hand, steadied my abdomen with the other, and ripped that motherfucker off like it was a burning car on top of her newborn babe. The entire peanut gallery gave an audible
ohhh
. Granted, I don’t speak Hindi, but I’m pretty sure “Ohhh” translates to “I think you just ripped off that poor white girl’s labia.”

This is where I blacked out for a second. What I imagine happened is the Muscle held the wax strip above her head like a Mohican who had just scalped the enemy in a war.

Thankfully, all good things must come to an end, and the same goes for all horrific things. Everyone filed out and I was left to get dressed.

I lay there for a few minutes, gathering myself. I focused on my breathing like you do at the end of a yoga class, then peeked down to see the masterpiece. “That’s weird. It looks like I had a manatee in a headlock.” Holy fuck, it looked like I had a
manatee in a headlock
. Remember me telling you how sensitive my skin is? Well, after forty-five minutes of having essentially hot caramel poured on and ripped off of it, the poor thing had puffed out like Violet from
Willy Wonka
. I waddled out of that fancy salon looking like my crotch was shoplifting a neck pillow.

And for what? I sure as hell wasn’t going to put on a swimsuit anytime soon, because (a) it would be painful, and (b) it would look like I stored a Bundt cake in my pants. There was no way I was letting my boyfriend anywhere near my vagina. I taped off my nether regions like a murder scene.