#throwbackthursday post: Fun With Vajazzling

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Originally published: January 14, 2014

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va·jaz·zle
vəˈjaz(ə)l

verb

informal
1. adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.

 

A friend got me a vajazzling kit for Christmas. It may seem like a weird thing to buy a friend, but she was curious about it. I was curious about it. Obviously, cupid had spoken. But not only did she want me to vajazzle myself, she wanted me to blog about it too.  On the blog that my mom reads. At first I was hesitant to do it because this was my hooha we were discussing, but eventually curiosity and writers block won me over.  So with nothing else to write about, I decided to vajazzle myself.

Thankfully vajazzling doesn't work like this.

Thankfully vajazzling doesn’t work like this.

Vajazzling is not to be mistake with bedazzling. Vajazzling is like getting a Brazilian wax done and then it decides to go on a successful treasure hunt. While on meth. So it’s like getting a Brazilian wax combined with the shiny things from Black Beards Treasure. Where my black lady beard used to be. Honestly, that’s the best way that I can describe every vajazzled vagina that I have ever seen, and thanks to the internet, I’ve seen a lot of vajazzled vaginas.

Let me tell you, the idea of having a sparkly cooter really enthralled me. I’m completely mesmerized by the idea of having my own hidden shiny things. But I’m also turned off by the fact that I could have some perfectly amazing bling bling happening and I wouldn’t be able to show anyone. Well, I could show people, but I’m not sure how everyone would feel about me running around, crotch first, demanding that they look at my bejewel lady bits.

So Saturday night I settled down with my vajazzling kit that I was gifted and I had five shiny choices that I could press onto my va-jay-jay. There was a star, a heart, a lightning bolt, a top hat, and two foot prints. My immediate thought was to Harry Potter my hoo-ha, because who doesn’t want their downtown to be magical? But I also thought that having a top hat down there would make me feel like one dapper lady. Except…What if this first time turned out poorly because I messed up? I better use the lame heart.

Lame, but still cute and shiny, heart in hand I started stripping down to sticker myself so I could make jokes about my snatch being a lost treasure or telling people my crotch is where the lost fallen stars go to die. I was clean, I was shaved and…

I have skin allergies.

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Thank the vajazzling gods that I remembered my skin allergies that I can only describe as corrosive and vicious. If I put the wrong thing on my skin, I blister, I peel, and then I basically look like my skin is either melting off, or I look like Goldmember as I peel layers and chunks of my skin from my person. I’m not exactly sure what I’m allergic to, so when it comes to new products I always do a skin test. Which means I use that product on a patch of skin that I can clean quickly and no one will notice that it’s melting off because I pissed it off.

In short: I was allergic to the glue on my vajazzling sticker. I carefully placed the jeweled heart on my inner thigh and I waited. At first there was nothing. Then nothing. And still nothing. But then my skin started to tingle.

Maybe the glue from the sticker was just drying?

Nope.

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There was burning. The tingles turned into pins and needles. The pins and needles felt like they had been dipped in lava.

Oh god, there was burning.

Then I was racing into the bathroom to frantically peel this sticker off and scrub my thigh like a washer lady of the olden days was scrubbing skid marks out on a washboard. But then the sticky stuff got on my fingers so I was trying not to scream while I did my best to get all of the glue off without actually touching the glue or spreading it around.

Then when it was all said and done and I had raw fingertips and a heart shaped blister forming, all I could do was be thankful. The literal only thing I could do was thank the vajazzling gods that I remembered my skin allergies and did a skin test first. Otherwise I would have weird welts on my cooter instead of my thigh.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I had fun with vajazzling.

 

The Giant Rubber Band Mishap

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If you know me, then you know that I spend a fair amount of my free time at the gym. It’s not a daily thing, but I’m there at least 3 days a week. I’m comfortable with the machines that I use, know where to find the weights that I like to use, and have my usual areas all picked out.  I go, I warm-up, I workout, and then I stretch and leave.

Recently I’ve been feeling a bit woobly in my right ankle so I decided to add in some ankle strengthening exercises that my physio gave me last year when I destroyed my ankle. But I was being lazy so I decided to do the exercises while laying on the floor. With my eyes closed. While listening to my latest workout playlist.

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I looked kind of like this except the bands weren’t held together. They were further apart.

I’m clearly a pro at ankle exercises with my resistance band so I don’t need to pay attention to what I’m doing because nothing has ever gone wrong in the history of rubber bands ever. Or at least, nothing has ever gone wrong for me…

Or at least nothing had gone wrong for me until the resistance band slipped and  snapped me in my lady garden.

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Do you know what it feels like when you get shot with a rubber band?

Imagine getting cracked in the nose with a rubber band.

Except its bigger and it just shot you in the crotch.

It was basically like an over sized sling shot had snapped me in my lady snapper.

I had been laying on my back with my leg in the air and I was flexing my ankle how my physio had showed me. I was supposed to flex my toes towards me, then away from me, then towards me, and then away. Then I was supposed to flex from right to left and left to right. Except I never got to the part where I flex my toes from the right to the left because the resistance band slipped off my heel and I got cracked in the cooter.

And it sucked. I couldn’t scream because the pain literally took my breath away and all I could do was roll onto my side and curl up into the fetal position while hoping for a quick death. It was like the first time that I got my lady garden waxed, but worse because it was sudden and horrible. It was also worse because I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of having a freshly waxed downtown.

On top of it all, I wound up with a bruise that made sitting awkward for the next week.

Tinder Dude, The Spider Slayer

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At some point in my life I developed a slight allergy/major sensitivity to spider bites. As in, if I get bitten, I will wind up with a giant bump where the bite is, hives all over the area, and I will pop a fever like a movie theatre pops popcorn. I may also wind up with other not so fun symptoms depending on the bite. I once got bit behind my knee and couldn’t bend my knee for two days from the swelling and I had the worst headache I had ever felt to date along with having an upset stomach. It sucked.

So now I have some issues when it comes to living with spiders.

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Like, I don’t mind if they stay in their corner if they pick a good corner to set up shop in. I’ll even tell them that. If I see a spider is making their home in a spot where they can’t drop down on me and bite me, I’ll let them live and I’ll make them a deal. They stay in their corner and I won’t kill them. But if they come out of their corner, they’re dead.

Which is what happened one night when I went into my bathroom and saw that my friendly corner spider had moved to a new corner over my bathtub. I have enough issues with spiders biting me when I’m dressed. I refused to be naked when a spider could drop down on me and bite me at any time. After years of waxing my lady garden, I’ve caused myself enough pain, thank you very much. I don’t need a spider bite on my boobs, butt, or beyond.

Except the spider was in a corner that I couldn’t reach. For once I wasn’t tall enough to tall person myself out of the situation. He was tucked tightly into a corner so I couldn’t hit him with a book or ball and I didn’t think that I could get him with a broom. What was a damsel in distress like myself to do?

Well, I started swiping Tinder. I simply swiped right until I got match and then I sent them this message:

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It took a few tries, but it eventually worked! A guy named Jon replied. He was 6’2″, gave me his ph# and told me to text him. I sent him a text, he replied, and before I knew it, this 6’2″ knight in shining sunglasses was walking into my bathroom to kill a spider for me.

I wish there was more to this story than that, but there isn’t. We sent a few messages back and forth to make sure the other wasn’t a serial killer and then he drove over to my place to kill the spider.

Dude made it look easy too. He simply walked in, we awkwardly hugged each other and then I showed him the spider. Then that was it. My spider slayer helped himself to some toilet paper, then reached up to the hard to reach corner, and quickly squished the spider that had broken our agreement and was holding my bathtub hostage.

It made the best popping noise as the Tinder assassin mashed it into the ceiling with a couple pieces of Extra Soft Charmin.

I know we’re all thinking that this is totally a set up to some insane porn scene, but it wasn’t. He thought I was ridiculous for asking random men to come kill a spider and I thought he was ridiculous for driving over to kill a spider. We both agreed that juice pouches were superior to juice boxes and I had to apologize for my lack of Capri Sun. While he was drinking his juice box he was nice enough to look around my place to make sure there no more spiders and then he returned the wild abyss that is Tinderland, never to be heard from again.

Wherever you are, Tinder Dude, I hope you’re living a good life.

The lesson of this story is that there are decent guys on Tinder, chivalry is definitely not dead, and you never know what you’ll get unless you ask for it.

Also, you shouldn’t try to make deals with spiders since they’ll probably break that deal anyway.

 

How I gave myself a bleeding nose at 5:30am

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I wish I could say that I have my life together. I want to say that my life is going smoothly and I know what I’m doing as an adult. I really want to say that I know how to apply winged eyeliner evenly, can bake chocolate chip cookies as good as my moms, and live a clean and organized life. These are all of the things I wish I could claim for myself, but I can’t.

I’m still trying to figure all of that out.

The truth is, I’m like that meme where everything seems ok on the outside, but deep, down inside my sock is falling off. Except my sock has completely fallen off on to my bedroom floor along with the rest of my closet. The contents of my cupboard have also fallen on my floor, along with several pounds of space junk.

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Actual footage of my mess. Not a re-enactment. 

The point is, my place is a mess, I suck at cleaning up after myself, and this is exactly how I wound up with a bleeding nose at 5:30am last week.

Let’s rewind to then. My alarm started freaking out at 5:30am with the quacky duck noise that I like it to make and I immediately tumbled out of bed. It was time to go swimming. I was driven by some article that I’d read where some actor wakes up and immediately gets out of bed to start his day instead of laying in bed. I was also driven by the liter of water that I had chugged the night before to make sure I got out bed. Seriously, nothing is more motivating some vague memory of an article that I read at some point and the fact that I’m about to pee myself.

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Also not a re-enactment. Actual mess. 

I refused to fully open my eyes though.

I was exhausted and had no idea why I was doing this to myself. I tumbled out of bed and started the short journey to my bathroom. It takes me all of five or six steps before I’m in my bathroom. So I stepped over the pile of laundry beside my bed. I stepped over my gym bag and then took another step and then my nose was bleeding.

I’d stepped over a pile of stuff on my floor, misjudged the step because my eyes were mostly closed, and then slipped on a pile of laundry.  Instead of bumping off my wall like a sluggish, human bumper car, to spin into my bathroom, I slipped and smacked my face off my wall. Like a wrestler headbutting his opponent in a championship match.

Obviously my wall won that match because I had to get ready to swim with a tampon up my nose.

So yeah, I wake up twice a week at 5:30am to go swimming, and maybe kind of have my life together? Like I have a job, I pay my bills, I go the gym, and I haven’t given myself food poisoning for a very long time. But I also have a messy room, can’t really cook, and sometimes I walk into my local rec centre with a tampon in my nose because I fought my wall and the wall won.

With that said: tampons are great for bleeding noses. You just shove one up the nostril that’s bleeding and you’re good to go. I recommend using a light or regular flow tampon if you have one. Those seem to fit best.

 

My Most Adult Moment

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Let’s be honest here: my cooking skills are subpar at best. My kitchen skills are so bad that I am very aware of the last time I poisoned myself and the last time I started a kitchen fire accidentally. It has now been almost 3 years since I last gave myself food poisoning and almost 6 weeks since I last started a fire. While I’m genuinely hoping that a day comes where I get to say that I can’t remember when I last poisoned myself or set a fire, I doubt that day is going to happen any time soon. My kitchen life is not my best life.

My kitchen life is more like my most dangerous life and that’s ok. It keeps things exciting because you never know when the fires of hell are going to crawl out of one of my pans. But you know what? I’m slowly getting better at this cooking life.

Like I’ve stopped nearly slicing my fingers off!

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This is one of my actual meal preps! 

Picture this: The other month I was in my kitchen cutting veggies for dinner and  I’m standing there and my knife is quickly chopping a red pepper. I scoop up my pepper slices and toss them into a container. Then I slice an orange pepper quickly and toss it into the container. Then I do the same with a yellow pepper. After that I slice up a cucumber and toss that on to a plate and lay it out nicely. I now have a pile of beautifully sliced peppers for stir fry and a plate of gorgeous cucumber.

Now picture this: nothing happened.

I simply sliced all of my veggies for my dinner and nothing happened. I didn’t yelp or scream because I dropped my knife, I didn’t nick off part of a fingernail, and there weren’t any weird thunks from me accidentally slipping while slicing something and narrowly missing my fingers. I just got a bunch of nicely sliced veggies.

I mean, hot diggity damn, I felt like an adult.

So I messaged the Tinder guy I had been chatting to about it and he unmatched. I’m not sure if it was because I was excited about slicing veggies or if it was because he was trying to talk about sexy things earlier and I made jokes about boogers.

 

Then I made a Facebook status about it.

Then I talked to my dad about it.

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I felt almost like a grown up. I was finally standing in my kitchen and felt like I could conquer the world. Like if I could have, I would have stood on my kitchen table and opened a can of beer and celebrated Stone Cold Steve Austin style. Except I didn’t have any beer and my table is an Ikea table that I put together.

And I’m assuming my furniture building skills are as suspect as my kitchen skills so I didn’t think that was the best of ideas.

Also, I just didn’t have any beer because I don’t like beer.

The point is, this moment was my most adult moment and it felt really good. I’m hoping to have more moments like these, but I haven’t felt as amazingly adult as I did then since that moment. I’m sure it’ll happen again though. I’m really good at chopping veggies and I’m starting to get better at other things like cleaning my bathtub.

What was your most adult moment?

 

Cream In Your Pants Cake

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It’s the last week of Masturbation Month! I’m all for masturbation and I’m all for taking pleasure in things. Like masturbation because it’s masturbation. Or food because I love food. Especially good food. Especially good food that I didn’t make because I can barely cook and tend to start fires when I do. This is why when my mom told me about Cream in Your Pants Cake, I was curious.

Cream in Your Pants Cake is the chocolate cake that you get from Save On Foods. You go to their bakery section and pick it out and they box it up for you. Then you take it home and enjoy. I don’t actually know what Cream in Your Pants cake is actually called though. It might be Chocolate Tuxedo cake or something. In any event, I recommend that if you have a nearby Save On Foods that you go and get whatever chocolate cake that they have.

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The very first time my mom bought Cream in Your Pants cake home, I was skeptical. My mother was being dramatic. She was just calling it Cream in Your Pants cake to get a rise out of me. There was no way that Cream in Your Pants cake could make me cream in my pants. I mean…I’m very sexually aware of myself and food had never turned me on. The idea of foods being aphrodisiacs seems odd to me, but to each their own right? If you want to slurp oysters and gnaw on weird roots because they’ll increase your libido and put you in the mood, that’s your business.

I can’t judge you because I sometimes write my own porn and my first bite of this Cream in Your Pants Cake made me make some very sexual noises in front of my momma.

We had brought the cake home, had dinner, and it was dessert time. Mom sliced up the cake, scooped us some ice cream and handed us our plates. I was happy because I was getting chocolate cake. I love chocolate cake. I had also just eaten food that my mom had made and she’s a really good cook so there was really nothing wrong with my night. I was living my best life. Good food, good cake, and I was spending time with my family.

Then I took my first bite of this cake and it was like the heavens opened up and sang a sweet, sweet chorus of love, blessings, and orgasms. My whole body came to life as everything started to tingle in a very happy way and I groaned. Not a fake, overly enthusiastic groan. It was a groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Yes, my mom was there. That didn’t stop me announcing right away that I had just creamed my pants. It also didn’t stop my mom from yelling “I TOLD YOU SO!”

The cake was moist and so was I.

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Outside of a good massage or a good wank session, nothing has come close to making me feel the way that first bite of Cream in Your Pants Cake did. It was this beautiful explosion of chocolate that shook me to my very core. Since then I’ve had lots of foods that have made me make happy bedroom noises, but there isn’t much that compares to this cake. I love this cake. I would say that I want to bathe in this cake, but that would be a waste. I honestly just want more of this cake.

Or cake in general. I love cake.

My great grandmother saw me holding sex toys

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May is Masturbation Month so I’m going to tell you about the time I demonstrated sex toys in front of my Great Grandmother.

My Great Grandmother Lizette was an amazing woman. I just called her Grandma though. She passed away in 2014 and I still think about her and the amazing childhood that she gave me. But I sometimes also think about the time that I demonstrated sex toys in front of her. It totally wasn’t just her. It was my mom, my nana (mom’s mom), a few of my aunts, great aunts, childhood teachers, cousins, and a whole lineup of family members that were in attendance for my sex toy demonstration. Basically, it was my family matriarch and a lot of very amazing women that I hold near and dear to my heart watching while I pulled sex toys out of a bag and waved them around.

At the time I was a Passion Party Consultant. I liked to just say that I sold sex toys because I didn’t really attempt to sell the other stuff because it didn’t really interest me and lotions kind of sell themselves. If it smells nice and feels nice, people will buy lotion.

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Lubricant, purple dildos, and g-spot cream on the other hand? That stuff is a bit harder to sell and you really need an enthusiastic audience to get people interested. Now let me me tell you! There is no better audience than Grandma and a room full of women who were mostly there thanks to her. It also helped that this audience likes to support me in all of my antics no matter what they are. Even if those antics involve me handing a giant purple dildo around the room and telling them to turn it on and touch it to their noses because if you like how it feels on your nose then you’ll like how it feels on your downtown.

So Grandma watched me pull toy after toy out of my little bag of tricks and hand them around the room. She chuckled and didn’t give my nana or my mom any disapproving looks so I was happy to carry on demonstrating all my lotions, toys, and whatnots to 4 generations of my family. They as listened and watched me handle phallic objects like an obvious pro, they tested lotion, smelled perfume, and they even watched me demonstrate the water-based lubricant  my company sold.

Now, the upside of water-based lube is that it’s fairly cheap, and safe to use with condoms and/or sex toys. However, water-based lube can dry up rather quickly or get absorbed quickly. Which can be a bit of a downer if you have to constantly keep reaching for the ol’ bottle o’lube. This was something that I professionally stated to my very supportive audience. But the good thing about water-based lubricants is that they can be easily reactivated with water. Or spit.

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While I was explaining all of this to the women who were trapped in the room with me, I was rubbing the before mentioned water-based lubricant between my fingers to dry it up. I slowly worked it between my fingers while talking about the texture of the lube, how it more or less just dried up and shouldn’t stain anything or create a huge mess if it got places it shouldn’t. Once it was all dried up, I looked nervously at Grandma, my nana, my mom, and all of the wonderful women who had watched me grow into the woman I was then and the woman I am today. Then I promptly spit into my hand and gleefully held it up to show how easy it was reactivate water-based lube.

My grandma saw it all. When she didn’t tell me to go cut my own switch, I realized…this was ok. My love for sex, masturbation, and things that go buzz in the night were all ok. I mean, if my grandma didn’t scold me for this then only the gods could judge me at that point. Considering the fact that my grandma was a force of nature on her own, I’m pretty sure that even a god wouldn’t judge me. So this was ok. Sex toys, masturbation, and sex in general…it was all normal. It was all ok. Or at least that’s what I decided to think after letting my grandma witness me waving sex toys all around the room and not judging me, but also still loving me for exactly who I was. Never mind that my hands were covered in spit and lube.

Happy Masturbation Month, everyone!