You want to smell edible?



This guy tells my sister she smells so good he could just take a bite out of her.

She wears this perfume that’s just that amazing. I’m not a big perfume wearer as I have some kind of funky body chemistry that turns most synthetic perfumes to a sort of acrid death-reek; it also tarnishes gold plated jewelry.



I have found that essential oils work well on me, so I had a lovely blend of clary sage, geranium, rosewood, and rose absolute made up at Radiance Herbs and Massage in Olympia (113 Fifth Ave. S.E., (360) 357-5250). I call it Anti-Bitch Blend as it somehow smoothes out my rough edges during my hormonally impaired (or is it empowered?) times of the month.



I called my sister in Florida to tell her about my special hormonal helper, and then she told me her story. Naturally, I had to know what the scent was. Trish McEvoy #9 blackberry and vanilla musk. Since she’s there and I’m here, I couldn’t smell it, so I ordered it from Nordstrom.com, thinking if I hated it it’d become her birthday gift (I know, tacky). As it turns out I love it, I love it, I LOVE IT.  It goes on kind of fresh and fruity, and then settles itself down to a kind of cotton candy bliss. Yummy!

I can’t let sleeping Brazilians lie

I’ve found with first experiences that they’re seldom as bad as you fear they’ll be, nor are they ever as good as you hope. Waxing?  Worse, ever so much worse. 



I let out these guttural shrieks against my will (yes, simultaneous low pitch/high pitch; how? I don’t know) and emitted a “Holy mother of God.”



In my assessment, waxing “down there” is almost more painful than childbirth; however, instead of a 12-hour process, it’s something like 30 minutes of Rrrrrrrip — YELP! Rest while she loads up the tongue depressor full of wax, and then another Rrrrrrrip — YELP! Rest and on it goes.



I saw Erin Laycock for my “first time” because her spa is in her house (by appointment only, call (206) 349-3790) and her prices are cheap ($45).  Part of the comic relief of the process came when her boy nearly appeared at the door. “Mom, I need a turkey sandwich!” So while a certain part of the Rrrrrrrrip —YELP process was talking place simultaneously so was the familiar parental ping-pong game of: “What does daddy say?” “He says to ask you.”



Laycock was mortified — I wasn’t.  As a mom, I get it.  As a friend, I thought it was freaking hilarious.



And what of the new ’do?  I’m getting used to it.