Vanity is a Bitch

Vanity can be a real bitch - especially as you get older. I remember being about 14, sitting in my living room reading some tween magazine like Seventeen and rubbing cream all over my feet. This beauty regimen lasted about one day before I thought, "Screw it! This isn't going to do anything for me long-term!"

Now I'm wondering if an ounce of prevention would have prevented the thick layer of callused heel skin that now snags lingerie on my bedroom floor. The picture below looks exactly like the bottom of my current feet - minus the "After" shot.



God forbid I used sunscreen or moisturizer. After slathering pure baby oil on my body, I wasn't about to consider an anti-wrinkle SPF potion. You just don't think you are ever going to age - until you do. Sooner or later, it just hits you in the face like a Chris Brown vs. Rihanna brawl in the parking lot. (Ok. Poor taste. But that's how it feels...I'm guessing.)

So, now that I am in Yakima, my choices for various beauty regimens are pretty limited. Where or where will I find Kim Kardashian's eyelashes? Or, skin like Jessica Alba? Or, a bikini wax like that of a Las Vegas stripper? Work with me people! Where is a girl to go? Little hidden gems are everywhere in Yakima - you just have to crawl under a rock to find them. Here is a smattering of hidden gems that are sure to bring my aging body back to life...

Jessica Alba's Skin Tone - Spray Tans at Paradise Island Tanning



The younger, better me had a very nice tan. I'm assuming that when you are thinner, and enjoy wearing a bathing suit, you naturally expose more of your body to the sun. Unfortunately, I would rather eat cow dung than be in a bathing suit in public - as I am quite sure that others would rather eat cow dung than have to look at me in a swimsuit. Sure...I gotcha. That being said, I feel more like an albino than an Italian - and I am not at all happy about that. So, you know what they say...if you can't tone it, tan it.

And being lazy and impatient, I don't really have the time or inclination to go to a tanning booth. So, I bit the bullet and scheduled a spray tan. I was told that Paradise Island was the very best place to go. Actually, it is the best place by default because it is the only place - but that's beside the point.

I was told that although you can go topless, you must wear some sort of undies. They stated this in such a way that led me to believe they had seen something awful...something they were not willing to see ever again. I happily complied and showed up in a loose fitting cover up, a strapless bra, and some teeny tiny underwear. Turns out this was not a great look.

Kathy, my "airbrush artist" had me step into this closet and undress. My boobs, being both large and real, are extreme victims of gravity. Not wanting tan lines that outlined limp and lifeless breasts, I opted to keep my strapless bra on.

Well, that was not a good idea. Strapless, obviously implies no straps. No straps implies that there was nothing to hold me up. Nothing to hold me up meant that I was doomed to a tubular-shaped tan line somewhere around my mid section. Highly attractive.

Kathy then asked me to stand up straight with my arms out to my sides and my legs spread apart. In order for me to have my thighs not touching, I have to spread my legs very, very, far apart. I am now about 3 feet tall and about to lose my balance. To say that I was "airbrushed" is a little misleading. In realty I was hosed down like a muddy jeep at a car wash. It was cold and the spray was violent. Even worse was that I had to turn around and allow Kathy to hose down my big, white butt cheeks. With my short legs, and her hosing me down while sitting on her knees, her face was pretty much at butt cheek level. No wonder she insists on you wearing something down there. I wouldn't want to look up the ass crack of fatties all day. And you know it's just the fatties that get this done. The skinny bitches are out at the beach in their little bikinis getting the real deal - actual sunlight. Meanwhile, I am standing half naked in a closet in front of a woman with a hose - and paying for it. Winning.

Wax or Vajazzle Your Bikini Area at eNails


I did it! I finally found the very best waxer in all of Yakima. I think her name is Phoa Quong Li - or something traditional like that - and she was sent from the waxing Gods. I happened upon her while getting a mani/pedi at e-Nails in Chalet Village. As Phoa Quong Li was sloughing the callouses off of my heels, I heard another patron ask if she was available for a bikini wax. Naturally, my ears perked up and I asked if I, too, could be squeezed in for an impromptu waxing. Poor Phoa Quong Li had no idea what she was in for. It had been a few months since my last waxing - but this was now her problem, not mine.

She escorted me to the waxing room and asked me to pull down my pants. Having just had my nails done, there was little I could do to comply with this request. I didn't want to ruin my fresh mani! But Phoa Quong Li did not hesitate. She whisked over to me and said, "I pull down pants for you. No ruin your nails."

Okay. This feels awkward. Now, I pull down my kids pants all of the time, but this was a first for me. And it's not like I was wearing stretchy pants with elastic. I had on my tight jeans. Yes, all of my pants are tight, but that's neither here nor there. Here I was, standing with my arms up, nails drying in the air, with a tiny Asian woman working her ass off to get my pants down. While my husband might think this was the start of a very happy ending, I was not so hopeful.

I finally got on the table and Phoa Quong Li started to examine my pubic area. I'll admit, I was a little alarmed and embarrassed that she darted out of the room and came back in with rubber gloves and a mask. I reasoned that an Asian might not know what to do with an Italian and she quickly recognized the scale and magnitude of the task ahead of her.

Let me tell you, she was amazing. I'm not sure what she did, or what tools she was using, but she was some sort of modern day Edward Scissorhands for the pubic region. She used hot wax, then scissors, then tweezers, and then a few contraptions I had never seen before. She was an artist working her magic.

rip, rip, rip!
snip, snip, snip!
tweeze, tweeze, tweeze!

I just had to close my eyes, try to relax, and let her work her magic. With the length of time it took, and the arsenal of tools she utilized, I half expected my pubic hair to resemble a perfectly coiffed Disney character. But when she finally handed me a mirror to check out her work, I have to say it was truly amazing. Her Engrish may need some work, but for a hairless Asian girl, she sure can rock the bikini wax! (I passed on the vajazzle...I'm not quite vajazzle-ready.)

Kim Kardashian's Eyelashes? Try Cayla at Winks Eyelash Studio



The latest gem I recently uncovered is a little place called "Winks" and it was tucked deep in the bowels of a salon called "Hair Cafe" conveniently located at 48th and Tieton. Here, I was told, is where Cayla could brilliantly transform my eyelashes into that of Kim Kardashian - one eyelash at a time. Considering that my eyelashes are nearly translucent, short, and extremely sparse, I was eager to try this "eyelash extension" craze. When I called Winks, I was told that I would have to wait six weeks for the next available appointment. Wow! I guess I am more than a little late for this fad - even by Yakima's standards - and that is not okay.

The Hair Cafe's lobby looked a little like the early bird dinner seating at the Elk's Lodge. It was here that I almost tripped over Mildred's oxygen machine. Mildred was actually sleeping on the large, plush, brown sofa - eagerly waiting for her perm - and I scared the dickens out of her. This was not a good sign.

Eventually Cayla led me back to her studio filled with pink and black faux fur and a pair of fuzzy dice dangling from the ceiling fan. Although tempted to dash for the door, I had secured this appointment with a $75 deposit and was not about to lose it.  I climbed up on her table and laid down.

Cayla: Do you want something natural? Or, something dramatic?
Me: Is there a happy medium?
Cayla: Of course!

Cayla informed me this would take nearly two hours to complete and I would not be able to open my eyes at any point during this procedure. I have to say, laying down for two hours and being forced to have my eyes closed seemed well worth the $75 already. But, as with any beauty regimen, there is always a price to pay. She asked me to look up and then began taping down my lower lashes. This did not feel good. In fact, I felt like she was stuffing gauze underneath my eyeball. Not fun.

Then, the tedious work began. One eyelash at a time she would glue one false eyelash to one tiny real eyelash on my upper lid. I tried to relax as the sound of the moving ocean and chirping birds sang in my ears. Every now and then I would feel like I was totally relaxed until I realized that my butt muscles were totally clenched and my toes were curled straight out.

Two hours later, here is the final result -

What do you think? I am sure you are all just so happy I spared you the "After" shot of my bikini wax :) You're welcome!

The Poop Deck

Do you trust me?

This simple, harmless little phrase seemed to haunt me - or rather, entertain me - throughout our recent vacation to the British Virgin Islands. Planned over a year ago with two of our favorite "couple" friends, this was going to be the trip of a lifetime - and it was.  Of course I was not thrilled that it was going to take a total of eight flights, to and fro, to successfully tackle this grand adventure - but what's a girl to do? I put on my big girl panties, loaded up on Xanax and other mild sedatives, and boarded the first flight.

Yakima to Seattle - CHECK!
Seattle to North Carolina - GREAT!
North Carolina to Puerto Rico - NO PROB!
Puerto Rico to Tortola - HOUSTON...WE HAVE A PROBLEM!

After traveling a total of 14 hours on three other flights we finally arrived in Puerto Rico. Here we would board our last flight into Tortola. Always trying to save a buck, I opted to book our final flight through a much cheaper airline - Cape Air. Never heard of it? I can't imagine why not.

As we waited to board, I was acutely aware that I would be flying this one cold turkey. My cocktail had worn off hours earlier and I was much too tired to care. Unable to locate an actual gate for this Cape Air flight, we were finally directed to a tiny flight of stairs (no, not an escalator or an elevator) that led to the basement. I was overcome by visions of falling victim to some strange Puerto Rican body cavity search in the bowels of the airport by some rubber-gloved, pudgy fingered Rosie Perez character. Instead of asking me to raise my arms and spread my legs, there was an airport employee behind a desk asking for my ticket and weight.

Her: Miss Alvarado, how much do you weigh? (Insert thick, Puerto Rican accent)

Me: You mean you want to weigh my bags?

Her: No, I need to know how much you weigh.

Me: Why? Am I at Weight Watchers? Is this not a rude question in Puerto Rico?

Her: The plane has strict weight restrictions. We also use the information to seat you next to the most appropriate person to help keep the plane balanced.

Holy Jesus. This has got to be a cruel joke. So, as with every other situation where I've been asked my weight in front of my husband - like at the hospital just prior to having a C-Section - I scrolled the number down on a piece of paper, placed it face down and slowly slid it across the counter. She picked up the piece of paper, smiled and said, "Ok. You may step outside and board the plane."

What plane? I didn't see a plane? That's probably because it wasn't a plane. It was a 9 passenger Cessna that looked like it had seen better days - these days being in 1939 when the first Cessna was commercially available. Even worse was the fact that I obviously weighed as much as the pilot and learned upon boarding that I would have to occupy the co-pilot seat - complete with my own steering wheel. Jay, our prepubescent pilot, informed me that he was born sometime in the 80s and had yet to fly in rain. I found this to be a real bummer since it was raining while he told me this.

Do you trust me? He asked.

Hell no! Are you kidding me? I wouldn't even trust you to babysit.

After realizing that this was not a joke, and I was, in fact sitting in the co-pilot's seat for the next 40 minutes, I squeezed my big ass next to Jay and tried very hard not to hit any of the buttons or levers with knees. I resisted the urge to make sense of the blinking lights, loud noises, and the piece of paper that was taped to the dash board outlining what the pilot should do in the event that the engines should fail. Quite comforting. I also found it a little disheartening that he actually had to refer to the laminated checklist several times during take-off and landing. But then again, he was in his very early 20s and this was probably one of his very first flights. A shred hopeful was the fact that I could probably rule out the pilot having clogged arteries, dying of a heart attack, or being under the influence of alcohol - he was simply too young for any kind of medical emergency - and too young to drink.

After a gruelling 42 minute flight, we safely landed in Tortola. Larry and I were the first ones to get there and waited nearly three hours for the others to arrive. Luckily, the airport had this great outdoor cafe that sold cold beer and fresh chicken. We soon learned that "fresh" chicken was pretty easy to come by since about 20 live ones roamed around our feet while we ate. We also got the first taste of Red Stripe beer - the Caribbeans local favorite. Little did we know we would soon be sustaining almost entirely on this beer for the next 7 days.

Every morning there after one of us would say, "Hmmm...What sounds good for breakfast? Anyone up for a Lucky Stripe?" And then around 10 a.m. someone would ask, "Hey, anyone need another Lucky Stripe?" At lunch there was the nice addition of, "Here's a hot dog...and a cold Lucky Stripe!" And so on and so forth, until dinner when we would make a sudden and more refined switch to Rum and tonic with fresh squeezed grapefruit. Somehow this just seemed classier.

We spent our days aboard the 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom chartered Catamaran - leisurely sailing from one island to another. Larry and I eagerly volunteered to occupy the teeny, tiny stateroom that consisted of a triangular single mattress directly nestled against three walls with one porthole that opened about 3 inches wide - just enough to let in blood sucking mosquitoes. Never mind that Larry's feet touched one end of the room while his head touched another, the fact that we could not successfully achieve any kind of airflow in this shoebox would prove to be painful after 7 days. And, because Larry's body soaked up the sun like that of a black man, his body radiated a heat so intense that it caused condensation on the one small window we had. On a happier note, the contrast between Larry's dark Caribbean skin and ultra white teeth made it unnecessary to use our overhead nightlight for reading.

Paula and Eric took the next smallest room which left Linda and Bob with the larger suite and adjoining bathroom with walk-in shower. And seeing how Bob was, in fact "Captain Bob" - and Larry's boss - it was well deserving. I had never actually been sailing before, but I did know that I wanted my Captain to be well rested and freshly shampooed while he manipulated our sails and manned the depth finder to avoid protruding coral. And they were more than gracious with the space they were allotted, eagerly allowing the rest of us sweaty, salty pigs to wash our bodies in their shower and use their soap. I'm not sure they knew exactly how dirty we all were.

Linda's graciousness even extended to teaching me her "method" of pooping on board. I have to admit I was a little horrified about taking my first poop on the boat. It was intimidating to say the least. It's not like you just hunker down, do your business, wipe, flush and be on your merry way. There were all these rules and gadgets that had to be mastered. In fact, we were all given "the poop talk" upon getting on this glorious vessel.

Linda explained...

1. First, make sure nobody is swimming next to the boat. (Apparently your "evacuations" get evacuated right then and there).

2. Turn this gray lever to the right to make sure you bring in fresh water into the bowl.

3. Do your business, and wipe, but DO NOT put the toilet paper in the toilet...put it in this tiny little garbage can that is conveniently located behind you. (Ok. This is gross. I have to put my poopy toilet paper with other people's poopy toilet paper and let it just sit there and fester?)

4. Then turn the gray lever to the left and pump this handle about 20 times. When it finally disappears completely, turn the gray lever back, pump fresh water back in the bowl, and wha-la! You're done! It just takes four easy steps!

These instructions pretty much prevented me from pooping for the next 3 days. I'm not sure why poop seems to disappear when you are on vacation, or camping, but truly, this phenomenon can't last forever. Sooner or later your bowels are going to have a mind of their own and demand to be emptied. Unfortunately for me, this feeling came swiftly one day after morning coffee just about three days into our trip.

Linda, having had experience with this before, recognized the look of distress on my face. Apparently the grimace was completely transparent. She cozied up next to me and said, "You have to poop, don't you?" Wow, is it that obvious?

"I do, but I'm scared, and I'm pretty sure I can hold it until we tie up somewhere later today."


"You can't wait four hours! I'm going to show you a trick."


Ok. Here it comes...wait for it...wait for it...

"Do You Trust Me," she asked?

Good God. This is the Boss's wife for crying out loud. There is only one "right" answer to this question and I did have to go. It had been three painful days and I was literally crowning.

Linda led me into her much larger bathroom. She had two plastic shopping bags in her hand and double bagged them like she was getting ready to carry a heavy 2 gallon container of milk and about 6 canned goods home from the supermarket, and lined the toilet bowl like a pro. She flipped down the toilet seat and calmly said, "Poop in the bag. When you are done, double knot it, bring it to me and I'll place it in the big, black garbage bag." This was the garbage bag that the entire group of 6 used for "actual" trash and was tied to the back of the boat and flickered in the wind behind us as we sailed ALL DAY LONG.

Frickin' Fantastic!

Now I can't speak for anyone else, but when I have to poop, I also have to pee. There is no separating these two extremely private activities. So, under Linda's command - and I say "command" because she stood post outside the bathroom door like a militant vigilante and kept asking me if I was done yet - I did my business. Number one and two - in that order.

With my head hung low, and my tail between my legs, I emerged with my double knotted shopping bags filled with my "business" and handed it over to Linda. As promised, she carried this precious cargo to the big, black group garbage bag, deposited it gently inside, and retied it to the boat rail. For the next 4.5 hours this bag flew proud like the American Flag blowing in the wind at a baseball game, behind the six of us as we ate and drank our way to the next island. This was beyond  humbling and mortifying - it was down right disgraceful. And although I was thankful that she "taught me" her trick, I vowed to never, ever tell Linda when I had to poop again. Pooping is "private" and should never be uttered with the words "Do you trust me?" from any other human living on earth - or sailing in the Caribbean.