foxy wine pocket: my first (and last) brazilian

Today’s guest post is brought to you by friend and sister-wife Kelly Fox: the brains, brass, and beauty behind twisted suburban mom-blog Foxy Wine Pocket. Check out the hilarious post below to learn everything you ever wanted to know about Kelly’s hoo-ha, then go check out her site to find out what the actual fuck a “foxy wine pocket” is.

Cartoon representation of Kelly that we all can masturbate to.

Now sit back, grab a bottle of vino, and enjoy!


My husband and I have been married for over 17 years (obviously, I was a teen bride — OBVIOUSLY) so it can sometimes be a challenge to keep the spice in our sex life. We’ve used lots of things over the years: lingerie, toys, porn, you know the drill (we have never used a drill).

But my favorite “spice” is pubic hair art. That is, over the years, I’ve shaved various shapes into my pubic region: hearts, arrows, a martini glass, his initial, etc. (My god, I just realized that I’m an artist, and my medium is pubic hair.) If a particular piece doesn’t come out well, I just make it a Rorschach test, and we have great sex anyway.

I will not be including any of those pictures with this post.

For my husband’s last birthday, I decided to surprise him with a Brazilian. Now, I’ve never had a wax job on any part of me before, much less one where they remove everything from my hoo-ha. (I know, I know, they don’t actually have to remove everything, but I figured go big or go home, right?) I decided that I could spare some hair in honor of my husband.

I should have known that this wasn’t going to be my thing when I made the first appointment and got the stomach flu a few days before it. Not the kind of stomach flu where you’re projectile vomiting everywhere, but the kind where you can’t even move without shitting your pants. So, even though the flu was gone the day before the appointment, I just couldn’t trust my sphincter to stay in check. I mean, it’s one (humiliating) thing to poop on the table while you’re having a baby. It’s something else entirely when you’re getting a Brazilian. You could be banned for that shit.

So I cancelled that appointment and made a new one. I didn’t think much of the whole process when I was scheduling the appointments, but honestly, I was a little nervous when the day came. When the technician arrived, I gave her a frightened look.

“First time?” she inquired.

“Yep,” I chirped softly.

She then proceeded to explain the process and how she was going to remove the most sensitive hair first and then the rest of it. And then she moved the blanket.

“Oh. Uhhhhh, well, first we need to trim the hair back a bit. Quite a bit.”

I guess I had a forest going on there. I silently cursed my Italian grandmother. And the technician proceeded to trim my pubes with teeny tiny scissors (at least she didn’t have to get out a chainsaw), which actually tickled a bit. So I giggled and then got nervous about giggling over someone touching my pubic hair. Because it seemed vaguely inappropriate. (But it felt kinda nice.)

“Okay, now that we’ve trimmed the hair, I’m going to remove the most sensitive area first.”

“I’ve pushed out two kids. How hard can this be?” I pretended to be brave.

“Okay, then, here I go.”


But what I uttered through clenched teeth was a weak, “I’m okay.”

And then she pressed her hand against my pubic bone (I assume to alleviate the pain).

“Harder! Harder! HARDERRRRR!” I screamed. Only that might have caused some more awkwardness.

After she threw me a weird glance, she assured me, “Well, that was the worst one. It gets easier from here.”

And it went like that for one fucking long session. Time became meaningless. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and not kicking her in the fucking face. Breathe in. Breathe out. Restrain foot. Repeat.

Fortunately, she was right. The first one was the worst. (But the rest sucked pretty hard too.) After removing all of my hair, she applied some sort of soothing salve. It had a name. I don’t remember it. I was kind a hoping for a massage. Or a cigarette.

But the awkward sexual innuendo and the pain are not the reasons I will no longer be getting Brazilians. No, I could deal with those again. There are three other reasons I will no longer be waxing the hooha:

1. After the technician left the room, I picked myself up off of the table. Actually I kind of slid off of the table in my own sweat. I walked over to the mirror to examine myself, and I was horrified. Not because I looked like a prepubescent girl (although that was slightly horrifying). I was horrified because it was at that moment that I realized that my pregnancy stretch marks went ALL THE WAY DOWN INTO MY TANTALIZING TRIANGLE. They look like grotesque, greedy little fingers pointing the way down. Or lightening bolts threatening to strike any who enter.

Fortunately for me, my husband didn’t seem to notice the stretch marks. He was quite happy with the results. Also, he was too busy noticing that…

2. …without the hair there to provide a buffer, I was horny as hell. Constantly. This became a problem. (Dan didn’t think this was a problem.) It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing, I wanted to attack my husband. Or the waiter. Or the lamppost. I had Happy Hairless Vagina-itis. (Yes, I know it’s not actually your vagina that gets waxed, but it had a better ring to it than Happy Hairless Pubic and Genital Region-itis. See?)

Suffice it to say, we had a lot of sex over the next week. But the constant horniness only lasted until…

3. …the hair started growing back, and I switched from ecstasy to agony. AGONY. Apparently — and no one warned me about this — I am not a good candidate for waxing. The itching, while annoying, was the least of my problems. Turns out that I am prone to ingrown hairs, and they hurt like a mofo. I started referring to my lady garden as my “Not So Happy Hairless Vagina” and started telling my husband I had boils and scurvy and bad, bad shit. I looked like a diseased slave from Game of Thrones. Not even a Dothraki would ravage me.

So, basically, I’m done with the Brazilians. Forever. I’ll stick to pubic hair art to spice things up.

I’m thinking about a chili pepper next.



Kelly Fox is a mom and a writer, and she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. She has two (young) school-aged children and one fabulous husband (that’d be weird if she had more than one, right?). She also has a cute dog—a *really* cute dog. Her blog can be found at

missteenussr: my tits are the pits

Today’s guest post is brought to you by one of the most talented writers you’re likely to find in the blogosphere today: the amazing Brooke Takhar of She’s a goddess of grammar, a queen of style, and best of all, she knows how to bring the funny.

Once you go Brooke, you’ll never go back.

If you were one of those girls who read about the bust exercises in Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and then did them secretly EVERY NIGHT FOR MONTHS, only to find out that they are actual and complete bullshit, then you must you must you must increase your bust read this post. Seriously, Damien. It’s all for you.


True Confession (that if you’ve met me is actually no surprise at all): I have no tits. I wish I knew why my chest is so fucking flat. The other ladies in my family have handfuls of sweater meat. Did I piss off the feminine puberty gods in 1994 by shaving my head and wearing cut-off men’s pants? If so, I’d like to say: that look didn’t get me laid either so OK UNIVERSE, POINT TAKEN.

I gained weight in my twenties when I didn’t understand a steady Cool Ranch diet is actually not cool at all. Still no tits. The weight was instead lavishly distributed into meaty thighs, swaying upper arms and the sack that became my stomach. My boobs — still pristine mini-triangles of bullshittery.

I had a kid. The one up side of 10 months housing a beast that sucks you dry from the inside out, that all the pregnancy rags and tomes squeal about, is the incredible “busting-out bust” side effect. I made it to a robust A cup. Filled that fucker.

They say A is for Effort. I say A is for Actually Totally Devastating. I’m so small they don’t make my size in some bras. So when I find one that fits, I wear it back to back (to back) until it smells like a razorback gorilla used it for a tampon.

I’m so depleted of natural chest resources they’re like the last half-glug of muffin batter you pour into the 12th muffin liner, sad and alone and waiting to burn for sure. That’s me. Try that statement on for size (IF IT FITS) and understand why I was always SHIT at flirting. It’s like asking someone to build a (sex) house with no hammer. Impossible.

That feminine part of me that’s supposed to get kicked awake the first time a guy (most likely creepy, probably blue-collar) leers at my chest is fucking Rumpelstiltskin.

There are worst fates in life, I know. My face is totally viable for public consumption and I use my smile and sailor mouth to carry me through the rough seas of Titless Wonder-dom. I can run with no bra on, my shirts don’t drape weirdly, and I never have trouble eating a banana in public. As I age, my boobs won’t have to be air-lifted up into a nude-coloured support pulley system.

Small victories for a small-titted woman. Fuck it; I’ll take ‘em.



Brooke Takhar is the author of She lives day to day hoping she can one day just do what she like. She likes jeans, ponytails, songs with galloping drums and the word ‘f-ck.’ Her work can also be found on BLUNTmoms.

halfass makeup tips

Dear Readers of the Makeup Wearing Variety:

Do you find putting on a whole face of cake to be too much work? Do you wish you could cut your time at the vanity table in half? Do you wish you knew some helpful tips and tricks for those times when you’re hung over, running thirty minutes late, and/or incapable of pulling yourself out of the crippling abyss of depression?

In short — do you want to look good, but not actually that good?

Then you’ve come to the right place.

I’ve compiled a list of “helpful” makeup tips that you can use any time you need to be presentable but not particularly attractive. Consider the look you will achieve with these tips to be something along the lines of: “Yeah. I took a few minutes to put myself together. Not long enough to actually look that great, though. Because then it would seem like I care. Which I don’t. Enjoy.” 

Let’s get started!

TIP #1. Haven’t had the time to deal with your ladystache? No problem! Take your trusty tweezers and just pluck out the 3 really dark hairs at each corner of your lips. Then cover the rest up with 10 pounds of concealer. You’re welcome.

TIP #2. Haven’t had the time to deal with your eyebrows? Not to worry! Take your trusty tweezers, look at them with disgust, toss them aside, and whip out some white or off-white eye shadow. Use this as a base on the area above your eyelids, and it will go a long way to conceal those revolting little eyebrow hairs that start worming their way out of your upper lid area .001 seconds after you’ve paid $30 for a wax.

TIP #3: Too much hassle to apply and reapply lipstick all day? Whatever. Just fill your whole lip in with lip liner. Then apply Chapstick over the top, or Carmex if you want to smell like a greasy hospital. Aaaand done!

TIP #4: Spending way too much time on your fancy, expensive eyeshadow palettes? Why bother spending 25 minutes creating the perfect “smoky eye” or “neutral eye” or “rosy butthole” (that’s a thing, right?) when you can just smash all the colors together in 20 seconds and call it good?

TIP #5: Drag queens are amazing with contouring, but it looks like it takes forever! Forget the queens. Just do this 15 second trick. Take an overly dark blush (I think the kids call them “bronzers” these days) and paint a “3” on the left edge of your face — from forehead to cheekbone to chin. Then do a reverse “3” on the right edge. Voila! Don’t forget to blend or else you really will look like a drag queen. Which, if you’re not a drag queen, isn’t cute.

TIP #6: I just don’t have the patience for primer, BB cream, concealer, highlighter, foundation, powder, and blush. Girl, nobody does. Just stick some concealer on your eye bags and biggest zits, then dust off your nose with powder. “Contour” as instructed in Tip #5 and then add a little blush to the apples of your cheeks. It won’t look fabulous, but it will look decent fine serviceable meh.

Now you’re done! You’ve saved so much time and energy! And you look… okay. Which can actually be a good thing. Liberating. Practical. Especially if you’re not looking for romantic attention, the approval of people prettier than you, a leg up at your job, the grudging respect of your sexual competition, the occasional flirtation with your barista, special treatment in restaurants, free drinks in bars and nightclubs, or, you know. Compliments.

Hope this helped!

Love, Sarah

an ode to the hairs on my chinny chin chin

There are many ugly hairs
that sprout out of my chin.
I pluck them out or shave them off
but they just come back in.

Back in my more girlish years
I had just one or two.
But after I turned thirty-five
a mighty forest grew.

Now it makes no difference
how much I depilate.
A quick look in the mirror and
I’ll spot one more or eight.

I carry tweezers with me
because I never know
when a wild chin hair will appear
and it will have to go.

Someday I will just give up
And without shedding a tear
I’ll stand up tall, puff out my chest
and grow a fucking beard.