Dawn goes to a 'kick ass' show

There are not too many occasions that I hit up a live show in Fayetteville – or anywhere else for that matter. It’s not for lack of good shows, but more because I’m not really sure what to do with myself at one. Most of the time, I’m familiar with the music but not intimate enough to know the words or identify with the feelings the each song represents to a number of the fans attending a show. Music doesn’t hit me like it does everyone else, apparently. Yep, I’m that lame, socially awkward, out of place chick at THAT show. So, I end up tapping my foot and staring at everyone else like I’m the normal one when it’s really me that’s weird.



My boyfriend LOVES the Deftones. Back in July, I found out they were playing at the Rock Shop here in Fayetteville. I’ve never seen him get so excited about anything. He was so excited that he didn’t even mind that the show was postponed for a month after the original date of the ticket. There’s not much that my boyfriend gets visibly excited about and I realized just before the concert that I had really never seen him so … so … well, excited. Well, except for playing golf and watching Michigan kick Ohio State’s ass in football.



So, there I was, standing in the middle of the Rock Shop and my boyfriend is rocking out to the first song by the Deftones, a band I admit I know pretty much next to nothing about. Mid-fist-pump he decides to take off to the ‘pit’ at the front of the stage, dragging me behind him. Everyone is jumping around, taking shots with their cam-phones and dancing. Yes, you can dance to rock music. If you’re not a ‘dancer’ you should be a ‘watcher.’ Watch out for flying fists, elbows and the occasional foot as people get passed around over the crowd. I was almost clocked in the eyeballs several times because I was not a good enough watcher and my boyfriend forgot I was standing next to him. That was our first trip to the pit. It wasn’t long, wasn’t that bad and I was pretty much inhaling bass from the speakers while my ears got numb from the sound. Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty cool by the time we rejoined our other friends outside the pit. I was even tapping my foot and bobbing and weaving my head like a pro.



Our next trip to the pit was later into the concert. By that time, it was evident that the A/C wasn’t cooling anything down. As I scanned the venue, I noticed that everyone was covered in sweat, either their own or someone else’s. Chicks who had clearly spent time on their face and hair gave up trying to preserve their look as make-up was smeared and hair was reacting to the elements and environment. Even mine. As my boyfriend once again pulled me to the pit, I was dragged across sweaty bodies and sprayed with beverages fist pumping to yet another song I didn’t really know. Then, above all the other noise, I heard my boyfriend’s voice chanting, “Play Cherry Waves.”



Let me interject a lesson here: I learned a long time ago to never make eye contact with a drunk person in a place that’s too loud to hear anything. They will insist on explaining themselves to you until they are sure you understand. If you know the person, it’s just a mild irritant. If you don’t know them, the smell of alcohol will burn your eyes.



My boyfriend kept yelling in my already deaf ear that “Cherry Waves” was the most awesome song in the history of the Deftones album career. Maybe it was and I did care, but I really wanted him to stop yelling in my ear. He did stop yelling in my ear, but kept shouting for the “Cherry Waves” song as we made our way out of the pit again. When we made it back to our spot, I smelled like I bathed in a mix of a 12 year old’s body odor after playing outside in the hot sun and sweaty cologne. My boyfriend, though, never stopped yelling for “Cherry Waves.” It was to the point that I wanted to find someone in charge of operations and tell them to please have the band play the damn “Cherry Waves” song so my boyfriend would just stop yelling for it, I was afraid his fist was gonna connect with either my head or someone else’s and I wasn't ready for that.



But I kept my cool and assumed my place as THAT girl while my boyfriend and his friend continued to yell for a song that woouldn’t get played and talk about how awesome the band was when they saw them on the West Coast. In between, my boyfriend would remember I was there and affectionately squeeze my ass and then put me in a headlock to kiss my forehead. Why? Because he promised to pay more attention to his body language when we were out so that it looked like we were together.



By the time we left the show, we were covered in sweat, ours or someone else’s or both, the guys were pretty tanked on PBR and it was raining outside as we made our way back to my car with my boyfriend wondering why the Deftones didn't play "Cherry Waves." But it wasn’t a miserable time. As a matter of fact, it was one of the best I’ve had going out in Fayetteville. I was smelly and wet and in charge of two grown men who weren’t capable of being in charge of themselves thanks to the beer chick and an ATM inside, but the show was awesome. I got to see a few friends I never see otherwise and got hit on at least once, assuming a high five and a “you’re beautiful” counts. You know what? I’m making that count. The night didn't before Taco Bell, chicken wings and a black marker played a huge part in the shenanigans of the following hour. What was I doing? Making sure I couldn't be blamed for any of it.

Wax On ... Wax o - OUCH!

As a woman, there are certain things we don’t want: cellulite, wrinkles, small breasts and unsightly, unwanted hair. We will try anything – ANYTHING - to fix any of those problems (all of which I have by the way). Money is no object. Except for me.



I’m a self-employed, single mom, so spending cash on boobs, laser treatments or having my skin peeled back on my face is not in my budget. But waxing my nether regions, while still costing a pretty penny, is within reach of my bank account. Who doesn’t want their vagina to look like a porn star’s? I, for one, don’t much like having a 5 o’clock shadow down there. And shaving only keeps it smooth for, like, a few hours or until you get goosebumps once. How cool would it be to have the shaved look last longer? I was always looking for a better, longer lasting solution to body hair.



Back in junior high school, I learned that if you pull hair out by the root, it will grow back finer. If you do it often, eventually the hair will grow back less and less – each treatment lasting four weeks. That was what the infomercial for the Epilady said. For those of you who don’t know what an Epilady is, it’s a medieval torture device disguised as a miracle hair removal tool that anyone can use with little to no pain. It’s a Norelco shaver-like thing with a rotating coil that grabs hair and pulls as it turns, pulling the hair out in bunches. I used it for the approximate time it took to catch one clump of hair, scream, try to disentangle the hair from the device and then beg the good Lord to please make it stop and if he did I would never, ever do anything bad again. That was just one strip on my leg!



So the pain of having my hair yanked from my body was pretty distant and I was ready to try something new – the Brazilian Wax. I wanted a pretty girl part and this seemed like the perfect way to get one. I made my appointment a week ago. I was afraid the hair wouldn’t grow in enough by the time my appointment came around, but I shouldn’t have worried - Italian hair is superhuman and in another week, I would have sported a full bush. I showed up at my appointment ready and with enough to grab.



OUCH!



For anyone thinking about doing this, be prepared to show yourself to another human the way you may have only shown yourself to your boyfriend, husband or gynecologist. This is a 'front to back' procedure. You also need to know it’s gonna hurt pretty bad the first time. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t scream at all. Nope. My entire being did, however, want to punch itself in the face briefly. After the initial sting, that feeling passes and it's like plucking your own really hairy, sensitive eyebrows. It's also client participation: meaning, you will be asked to help hold the skin taut. Having something else to do besides anticipate the pain does help. I heard that in some cases, if they don't get all the hair, the tweezers come out to grab the strays that survived the deforestation. Not where I went. The results last from three to six weeks regardless of whether you're a hairy monster or not. Deal.



It was over quick enough, though, and my va-jay-jay was so pretty and smooth, I could give Jenna Jameson a run for her cash. And aside from a little numbness, it didn’t hurt after it was all over. Would I do it again? Bank account permitting - yes. Would I recommend it to anyone else? Absolutely. It's one of those little things that make you feel instantly prettier and girlier for a fraction of the cost of laser treatments - like a wonderbra to small boobs.