A Hot Glue Gun Mess Read online

  On one trip to visit Alex in Manhattan, she told me her “friend” Frank wanted to have lunch with us and then treat us to a massage.

  “Wait, what?” I asked “Like, how is this going to work?”

  Alex threw back her messy tresses, laughed a big open-mouthed guffaw, and said, “Trust me, I know it sounds creepy, but he’s totally harmless. He loves my company because I make him laugh, and I know he’ll love you because you’re hilarious. He’s married! All we have to do is go get a yummy lunch with him and then go up to his giant suite and get massages by professional massage therapists. We can even have our own room!”

  I looked skeptical for a second, but then realized that the restaurant served one of my fave Crab Louie salads, and who was I to say no to an hour-long, full-body massage?! So, trusting Alex and her twinkling green eyes and golden locks, I set off with her to our (creepy) lunch.

  Frank was already sitting in the plush booth when we got there. He was about sixty, a portly man wearing a giant brown leather blazer-like jacket and black sunglasses. He didn’t remove his sunglasses the entire time we had lunch, even though we were inside—gross—and although he was friendly, I wondered what he was hiding under those Foster Grants. Alex and I entertained him with stories of our adventures and my sarcastic commentary on life’s problems, such as Alex’s tendency to buy two of every designer piece of clothing that she liked and my plans to use the discarded doubles to make a quilt from that she could use on her $20,000 mattress. My rapid-fire conversation was less about impressing him and more to cover my nervousness about the impending rubdown. What if he gets naked but leaves his sunglasses on!? I wondered. I shuddered at the thought of his overly tan belly all greased up with massage oil. But I bravely giggled as Alex cackled and Frank polished off an entire steak.

  After Frank paid the bill, it was time to head up to the hotel suite that he had gotten specifically for our massages. I was trying to remember if I actually knew any jujitsu moves, in case I had to go all Jackie Chan on his naked old ass. I could taste the Thousand Island dressing rising up my throat.

  Would you believe that nothing weird happened? I mean, beyond the creepiness that this old married dude wanted to pay for two full-body massages for us. I hate to end this story without a big finale, but the truth is, when we got up to the hotel room, there were three white-uniformed masseuses—excuse me, massage therapists—two in the bedroom for Alex and me and one set up in the living room for Frank. Alex and I got undressed in the closed room, hopped up on our massage tables, and had a delightful—and very professional—massage from Rosie and Stella, while Frank got his quietly in the other room! It all seemed suspiciously okay, and in hindsight, I’m not sure that all of Alex’s “clients” wanted sex. Maybe some of them have a fetish for expensive, professional massages and just want her company. I don’t know, I’m not a high-priced hooker!

  After Frank paid for the massages, he hugged us good-bye and told us to order room service and charge it to the room. We did just that, and hung out in our hotel robes, relaxing and smelling of massage oil and comped indulgence.

  #WhyNot Hooker or not, I must say Alex always had those perfectly messy waves. Save the saline boobs and flaunt your natural texture with this DIY Beachy Waves Spray to give yourself hair worthy of a high-priced hooker!

  DIY Beachy Waves Spray

  PREP IT

  1 tablespoon Epsom salts

  ½ teaspoon coconut extract (find it at the grocery store—it smells amazing!)

  1 teaspoon argan oil

  1 cup warm water

  Measuring cup

  Measuring spoons

  Spray bottle

  DO IT!

  1. Mix the Epsom salts, coconut extract, argan oil, and warm water together in the measuring cup and pour the mixture into the spray bottle.

  2. Spray on damp hair and scrunch with your hands in an upward motion, creating tousled waves and enhancing your natural, messy texture. Let your hair dry naturally or blow-dry with a diffuser.

  Chapter 3

  IT SMELLS LIKE RAISINS

  I got my period in art class. I was twelve years old and my verbose mother had already given me the “birds and bees” talk and alerted me to the impending crimson wave. I knew Aunt Flo was coming.

  Earlier that year, I had been jealous of my sixth-grade classmate who had gotten her period. She bragged to a group of girls at school that she had started that morning. She got in trouble for continuing to talk about it during class. The teacher moved her to a seat in the back corner of the classroom, which happened to be close enough to my seat that she could keep saying “the oil is leaking” every few minutes and throw me a knowing glance. I felt left out and wanted some oil to leak out of me!

  I spent that summer, as I spent most of my summers, at a little beach house my parents rented in Malibu. It sounds glamorous, but it was kind of a shack of a house. The outside was a gorgeous swath of California coast filled with celebrity neighbors.

  My mom had enrolled me in a summer art class down the street, where we were taught the art of chalk pastels. The teacher claimed that true black did not exist in nature, so I was forced to use every other color to make the dark spots on my leopard drawing. It was frustrating, but in the end, it gave depth to my drawing that would probably have not been there if I had been able to use a black pastel.

  It was in this class, while trying to create black, that I created brown in my panties.

  My stomach had been hurting me, so I went into the bathroom, worried that I was going to have diarrhea in a public restroom. As a general rule, I do not go number two in public bathrooms. Fearful that I might have to break this rule to relieve my cramping, I sat down on the toilet, only to discover, to my horror, a very found-in-nature shade of brownish red staining my Tuesday underwear. I was mortified at first because I thought I’d crapped my pants. But then I paused and thought, Maybe I’m leaking oil! Not yet knowing the folded-toilet-paper trick, I pulled my pants back up and went out to finish my art class with my legs tightly squeezed together. I didn’t want to leak on my chair!

  My nanny picked me up from class. Tanya was a twenty-two-year-old blonde with big boobs. I didn’t feel close enough to her to tell her that I may or may not have started my period. I rode home smelling the salt air through the open window and discreetly massaging my cramping belly.

  Back at the beach house, I found my mother and pulled her into the bathroom.

  “Momma,” I said, “I think I might have started my period . . . or pooped my pants.”

  “Oh!” my mom exclaimed excitedly. “I’m so proud of you! Does it smell like raisins?”

  I looked at her, disgusted.

  “What?” I said quietly, fearful that Tanya could hear our conversation.

  “Smell your panties. Period blood smells sweet, like raisins. That’s how you’ll know for sure.”

  Holy ugh, my mother had never told me to smell any naturally occurring brownish stuff before. But I had to know for sure if I had just become a woman.

  “Okay, get out of here and I’ll see what it smells like,” I said, pushing my mom out of the bathroom. I proceeded to sniff my panties, and sure enough, it smelled kind of like raisins! Not at all offensive, but a mild, warm, sweet smell.

  Upon hearing the final verdict, my mom celebrated with another hug and asked if she could tell my dad when he got home from work. I told her she could, but not around me and to not make a big deal out of it. I wanted a toned-down first oil leaking, no public celebrating allowed.

  The next couple of days, I busied myself with figuring out how to cram a maxi pad into my bathing suit—tampons were way too scary still, but I wanted to enjoy the ocean. My dad hadn’t said anything to me, but two days after Raisin Gate, he took me out to a nice restaurant, just the two of us. After we were done with our meal, he gave me a large black velvet jewelry box and told me to open it.

  Nestled inside was a beautiful strand of white sea pearls. My dad told me that “just like a beautifu
l pearl,” I had blossomed into a woman, and he was proud of me.

  I was embarrassed but touched, and I’m sure I turned a very found-in-nature shade of pink.

  #WhyNot Celebrate the colorful stains of life with these gorgeous DIY Watercolor Curtains.

  DIY Watercolor Curtains

  PREP IT

  Measuring tape

  Silk fabric, enough to cover your windows plus a couple inches

  Iron-on hem tape

  Iron and ironing board

  Plastic drop cloth

  Watercolor paint in the color(s) of your choice

  Artist’s palette or small cups

  Medium to large artist’s paintbrush

  Curtain rod

  Curtain rings with clips

  DO IT!

  1. Measure your windows with the measuring tape and cut the silk fabric in panels to fit, leaving an extra inch for a hem on the bottom.

  2. Hem the bottom of each panel by folding an inch of fabric around a piece of iron-on hem tape and ironing to seal with the iron on a low heat setting. Tip: Use a damp cloth between the iron and silk to help the hem tape bond faster.

  3. Lay the silk flat on a drop cloth or in an area you don’t mind getting painty. Prep your watercolors by squirting a bit of each color on the palette and mixing with water.

  4. Paint your curtains with patches of color, letting the brushstrokes and paint run organically. Use more or less water to intensify the pigment and spread the color. Tip: Experiment with different strokes and techniques, knowing that there’s no wrong way to paint these curtains! Let dry thoroughly.

  5. To hang your watercolor curtains, attach the unhemmed end of each panel to the clip rings and slide the rings onto the curtain rod. The raw edge allows for more flexibility when hanging if you need to adjust the length.

  DO IT Elsewhere! Create wearable art by watercolor painting a thrifted silk blouse! Just make sure to dry clean only!

  Chapter 4

  PARTY SHOES

  When I was little, I used to call my patent leather, Mary Jane–style shoes that had various rhinestone or ruffle embellishments on the toes “party shoes.” My party shoe addiction totally raged from age two to age five. My daily ensemble would usually involve a short frilly dress, in ivory or pink, although I wouldn’t throw a cherry red or turquoise out of bed, either. The frilly skirt would give way to some lace tights or, on hot days, socks with ruffles. Then came the party shoes, always matching perfectly, of course, to complete the cupcake-topper look that would have made Liberace jizz in his cape.

  My mom would attempt to lay out an outfit for me, only to have my discerning toddler self waddle over, give it the once-over, and head back to the closet to start fresh. My parents eventually ceded full control over what I wore to me, which evolved in my teen years to vinyl pants, feather boas, Kool-Aid-dyed hair, blue lipstick, and booty shorts. The one purchase from my parents that I totally approved of was a cha-cha dress they bought for me in the Mexican part of Downtown LA. That thing was the tits! It had more ruffles than Louis the Fourteenth’s codpiece and flared out like you wouldn’t believe.

  No outfit is complete without a good pair of party shoes, and to this day I believe that whatever shoes make you want to party should be the ones you wear every day! My tiny patent leather Mary Janes took me to fifth birthday soirees, then gave way to neon Converse high-tops that took me to awkward mall hangouts. Soon came patent leather Doc Martens, towering platforms (to which I’m still addicted), and underage drinking. Nowadays I spend my time in anything from vintage boots to animal-print wedges, the gaudy shoes my husband, Joey, gives me (which I can’t not wear) to the occasional designer heels, all of which I never throw away, leaving my closet looking like a drag queen’s version of Hoarders.

  One time, I put my party shoes through someone’s windshield. I was in eighth grade and we were piling into my friend James’s dad’s station wagon to go hang out at his “party house” after school. James had an older brother in high school, which meant hanging at his house allowed us to bum cigarettes and flirt with his older brother’s friends.

  My party shoes that day were a pair of kelly green Doc Martens with steel toes. Against my mother’s rules, I decided it was okay to share the front passenger seat with James. I was trying to cram my junior-high-size butt (not large, mind you) into the bucket seat next to him by using my foot on the front windshield as leverage . . . you know, genius-style.

  Well, what do you know? Suddenly there was a popping sound, and a large crack extended from where my steel toe had come in contact with the glass. It was quite beautiful, actually, the shimmery, weblike glass wound, but my momentary aesthetic distraction gave way to horror when I realized I’d created a three-foot-long crack across the entire windshield! James had been facing our other friends packed into the backseat and turned around just after the veins had spread like the crack on a dangerous icy pond. He looked in horror at it, then at me. Immediately tapping into acting roots I knew I had (my mom was in commercials in the seventies, you know), I quickly tucked my short leg down under the dashboard.

  “You totally just broke the windshield!” James yelled.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “That crack? No, that was there when I got in,” I lied. “I saw it!”

  Disgusted, James shook his head as his dad opened the driver’s side door and sat down behind the wheel. James looked really worried as he asked his dad if the crack had been there before.

  His dad frowned and peered at it. “No, definitely don’t remember that being there. What happened?” he asked as he looked skeptically at both of us. I was about ready to nervous-pee all over our shared seat. James looked at me expectantly and I knew it was time to . . . keep lying.

  “I swear I saw that crack when I got in. It specifically caught my eye because I was going to ask James if someone threw a rock at your car or something?”

  The rest of our friends were silent, that kind of awkward silence when you know someone is lying but everyone is too nice to call you out on it. James’s dad peered quizzically at my chunky green shoes and sighed.

  “Hmm, maybe it was a rock. I didn’t realize I had enemies in these parts. Guess I need a new windshield,” he said, starting the car and taking us on our merry way.

  I found out later that it cost $300 to replace the windshield. I heard James’s older brother telling his friend while we smoked cigarettes by his dirty pool. Yikes! I thought, as I puffed on my American Spirit. That’s, like, the price of a reaallly nice pair of shoes!

  #WhyNot Whether your shoes are going to a party or through a windshield, they should be worth a celebration. If you can’t Louboutin, then LIEboutin and create your own pair of these DIY Metal-Embellished Shoes—Two Ways.

  DIY Metal-Embellished Shoes—Two Ways

  Studded-Heel Boots

  PREP IT

  Flat-backed pyramid studs

  Heeled boots

  Strong glue, like E6000 or 3M Scotch Super Strength Adhesive

  DO IT!

  1. Decide how you want to arrange the studs on the heels of your boots, keeping in mind that the curve of the heel may cause spacing issues. I chose to fill the gaps on the back of my heel by turning the square studs to diamond orientation.

  2. Use a small amount of the strong glue to carefully adhere the studs to your shoes. I chose to make tiny glue dots along the heel and then place the stud over the glue. If needed, use a little tape to hold the studs in place as the glue dries. Tip: Glue studs to one side of the heel at a time and let dry before moving on to the other side.

  Noodle Bead Sandals

  PREP IT

  Noodle beads

  Strappy sandals

  Strong glue, like E6000 or 3M Scotch Super Strength Adhesive

  DO IT!

  1. Decide where you want to stack your noodle beads to embellish the design of your shoes. Tip: Test to see if your desired placement will work when you’re wearing your shoe as well, since that often changes the shape.

 
2. Use a small amount of the strong glue on the beads, then carefully adhere them to your shoes. If needed, use a little tape to hold the beads in place as the glue dries.

  Chapter 5

  LADY HUMPALOT

  I discovered my love of humping when I was around the age of two. I know, I started young. I realized that if I rocked side to side while straddling something, be it the arm of a couch, a rocking horse, etc., it gave me a wonderful sensation starting in my pussa, as my Hispanic nanny called it, and emanated up into my tummy, making me feel so cozy delicious. I remember on one occasion climbing on a houseguest’s head to see how that humping experience felt, but I quickly got scooped up by one of my embarrassed parents. That was the only time they stopped me from my humping activities; most of the time they let me do what I apparently needed to do, without bothering me or making me feel guilty. Although I do remember one other time my mom asked me to stop humping while she was reading me my bedtime story because I was shaking the bed too much and she couldn’t see the words. The nerve.