Categorie: English

THE CLINIC

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I always figured I would end up in a clinic one day. Not in the type where Brad Pitt’s character in Fight Club might be found roaming about, but the Angelina & Winona kind of institution. So here I am, but not for the reason I so ambitiously envisioned when I was still young and foolish.

I find myself sitting in my room waiting for a nurse to come pick me up. Whilst gazing out of the window onto a well-kept lawn with sculpted trees, I notice the grass looks fake. It’s too leveled and healthy-looking. Obviously never trampled upon. No wonder, as patients aren’t allowed to go outside without supervision.

If I fancy some fresh air this is the protocol: I have to walk down a long, sterile-looking white corridor to the office of a man named Mr. Cleefen. Mr. Cleefen is the head of the ward. I knock on his door and wait for him to open. I tell him that I’d like to go outside for a stroll. He says “OK” and tells me to go wait in my room till I get picked up by a nurse. The wait is never longer than 15 minutes. He always mentions the 15 minutes part with great emphasis, widening his eyes slightly when pronouncing the words 15 minutes. He gives me permission about 90% of the times I request to go outdoors. I think he’s very concerned with keeping his patients happy and understands our need for leaving the building every once in a while. He’s a very decent man.

I like to go out at least twice every day, and have done so for the past eight days that I’ve been here. Every time I go see Mr. Cleefen, I clock exactly how long it takes for a nurse to come fetch me for my walk. The record wait was eleven minutes and 40 seconds. Yesterday I sat down on my room-toilet right after returning from his office and the nurse knocked before I even started anything. Luckily I don’t mind having people wait on me, so I shouted for her to wait a minute and took my time (three minutes and 21 seconds) to finish off and open the door. 3”21 is a pretty long time to be standing in front of a closed door but she didn’t seem to mind.

Yesterday the ‘she’ was nurse Matilde. Matilde is very nice; probably my favorite stroll-nurse. We went out and walked through the gardens, always careful to stay on the laid out paths and not burden the grass with our plodding. I’d much rather go out on my own but it’s not allowed. Something to do with safety. I don’t like the thought of not being allowed to do something simple as go outside for a walk on my own. Afterall I’m a perfectly healthy individual, both physically and mentally. I’m just participating in clinical medicinal research on human subjects for the money. And world peace.

This time around it’s for testing a medicine against chronic lethargy. They call the supervision-rule a safety regulation because there’s a slight possibility that I might have some kind of strange reaction to the medication they make me take three times daily.  If  that were to happen, obviously it would be much better if I weren’t lying in a bush somewhere all by myself with a foaming mouth, my eyes rolled back in my head and no-one to help me but a bunch of squirrels.

I might look like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner perhaps, that scene where she goes crazy. But without the blonde wig. I could take a wig with me on my strolls of course, just in case. If you’re going to freak out on a laboratory adventure on you might as well do it in style I reckon.

Another reason they keep an eye on us is because we’re not supposed to be ingesting certain foods and drinks while taking the medication because they might mess up the test results. To name a few big no-no’s on the black list: chocolate(milk), alcohol, cafeïne, power drinks, grapefruits and – catch this – Sevilla oranges.

One of the patients, his name is Dick, is pretty big. Obese actually. I never saw him on my previous stays at the clinic and haven’t spoken to him yet. In fact I won’t get the chance to do so at all because he was thrown out of the clinic three days ago. He hardly ever went out for a walk but the evening before he was expelled he was found missing by the nurses.

We were supposed to show up at the counter at half seven for our nightly medicine hand out. He didn’t show up and when two nurses went outside looking for him they spotted him sitting by himself in one of the gardens in the semidarkness. Turned out, he sneaked out (thus impressively evading the camera’s) and was sitting there against a tree on the grass gorging himself with Milka chocolate bars, Pocket Coffee’s, cans of Heineken and … a net of Sevilla oranges. He had dug up the goodies from the hole in the ground where he had buried them just before his check-in five days earlier.

While I shouldn’t be in a clinic at all, this poor man was in the wrong one altogether.  Oh the irony.  I know it’s wrong but as most days are very boring here, events like these – tragic as they are – really make my day. God bless Dick.

THE BRAZ WAX III

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“How, oh lordy, how did it go?”
I’m cycling back home last Friday around noon when I receive this sms from friend # 4. I text back “It woz hella devilish woman!” (yes this particular friend and I do actually talk and text like this) and throw my mobile back in my bag. Sigh. Lordy indeed. But hey, sunny side up: I can still bear the pressure of the bike saddle, do my own cycling and even text messages at the same time so….. how bad can the trauma be?

Allow me to recount..

Dominga, it turned out, is an attractive thirty-something woman who could never be my friend – she doesn’t like chocolate (while sitting in her waiting room aka living room I spotted a rather large chocolate Easter bunny AND a chocolate Santa – it’s september!) and looks nothing like my vision of her in my dream although, admittedly, chances of that happening were quite slight. She was wearing designer glasses, no make–up and her hair tied back loosely in a bun (I was too busy with breathing properly to notice what she had tied it back with).
Although I was able to keep it down to one shriek I think it’s safe to say this was the most physically distressing experience I’ve ever gone through. Of course I’ve had my average share of shitty bicycle, scooter and snowboarding smash-ups and what not but these accidents spared me somewhat by consisting of a single and sudden impact. One moment everything’s primrose & peaches the next you find yourself lying bruised and scattered somewhere in some degree of agony wondering what the hell hit you. But then – mercifully – recovery kicks in: you get up or get down and happily skip away to do whatever is it you were doing.
This however was like the result of a half pipe miscalculation stuck in repeat mode. It went on for 45 minutes and every time she smeared a streak of the hot, caramel coloured wax on me I knew what was coming and started panting uncontrollably (or perhaps not so uncontrolled as at some point she actually asked “Do you do yoga?”. No-one has ever asked me this before and it doesn’t surprise me nor would it anyone who knows me I think).  I felt a bit like a woman in labor, puffing away bravely on a bench covered with white towels and a woman in a white doctors coat with latex gloves on taking a particular interest in my privates. Every time she was about to yank the cooled down wax off my skin I would hold my breath, eyes wide, stiffen my abs and spout out my remaining breath when it was over. More often than not she would snort at my reflexes. Were it not for the fact I was positive of her amiable intentions and that it might be illegal to do so,  I would have smacked her senseless with that spatula of hers.

What I did find very sympathetic was that she had put on some background music. But not just any music, nooo. The man comforting me with his lulling voice and acoustic beachy tunes was nobody less than Hawaiian singer-songwriter aka surfer dude Jack Johnson. Despite the circumstances I was able relax and distract myself somewhat and I was just about to accept his coconut cocktail and surrender myself utterly to him until he sang the following verse:

 

 “Well if I was in your position
I’d put down all my ammunition
But Lord knows that I’m not you
and if I was I wouldn’t be so cruel
cause waitin’ on love ain’t so easy to do”

And with that I was painfully reminded of my position and that indeed he’s not me. In fact no-one is. I’m me and daaamn how it hurts..  Have fun beneath that coconut tree, Jack. I hope one falls on your head. If you were in my position, which you are quite rightly said not, you would definitely want your ammunition, trust me dude.

Hard times returned once more and just when I thought it was all over she asked me to turn over on my belly. I did so obediently, not knowing quite what to expect at this point. Then she told me to spread my cheeks.
All I can say is I went through the 5 stages of grief in a heartbeat and thought of Lenny – It ain’t over till it’s over – Kravitz as I wearily did what I was told. Then I saw the absurdity of the situation and giggled myself through the remainder of the session in a stupor.

So..Would you recommend it?

Well..reminiscing this whole experience is hardly gratifying to me but this image of my naked giggling self lying on my stomach whilst holding my butt cheeks apart while a woman smears hot wax in my ass crack is really the icing on the sour cake, so to speak..
But NO! I’m savin’ up for permanent hair removal !! Although to be fair I have to say that this costumer is very pleased with the result, Miss Dominga did an excellent job. I did go for the martini glass (simply calling it ‘triangle’ to avoid any odd situations) and she even used tweezers to perfect it into an impeccable isosceles triangle: Einstein would have been proud of us.

THE BRAZ WAX II

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from:  T Cole
to:  ask@bwax.nl
date:  3 July 2010 16:19
subject: appointment for Brazilian Wax

Hello
I’d like to make an appointment  for a Brazilian Wax. I’m new to this – is it very painful? I’ve epilated before but never actually tried this method. And where about are you located in Amsterdam?
Regards, Thalien

 
from:  Brazilian Wax
to:  coltha@gmail.com 
date: 3 July 2010 22:01
subject:  Re: appointment  for Brazilian Wax

hello Thalien
Thanks for your email. If you’ve epilated before, I’d say the pain is comparable to waxing.
I’m in the centre, closeby the station. Make sure you make an appointment timely because I’m booked up this week and next week is filling up quickly too.
Dominga
Dominga. I like this name. It sounds Brazilian enough to trust that she knows what she’s doing, but her English is good so we’ll probably have no misunderstandings about the plan de campagne. After all, I don’t want to end up as a walking Gucci ad or find myself waddling around as a freaky kindergarten aka porn star version of myself. I’m standing at the threshold of a new and potentially traumatic experience in my young life – I want to do this right.

Since reading her reply some weeks  ago I decided  this Dominga is in her mid-thirties, about m 1.60, chubby, carries her long black hair pulled tightly back into  a ponytail with a… scrunchie.

Allow me to quote from the urban dictionary “A 90’s hairpiece. Formaly worn by EVERYONE, and is now an embarrassment to society“.

She’s wearing high heeled clogs, a white legging and a tight orange top. I’d say her bra is about 2 cups too small to hold her massive twins. She’s not the type to get away with no make-up but she tries anyway. I made the effort to find a photo to illustrate my description but try Googling ‘Brazilian woman’ and all you’ll find are Gisele Bündchen and Adriana Lima look-a-likes.  Oh well, listen up people: there’s 1 Brazilian woman out there, she’s called Dominga and she’s freakin’ UGLY.
Despite her poor looks however, Dominga and I  will get on like  a house on fire  – she’ll be cheery and have 3 arms so she can use her third hand to squeeze mine while she performs her disappearing pube tricks on me.

I actually found out there is a world of possibilities when it comes to pube design, apparently another one of those très chique fashion hypes that completely went over my head. And it’s amazing the bizarre knowledge that arises  from unexpected sources when you ask the right questions at the right moment.

Imagine sitting in a hot bubble bath with somebody and one of the two farts (you). There’s a second of silence when your bath buddy gives you a look of disbelief and your culprit self looks back with one of shame and terror ..or with  a cheeky grin, if you’re anything like me. Then, suddenly, you both burst out laughing. 

Same reaction after reading this email I received from a friend (#2) after she read part I of this Brazilian Wax trilogy: “So have you thought about the shape yet?  Landing Strip, Mohawk, Martini Glass, Bermuda Triangle, Postage Stamp, Heart Attack or just  Clean as a Whistle?”.   Shock. Smile. Grin. Big grin – WTF???!

How does she know these things? How does anybody know these things? And who is the lucky person who gets to pick out the names for these different cuts anyway? And it’s not really  a cut anyhow. How do we call a haircut when the hair is not cut off but…waxed off? Can the person who thought of these hip names please also come with a decent name for the equivalent of a groin hairstyle? I herby vote ‘civil crotch carriage’ or ‘posh pussy prerogative’.

Anyhow, the moment of truth has arrived for me. I finally pinned myself down to an appointment and am cycling through the fair city of Amsterdam towards the gates of Dominga’s doors of dismay. Why? Because I said I would and just like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam I will follow through bravely no matter what and live to tell and earn endless respect from friends #1 to 4 and .. Jackass.  I will feel like Sneijder after having beaten Brazil in the quarterfinals. I ring the house bell at number 33 and about 30 seconds later she opens up.
Apart from her make-up less state (pinkish lipstick, badger style eye makeup, pancake foundation – all of which are failing miserably to conceal the fact that she simply wasn’t standing front row when God was handing out the good looks) my description fits more or less exactly. Yes, even the clogs..good Lord.

She greets and flashes me a polite smile and I flash her one back and we close our pact with a firm handshake. The deal  is sealed. “Come in” she beckons and with that turns around swiftly. I close the door behind me and follow her through the hallway and up a flight of steep stairs. Her hair is not tied back with  a scrunchie but with  a regular black elastic. Could have been mine. I’m a tad disappointment but hey, look at that legging!!!! I arrive on the first floor slightly panting but still very amused. She opens  a door to a simple, plainly furnished studio. I step inside. Not much interesting to see apart from..that bed.

My eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. This bed must be the uncanny centerfold and the ultimate quintessence definition of grotesque when it comes to bizarre furnishing. I stare at it in amazement. This thing appears to have been a hospital delivery bed in  a previous life but reincarnated into what could possibly star as the supporting act in a kinky version of The Shining. It’s proper gone preposterous. I’m silently gasping at a fat black mattress in a steel construction suspending from the ceiling with 4 shiny metal chains laced through with a strips of black leather. The leg holders are padded with black leather cushions and are held up by steel  poles which stand loose from the bed.  Before I can take in more details I’m distracted by my host who asks me whether  I’d like some coffee. I mumble “Yes please” and return my gaze to the construction.  

“You can take off your pants and knickers and get on the chaise longue”. Busted. She caught me staring and to my fright she’s now looking at me with a (sly? I can’t tell, ‘daring’ might be the better word but it’s almost as bad anyhow) pink smile and as if I’m not intimidated enough her left badger eye throws me a wink.  Sweet Jesus.

I feel a shiver down my spine as I take the 5 steps towards the chaise longue (what it is, apparently) and lay a finger on the mattress. It’s a hard one, which makes sense I suppose.  I feel a wave of reluctance as I take off my slippers and unbutton my jeans. Don’t think, just do. A minute later I’m on the mattress,  and it turns out the construction is so heavy that it hardly swings at all. I’m sitting upright, naked from bellybutton downwards, with my feet dangling about ½ meter from the ground.  Dominga’s back is turned to me as she stands across the room making coffee. Death silence. Awkwaaaard.. I should say something now. In an impulse I blurt out “Can I have a martini glass?”

Quite witty if I say so myself and I giggle to myself. The giggle succumbs in a flash when for 5 long seconds her scuttling at the sink ceases and she stands very still. Then, over her shoulder she says slowly “This isn’t a cocktail bar, miss” – and  resumes to the coffee making business. Shit. Way to go Thalien, you managed to annoy the one woman who you – however temporary – are about to bestow king and commander powers over the most sensitive nerve endings in your body. Chapeau.

She walks toward me with two little mugs in her hands and puts  them on a table next to my kinky throne. On this table also stands a small metal pot on an electric hot plate. She takes the lid off and a little puff of vapor escapes.  “Shall we?” she says smilingly with one penciled eyebrow pulled up. I swallow hard. Taken aback with her briskness I find myself now seriously doubting what once seemed like such a brave plan. Nevertheless  I manage to croak out a note of consent at which she immediately summons me to lie back. I do so nervously but lean on my elbows as I want to keep  a clear view of the operation.

She is now stirring the pot with hot wax (I figured it must be that) with something that appears to be a spatula of some sort. Then with a scoop she ladles a bit of the goods – a honey-coloured paste – onto the spatula and waves for me to open my legs a bit more. Oh God, here goes. Before I know what’s happening  I feel a burning sensation between my legs. It’s bloody hot that stuff and if it were anybody else I would be squirming like a salted snail, but something about the stern look on her face tells me I better shut up – this is not a woman who sympathizes with moaning masochists. And  who can blame her?

I am still biting down when she reappears with a strip of white fabric as big as a pantiliner which she then presses down on my crotch. “There we go” she cries and rips off the fabric with one energetic yank.  This fabric, let me remind you, was glued to the wax, which was glued to my box.

My beautiful, sweet, good-natured box.

I scream
I scream
I scream

Finally my screaming levels off into an agonized howl and then everything goes black…

A thump against my nose  and my eyes are open again. I blink a few times but then realize I’m in a dark room and I’m lying in a bed.  A normal bed. Slowly I make sense of my surroundings and then reality incites a wave of sweet relief into my consciousness as a realize this is my own bed in my own bedroom in my own home. I rub my nose – having just  hit it in a sleepy spasm with my massive diving watch, a gift from my father (thanks Dad!). I look at the clock face and the glow in the dark hands tell me it’s 7.10 AM.  I have another hour, wuuuusshhh. A long sigh and I feel my  body, with hair and all, relax.

Thank God it was a dream – albeit a nasty one – and thank God I still have another few weeks till my appointment with Dominga….

 

THE BRAZ WAX I

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With the Netherlands-Brazil football victory hysteria rattling otherwise sane skulls in this Orange Country and my upcoming trip to the sweltering heats of Asia buzzing through my head I put one and one together and contemplated succumbing to … The Brazilian Wax. Yes I did. Two events crossed paths, seemingly unrelated, and yet this is what my genius brain concocted. Correction: Not only concocted, for I have been obsessed with the idea of having a worthy Brazilian Wax practitioner perform some Beasty Brazilian Business on my unsuspecting privates since this epiphany hit me. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.

The thing about Brazilian Waxes is: We all know of its existence and somewhere out there somebody is having one done as I write and someone is giving one as you read (sort of like voodoo). I’ve read about supermodels having it done (hah, indeed beauty comes with an agonizing price), I know it comes from Brazil; the country of mini thonged bootyshakers and swimwear of microscopic proportions. And finally, I know most of my girlfriends, including myself, fret about WHAT TO DO with our hairy punanis. Admitted; this might be a bit of an oddity considering hairy boxes have been happily wandering this planet for over 200.000 years and apparently been wanted in all sorts of variations considering they’re still amongst us. 
braz wax
So YES! We acknowledge hair down under has been around forever and ever. In fact come to think of it, imagine the horror of our prehistoric ape-sisters! Imagine the confusion of where to begin this impossible task. Imagine – say if she were to succeed – an apewoman with a smooth-as-silk box on an otherwise fuzzy-as-furby bod! Imagine my amusement when I found out this trail of thought is far from alien!

We understand the function of our good ol’ pubes. But do we really? Ever talked about this in biology class? “Who can tell me the function of pubic hair?” the teacher asked. One quivering finger goes up “ Ermm.. warmth?” . Another brave finger votes for “increased crack protection”. Does any of this sound familiar? Frankly, I can’t remember the last time I had a cold box and I’m pretty sure my inner thighs and undies provide sufficient protection! And we sure as hell understand removing it ain’t keeping it from coming back!
But nevertheless, a girl is free to indulge in the divine fantasy of never endeavor land where the (semi)hairless box is a constant fact and She rules all there is to rule. So I pondered some more and the more I did, the more placidly and evenly both my dread and enchantment grew. Almost like synchronized swimmers I would say (they wax too, you know). Now what does a gal do when she stands upon a diving board which flips up and down above an abyss of what could potentially be the worst boxing match a box can go through after giving birth? Correct; she sends her girlfriends an email telling them of her somewhat heroic intention and in the sweetest tone and smartest choice of words she tries to sway at least one of them into leaping into the great unknown with her (No, no after you!) A freaky yet alluring proposal. Not unlike the bird of paradise’s mating dance, come to think of it.

Down to hard facts; the words uttered were: “Hello girls, ever wondered how a Brazilian Wax could tantalize your senses? I’m totally contemplating it as I don’t want to be thinking about hair removal while backpacking in Asia. Frankly I’m a little scared but I can’t resist the inexperienced experience and would just like to check it out. Costs: 25 euro’s. So who’s in for a session of masochism? 😉 xx”  I waited a bit and waited a bit more and then the responses of these wonderful girls, who shall remain anonymous, started trickling in:

#1 “hahahaha… is that completely bald or a strip of hair?”
#2 “I don’t really have the guts either, I always wax my bikini line but as for the rest down under I shave it. Let me know what you’re doing, ofcourse I don’t mind coming along to offer some psychological support 🙂 xx”
#3: “Ouch, no way! I like a few hairs :P”
#4: “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo….”

This was a week ago and I’m still waiting for response from the hairiest of the bunch but from the above we can already tell: the proposition ain’t so hot..

So where does this all leave me? I’ll tell ya in the next episode The Brazilian Wax II. Stay tuned!