Meet My Friend, Angie

Have you met Angie? You should. Maybe you've heard this before, but she is absolutely wonderful. She gives me great advice (which I sometimes don't listen to, but only because I can be stupidly stubborn and well, do idiot things despite knowing better), is tremendously supportive even when I end up doing said idiot things, and has the unwavering ability to brighten my day even when I show up to work in the human form of a little black raincloud with lightening bolt accoutrements.

She is also from the east coast of Canada, and it always seems to happen that when I really care about someone, I will unconciously start reflecting their patterns of speech and/or accents. It made my icy heart feel a surge of warmth when recently someone noticed that I say 'car' the way that someone from Nova Scotia might. That is, their 'ar' words sound like 'aaarrr'. Kind of like a pirate, yarr! But a super duper nice pirate that doesn't try to steal your booty or your cat, or loot and pillage your apartment or Hyundai Accent or treasure chest or whatever; instead does really thoughtful and touching things, makes the best picnic snacks, and is pretty much the nicest person, pirate or non-pirate, that you will ever meet.

Still don't believe me? Geez, you are a tough sell. Though I suspect you may just be playing hard to get. How minxy of you!


The first time I had a piece of my work published, Angie bought me flowers. She also printed off and mailed the piece to her mom. She has never once gone to HR about all the times that I have sung her Enrique Inglesias' "Hero", or the times I've left overly specific love notes on her desk, not even the time her husband called and I told him that her and I were running away to Acapulco to celebrate our (platonic?) love.


You know what else is wonderful? She comes across as the sweetest, most innocent and pure person (which she is), and then out of nowhere will say something holy-shit dirty that catches you completely off guard. And I LOVE it! I wouldn't say I'm a line crosser, but I am definitely a line pusher, and I will often do or say things to friends to illicit a reaction. I'm usually trying to be creepy, or trying to say something that will catch the other person unawares. So when Angie tries to out-creep me, or says something absolutely filthy, there is a part of my heart that breaks away and attaches itself to hers.


So I must tell you about the time she called work when I had the closing shift, and we were only open eight more minutes, and I was anxious to leave, and I didn't recognize her voice, and when I picked up the phone all I heard was this, in a really breathy voice:


"Hiiii, I'd like to book a hot..."

There's more, but I pause here because we offer hot stone massages at work, and there was loud music on in the caller's background, and she sounded like some young, ditzy girl that turns up the ends of all her words like they are a question or something. So, my immediate reaction was one of annoyance, and I remember thinking, "Who is the asshole calling me at 9:52pm to make what is probably going to be an irritatingly complicated booking? And also they sound drunk. Terrific."
But then! Bless the stars, this is the full version of what was pretty much said:

Caller: Hiiii, I'd like to book a hot, tall, leggy brunette?

*a noticeable pause*

Me: Umm, I'm not sure that I can help you?

*I look outside the window to make sure no one weird is out there*

Caller: Come on out with usssss! We're at Canoe Club!!!
Me: Uh...

Caller: But then we might go to the Bard!!!

Me: Angie?

Caller: Yeah!

Me: Oh fuck. I totally didn't recognize your voice. Hahahahahahaha! You totally got me. I was genuinely creeped out for a minute. Hahaha! You little floozy, you!

Also, Angie and her husband (who is just as wonderful, by the way) sometimes take me on day trips that make me feel the kind of simple and completely fulfilling happiness a dog must feel when they get taken to the beach and then travel in the car with their head out the window, the wind blowing in their face. I 100% mean this in an absolutely complimentary way. In the way that dogs have this miraculous ability to seem filled with nothing but unbridled joy and ease when they are happy, and completely released of any burdened or troubled thoughts. That is how I feel. I feel happy and free and so grateful to have such great friends. 

Then just when I thought I could not love anyone more, she went and gave me a reason to consider renting her out to people who don't yet know of her wonderfulness. The other day, I got home from work and took my dogs for a walk at the park behind my house. As I am bending over to pick up my dog's poop, I see a car just like Angie's and I think, "Hmm, that car looks just like An--" and exactly as I am thinking this, who else but Angie pulls her entire upper body out of the passenger side window and screams at me, "I LOVE YOUUUUU!"

It was tremendous, and a great coincidence. I was also holding dog shit as this happened.

But you know what? I really don't want to oversell anything. Yes, Angie is terrific or whatever, but at the end of the day, she's still only a mediocre music bingo player. She always gets distracted and forgets to dab her card when the songs come on, and I have to sometimes dab it for her. AND THEN SHE STILL WINS!! But I say this with love, and really, I cannot possibly think of another person I'd rather see win the red, oversized "MOLSON CANADIAN" t-shirts. That, and by the end of the evening when I am too drunk to drive home and am craving chocolate, I know her and her husband will caringly walk with me to a convenience store, and then let me pass out on their couch.

Natalie Bell hopes that one day, you get to be friends with Angie too.

Conversations I'm Pretty Sure My Dogs Have

Probably a true story


Gargoyle 1: Mom sure was in a bad mood today.


Gargoyle 2: No shit. She didn't even give us a treat after our walk.

G1: I hate how she always micromanages us.

G2: Like we can't be trusted or something!

G1: *chewing on new pair of shoes* Don't even get me started.

G2: It's like she thinks we're children.

G1: *has somehow pulled all the dirty underwear out of the laundry basket and into the living room* Really, I don't want to get upset about this, but I will.

G2: I just feel like there is a lack of respect.

G1: YES! That's exactly it. It always has to be her rules, her way of doing stuff, her decision. It's a one way street with her.

G2: And it's like, there are things that we want too. 

*There are now underwear EVERYWHERE*

G1: And now she won't even let us sleep in the bed anymore.

G2: Fuck her. She's such a bed hog anyway. The way she sleeps, it doesn't even look comfortable. It looks like she was crushed by a giant falling piano or something and was maybe kind of drunk.

G1: And sometimes she gets all sweaty and gross.

G2: And very occasionally she does this weird thing where she completely undresses while sleeping.

G1: Like sleep stripping?

G2: Hahaha! Yeah. What a floozy.

G1: *chewing underwear* You know what? I don't even LIKE chewing on--

A key turns in the lock, and the front door opens

G1 & G2: MOM! YOU'RE HOME!! WE MIIIIISED YOU! LOVE US! MOOOM! PAY ATTENTION TO US! LOVE US!!! FOOD TIME! WALK TIME! WE LOVE YOUUUU!!!!!!! Oh. That. Yeah, no. We have no idea how your shoes and underpants got like that. Weird... Walk time?

Natalie Bell really loves animals. More than she loves her shoes and underwear, apparently.

Thoughts of Tragically Deep Depths

Be careful about people who use the saying "double edged sword", because quick history lesson- most swords were double edged. 

Historically, the sword was developed in the Bronze Age circa 1600 BC and in the most narrow sense, consists of a straight blade with two edges and a hilt. And yes, Dad, I realize the kitana, scimitar and sabre are all single edged swords, but they are the exception and not the rule. So please stop trying to steal my thunder. Being British doesn't excuse you.


I feel like you shouldn't trust someone who doesn't have a basic knowledge of weaponry in Antiquity. That's like trusting someone who wears a puca shell necklace, loves Nascar, and always stocks up on Yankee Candles when they visit the Cracker Barrel. That's 3 strikes right there, and that's not even the tip of their Danielle Steele complete collection iceberg. They've already made poor life decisions, do you really want to follow them into that? I didn't think so, but then again, you were ready to take unmarked chocolate from a stranger.

- Natalie Bell

The Best/Last Time I Had A Brazilian

Did you miss this the first time around? Well, get the edge of your seat ready because here it comes. Again! For posterity...

This originally appeared on thehairpin.com, April 11th, 2012, and can be found here:
http://thehairpin.com/search?q=employee+discount
It's a general interest site featuring some terrific lady writers, and I sort of wish we all lived in the same apartment building or whatever so we could all hate-watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta, loudly sing and dance to the newest Kelly Clarkson, and give each other the best, direct, and sincerely thoughtful advice on juiceboxes, non-juiceboxes, life, clean stuff, and everything in between.

And to quote my Dad, "Natalie, I'm not sure at what point you became comfortable talking about your vagina on the internet, but well done nonetheless."

Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. Except if the box is clearly labelled. Or if your box is not clearly labelled, there's probably a little pamphlet explaining what kind of chocolate said box contains. So really, life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get if you can't read, or are blind and there is no Braille on the box. In which case, who is giving you this box of unmarked chocolates? They obviously don't know you very well, otherwise they would have gotten the dark chocolate truffles. Some stranger is giving you candy. I think we all know what the saying about that one is. But hey, candy is candy, so I'm not going to judge you. You know what I am going to judge you for, though? Trying to tell me that getting a Brazilian "isn't that bad" and that "you get used to it after a while."

I work in a spa. It's a full-service spa, so we do anything from massages to facials to waxing. All kinds of waxing. (We used to have one boy who worked among all us ladies, and I always thought one of his most charming qualities was his ability to, in complete seriousness and with 100% detailed accuracy, explain the different types of vagina waxings to inquiring ladies.) One of the perks of working in the spa is that we get stuff terrifically cheap. I like money, and I like when there is more of it in my bank account. So it just seemed to make sense that when I decided that I was going to dive head first into this Brazilian business that I would do so at work. You might think differently, but the idea of voluntarily paying $60+ to have someone torture me sounded ridiculous.

The backstory to this is that I had started seeing this guy, and I liked him, and much to my chagrin his grooming preferences were right down to the wood. For a while I had really hoped that all men shared Hank Moody's point of view on that subject, but this time I was out of luck.

You guys, I know. I know! You're likely screaming at me "Girl, tell me you didn't torture your ladies' parts just because some juicebox made you feel like that's the only way he'd be taking a ride downtown to the pink taco stand? When will the jerkcircus end!?!”

Yeah, I totally did it for that reason. It was in those first few months when you meet someone who seems to have a lot in common with you, and they make you laugh, and they seem suspiciously human, and you think you might actually really like this person ... and then a few months after, you learn that they actually have the emotional intelligence of a six-year-old, can't handle stress, and when they do get stressed they turn into a selfish, bratty little kid that hurls mean comments at you for asking if they want to come watch The Voice in a little bit and that it's your fault for making them so upset. Hahahahahaha! What?

Okay, back to our vagine waxing story. So I decided to just book myself in for the Brazilian a few days out. Because I was in the books at work, my coworkers had seen the appointment scheduled and were strangely excited for me. I loved that my best friend was fantastically hyped for me, because to be honest, I was not at all. She wanted me to tell her all about it. She is maybe one of the nicest people you will ever meet, and wonderful in that way where no matter what's going on she is ridiculously supportive and excited for you. Just so that you know what I'm talking about, our staff washrooms at work are also where our change rooms are. It's a tiny shoebox of a room, and with people always on call there is little to no privacy. For this reason I'm usually an at-home pooper type of person, but one time my colon was all like "I quit this bitch," and I had no choice. I walk into the change room and there is my friend. There really was no time for subtleties, so I had to be blunt, "Angie, I'm just going to be direct. You probably don't want to be in here in the next few minutes." Her response? "Oh, that's no problem! I'm just really glad to hear that you're staying regular!" You see? Wonderful.

Cut to B-Day. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird to be in a room where your coworker is asking you to hold your labia a certain way, but whatever. That very quickly became the last thing I was worried about. I've had regular bikini waxes before, and they're a whole different ballgame. They're like a nap on a soft, white, fluffy cloud that also gently massages you and soothingly sings you Enya songs, compared to Brazilians. Can we talk about the pain? THE PAIN! Holy fuck. Seriously, anyone who tries to tell you that the pain isn't that bad can go fist themselves. I consider myself to have a fairly good pain threshold, but I felt like I'd just been in a horrific car accident — my nerves were shot, all my patience was gone, and I was in shock. The worst part was it didn't stop hurting! It was like hundreds of tiny, very aggressive, and horribly angry piranhas were continuing to dig their razor sharp teeth in to my whole general groin region. FOR HOURS!! I was sore for days. That's not an exaggeration. I couldn't sit.

Now, because I had this done at work, everyone and their mother knew about it and wanted to know how it went (because I think when you wax lady parts everyday, and some of them happen to belong to your coworkers, secrets and privacy pretty much go out the window). A few days later we had a little work party at a nearby restaurant. You should know that it wasn't as if we were all standing around having some beers with music playing in the background. Nope. This was a sit-down dinner, everyone from work gathered around a table with their husbands and partners. The topic somehow turned to waxing, and then my boss, our spa director, looked at me and this is pretty much how it went:

Boss Lady: Oh! Natalie, you had a Brazilian the other day, how did that go?

Me: I'm not going to lie, it was pretty traumatic. It's a little uncomfortable to sit right now. I was not prepared for that.

Other Boss Lady: Oh right, that was your first one!

Boss Lady: Ever?

Me: Ever.

Other Boss Lady: Good for you Natalie! Nice job! Let's give Natalie a round of applause, that's a big deal!

Boss Lady: Yeeeah buddy!!

And then the whole table gave me a big round of hearty applause and loud cheers.

And now here we are. The best/last time I had a Brazilian. Now where is my goddamn chocolate?

Natalie Bell is completely comfortable taking candy from strangers. So long as it is not the cheap kind. Rude.

But Enough About Me, Let's Talk About My Book

Players, ballers, midnight callers,

What is up? Welcome to my blog! 

As Heidi Klum says, "In fashion, you ahre either in, or you ahre auwt." What does this have to do with anything? Why are you asking so many questions? Who are you, the cops? Listen big shot, just cool your jets for a second and I'll come around to that in a moment.

So before you ahre either in, or you ahre auwt, I feel compelled to warn you of a few things up front:

. When I was young, I sort of thought I'd grow up to find that I had awesome mutant powers like the X-Men. Turns out I was right.

. Before you start asking me what my super power is, you should probably also know that when I was young, I used to like pretending that I was horse. As in, I used to set up show jumping courses made with pillows, side tables, Dad's golf clubs, pretty much whatever available made a good jump, and then I would compete in my own made up competitions. Sometimes I made my parents watch. My mom swears that I learned how to trot before I learned to run (for serious, I would actually trot).

. I love, love, LOVE Celine Dion. I am not joking.

. My mom taught me that when life throws you lemons, you really should just find alcoholic juice boxes to take with you to booze-free family friendly horse shows so that you can drink them discretely from your lawn chair. What the fuck does lemons have to do with this?

. I sometimes get night sweats.

. I also really love men's fashion. I anxiously await the new issue of GQ in the mail every month. I am still not joking.

Oh yeah, and I occasionally write stuff. I less than occasionally exercise the skill of editing that stuff. Most of it is true stuff, but some of it is not. And I'm not about to tell you which is which. Which is witch? But let's not talk sorcery, I'd rather keep this fact based. So I made it into an equation:

Fiction < Truth - how I have chosen to remember certain things + 5/3 x conversations that I have made into my own words = I am fucking terrible at math

I used to think that math was universally funny, because according to my grade 10 math teacher, it is the universal language. I don't want to call anyone a liar, but apparently he is one.

That is all.

Auf Wiedersehen!

Natalie Bell