Zen & Donuts

Babymooners in Oblivion

Sara Margulis — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 23:36:00 +0000

It seems it's raining babies in my life. I just found out today yet another close friend is pregnant. That makes four of us in a group of about 12 girlfriends, with due dates ranging from November 8 (ours) to next May 6. Girlfriend number five should be joining the ranks any time. Five babies have been born in the last year and a half. Our last get-together looked like a busy day at Gymboree. We were all blown away--how did it come to this? Because we've all been friends since grammar school, the scene appeared in striking contrast to our soirees from decades past: slumber parties, college keg-fest weekends, even our adult cocktail parties from more recent years. It dawned on us all how much life has changed since the children came along.

Walking with one of the mamas a few weeks ago, she asked if the hubby and I were going to get away before the baby comes. We didn't have any plans so I hemmed and hawed, only to be slapped with "YOU MUST DO THIS! You'll never have another chance for just the two of you to go anywhere alone without worrying about the child." She had a point. It's funny how, when you decide to start a family, the gravity of the life-long responsibility is only on the far edge of your consciousness--way overshadowed by the romantic notion of being pregnant and having a sweet little bundle of joy. Even during the pregnancy, I've been surprised how little I've pondered the reality of being a parent. But hey any excuse for a vacation is good with me.

Then today I came across the concept of the Babymoon while doing some research for Honeyfund. (I wasn't surprised some travel agents and resorts have found a way to capitalize on this trend.) And I realized we'd actually had a quite extravagant babymoon, pre-pregnancy. In February we took a 10-day Mexican cruise, calling it our "last hurrah." We booked it before I got pregnant because I wanted to really party! Which we did and it was a blast.

But I do find myself, now 7 1/2 months pregnant, yearning for more time, more vacations, more pampering, and more quality time with the spouse before our lives change forever in a way we can't really know. So we took my girlfriend's advice and booked a romantic spa weekend. Since I don't feel like traveling, we did it close to home. A visit to Nob Hill Spa, dinner at Millennium, and no laptops all weekend. It was heavenly.

I still don't think we can really appreciate how different life will be in just a few weeks. But hey, I got a nice facial and some quality time with the husband, which is never a bad thing.

The Light of Kumar Lewis

Sara Margulis — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 17:17:00 +0000

This morning I woke up really, really sad. I'd dreamt about an old friend, Kumar Lewis. I ran into him on our high school's bleachers and reached out to him to console him. Someone close to him had been killed. The sight of his bright smile and the feeling of hugging him was so vivid. Then I woke up and remembered, Kumar is the one that was killed. It's been almost a month now. And I haven't found a way to accept it.

I decided today I would try. I typed his name into Google and found a posting by a fellow Analy High School alumn, someone who knew Kumar when I did. Thanks for the inspiration and for remembering him for all of us, Wes.

Kumar and I hadn't been close in more than a decade either. I remember the last time I saw him, at the Old Main Street Saloon in Sebastopol, his friend Noah by his side. With his classic smile and a warm hug, he told me he'd been spending time traveling the world, working for peace, learning foreign languages and music, and I remember thinking "yep, that's so Kumar." But I was too wrapped up in my own twenty-something, self-important drama to take the time to catch up with him that night.

Kumar was an exceptional person, filled with light. When I knew him in 1992, his face literally glowed wherever he went. He had a smile for everyone. For a teenager, that's amazing. From the pictures and messages on his memorial website, it seems he grew more brilliant as a man.

I miss you Kumar. Not because you were a daily part of my life, but because, as Wes so eloquently put it, the loss of your warmth and spirit has made this world a little less bright for all of us. Thank you for your generous legacy...a message of peace, tolerance, sharing and lust for life that, in your memory, I promise to hold dear.

In search of freedom: Business is busy-ness

Sara Margulis — Tue, 10 Jan 2006 00:37:00 +0000

Today I'd like to discuss one of those "big question" type questions that the universe seems to shroud in mystery. How does one become independently wealthy? I'm not talking bajillionare wealthy, just enough to thwart reporting to "the man" five days per week. Enough to enjoy the company of your loved ones more than a few minutes a day.

Josh and I are working hard on this one. The key, according to the book "Rich Dad, Poor Dad," is cash flow: passive income baby. You sit, money comes flying at you. We've thought about this a lot since we read the book in 2004 as we were planning our wedding and dreaming of future wealth.

Fast forward two years. We're now full swing into creating our first business and potential source of passive income: Honeyfund.com. It's a free honeymoon registry service that allows engaged couples to register for parts of their honeymoon instead of the typical "stuff." We got inspired when Josh built one for our wedding and it was a smashing success.

You can imagine this idea is gaining in popularity as more and more people are getting married in their late 20s and 30s and already have households full of toasters, irons, sheets, towels, dishes, etc. But not a lot of savings to take a two-week luxury vacation!

Here are some other bloggers talking about it:
http://sarawishing.blogspot.com/2006/01/well-so-far-so-good.html
http://ryanbj.blogspot.com/2006/01/im-in-houston.html
http://julieandbillswedding.blogspot.com/2006/02/registry-information.html

Anyway, whew this entrepreneur stuff is a lot of work! Between visiting City Hall for the business license, opening a new bank account, meeting with lawyers, and researching three industries (wedding, honeymoon, Internet advertising) I feel like I've already done enough to earn a six-figure salary and we haven't made a dime yet.

Are we better off working for the man? Going to our monochrome cubicles, doing our mundane jobs and collecting the cash? The nagging voice in my head says, "hell no!" We may be busy, but we're clicking our laptops side by side on the couch. We even get in the occasional game of footsy.

Waxing and waxing

Sara Margulis — Sat, 10 Sep 2005 02:04:00 +0000

The Brazilian Bikini Wax. If you don't know it first-hand, you've probably seen that Sex and the City where they visit LA and meet Vince Vaughan ("my brazilian made me do it"). If you're still unfamiliar, check out http://www.manipedi.com/services_wax.shtml.

On the female pain scale a Brazilian is maybe a 6, with 1 being mild cramps and 10 being child birth. Although I don't really know because I've never had a child, let it suffice to say that ripping all your pubic hair out in big strips hurts like a mother.

I'm one of those sporadic customers, I go every 4-6 months when it's getting really bushy down there. I like to try new places, so last week I found a very nice salon in a posh part of San Francisco (Laurel Heights). I went in and was immediately offered a beverage of my choice and a magazine. Looks promising I think to myself. I sit there for literally 30 seconds and am greeted by the aesthetician. Prompt service, good. Her name is Katrina and her English is not so good, but I'm not worried because frankly I've found Slavic women really know what they're doing in the arena of painful spa treatments (try a deep cleansing facial by Magdalena at Refresh http://www.refreshdayspa.com).

We go into a smallish but adequately prepared room. She tells me to get undressed. On the table she leaves me a spa-towel-velcro-wrap-dress-thing and a pair of disposable thong underwear. Now I've had a lot of Brazilians before (waxing that is) and I know that there's no way you can do it with underwear on (which should have been my first clue that something was amiss). So I leave them on the counter and climb up onto the table.

She comes back in the room and pulls back the towel and exclaims "Oh!" (Oh what? I think).

"You don't wear. Okay, no problem," she says with a Russian accent and a nervous smile. Now I'm starting to wonder why someone who does this for a living is surprised to see the vagina she's about to wax bare. But I figure maybe the women in this neighborhood are more modest than I and she's just protecting my privacy. That's nice.

So she starts to slather on the wax and I'm laying there ready to take the pain as usual. She seems to be having a little trouble with the wax, it's all stringy and can get all over the place if you don't know what you're doing. She puts on the cloth strip, rubs it into the wax real good and gives it a tug.

1st rule of waxing: you better tug that thing with confidence and rip 'em out quick or else you're just pulling on my pubes really freaking hard while they're still attached, and that moves the procedure to an 8 on the pain scale.

2nd rule of waxing: goddam it! bitch if you don't get this right I'm going to kick your ass! (See the movie "40-year-old virgin").

I'm yiping in pain and she apologizes for the trouble. Asks me if maybe I'd like to try the other style of wax? (hard wax, which is self peeling and therefore does not require cloth strips) maybe that would be less painful? I say yes as if she should have used that all along and we try again.

Meanwhile I look down and she's managed to wax the most random two patches of hair so now my vagina looks like a dog that fell victim to a three-year-old with scissors.

As soon as she starts to pull I realize my mistake: the thing with the hard wax is that it's difficult to get a good hold of before you pull. So now she's futzing and yanking my pubes even MORE than before trying to get a corner free to give it a good yank. The pain is so unbearable I finally yell "STOP! This is not working for me." It's all I could think of to say in place of what I was thinking: "Lady, you suck at this!"

She looks at me not quite sure that I'm saying what I'm saying, and I politely tell her I can't go on. The pain is too great. I ask her to clean me up and she says ok as she hesitantly moves back and forth between her supply table and my crotch trying to figure out what to do because there are two huge dry strips of wax with my pubes firmly logded in them. She says timidly "may I pull?" and I figure there's really no other way so I let her.

"Aaaahhh!"

Then she tells me she's almost done. Don't I want her to finish? She clueless. She's only done half the front! Does she not know the hair goes all the way to the back and then some? I say again, politely, "no this really isn't working for me." She puts some after-wax soothing oil balm stuff on me and leaves the room. Her face is sweaty and red from the embarassment. She has to know she has absolutely no business attempting this highly advanced waxing prodecure.

I put on my clothes, shake my head as I see the splotches of half-waxed pubes where my bush used to be, and come out of the room. We communicate in something you can barely call language that I have to go now and I'm not paying for this but I offer anyway to not be a bitch. She refuses and I walk out.

I get a block away and call my husband. He's scheduled with the same woman right after me, so I tell him not to come there. She's aweful. You see for a man, the back wax is like an 8 on the pain scale with 9 being a ball wax and 10 being a knee to the groin. There's no way in hell I'm letting that crazy woman knee my husband in the balls.

The next day I went back to International Orange Spa (pricey but so worth it, http://www.internationalorange.com/) where a real professional finished the job while I told her the horror story. She laughed when I told her Katrina claimed she was almost done. "Who's vagina was she waxing?" she said as she admired me in all my grown-out glory.

I walked out of there 20 minutes later with a beautiful Brazilian and my pride.

Inaugural Post

Sara Margulis — Sun, 21 Aug 2005 06:34:00 +0000

WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!

Damn it feels good to have finally squeezed out of the birth canal of the blogless and into the world of the truly alive. I'm a blogger, sweet!

I'm dedicating my inaugural post to two of the most important people in my life: my husband Josh, and my dear friend Anya Paull. They are the inspiration for Zen & Donuts.

Why Zen?
Anya and I use the word Zen as a reminder to stay connected to the peace and beauty of this world despite the myriad of personal Zen disrupters (PZDs, if you will) that can attack one's psyche in the course of a day. Example: "how's your Zen state today?" is a shortcut for "how physically relaxed, spiritually calm and soulfully inspired are you feeling?"

Why Donuts?
Donuts comes from the name of my website, which comes from a funny my husband and I made when passing by the Bay Area phenomenon "Happy Donuts" after a Giants baseball game in the summer of 2003. It struck us both at the exact same moment the strangeness of that name. What in the world is a happy donut anyway? Is it the opposite of a furious donut? HA HA HA hahahahah. It's funny the things that are funny when you're high on love and baseball.

Why Zen & Donuts?
I spend a lot of time thinking about what life is, what makes it good, what makes people happy, etc., which I'm sure will become more clear as this blog grows. One of the little nuggets of life is those special understandings you have with your loved ones. Those experiences and feelings, even whole life goals or philosophies that only you and your loved-one share, that you can call up for one another in a word. Zen and Donuts are two of those words for me.

Welcome to Zen & Donuts.