“putting out fire with vaseline” – I just lost five minutes of my life [...]]]> Yup.  It’s your favorite time of the month, Interwebz.  Yet again, I’m going to prove that my readers are even more whacked in the cabeza than I am by sharing the frightening searches that bring new viewers here to my vagina-infused world.  Sickos.

“putting out fire with vaseline” – I just lost five minutes of my life learning how to make a fire starter out of a vaseline soaked cotton ball.  Based on my wealth of recently acquire vaseline knowledge, I’m going to out on a limb here and say that you can’t put out a fire with vaseline.  You should probably pour a bottle of vodka on there instead.

“teeth vajazzling” – My head hurts already.  I really need you searchers to be more specific.  Is this about applying crystals to your teeth in an attempt to achieve a more feminine grill?  Or is this another freakish fetish thing about applying the vajazzling jewels to the normal vajazzle area, but instead of using your fingers in the application process, you use your teeth?  Either way, I’m having trouble finding the appeal.

“coughing dislodge IUD” – CAN THAT HAPPEN?!  Like IUD’s don’t already terrify me?  I need to hear about more freakish accidents involving those things?  Yet another reason for me to avoid throwing a rusty paper clip up through the kayak and into my climate controlled storage unit of a uterus.  THIS IS THE STUFF HORROR MOVIES ARE MADE OF, people.  Stop it.  You are freaking me out.

“maryland flying vaginas motorcycle” – I met a whole mess of rowdy Maryland bloggers at that conference last month, but I never would have guessed they ran in a motorcycle gang.  I’m betting Mary Mac is the ringleader.  I can picture her and Amy rolling down the Ocean City Boardwalk with their handlebar streamers waving in the salty breeze.  Unless…well…I suppose I could have misread that.  Maybe it’s just a single motorcycle covered in flying vaginas.  In that case, I’m betting it belongs to Sarah P.   If I’m right, you need to send me a picture of you standing in front of the Bearded Clam Bar with your vagina encrusted motorcycle, STAT.  Get on that.  (That’s what she said.)

“biggest shuttlecock” – I believe this is currently the world’s biggest shuttlecock.  Though I’m thinking we should make shuttlecock an insult.  I’m tired of calling people ass hats and twat waffles.  I need a little variety in life.  Henceforth, this is the world’s biggest shuttlecock.  (That, or the the person who searched for “coughing dislodge IUD” and single-handedly ruined my chances of sleeping for the next thirty-odd years.)  Now try using it in a sentence at least three times today so it can become a regular part of your vocabulary.

“what is a cute word that ends with ‘elly’” – Um.  Try “Elly.”  It’s cute and perfect and doesn’t need to be weighed down with any of your “other” letters.  Oppressor.

“white stuff looks like parmesan cheese in between my vagina lips” – Well it turns out I DO have a line, folks.  And this little doozie is well past the aforementioned line.  Now who’s ready for lunch?

“I love my pearl necklace, scene 1” – FADE IN: Exterior of Elly’s childhood home.  Move through foyer, down hallway, and into parent’s bedroom.  Peggy is wearing a latex french maid’s ensemble while Bob wears his green lederhosen from 1968.  Narrator suddenly realizes this is just too fucking weird.  FADE TO BLACK.

Because I love you so very much, I’ve yet again shielded you from the more disturbing searches.  Suffice it to say there is a surprisingly high number of people out there that want to see Sarah Palin perform some physically challenging acts with tiny horses while suspended in midair.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to spend the rest of the day washing my eyes out with steel wool and bleach.

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…I’m off track again.

So because it’s a holiday and [...]]]> I totally forgot today was a holiday.  That happens when you don’t work regularly…or if you have the attention span of a goldfish.  I love the cheese flavored ones.  One is the loneliest number that you ever knew.  I think gnu is a way better name than wildebeest.

…I’m off track again.

So because it’s a holiday and I’m depressed by the passing of summer, I’m just going to share two random things then run away to the park and soak up vitamin D until I’m a charred hunk of flesh.

First, here’s a man with cats hanging off of his face:

Second, here’s Cee Lo’s (oh how I adore him) latest video:

Now, my dear Interwebz, go forth and barbecue…after you check out the sad Labor Day craft monstrosity I found for today’s Craftastrophe, of course.

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• Thoughtless Thursday
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• This Week’s Tweets
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Would Cat Stevens…er…I mean Yusuf [...]]]> You asked for it, you got it – more Elly and Herbert shtick.  But this time, I have wicked allergies so I sound like Kathleen Turner after a case of unfiltered cigs.  Also, if you guys could remind me not to pick ridiculously high songs in the future, I’d much appreciate it.

Would Cat Stevens…er…I mean Yusuf Islam…not be the coolest possible vattoo ever?  I wonder if I can train my kayak to play the uke.  Now THAT would be an interesting series of videos, eh?

I should stop typing now.

Oh and Kelly, there’s a special present for you in that there video…

Since I mumble, here are the lyrics.  They make me feel all warm and squishy inside.

Well if you want to sing out, sing out.
And if you want to be free, be free.
‘Cause there’s a million things to be.
You know that there are.

And if you want to live high ,live high.
And if you want to live low, live low.
‘Cause there’s a million ways to go.
You know that there are.

You can do what you want.
The opportunity’s on.
And if you find a new way
you can do it today.
You can make it all true.
And you can make it undo
you see.

It’s easy.
You only need to know.

Well if you want to say yes, say yes.
And if you want to say no, say no.
Cause there’s a million ways to go.
You know that there are.

And if you want to be me, be me.
And if you want to be you, be you.
Cause thee’s a million things to do.
You know that there are.

Try A Little Something Different

• Dining Dilema
• Half Baked
• Puberty
• Goodbyes
• Ocean City

After our long, uke-filled car ride, we were eager to get settled into our room at the world famous Hampton Inn of Fruitland.  A ridiculously chipper blond manned the desk.  I plopped Herbert, sheathed in his powder blue bag, atop the counter and began rummaging through my bag.  “Checking in,” I [...]]]> Maryland is a strange place, Interwebz.

After our long, uke-filled car ride, we were eager to get settled into our room at the world famous Hampton Inn of Fruitland.  A ridiculously chipper blond manned the desk.  I plopped Herbert, sheathed in his powder blue bag, atop the counter and began rummaging through my bag.  “Checking in,” I mumbled, barely raising my eyes to meet hers.

They were the size of saucers and trained on poor Herbert.  “Is that an honest to God ukulele?” she squealed, clasping her hands to her mouth.

“Seriously?” I asked, dropping my wallet onto the faux marble tiles.

“I’ve never seen a ukulele in real life,” she panted.

“Ok.  Yes?  It’s a uke.  His name is Herbert.  Do you…um…want to touch him?”  It all felt incredibly dirty and weird.  So obviously the only way to make the situation better was to add my little brother into the mix.

“Say, you probably get this a lot, but did Hampton ever really stay here?” he quipped, rescuing Herbert and plucking away on his strings.  The blond girl’s gaze vacillated from confusion to delight as she followed him around the lobby.

“Is this hotel pager friendly?” Rocco contributed to the quickly unraveling situation.

“Lonon.  Last name is Lonon.  Is our room ready?” I interjected.  Be damned if I was going to spend another hour in a car with Thom if he didn’t get his much needed opportunity to crap.

Eventually we made it to our room (and Thom to his all-tile room) without further incident.  Though be advised, there’s nothing quite as disturbing as having your little brother emerge from fifteen minutes of shower-less bathroom time and announcing, “New product idea: soft serve carbonated ice cream!”  I don’t think I ate again until we made it to Ocean City four days later.

Lime is Sublime

Speaking of Ocean City, there were two boardwalk moments I need to share with you.  First, Rocco was faced with a tremendous fashion dilemma and I (due to that damn Fail Whale ruining my plans) was unable to ask the Interwebz for advice.  So now, far too late for your input to matter, I’ll share his original question – “Are these my color?”  In the end, we decided they’d be far too baggy and moved on.

Second, remember how I found Jesus in Ohio a while ago?  Then He was struck by lightening and burned to the ground?  Well hold on to your inappropriately tight, neon green ladies running shorts, people.  I found Him again – right alongside the boardwalk in Ocean City, MD.  I’m starting to think I need a restraining order.

Actually, I counted at least five Jesuses.  (Is it a sin to pluralize Jesus?  If so, it has to be a lesser sin than sticking a metal pole and floodlights in his forehead, right?)  Obviously someone fed him after midnight then got him wet.

Hallowed Be Thy Forehead

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A Georgia woman said a weekend outing turned into [...]]]> Well according to Ryan, you guys like it when I keep you updated on current events.  That, my lovelies, is why I’m bringing this article to your attention.  It might even be better than the chick that got arrested for shaving her pubes while driving.  You’re welcome.

A Georgia woman said a weekend outing turned into a horrifying experience when her young grandson developed blisters after he found a used condom in their hotel room and put it in his mouth.

Suddenly being able to fit strange things in my mouth seems like a much less “magical” talent.

According to Carmen Jones, the incident happened on Aug. 1 at the Wyndham Gardens hotel in downtown Atlanta, where she had taken the boy and his cousin for a weekend of family fun.

“We wanted to do something for them for the weekend before they started school,” Jones said. “The plan was we were doing Six Flags on Saturday and the aquarium on Sunday.”

After a full day at the theme park on July 31, Jones said, the exhausted family returned to the hotel.

Jones said at first glance room 329 looked perfectly clean, except that there was no soap and no towels.

Then, she said, she noticed something more troubling. “I’m like, ‘Girl, you know, these sheets don’t smell clean,’” Jones said.

I have to interject again for a brief moment because a) probably the best quote included in a news article EVER and b) but they still slept in the stinky, unclean sheets?  The fuck!  Who does that?  *shudder*

The next morning, Jones said, she awoke to a horrifying scene.

“When I looked at my grandson, he had a used condom all down his throat — his tongue in it everything. And there was semen in the condom,” she said.

Jones immediately took the condom out of the boy’s mouth and called hotel management, she said.

Vomit.  If ever there was a time to wash your kid’s mouth out with soap, that was it.  I’m pretty much never, ever going to sleep again.  As if bed bugs weren’t enough to keep you out of hotels these days…

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Melissa is smart as a whip, well spoken, and deliberate with every thought and action.  But for some reason, she is still willing to occasionally meet with my grammatically challenged ass to discuss writing and gab about life in general.

Melissa:  “I have to tell you about this book I’m reading.”

Me:  [...]]]> It started over lunch with a friend.

Melissa is smart as a whip, well spoken, and deliberate with every thought and action.  But for some reason, she is still willing to occasionally meet with my grammatically challenged ass to discuss writing and gab about life in general.

Melissa:  “I have to tell you about this book I’m reading.”

Me:  “A novel?”

Melissa:  “No, it’s called Publish This Book.  I am constantly thinking about you while reading it.”

Me:  “Um, I think you’re really special, too?”

Melissa:  “He’s like the boy version of you.”

Me:  “Does he confuse ‘their’ and ‘there’?”

Melissa:  “He uses the word ‘fuck’ about four times a page and is constantly making dick jokes.”

Me:  “I don’t make dick jokes.”

Melissa:  “Uh huh.  He’s doing a reading here in Hoboken next week.  We should go.”

…and so we did.  Sadly, my copy of the book didn’t arrive in time for me to read a single frickin’ page before meeting the author, Stephen Markley.  To make things even more awkward, what I had thought would be a lecture-type event on campus with fifty-odd audience members turned out to be a tiny book club meeting of ten or so women in a private home.  Oops.

I shifted from foot to foot as these long time friends discussed last weekend’s crazy ATV race that took place at the upstate summer estate of one of the club members.  I tried to work my way into the conversation, throwing my nervous laughter into the robust cackles from the crowd.  Always a smooth operator, my faux chortle caused me to choke on my gum and spend the next five minutes red-faced and teary-eyed while attempting to subtlety work my way closer to the open bottle of wine I’d spotted across the room.

The author and his peeps arrived.  I used the distraction as a chance to pour myself a heaping glass of wine.  I took a big gulp and listened as the hostess teased Markley about his poor ATV driving skills.  He too had attended the wild weekend getaway.  Awesome.  I took another swig and topped off my wine glass.  Fortunately, Melissa arrived mere moments later.  She, too, seemed somewhat surprised by the setting.

I practically sprinted to her side, but before we could say two words, Markley was introducing himself.  It turns out the boy version of me is of average height, is in great shape, and drinks Heineken.  We can’t be THAT much alike, I thought to myself.  So far, I’m underwhelmed.

Then he shook my hand.  August 17th, 2010 is the day I found out a handshake could be sexy.  If I had made it any further through my Big Gulp of wine, I probably would have tried to see just how much of HIS fist I could fit in my mouth.  Sadly though, it didn’t seem like THAT kind of party.

After a night of truly bizarre Q&A with the group (and also because my copy finally arrived the next day), I sat down to digest the nearly 500 pages of what the boy version of me had written.  Markley (at least in book form) was kind enough to keep me giggling while I sat and waited over two hours to see Aloysius last week.  If you can make me laugh in an oncologist’s waiting room, you’re doing something right.

Here, I’ll let him explain what the book is about:

I can’t even describe this book, and I wrote the damn thing.  Basically, it’s like this: fed up with the Byzantine quest of trying to publish a novel, I decide instead to cut to the chase and write a memoir about trying to publish a book – this book, to be precise. …it’s about much more than publishing a book.  It’s about life and love and friendship; politics, pop culture, and basketball; sex, drugs, and mild, inoffensive, slow-tempo Christian Rock.

Reading the book I was struck by two things.  Well, maybe more than two things.  I mean, how long can a girl have “Sister Christian” stuck in her head?  Focus, Elly.  The time has come.  You know that you’re the only one…right ONE!

One – he is so fucking disciplined!  Back as a wee grade school kid, he was writing an hour every single day.  I write three or four hours a day and I only have four damn chapters done for my book.  (Oh bee tee dubs, I totally never told you that story before because it doesn’t have a vagina-related punchline, but I have a little side project I’ll tell you more about some day.)  Damnit, Markley.  That’s frustrating.

Two – he is so goddamned smart.  I gave up trying to take notes on the parts that resonated with me, because I’d end up transcribing the whole damn book.  Not only does he have real, insightful things to say (and some exceptionally funny dick jokes) he says it well.  Fucker.

But I was relieved to find he occasionally acknowledges that it’s hard, that he WORKS at it, that he has insecurities about his writing, too.  I relaxed a little when I saw a sliver of light through the crack of his pompous, overconfident, frat-boy-but-not-a-frat-boy front.

Want to know when he completely hooked me?  On page 276, way down at the bottom of the page while he’s visiting his drug dealer and taking in the scene at the dude’s apartment:

The big dude smacks a fist on the arm of the recliner, scuffing the duck tape that holds in the foam.  “Rod Stewart!” he barks.  “Rod fucking Stewart.”

Here’s the downside.  I’m not entirely sure Markley’s book inspired me to write more or write better.  Instead, he’s left me questioning if I have it in me (that’s what she said) to write a book.  But what does Markley have that I don’t have?  (Other than a penis, an impressively low BMI, and a solid command of the English language.)

I wasn’t laughing the entire book.  This passage, in particular, stuck with me:

It’s a funny thing, I think as I trudge through the cold that glitters on the pavement, the way you build a web of people around you, the way each of them occupies his or her own hub, and just when you think you can’t possibly care for any more people, they just come along, and pretty soon this new person has a view of the world that informs your own, that you want to cherish and protect.

Coincidentally, that’s how I think about you, Interwebz.  Thanks for all the nice thoughts last week.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much they meant to me.  You’re my favorite.

Oh and Markley is doing a reading tomorrow night (Tuesday, August 31st) at the Houndstooth Pub in Manhattan.  I’ll be there knocking back beers far cheaper than those fancy Heinekens, if you’d care to tag along.  If you’re nice, maybe he’ll even shake your hand.

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I have my quarterly date with Aloysius later this afternoon.  Nothing says “Happy [...]]]> Herbert broke a string, so I’ve got no uke-ical stylings for you today.  I know.  You’re destroyed.  But I promise I’ll learn something for next week, k?  Feel free to make your requests in the comments.  (Yes Kelly, I’m working on Iron Man already…)

I have my quarterly date with Aloysius later this afternoon.  Nothing says “Happy Friday” like an arm full of needles, I always say.  But I know everything will be all good.  That’s why I’ve already started planning the rest of my evening.  *breathes into paper bag briefly, plasters wide grin on face*

It’s going to involve Sangria.  Lots and lots of sangria.

Someone recently asked me for my sangria recipe.  Having not made a batch in approximately fourteen eons, I told the poor guy it was straight out of the Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.  But then I got a hankering for a tall cold glass of sangria myself, so I cracked open my checkered cook book.  Guess what I learned, boys and girls?  I’m a huge liar.  That’s a totally different recipe than the one I use.  Not that I really use recipes.  I find them awfully oppressive.  In reality, I usually just make it up.

I wonder if that’s why my report cards always said, “Does not follow directions well.”

Also, that may have something to do with my lack of baking skills.

Focus, Elly.  Deep breaths.  We were talking about something specific here.  Yes!  Sangria.  Sheesh.

Fearing someone would ask me for the recipe again, I made a point to write down step by step directions when I made a batch o’ my brew for Gwenie’s bridal shower a few weeks ago.  In case you’d like to join me with a sangria toast this evening, I’ve included the recipe right here.

(Really, I just want to be cool like Hip Hop Hippie and post a Friday cocktail recipe.  Please don’t hurt me, Buffster.  Yours is way better.)

Elly’s Bitchin’ Sangria

1 Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook
3 Lemons
4 Oranges
Some Apples (ideal but not crucial)
1 cup water
3/4 cup-ish sugar
1/4 cup-ish Triple Sec
Huge jug of red wine
Ginormous pot

Find sangria recipe in Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook.  Realize you hate half of those ingredients.  Brandy?  Who the fuck drinks Brandy?  And why on Earth would you cut perfectly good wine with sparkling water when you’re going to serve it on ice anyway?  Take giant swig directly from the jug of wine, spilling at least a quarter cup down your new white t-shirt.  Mutter obscenities and knock the cookbook to the floor.

Slice lemons and oranges.  Cut the shit out of your thumb and bleed profusely.  Try to keep majority of the blood off of the freshly sliced citrus.  Combine ends (of the fruit, not your fingers) and bulk of lemon slices with water and sugar in the ginormous pot.  Bring to a boil, stirring frequently.  Notice too late that the orange mesh bag the fruit came in is now permanently melted onto your burner.  Open window to attempt to dissipate the smell of burning plastic.  Simmer fruity goodness until you’re overcome by the the syrup’s heavenly scent (assuming you’ve fixed the melted plastic stink issue) and the potion takes on a slight citrus-esque color (5 – 10 minutes-ish).

Remove from heat and allow to cool (at least 30 minutes – no, really – you’ll burn your fingers – ok fine, you can do 10 minutes if you make some sort of ice bath for the pot, but then you’ll warp it and regret it – but after you do it once, the pot is ruined anyway so it won’t be a problem with future batches – on second thought, why the fuck not).  Reach in to remove citrus, mushing each slice between your fingers to extract as much citrusy, sugary goodness as humanly possible before discarding.

Add Triple Sec, citrus slices, and apples (if using) to syrup.  Then stir in as much wine as you can possibly fit.  Consume the wine that doesn’t fit in the pot immediately while your man servant rubs your feet.  Chill and serve over ice.  In bulk.  The wine, not the ice.  Unless you really like ice.  Then go to fucking town.

Side note: After the first jug of wine is gone, feel free to recycle the used fruit for a second batch of sangria.  It won’t be quite as sweet, but after an entire jug of wine, who’s going to notice?

Side side note: Don’t like red wine?  You can totally substitute a gallon of Sauvignon Blanc if that’s more your speed.  The recipe is almost exactly the same.  Just replace the apples with peaches and you’re golden.  Man, I am good to you people.

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