BugginWord

Secret Codes and Tinnitus

BugginWord — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 18:16:54 +0000

So my career as a professional noise maker hasn’t exactly taken off. Despite the tireless hours of practicing and honing my craft, no one has offered me a paying gig. Well, Rocco offered me fifty bucks to “please just please stop making the tinnitus noise by my head while I’m trying to sleep. I have to be up at five fucking thirty.” I don’t think that counts.

Oppressor.

No one makes it in the noise making biz unless they flex their mad tinnitus chops. Everyone knows that.

But never fear, I’ve set my sites on a whole new gig. I’m going to take my questionable writing skills and total disregard for the rules of grammar and use them to write the copy for those automatically generated form thingies. (Someday I’m going to learn the words for things. Today is not that day.) How about I just give you some examples and then you’ll know what the hell I’m talking about. Maybe.

Let’s start with an ATM machine. You walk up, you swipe your card, then up pops the screen “choose a language.” Personally, I like to pick Mandarin or Russian because they have the most interesting characters. Sure, early on I would sometimes end up moving thirteen cents from savings to a new trust I’d accidentally set up for a fictitious puppy named Mikael, but soon enough I figured out how to withdraw my cash without any international incidents. Now the magic is gone. I need variety. Whoever writes that stuff needs to take it up a notch.

If I had that gig, I’d add a rotating featured language each month, like an exotic flavor in a frozen yogurt shop. I’d start with Klingon since my brothers are all nerds. The next month, I’d kick it up a notch with some Sanskrit. Hell, just to show how hip and current the bank was, I might even throw in some Na’vi. I think I just wrote my cover letter.

Just a Graphic. Don't Try and Comment Here.

Since I’m such a comment whore on other blogs, I spend a LOT of time looking at those little “leave your comment” screens. I can’t help but feel a thrill when I get to “choose an identity.” It sounds so limitless, right? Who will I be today? Maybe I’ll be a crotchety hillbilly yodeling apprentice. Then again, maybe today I’m in a mood to channel Zsa Zsa Gabor and tell everyone their posts are mahvelous, dahling. Sometimes I comment as Luke Skywalker just for kicks. For the record, someone else (definitely not me) is spending a lot of time pretending to be Keeping You Awake on all the erectile dysfunction message boards. If I landed the writer of automatically generated form thingies gig, I think I’d replace “Anonymous” with “a bad mother SHUT YOUR MOUTH.” This gig is totally mine for the taking, right?

I can credit one artist in particular for truly sparking my interest in the field of copy writing for those automatically generated form thingies. (Fuck it. That is now the official job title. I have spoken.) Her (or his) work is genre shattering. I first came across his brilliance buying my groceries at the ShopRite of Hoboken. As per usual, I didn’t want to pay with cash since it’s terribly inconvenient to carry around those huge stacks of singles, so I whipped out my credit card and headed to the card swiping machine-a-whatzit (also the industry accepted term). It starts out all innocent, like your average every day card swiping machine-a-whatzit. “Please swipe card.” Check. “Choose card type.” Yawn. “Enter secret code.”

Squee! Secret code!!!!!

Aw yeah! I will never, ever call it a pin number again. Can you just imagine my next visit to the bank? “And what is your pin number, ma’am?” they’ll ask. I’ll reply, “Excuse me sir, I believe you meant to ask me for my secret code.” Then I’ll pull the rip cord on my jet pack and make my speedy escape to the speed boat waiting for me in the middle of the Hudson River.

Note to self: Once you land this sweet ass copy writing for those automatically generated form thingies gig, add “secret agent man” to the possible list of identities on the “leave your comment” form.

Seriously though, I’m all about rocking covert operations in my imagination (as you might have guessed already), so I’m grateful to my mentor for adding that little thrill to the boring chore of grocery shopping. Knowing that my excursion will end with using my secret code, I find the entire expedition exhilarating. Artichokes suddenly look like hand grenades – I lob them into the carts of slow moving patrons blocking my egress. Wasabi peas scattered on the linoleum floor would doubtlessly send an enemy spy sprawling as they pursued me through the bread aisle. I monitor the cryptic announcements over the PA system and try to decipher government communications, hoping to aid the rebels annexed to the liquor section. No one with a scanner can be trusted. One time, I even stomach crawled to retrieve a highly sought after carton of eggs, but I don’t recommend getting that close to the floor vents unless your store has a more aggressive dusting regime.

Imagine if we worked “secret code” into all the card swiping machine-a-whatzits nationwide! At the drugstore patrons could fashion a flamethrower from a can of hairspray and a bic lighter. At Target, they could fashion pup tents out of the maternity wear. Oh wait, Target sells tents. Come to think of it, Target sells everything. Target doesn’t need the stinking “secret code,” it’s exciting enough as it is. Technically I can buy hairspray and lighters at the grocery store, so maybe the drugstore doesn’t need the “secret code” either.

Shit. I thing I just talked myself right out of a gig.

Say, can I practice my tinnitus noise on you?

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I’m Pretty Sure Swimsuit Models Are Sexy

BugginWord — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 17:51:45 +0000

I wandered in and out of the stacks inside Barnes and Nobles. As I emerged from the photography aisle, I laid eyes on Rocco in the bargain section and started moving in his direction.

Out of nowhere, a tiny blur of yellow and black flew by me like a manic bee, halting suddenly in front of a tall display featuring the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. The little Asian girl looked at the yellow bikini, then down at her dress, then back, comparing the similar shades of yellow. As she whipped her head around to look at her father, a black fan of shining hair slapped the cardboard display.

Allegedly Not Sexy

“Daddy?” she began with her brows furrowed. Confident she held his attention she turned back to face the blond model, following the line of the glossy abs with her finger. “Is this sexy?”

“I….um…” he stammered as the little girl turned back to eye him warily. I, of course, stopped moving and watched the whole thing unfold with my mouth gaping. The father’s eyes darted wildly, sweeping the room to see who had overheard his daughter’s question. We locked eyes. I suspect I smirked a little.

His eyes returned to the impatient girl at his feet. She tugged on his shirt hem with one hand, the other still stroked the magazine’s smooth surface. “Daddy! Is this sexy?!”

As he stalled for time with nervous chuckles, he locked eyes with me again and shrugged. “No?” he answered, still looking at me.

I’m sure I was smirking at this point. I may or may not have also raised an eyebrow and moved my hands to my hips. “Of course that’s not sexy. Don’t be silly.” He wrapped his large hand around hers and pulled her towards the children’s section, her chubby fingers still reaching for the magazine.

Now, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that this guy is either divorced or gay because he totally misread me and the situation. My smirks and defensive posturing were really out of amusement at the whole situation. I was genuinely curious to see how he would respond, not trying to coach him from the sidelines. That being said, he could have used some coaching. I’m not sure that flat out lying to the girl was the way to go.

Then again, I’m not exactly your go to gal for parenting advice. My uterus is on lockdown, nothing has ever sprung forth from these loins, so I’m not about to wax all philosophical on how a man should raise his daughter. But I am a woman (at least as much of a woman as Lady Gaga) so it’s safe to assume that at some point I was a girl (even if never little). She wanted an honest answer, plain and simple. I think that precocious young thing instantly knew her father was lying. Now how is she going to believe him when bigger issues roll around? Can you imagine when that little flower hits puberty? Dude is going to either internally rupture something or spend his days heavily armed.

Look, I’m a straight girl and I think that cover is pretty damned sexy. If I had that body, I’d spend all day every day buck naked in the frozen food section of the busiest grocery store I could find blaring an NBA air horn. (Ok that’s a damn lie. I hate being cold. You still get the point.)

I’d be astounded if someone genuinely said there was nothing sexy about that cover. I suppose you could throw in some super femi-natzi stance of objectification and that whole scene, but I bet even those womyn could find SOMETHING sexy about the picture. Regardless, I think “Of course that’s not sexy. Don’t be silly.” was a horrid response. I think the answer should have been, “Yes. That’s one type of sexy and it appeals to some people. Then again, some people find Rod Stewart sexy so there’s really no accounting for taste in this world. Why don’t we go look at books about ponies?”

I think I know why no one asks me to babysit.

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Han Solo Can Suck It

BugginWord — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 17:57:38 +0000

A bazillion years ago, I dated a patchouli smelling, guitar playing, ponytail wearing hippie I’ll call Ryan. He was working his way through a double major in music and religion when we started dating. (Look, I went to a Quaker liberal arts college in the nineties. What else did you expect?) He was also a real jewel – a crusty, unbathed, commitment challenged, white-middle-class-guilt-laden jewel. Don’t judge – he played folk songs on his guitar. I’m a sucker for that shit. My business major with an accounting minor ass never had a chance.

At that same time, I developed a wicked non-sexual girl crush on this gal in my “Navigating the World Wide Web” course named Lydia. She was loud, funny, confident and I found her absolutely fascinating. She’s the only person I’ve ever met that made me think, “I HAVE to be her friend.” I decided right then and there to woo her and we’ve been trading snarky insults ever since. If I had to do it all again, I’d still skip the class on HTML programming to nibble iced animal crackers in the library with her. (Why would I ever need that knowledge later in life anyway, right? *sigh*)

As it turned out, Ryan and Lydia already knew each other through the college choir. I didn’t even know the school had a choir. Hell, I was still reeling from learning we had a football team. (Yay Fighting Quakers! Beat ‘em Quakers. Beat ‘em senseless. Beat ‘em til they reach consensus!!) Somehow, the two of them took advantage of my dazed state and convinced me to join,. Suddenly I’d agreed to spend my spring break touring around the North East singing hymns to random congregations rather than sipping margaritas on a beach in Mexico.

With the exception of one horrible experience in Boston, we had a surprisingly good time. Every afternoon, we’d file off the stinky bus, grab some lunch and hit a liquor store. Hopped up on caffeine, highly processed food, and grain alcohol, we’d whip out the guitars and write ridiculous songs. Ryan thought himself a regular James Taylor, but the real talent of the group was a girl named Laura – or Big Lou as we affectionately called her at the time.

Still to this day, every time I see Lydia I croon the song Big Lou wrote for her . This is generally very uncomfortable for Lydia, especially if we meet in a crowded restaurant for lunch. Also, it might have been somewhat inappropriate to scream out the chorus as she walked down the aisle at her wedding. Surprisingly it’s not my horrid singing voice that embarrasses her – it’s the lyrics. Here’s a little excerpt for you kids:

Oh Lydia, Oh Lydia
At the Sizzlin’, Western Sizzlin’

Big as trees, little as tampons.
If you’ve got a nickel Lydia will clamp on.

Biggest mouth, this side of Wallace.
There’s enough of Lydia for all ‘o us

Oh Lydia, got chlamydia.
Sucking pole, at the Western Sizzlin’

I know, right? Can’t you just hear Barbra Streisand singing that bad boy? Crowds would WEEP at the sheer beauty of Big Lou’s composition.

But would you believe that Big Lou wrote a song even better than Lydia got Chlamydia? Would you believe that there is honest to God footage of Big Lou singing the song herself? Would you believe I’m going to share it with you?

You bet your frickin’ asses. Without further ado I give you *drumroll* BIG LOU SINGING “MY FIRST LESBIAN FOLK SONG!”

Do I know the coolest people on the face of the planet or what?!?

I’ve been singing this song on constant loop for an entire week now. I begged Big Lou to send me the recording and for some unknown reason she did. Now you’re going to have it stuck in your head, too. You’re welcome.

Thanks for letting me share your brilliance, Big Lou. Work it. Own it.

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Search Optimization-ish

BugginWord — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 17:55:58 +0000

It’s Monday, it’s sunny, and there’s a whole new blog post from your favorite Elly. See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Actually, if you want to swing on over to Craftastrophe, you can score a second Elly-infused post! Yes Interwebz, those fools decided to provide me with yet another platform for inappropriateness and sarcasm. I took it easy on them for the first go round, didn’t use the word “vagina” even once. I’ll be posting there every Monday morning and hopefully making your return to the daily grind slightly less traumatic. Next time you stumble upon a really disturbing craft project and think to yourself, “I had no idea you could do that with macrame,” send me the link!

Back to the blog at hand – It’s that time of the month again. Well, yes my uterus is leaking but that’s not what I meant. It’s time to review the sick and twisted searches that brought new (and now scarred) readers to my little BugginWorld. There are SO many that made me giggle this month so bear with me. I’ll try and group them a bit so you don’t claw your eyes out. Actually, some of them are pretty horrifying on their own so eye clawing is a very real possibility.

Peppy the Piss Clam – Obviously someone is working on a children’s book about a plucky little mollusk named Peppy and his adventures off the coast of New England. That’s the ONLY possibility I’m willing to consider this early in the week. Incidentally, that could be a really fun book to illustrate.

Rocco’s Bitch Party cast – Remember when I said my husband worked in theater? I always thought he worked behind the scenes. In other news, I’m no longer speaking to my husband. Also, I’m stockpiling antibiotic creams.

creative use for extra creamed corn – Somehow I doubt this person seriously considered using their leftovers in performance art, but that’s the only suggestion housed on this site. I should really remedy that. Don’t be surprised to see a helpful and informative post on utilizing discarded creamed corn before the month is over. If I do it right, I might also have some new corn crafts to mock on Craftastrophe. (Say that five times fast.)

I can haz blowjob – Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of combining Lolcats with Perez Hilton?! Lolcelebrities would dominate next year’s Bloggies. Too bad I can’t seem to keep even one website running.

God’s snatch – What are the odds that thing has been vagazzled? *cowers and sheepishly looks out window for storm clouds or sudden bursts of lightening*

do ladybugs pee – No. They tinkle.

fingernail porn – I think I’m most obsessed with this one. Those are two words that I really never expected to see so close together. I don’t even know how to envision such a thing. Do you think it’s just twenty minutes of some scantily clad person clipping their nails while soft funk music plays in the background? I wonder if Peppy makes a cameo.

Excuse me, have you seen my automobile? – I don’t know about you, but any day of mine is better after a quick viewing of this clip. Oh John Hughes, why were you so obsessed with ducks?

vagina coiffure – Visuals are dangerous. Now I’m picturing an Elvis Presley-esque bouffant perched above some gal’s lady bits. I wonder if you’d have to wear a hair net at night to keep everything just so. I’m not getting a flat iron anywhere near mine. The end.

sock puppet wearing speedo – Because I’m such a trooper, I went ahead and searched that term for you guys just in case one of you NEEDED a sock puppet wearing a speedo. I’m sad to tell you, none such a sock puppet exists. I couldn’t even find an image of a man in a speedo holding a sock puppet. I’ll just add that bad boy to the bottom of my project list, right between “fix bugginword.com” and “start Lolcelebrities.”

Rather than tell you all the horribly disturbing things that people want to do to miniature ponies, I’ll leave you with one last shameless plug to encourage you to go play at Craftastrophe. They find some real jewels out there. For instance, here’s a little something for all you shoe freaks.

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This Week’s Tweets

BugginWord — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 10:00:00 +0000

Um. Canada? #
Well hello sunny, non-arctic, snow-free day! Sit down and stay awhile. Can I buy you a drink? #
High fashion on the streets of Hoboken. http://twitpic.com/168pk7 #
Don't tell, but I may have cried a little watching the footage of Roger Ebert on Oprah. What a fantastic attitude! http://bit.ly/a3YmSx #
I'm sitting at a bar and trying to explain to my friends that their offer to let us "try out" their sex swing is inappropriate. Honestly. #
I am giddy with anticipation! I think I finished a piece last night so time for a new canvas… #
New project! I'm going to build a house with all those wine bottles I keep emptying. http://bit.ly/9QeV6h #
It's here! It's here! Squeee!!! http://twitpic.com/16lc4l #
Snafu. To you mac nerds out there, is there any way I can get my old Outlook emails in this mac thing? A converter for .pst or something? #
Holy God how did I forget that tomorrow is St Patrick's Day in Hoboken? Think I can talk the bride into drinking instead of dress shopping? #
Is there an equivalent of ctrl alt delete on these bitches? ARGH!!! The spinny thing is even worse than the hour glass me thinks. #
The drunken woos and aww yeahs have already started. It's going to be a long, green vomit filled St Patty's Day in Hoboken. #
I spent the day uncomfortably close to a bevy of butt bows, then elbowed my way through hordes of green clothed drunks to get home. Yay. #

Try A Little Something Different

More Than One Way to Skin a Mac

BugginWord — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 17:56:23 +0000

I can’t decide which hurts more today, my brain or my uterus. I like it when everything breaks simultaneously. No really. It’s my FAVORITE.

Not that my uterus is broken. It’s just leaking. If I wasn’t racking my brain with all this computer/web related stuff, I’d probably be trying to dig that bad boy out with my letter opener. Instead I’m spending most of my time focusing on my new computer.

George Maybe?

He’s driving me a little batty. Yes, he’s definitely a male. I still don’t know what to name him. I think we need to spend a little more bonding time together first, but I can tell already he’s a he.

He’s not quite all I dreamed he would be. He’s not as bright as I had hoped, but he’s very eager to please. He’s very artsy of course, but a little lacking in some of the more common sense stuff than I had expected.

Frankly, he’s a little narcissistic and obsessed with his own good looks.

I might be a little obsessed, too. He is incredibly sleek and sexy, very metrosexual. In fact, he might be gay. Rocco assures me he is not (the computer, not Rocco – not that Rocco is gay – oh hell). Rocco hasn’t even met him yet so I have no idea from where he’s getting this insight. I guess he’s just feels that my gay cell phone and gay blender are enough gay appliances for one household. (We’re going to have to work on that a little since I think the clock radio is starting to have inappropriate feelings towards the DVR.)

His cubed little ass (again the computer, not Rocco) saunters right along that line of metrosexual vs homosexual. I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent a few of his formative years over on the Continent, as they say. My gaydar is never as good with Europeans.

Maybe I’ll call him Archibald. I’m not sure that has quite enough of a hipster douche bag feel. Perhaps he’s a Gerald or a Martin or maybe a Stanley. Clearly I should have spent less time worrying about names for ponies/unicorns and focused more on possible Mac names. All suggestions are welcome.

Dueling Desktops

Anyway, as soon as I get He Who Has Not Been Named humming along, I’m going to have to deal with the total and complete breakdown that is happening behind the scenes of BugginWord. As I’ve mentioned before, I judge my entire self worth on my site traffic. For the past week, my stats have me sitting squarely at four visitors a day. FOUR. Did I mention that number includes me and my husband? It’s a good thing you kids are commenting. Otherwise Gwen would be fishing my ass out of the Hudson by my butt bow.

I’m rolling up on my one year blogiversiary (that’s a whole mess o’ rambling, kids). That means my contract with my current host is about to end and I can jump ship. The bad news is I have to find a new host, pack all my belongings, and then move into my new home. You guys might recall how well my last big move went. As my kin say, it weren’t no kinda good.

I know, I know. “Elly, what does this have to do with the price of bread? Is there a point here?” Yes, my muffins. Until I get some of these ducks lined up, I’m not going to post on weekends any more. You’ll only see my smiling, shining vagina face on weekdays.

“Are you breaking up with me?” No muffins, it’s not you. It’s all me – me and my poor time management skills. Well, not so much the poor time management skills but more of the slightly mangled brain trying to navigate a world it knows nothing about while working on an operating system it’s never used. This might take me a minute…

I’ll think of you all weekend – both of you – my dear, dear readers. I’ll see you again on Monday, and I’ll have some exciting news! Now in case you’re worried you won’t get enough inappropriate and disturbing crotch references over the weekend, I suggest you order yourself one of these. Wear it and think of ladybugs…and sundried tomatoes. (Thanks for the link, LiLu!)

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Wedding Contract Riders

BugginWord — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 17:49:41 +0000

So back at an under appreciated old married hag of honor in the mud…

Gwen and I are butting heads. For some reason, she just won’t embrace my vision for her wedding. I mean, just who does she think her wedding day is all about? I swear…

She’s turned down each and every one of my wedding dress suggestions. She even turned down my proposed ensemble for Matt. Frankly, I’m starting to worry she’s not just kidding when she says, “My wedding WILL NOT have a rodeo theme.”

I spent tens of exhausting minutes toiling on a website for the couple. I showed my hard work to Gwen and she was pushing that delete button faster than you can say, “I’m not wearing a butt bow.” Luckily I grabbed screen shots from a couple of my favorite pages before she yanked it all down. Sadly, this was only a draft version and doesn’t include the beautiful photos I’d embellished. (Tragic, I know.)

I know! What’s not to love, right? Well, I agree that the background should really have more of a red bandanna and hay feel to better complement the aforementioned rodeo theme for the event, but Gwen insisted we stick with her backup theme (as yet undefined but primarily black and white). [Insert yawn here.]

Things really came to a head last weekend when Gwen had to sign the venue contract. Since I used to plan events in my former life, she asked me to peruse the contract:

Me: It says here, ‘There may be electrical limitations. Please request details.’ You should be sure to ask for those.

Gwen: Why?

Me: Um, because we’re going to have electrical stuff.

Gwen: They’ve done weddings before. I don’t think Creamed Corn is going to use any crazy DJ equipment that’s going to require special electrical needs.

Me: But what about all the other electrical needs?

Gwen: A handful of lights isn’t going to be out of their comfort zone.

Me: Two words, Gwenie – Mechanical Bull.

Gwen: …

Me: Come to think of it, we should probably check with those guys to see if the bull needs its own tent.

Gwen: …

Me: I think the bull is probably more important for the overall “feel” of the wedding than a silly ‘ol caterer. If the bull requires its own tent, we’ll just kick the cooking peeps out.

Gwen: …

Me: You know, Matt is going to look GREAT in chaps.

Gwen: Oh Matt WOULD look good in chaps.

So I of course took that to mean everything was back on track. So I dusted off my green suede cowboy boots and set about my research, giggling wildly every time I clicked on a link that said “Find Mechanical Bulls Near You.”

I saw the final contract yesterday and can you guess what wasn’t mentioned even a single time? *sigh* I guess I’m going to have to go old school and hire this guy since he has no limitations, electrical or otherwise.

After all, I promised Gwen the best darn tootin’ rodeo themed wedding in the history of weddings and I plan to deliver. Yippee kay yay, mother fuckers.

P.S. Bedazzling leather is hard work.

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Seven Toes, No Waiting

BugginWord — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 17:57:51 +0000

I’m trying to be patient. I’m trying to be supportive. I’m trying to be understanding. I’m really trying to be the best damn old married hag of honor I can be. I’m trying….

I’m trying not to smack the shit out of my favorite bride to be.

Gwen has had a tough couple of months both professionally and personally. I won’t go into it, because if there’s one thing I am in life, it’s respectful of other people’s boundaries. *cough, cough* I WILL however divulge that she had to have one of the toes of her kitty amputated. The whole toe. Gone.

Ok, before you get all riled up and put on your “girl, you better not start cracking jokes about amputee kitties because that totally crosses some sort of line” vagina face, I warn you I come by my sense of humor quite honestly.

Me: Hi Mom.

Mom: Hi Honey. Why do you sound frazzled?

Me: I just got off the phone with Gwen. That girl is a hot mess.

Mom: Wedding stuff?

Me: Puhleez. Right now it’s more about runny noses and toe amputations. The poor girl is about to explode with stress.

Mom: *hysterical laughter*

Me: What?

Mom: I could have sworn you said “toe amputations.”

Me: I did. Her cat had to get its toe cut off. Now it has to wear a hood and the whole thing really isn’t going very well.

Mom: She had her cat’s toe amputated…

Me: Yup. The whole toe.

Mom: *snorts and hysterical laughter*

Me: *snickers* I’m pretty sure this isn’t supposed to be funny.

Mom: Woo! Say it again. She had her cat’s toe…

Me: …amputated. *still trying not to giggle* So apparently the cat is really having trouble with the head funnel. She climbs into the litter box, sniffs around, and inadvertently scoops up a mess of litter with the hood. When it’s all full, she panics and tries to lift her head, to find an escape route out of the box. Problem is, all that litter makes the funnel too heavy for the poor thing to move. So the cat gets stuck in the box and has to sit there with a plastic collar full of litter and only seven toes to entertain her until someone comes and rescues her.

Mom: *guffaws and cackles*

Me: You know we really aren’t nice people, right?

Mom: Sure, Honey. Say the part about the toe again…

Gangster Gato

From what I understand (having not had a chance to view the surgical aftermath myself) the recently vanquished toe was one of the middle guys and its removal has significantly changed the appearance of the paw. So of course my sick little mind envisions the cat chillin’ by the radiator and flashing “the shocker” every time Gwen smacks her thighs and coos, “Here kitty-kitty.”

Or maybe the gato has gone all gangster. While we think she’s just taking an innocent little bath on the window sill, she’s actually flashing her gang sign and recruiting new members from the ‘hood. It is Washington Heights, after all. I bet if we shaved her belly we’d find “Gato Life” tattooed above her de-girlification scars.

You know what? That’s all you get today. I’m feeling stingy it seems. Sure I promised you a tale of wedding planning gone horribly wrong and spent the entire time talking about kitty toes, but that’s just how I roll. I like to keep you guessing. Maybe I’ll tell you all about how under appreciated my mad wedding planning skillz are tomorrow.

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An Ode to Dr. Seuss (and Vodka)

BugginWord — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 17:50:05 +0000

I’m too hungover to write today
Clearly I have no restraint

I'm too hungover to write captions, too.

I’m too hungover to write today
I should probably braid Rocco’s taint

I’m too hungover to braid today
My brain is more fragile than fine china

I’m too hungover to braid today
I’d rather paint Andrea’s vagina

I’m too hungover to paint today
Last night I imbibed too much vodka

I’m too hungover to paint today
I’d likely drool if I tried to read Kafka

I’m too hungover to read today
It feels like my cranium’s been impaled

I’m too hungover to read today
I’m not even sure who I’ve emailed

I’m too hungover to email today
It’s likely I’ll just make no sense

I’m too hungover to email today
These attempts are making me quite tense

I’m too hungover to try today
The vodka is far mightier than the pen

I’m too hungover to try today
And tonight I’ve plans to do it all again

Try A Little Something Different

Colored Pictures, Uncolored Cake

BugginWord — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 17:57:23 +0000

An embarrassingly long time ago, I started a little something I called my Portrait Project. I had all these grandiose plans of blazing through a portrait a week, solving world hunger, and somehow sculpting my arms into perfect replicas of Michelle Obama’s guns. Four months later, I’m way behind on all those plans. Instead, I’ve managed to finish merely four additional portraits and solve only my hunger issues…primarily with baked goods.

If you want to see the pieces in more detail, I’ve added a new page here. Actually, I’ve added the page whether you want to look at them or not. That’ll show you.

A Mess o' Paintings

I’m out of pics for portraits, so I need you kids to send me snaps. I need disturbingly high resolution details with bright, unflattering light so I can see all your minuscule details. (Then I’ll threaten you with blackmail. But I’ll forward my pay pal account details so sending me zillions of dollars will be downright convenient. The things I do for you kids, I swear.)

Do it. You know you want to. Be my enabler.

Speaking of baked goods, I made an attempt at Red Velvet Cake a few weeks ago. Remember that friend of mine that abandoned me and moved to Michigan? (Yeah, I can’t remember her name either.) Red Velvet is her most favoritest thing in the history of the entire universe. So of course, being the adorable and giving gal that I am, I decided to whip up a fresh baked cake just for her!

Have you ever looked at a recipe for Red Velvet Cake? What. The. Fuck. I looked everywhere for a recipe with the instructions, “Just add water,” but came up with nothing.

Cake flour? Do people really have multiple types of flour in their kitchens? I’m supposed to buy a whole other type of flour and store it somewhere until the next time I decide to whip up a cake from scratch? Har dee frickin har har. I’m not cutting into my wine and liquor storage space to make room for flour. Everyone knows all cakes come from boxes – all cakes except Red Velvet apparently.

Fortunately for me, I’ve got mad internet searching skills. I typed “Easy Red Velvet Cake” into my little Google box and all my problems were solved. It turns out all cakes DO come in boxes, the art is in figuring out just how many boxes you need.

For some reason I took about seven hundred pictures while getting my baking on, so I figured I might as well share them (and the recipe) with you kids. I’m not a Red Velvet Cake aficionado, so I can’t really speak to the level of velvety this cake achieved. I can vouch that it was damn tasty and damn easy.

Oh right, I should mention that the color in the photos is not off nor do your eyes deceive you – the cake isn’t red. I’ve read far too many frightening articles on food colorings and cancer rates to voluntarily add that stuff. (I know, I suck the fun out of EVERYTHING!) So I guess it isn’t really Red Velvet Cake but just plain old Velvet Cake. *sigh* This is why I’ll never write food porn.

Here’s the official recipe stolen from Allrecipes.com

Iced and Everything

Easy (but not red so I guess it’s just plain old) Velvet Cake

1 (18.25 ounce) package white cake mix

1 (3.5 ounce) package non-instant chocolate pudding mix

red food coloring, as desired

1/2 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Prepare cake according to package directions, substituting half of the water called for with buttermilk (approximately 1/2 cup). Stir in pudding mix and food coloring. Pour into cake pan(s) and bake according to package directions.

Of course I don’t keep two kinds of milk in the house. That would cut into my beer and lemon storage. Fortunately you can take one of those lemons, add a tablespoon of the juice (vinegar works also) to your normal everyday milk and in five minutes you’ve made buttermilk. Yay for science!

Also, you can find a perfect recipe for cream cheese icing here. Everything is better with cream cheese icing. EVERYTHING! (Ok, maybe not lasagna, but damn near everything else.)

Assemble Ingredients

Combine Ingredients

Lick Beaters

Pour into Pans

Get Baked

Remove Burnt Parts

Whip Up Icing

Turn Off, Then Lick

Dispose of Excess Icing