Me:  Call your mother, Dicko.

Thom:  Why?

Me:  …

Thom:  Oh – the birthday thing?

Me:  Yes.

Thom:  Goodbye.

[Moments pass.  The phone rings.]

Mom:  Why did your brother just call me Dicko?

Me:  Oh jeez. Did he sing?

Mom:  He just called and said “Happy birthday, Dicko.”  He said you told him to.

Welcome to my world, Interwebz.  There’s no [...]]]> Thom:  What do you want?

Me:  Call your mother, Dicko.

Thom:  Why?

Me:  …

Thom:  Oh – the birthday thing?

Me:  Yes.

Thom:  Goodbye.

[Moments pass.  The phone rings.]

Mom:  Why did your brother just call me Dicko?

Me:  Oh jeez. Did he sing?

Mom:  He just called and said “Happy birthday, Dicko.”  He said you told him to.

Welcome to my world, Interwebz.  There’s no winning.

That’s a damn lie.  There IS winning.  More on that in a moment…

Fortunately, Mom is still speaking to me after Wednesday’s post.  PHEW!  Though we decided that if she were a drag queen, her stage name would be Miss. Represented.  You KNOW you would buy tickets for that show.

Speaking of birthdays, in exactly 7 days, BugginWord turns one!  (If that doesn’t explain the maturity level around here, nothing ever will.)  I was going to tally up just how many times I’ve typed the word vagina here, but I just don’t have that kind of attention span.  I can hardly focus long enough to count my cat.  (Let’s see, um there’s wah…YAWN.)

I could ramble on about my favorite posts from the last year, but I’ve got an appointment with a bride and her butt bow so I’m pressed for time.  (If you’re really curious, you can see my New Year’s wrap-up.)  What I really want to do is say thanks.  Thanks to all four of you precious readers.  (No, I still haven’t figured out what’s happening with my stats.  The hell.)  I made you a little something for our anniversary.

Your New Shroom

Yes folks, it’s a concrete mushroom.  His name is Flournoy.  And he could be YOURS.

I don’t think I’ve told you about my thing for mushrooms yet.  Maybe I’ll tell you next week.  Maybe I won’t.  Maybe I’ll just video an interpretive dance instead.  All you really need to know is I’m obsessed with the things and I make them compulsively.  And I made this one just for you, dear readers!

Thing is (there’s always a thing – that’s what she said), these things take time to make and I’m really busy what with whoring myself out for free tickets and lobbying congress to outlaw any future Rod Stewart recordings.  I couldn’t possibly make enough of these things (four) so each and every one of you could have your very own.

You bitches are going to have to fight for it.

All you have to do is comment on this post.  (Say any old thing.  Maybe just type one measly little old letter or number.  Maybe tell us your favorite color.  If you could only eat one condiment for the rest of your life, what would it be?)  Then I’ll chop up all your bodies names, throw them in a bowl, and pick one at random.  Easy, breezy, right?  If you include something mushroom related in your comment, you get two entries!  If you use iambic pentameter, you get three entries.  If you comment while wearing a tiara, you get four entries.  If you…oh fuck it – this is getting way to complicated.  One entry per comment.  The end.

Cat Not Included

Now for you quiet little lurkers, assuming there are still one or two of you out there.  If you’d like to enter, but are completely creeped out at the thought of having the Interwebz know that you read the ramblings of a girl of questionable morals, never fear!  You can post anonymously, or say your name is George, or randomly list inanimate objects in the name field.  No one will EVER know.  Just be sure to include a working email address (I’m the only one who will ever see it) so that I can contact you to send you your fantastic, hand-made, one-of-a-kind, Elly-original, FUNGUS AMOUNGUS.

I’ll give you until Thursday (3/25) at Midnight to enter.  Then I’ll announce a winner on Friday, my blogiversary.  Look out Interwebz, BugginWord is headed for the terrible twos.

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Just to recap, it all started with a relaxing dinner where I sucked royally at preparing a family friend for his first round of chemo.  Then I held my friend’s hand as she looked at her sweet dog’s [...]]]> It’s cold, rainy and brutally depressing here in the North East.  Yay.  It’s been a long hard week, Interwebz.

Just to recap, it all started with a relaxing dinner where I sucked royally at preparing a family friend for his first round of chemo.  Then I held my friend’s hand as she looked at her sweet dog’s unmoving body riddled with tubes and had to make the tough decision to let her best friend go.  Last night I traded war stories with a fellow Lymphoma survivor over one too many glasses of wine.  If you’re keeping count, that’s a whole mess o’ traumatic flashbacks for this gal.

I’ve also managed to get myself sick.  The week I’ve had coupled with today being Friday the 13th had me planning on laying low and embracing my inner vegetable.  Why tempt the fates?  I was going to bust out my full wallowing regalia (complete with my fuzzy velour tracksuit a la Jennifer Lopez in 2000) and watch Twilight for the 917th time while drinking hot tea and blowing phlegm into whatever absorbent material was near.  I was toying with skipping today’s blog post all together – GASP!

But then I went traipsing on over to another blogger’s site and found an excuse to use a photo I’d taken eons ago but had yet to use.  She’s calling her new Friday ritual “Flashback Friday.”

Find an old picture and share a story about it or why you wanted to share it now. Flashback Friday has no real rules other than to have fun.

I like fun.  I suck with rules.  She might be my soul mate.  Dude, I’m in.

Sure, her photo is nine years old and mine is not even nine months.  There are no real rules, remember?  I’m not sure there are even fake ones – so game on.

I Found God in Ohio

I know.  There are no words, right?  Yeah, I thought that, too.  But then I decided it’s rather silly to post things on your blog that you can’t write about.  So I came up with some words.  Here’s three to start you off: WHAT, THE, and FUCK (question mark optional).

It’s just plain weird.  And disturbing.  And a little bit funny.  Ok, mostly funny.  (Pause to nervously look out window to check for sudden bolts of lighting that might strike my ass down for blasphemy.)

We were just cruising on down the highway as we headed towards Dayton, sipping our water, minding our own business.  Rocco howled a particularly painful note never before heard by human ears while bopping along to Borderline.  Reflexively I turned towards the window to shelter my one good ear from the onslaught.  There He was.

He filled the entire window in all His concrete splendor.  I blinked once…twice…still there.  As the shock passed, the giggles erupted in waves.  I paused briefly to peer through the sunroof, searching for thunder clouds in the bright blue empty sky.  Reassured, I giggled some more.  “We HAVE to get a picture of Him on the way back to Cincinnati,” I sighed wistfully.

I can’t decide if he’s coming out of the water like some slinky supermodel emerging from a swimming pool in a beer commercial, or if he’s sinking into a pit of quicksand.  Then again, maybe it was a really impressive field goal.  I suspect I’m missing some deeper meaning here.

I applaud their bravery and disregard for convention.  Most people with man-made ponds would limit themselves to EITHER a fountain OR a giant three-story sculpture of their Lord and Savior.  Kudos to you, Random Highway Church in Ohio.  You just go ahead and have BOTH.

I tell you, this is going to be the next “it” thing for the lawn and garden set.  Half Jesus-es are going to be popping up in yards all over the Midwest.  Maybe they’ll even produce little mini ones for us city dwellers to shove into our one potted plant rapidly turning yellow from lack of sunlight.

I didn’t get the chance to see Him after dark, but I’m quite curious.  Do they stick with a plain wash of white or do they douse Him with red spotlights for a fully terrifying effect?  Do you think on Sunday they synchronize the fountains for a water works show reminiscent of the Bellagio in Vegas?  Oye.

Woof.  Aren’t you glad I didn’t slack off today afterall?  How could you have made it to the weekend without a peek at that photo.  You’re welcome and Amen.

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It’s been a long, long time since I “went out” in Greensboro.  Normally when I’m in town, it’s all about cramming as much quality time with my fam into each and every second I’m here.  This trip isn’t as hectic as usual though, so I had a little time to see non-family peeps.

I [...]]]>

My New Fave Shirt

It’s been a long, long time since I “went out” in Greensboro.  Normally when I’m in town, it’s all about cramming as much quality time with my fam into each and every second I’m here.  This trip isn’t as hectic as usual though, so I had a little time to see non-family peeps.

I caught up with some gals from high school at a bar called Coopers.  My beer was $1.50.  Let me state that again for (both) my New York readers - MY BEER WAS $1.50.  After 7pm.  On a Saturday.  I felt like I was stealing!  That’s about the only upside I can find for going out drinking in Greensboring.  Sadly there are two significant downsides – getting home and smelling like an ashtray.

While the photos rapidly appearing on Facebook this morning would have you believe I got trashed last night, I sadly stayed sober.  I didn’t live through three months of chemo to die in a twisted heap of Ginny.  Had I been able to stumble home, jump on the subway, or hail a cab, I may well have burned through a whole $20 worth of $1.50 beers and $3 shots.  I guess that’s why the ’rents and I usually stick with the box of wine at home.

Had I stopped to think of it, I probably would have expected smoking indoors to still be legal here in the tobacco belt.  It kinda sneaks up on you when you’re sitting there for a long period of time.  When I got home and pulled my dress over my head, the overwhelming ashtray smell nearly made me hurl.  Now this morning my head feels like I’ve been reading about stochastic systems all night and storing concrete mushrooms in my nasal cavity.  Even Mom won’t give my stinky self a good morning cuddle.

Crazy Bitch

All the negatives aside, I still had a damn entertaining evening.  The girls had set me up with a ridiculous hat and ginormous balloon so the entire bar knew whom to pick on.  It only took a few short moments for some drunk ass bleach blond to descend on our table.  “Who’s the birthday bitch?” she screamed as she moved across the room towards our corner.  The girls pointed as I tried to duck beneath the table.  “You need a shirt!”  With that she whipped open her bag of tricks and started eyeing my boobs for sizing.  It was all rather uncomfortable.  Long story short, I am now the proud owner of a black long sleeve “Crazy Bitch, North Carolina” t-shirt.  Mmmhmmm, don’t try and pretend you aren’t jealous.

Oatmeal Cookie Shot

Next the girls somehow talked me into trying the specialty of the house – a shot entitled “Oatmeal Cookie.”  Fortunately the name had more to do with the flavor than the consistency.  The girls described it as really tasty but with a “cinnamon burn.”  The ingredients included Goldschlager, Butterscotch Schnapps, and Baileys Cream.  When it arrived, it looked more like mop water than a beverage.  It was the kind of fluid I don’t step in unless wearing galoshes.  Interestingly, it smelled like Christmas.  It did not taste like Christmas.  It also did not taste like oatmeal.  I don’t see me sitting around and mixing up a batch of those bad boys any time soon.

As we were leaving the bar, the t-shirt peddling “crazy bitch” made a beeline for me and put a hand on each of my shoulders to steady herself.  Slurring heavily her eyes rolled back a little in her head as she asked, “Are you leaving already?”  I nodded.  She sighed heavily.  “I sure did like meeting you ya crazy bitch.”

Right backatcha lady.

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Thom and I got in late enough Friday night that we didn’t tackle anything terribly ambitious.  Drew had already been in Ithaca a week exploring every nook and cranny [...]]]> I’m not sure how it happened exactly, but somehow the whole weekend focused on my crotch.  How many people say that after spending a weekend with their brothers?

Thom and I got in late enough Friday night that we didn’t tackle anything terribly ambitious.  Drew had already been in Ithaca a week exploring every nook and cranny of the Finger Lakes.  He and Mike have started a new tradition of spending a solid week on their bikes every Labor Day.  They’d already conquered some ridiculous ride that day (probably 917 miles at a nearly vertical pitch) and were looking a little glazed.  We each cracked open a beer, gossiped for maybe half an hour, and quickly decided to crash out.

Central Casting

In the morning, Drew indulged my concrete habit and helped me cast my ‘shrooms.  The trunk of his car (my grandfather’s dead sexy ’98 Buick Regal which we affectionately call the Pussy Wagon) was like a magic concrete mixing wonderland full of buckets, spatulas, and gloves.  I’m pretty sure Rocco would not be down with my turning Ginny’s trunk into my workshop…but that doesn’t make me any less tempted.

By the time we (and by we, I really mean Drew cause he did all the real work) finished pouring and tidying up the concrete, Mike and Mari had finished walking the dogs and were itching to get a move on.  We shouted at Thom to get up and started discussing THE PLAN.

Mikey is the oldest sibling and he’s awfully fond of structure.  I’m a huge fan of fucking with people and pressing their buttons.  That trait kinda runs in the family, so poor Mikey was having one hell of a time while we three giggled and elbowed each other as we wreaked havoc on his many attempts at constructing an itinerary for the day.

Somehow a PLAN was constructed – at least for the morning.  The boys still had the biking bug and suggested riding down along the waterfront.  Unfortunately for my crotch, both Mike and Mari had extra bikes so Thom and I would be able to ride along.  Um, yay?

Now, it’s not like I don’t know how to ride bikes.  Drew and I used to ride around the golf course near our house when I was wee.  It hasn’t even been very long since I last mounted a bike.  I rode down to the park with Pops when I was in Virginia for the 4th of July.  However, those rides took place on big ol’ cruising bikes with wide cushy seats and handlebars that one can reach while sitting up straight.  That was decidedly not the case on Saturday morning.

Mari’s extra bike was a bright yellow sporty little number with a brick for a seat.  Nah, a brick is too wide.  Maybe if you turned the brick so it rested on its narrower side…and then covered it with barbed wire.

I’m probably a good eight inches taller than Mari, so many adjustments needed to be made before I could ride that yellow torture device without looking like a Laugh-In skit.  Mari marched out with a sharpie and marked all the settings that worked for her tiny little self.  Once she was clear, the boys descended with screw drivers and wrenches in hand, like a plague of well-equipped ants enveloping the bike.  Fifteen minutes later, I lowered my soon to be mangled crotch onto the seat of doom and leaned against the tailgate of Mari’s truck while they checked their work.

Mike instructed me to peddle forward and backwards checking the angle of my thigh to the ground.  He explained (in much more depth than I was able to retain) what was good, what was bad, and why.  Drew walked by and succinctly stated, “It’ll do.”

I wobbly made my way down the driveway, across the street, and into the school parking lot.  Within moments, I was dodging my much more coordinated siblings as they zipped around me in circles, taking turns watching for a medical emergency and mocking me.  I made it around twice without falling, but already I had crotch concerns.

As the boys attempted to load up all five bicycles, Mari offered me a variety of cycling accessories.  “Gloves?” she asked.

“Do I need gloves?” I responded quizzically.  I don’t generally partake in sports that involve gloves.

“Well these have padding in the palms so your fingers don’t go numb.”

“Do you have a glove for my vag?  I could use some extra padding there.”  Then again, if it eventually went numb, I might be able to make it through the ride.

“What are you talking about?  Your bike has the widest, most padded seat we have.”

Note to self: my brother and his wife are clearly kinky masochists.  Do not open any drawers or look in closets while visiting.

Cayuga Lake

We drove down to the waterfront, unloaded the bikes, made one last bathroom stop, and took off.  While it felt like fourteen miles and three hours, I’m guessing we might have made it all of an hour before I cried uncle.  Just when I’d get distracted enough to not notice the decidedly uncomfortable sensations I was experiencing in my pubis bone, I’d roll over some chunks of pavement broken up from tree roots and yelp in pain.  Sadly I lacked the coordination to ride my bike standing, so roots and rumble strips were a little more traumatic than they needed to be.  Other than crotch discomfort and nearly toppling over when my pant leg got caught in the gears, I managed to avoid any major debacles.  Look out Lance, I’ve found my new profession.

We sat down for some lunch at a joint right on the water.  I called dibs on the softest seat at the table.  We ordered (our appetizer was a platter of buffalo egg rolls – don’t ask) and rehashed the mornings adventure.

“Oh my vag.  That probably wasn’t a very long ride though, eh?”

“Put it this way,” Mike responded.  “It took longer than sex with Rocco does.”

“That doesn’t help me.  I haven’t timed you two going at it in quite a while.”

After more complaints and jokes, we went back to the house and (gingerly) took a seat in the living room.  We spent the next thirty minutes or so taking turns timing Mike.  We had challenged him to see how long he could sit still without asking “What’s THE PLAN?”  After he asked, “What do you want to do next?” three times in the span of seven minutes, we decided that we’d tortured him enough.

Two Brothers, One Rind

When sitting perfectly still, I often forgot completely about the state of my loins.  However, even the slightest shift in position was a sudden and painful reminder that I would not be training for a triathlon any time soon.  When I could stand sitting no more, we cut up a watermelon and took the dogs for a long walk around the neighborhood.

Based on my incessant whimpering and whining, we decided to take it easy for the evening.  We ordered some pizza, poured some spirits, and tackled the board games.  Drew only had to explain the point of the game three times before I finally started to grasp the point.  (Yay chemo brain!)  For good measure, we played the first round open handed…and I still had to get coached through my first couple of turns.

As Mike shuffled for the next hand, Thom made conversation by inquiring about my health.

“How’s the vag?” he asked as he took a swig of Guinness.

“No kind of good,” I responded.

“Think of it as a vag of honor,” Thom instructed.

“Yeah!” Mike chimed in, “A red vag of honor.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a red vag of courage,” Drew corrected.

Sigh.

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Mike already called to discuss “the plan” (or [...]]]> I’m off to Ithaca for some quality time with my brothers.  I’ll be taking Bubba along with me, but I suspect I’ll be too distracted with hiking around the falls and dining at Moosewood to get my blog on.  All the gory details will have to wait till Tuesday.

Mike already called to discuss “the plan” (or minute by minute itinerary) for the weekend.  As per usual, my adorable siblings have thought of everything to make the weekend fantastic:

Mike:  “Should I pick up some wine?”

Thom:  “Should I pick up some music?”

Drew:  “Should I pick up some concrete?”

Oh yeah, I’m spoiled rotten.  Sometimes it’s good to be the only girl.

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No one loves food as much as my father-in-law.  Eating a meal with Steve is high entertainment.  Each bite elicits groans of pleasure.  A photo exhibit dedicated solely to the rapturous faces he makes when consuming cuisine could fill the Guggenheim.  Steve has eating down to an art form.  Each meal is as full [...]]]>

Cincinnati Bounty

No one loves food as much as my father-in-law.  Eating a meal with Steve is high entertainment.  Each bite elicits groans of pleasure.  A photo exhibit dedicated solely to the rapturous faces he makes when consuming cuisine could fill the Guggenheim.  Steve has eating down to an art form.  Each meal is as full of simple delight as a sunny afternoon with a garden hose.

He’s one of the slowest eaters I’ve ever seen…and that’s saying something.  I’ve known some ridiculously slow eaters.  But they were all slow as hell because they were too busy talking to be bothered with dining.  Steve doesn’t say a word.  That’s not true, sometimes he’ll mumble a garbled, “Damn, that’s good.”  Otherwise he’s just lost in savoring each morsel.

What makes it all the more magical in my eyes, is it doesn’t matter what type of food it is – he loves them all.  He’ll swoon as mightily for Pringles as he will for portobellos.  All the world halts for the first bite of a Skyline Coney.  At our anniversary dinner at the famous Montgomery Inn, our silverware clattered madly when Steve smacked the table as he filled his mouth with onion straws.  At Culvers he bounced happily in his booth as he inhaled deeply before crushing his butter burger into his mouth.

If you start a topic he finds interesting or wants to contribute to, he’ll actually set down his fork and turn his full attention to you.  Once the conversation concludes, the fork is back in his hand and his eyes dance as he debates where to resume his feast.  He’s anything but rude.  He just wants to enjoy each flavor to its fullest.

In his typically generous fashion, he wants to share every experience with you.  Every trip to Hamilton, OH ends with an expedition to the grocery store to stock up on the “essentials” of Cincinnati dining.

We’ve more than made up for the weight of the concrete ‘shrooms we left all over the Midwest with the case of Skyline Chili we have crammed into the trunk.  There are apparently two rules you must obey when preparing this delicacy.  One – never, never, ever open the can before shaking thoroughly.  Two – never, never, ever read the nutritional information on the side of the can.  (I add my own third rule – never, never, ever consume a can when Elly will be in the apartment within a twenty-four hour period.  Bah-lech.)

Goetta Goodness

Also in the trunk are two tubes of thawing Goetta.  I’m not entirely sure how to describe this stuff.  It’s definitely a breakfast thing.  I guess if ground sausage and oatmeal were songs, Goetta would be Danger Mouse’s mashup.  Yeah, I thought it would be disgusting, too.  Instead, it’s hot, greasy (and fiber-filled) heaven.  This stuff gets lumped in with Deep Fried Oreos under the heading of “Foods I’m Glad I Only Get Once a Year or Less” for obvious reasons.

Before we even get to town, Steve has gone through all the grocery store circulars to find the best prices for our spending spree.  He sometimes even freezes the Goetta in advance.  As sweet as that is, and as tasty as the Goetta is when fried up in Hoboken, it just doesn’t taste the same without Steve’s grinning and moaning.

I can’t wait until his next trip to NYC.  He’s going to go nuts for 5 Napkin Burger!

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