While at the grocery store yesterday, procuring supplies for the soirée, we bought a [...]]]> Well all in all I’d say it’s been a fairly uneventful couple of days – just your average weekend filled with a hurricane, a house guest we tricked into cleaning, and then a little party where 40 or so people came to visit.

While at the grocery store yesterday, procuring supplies for the soirée, we bought a watermelon – partially because the shelves were still completely devoid of milk, bread, eggs, and cheese – but mostly because I really like watermelons.  Though lately, they seem a little threatening.  Because I’ve always imagined that’s what childbirth is like, right?  Passing a watermelon through your left nostril?  That’s how you envision it too, right?  I mean, who doesn’t?  Granted they haven’t used that analogy in the pregnancy book I’m currently reading, but there’s still a chapter or two to go.  If they have that diagram of a baby foot hanging out of a lady’s kayak, I’m sure they have no qualms about terrifying ladies with images of them blowing large, fleshy melons out their hooches.  Or stealing issues of US Weekly from a girl’s mailbox.  Or peeing all over toilet seats.  Or sautéing kittens.

Focus, Elly.

So this watermelon made me think of the actual birthing process.  And shoulders.  *shudders*  Which made me think of that contortionist guy with the tennis racquet.  And now I’m obsessed.  And habitually crossing my legs.

What?  Don’t remember him?  Never fear, I found a video.

Yeah.  So.  There’s that.

In other news, I don’t think I’ll be watching much of the U.S. Open this year.

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Oh fuck it, I’ll tell you about the book next week.  I can’t NOT talk about this:

Blame KeepingYouAwake for this…jewel.  He’s always on a quest to find male counterparts to the bevy of decorative options we ladies [...]]]> When I’m not researching the latest in DIY projects for my vagina, I occasionally read books.

Oh fuck it, I’ll tell you about the book next week.  I can’t NOT talk about this:

Blame KeepingYouAwake for this…jewel.  He’s always on a quest to find male counterparts to the bevy of decorative options we ladies have for our bits.  It’s like swarovski crystal envy or something.

Personally I have no interest in “bling for my fling.”  Or in referring to my kayak as a “fling.”  My vagina is not a verb.  Wait…*awkward pause and rustling of fabric*…yup it’s definitely not a verb.

There’s another fifteen minutes of that infomercial over here if you really need to hear that Pussy Cat Doll doppleganger lady coo, “smell good, taste good, feel good, look fantastic,” another seventy-two times.  Though that’s still less skeevy than her ending each segment with a little jiggle and the words, “your lovahhhh.”  I keep waiting for Will Ferrell and Rachel Dracht to randomly appear.

Well I’m pleased to launch my own DIY vagina kit for the New Year – the Buggazzle.  It contains a roll of duct tape, multi-colored pipe cleaners, and a baggie full of self-adhesive googly eyes.  Don’t worry, KeepingYouAwake!  It also works on twigs and berries!  And if you order in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll mail it to you for the low, low price of $69.95.  Act now and I’ll throw in a box of sharpie’s so you can write secret messages to your lovahhhh on your vulvahhhh.

Also if vajazzle is the melding of “vagina” and “bedazzle,” does anyone else wonder if this product was originally designed for another…um…area?

Damnit.  I grossed myself out again.  The end.

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A lot of you are participating in NaNoWriMo (National [...]]]> My brain is a little sludgy lately.  I’m not sure if it’s this cold that won’t go away or the weather.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it is.  I’m getting anxious about my next appointment with Aloysius.  November 30th.  Three weeks.  Twenty one days.  Dude.

A lot of you are participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) or NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), but I’m thinking of November as NoGoFreBouScanNoMo (Not Gonna Freak About Scans No More).  So far I’m sucking at it.  And it’s making me dumb.

I can prove it.  Here’s the convo I had with my little brother just the other day:

Thom:  Hey Elly!  What did the vagina say to the vibrator?

Me:  *blank stare*

Thom:  *shaking in his seat* ERRRGGGGHHH

Me:  Heh.  How do you spell “ERRRGGGHHH?”

Thom:  Are you going to blog this?

Me:  Probably.  It seems sad to waste a vagina joke.  *pauses to sip drink*  Wait, shouldn’t it be the other way around?  Shouldn’t the vibrator say *shaking in seat* “ERRRRGGGHHH?”

Thom:  But a vibrator doesn’t have lips.

Me:  *blank stare, sips drink, finishes dinner, time passes*  Oh!  I get it!  A vagina DOES have lips!  So it can talk!

Thom:  *blank stare*

Did you hear that, Interwebz?  I totally missed a vagina joke!  If that doesn’t prove I’m not quite myself, I don’t know what does.  So bear (bare?) with me if my grammar and spelling are even worse than usual for the next three weeks.

When I was sick, I started compiling a soundtrack of the songs that played in my head while I was hooked up to chemo, feeling lonely, or laughing at my shiny head.  Being the nerd that I am, I actually had copies pressed for family and friends when I went into remission.  I called them my “Thanks for Not Letting Me Die Presents.”  You know, like Christmas presents…but in a morbid and questionably unhealthy way.

Anyway, I have one of the songs from that mix stuck in my head today.  And based on the conversations I’ve had and blogs I’ve read this week, it seems I’m not the only one feeling a little “off” and sludgy.  So here’s today’s ear worm.  As the adorable Rosy Grier said, “It might make you feel better.”

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It’s all lies, I tell you.  LIES.

I’m a pristine [...]]]> It seems I’m developing a reputation.  Obviously it’s completely unfounded, but some of you seem to think I talk about lady bits quite a bit.  You should see the things Kelly says about little old me.  (By the by, nincompoop is one of my all time favorite words.)

It’s all lies, I tell you.  LIES.

I’m a pristine totem of purity.

Cue the heavenly chorus.

Can you tell who feels a little under the weather and sleep deprived this morning?  Yes.  I suppose you’re right.  Lindsay Lohan almost definitely feels that way, but I was talking about me that time.  That reminds me I need to get some prescriptions refilled.  Thanks, Lindsay.

Since Kelly brought up the subject already, can I tell you I actually heard someone refer to her vag as a “Choo Choo” the other day?  I have to say it again.  Choo Choo.  As in a choo choo train.

I’m so confused.  How does that even make sense?  Does her vag run on coal and emit smelly ash?  Does she use it to haul cargo across the country?  Do hobos sometimes ride that thing all night when they’ve got nowhere else to go?

Oh wait, that last one kinda worked.  Damn.  Heh.

Or maybe that’s the sound she makes when she’s coming into the station.

Maybe I should stop talking…

*dozes off briefly and drools on keyboard*

As I mentioned earlier, a friend of mine is currently trying to convince her boyfriend to stop referring to her flower of power as “The Clam.”  Normally, I love a good euphemism.  Pikachu, holy grail, kayak, muff, machu picchu -  really, I can roll with any of those.  (I meant the nicknames, ya big perv.)  But The Clam and Choo Choo?  Really?  That makes Skittles just shrivel up in disgust.

I can’t decide if I’m horrified, amused, or fascinated by all this new slang for vagina that’s suddenly up in my face.  (Heh.)  I’m going to go with “all of the above.”  Now I just have a slew of burning questions.

If you, like Kelly, have a hard time saying “vagina,” what do you call your pinnacle of pleasure?  For the straight men reading this (both of you), do you have a nickname for your girl’s treasure trove?  Ladies (and I use that term loosely), is there a name that when uttered will send you packing?  Are wedges really out of fashion again?  Do you think the hard boiled eggs from Easter are still safe to eat if I kept them in the fridge this whole time?

One last thought on pussies before I lose consciousness.  I’m going to have a hard time keeping this one off the pole.  Where can a girl score eight tiny matching pasties?

*Wakes up suddenly after head crashes into keyboard.  Wanders off in search of caffeine.*

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Did I mention I’m a Libra?  Actually, I’m a double Libra with a Taurus moon.  For you non-astrology types that loosely translates at “good fucking luck getting that easily-distracted confrontation-avoiding shallow girl to [...]]]> Frankly, I’m the big winner.  There’s been a whole mess o’ giggling up in here – until yesterday that is.  Then it got nasty.

Did I mention I’m a Libra?  Actually, I’m a double Libra with a Taurus moon.  For you non-astrology types that loosely translates at “good fucking luck getting that easily-distracted confrontation-avoiding shallow girl to make any kind of decision.”

I suck at picking favorites.  So I didn’t.  I narrowed it down to my top three picks (Crispy Nipples, the gal with the anal bleaching obsession, and she who has fucked a duck) then put Rocco in charge of the final decision.  Obviously, all hate mail should go to him directly.

Speaking of hate mail, I’m just waiting for one of these artisans (term used loosely) I mock over at Craftastrophe to start sending me severed snake heads via FedEx.  Today you can pop over and see just what happens when you set out in search of the perfect unicorn tricycle and instead find a Bearded Oyster costume.  (That link is surprisingly perfectly safe for work.)

*shudder*

Where was I?  Oh yes!  THE WINNER!!

Well, it’s Mrs. Mary Mac (Mac Mac all dressed in black black black) from Pajamas and Coffee.  Not only is her story magnificent, but I’m also super looking forward to fulfilling her prize.  Wow, that sounded dirty.  I think we’ve got another euphemism to try out.

*clears throat and puts on a slutty face*

“Oh the things he does to my kayak.  I’d totally let him fulfill my prize.”  *blink, blink*

Ah yes.  That TOTALLY works.

Focus, Elly.  So I can’t wait to fulfill her prize (Ok seriously?  I can’t. stop. giggling.) because “I want you to sketch me naked on a velvet sofa, like in Titanic.”

Your wish is my command, Mary Mac.  (For the rest of you out there, 8×10 glossies will be available for the low, low price of $25 each.)

I’ll post her complete piece tomorrow, but here’s a little teaser:

Nancy had been a psychiatric ward nurse for thirteen years. She was exhausted, but her husband Bill had been laid off and she had kids to feed, so she showed up for work every day. The conversations she had with her patients, on the ‘not psychotic enough for straitjackets but not stable enough for the real world’ ward kept her from getting too bored with her work. Plus, she liked most of her co-workers.

Quick show of hands – who here is surprised to learn that I inspired a story about a mental institution?  No one?  *sigh*  Yeah, me either.

Congrats Mary Mac!  I’ll be waiting for that photo.  So will the rest of the Interwebz…

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I read some seriously entertaining story submissions for my little contest.  Want to win your very own Elly drawing?  Of course you do!  Here are the details.

I bought a house.  Technically [...]]]> It’s kind of been a crazy couple of days.  A lot has happened since my last ramble.  I’ll try and hit the highlights…in order, of course.

I read some seriously entertaining story submissions for my little contest.  Want to win your very own Elly drawing?  Of course you do!  Here are the details.

I bought a house.  Technically Rocco did, too.  (Hold please while I breathe into this paper bag for a few moments.)

Webster 6.0 died a horrible fiery death.  I’m phone-less until Tuesday afternoon.  My thumbs are already losing muscle tone.

I tried on forty-seven LBD’s (that’s little black dress, not lesbian bed death – just in case you weren’t clear) in search of an acceptable old-married-hag-of-honor shroud for Gwen’s upcoming nuptials.  Only three of them had butt bows.  One was purchased.   Wait, the dress purchased was not one of the three butt-bowed numbers.  Sadly, the dress purchased also lacks sequins.  Fortunately, I still have my bedazzler.  How awesome would it be to bedazzle “thug life” across the front of my dress?!?  I’ll even volunteer to do it for the other bridesmaids.  Because I’m the best old-married-hag-of-honor a girl could hope for.  Obviously.

I crashed a party in central park when I spotted unattended hoagies and a 5 gallon plastic bucket filled with sangria.  Some day, I want to have my very own bright orange 5 gallon plastic bucket.  When people try and mix concrete or put dirt in there I’m going to scream, “Wait!  That’s the cocktail bucket!”  Fuck pitchers, people.  It’s all about the bucket.

Not My Photo

Some fucking lunatic tried to blow my ass up.  What’s better than walking through Times Square as fleets of siren wailing vehicles descend on the area and hordes of cops and firemen start suddenly rushing pedestrians out of the area while trying to stop people from trampling one another?  Not having a working cellphone so you can figure out what the hell is going on.  I miss Webster.

I watched Everyday Rapture.  Again.  I still loved it.  Turns out I’m not the only one.

I had several decidedly disturbing dreams…until I woke up enough to realize Lucy (my cat) had made it her own personal mission to lick off every drop of the peppermint foot lotion I’d applied to my exhausted feet only seconds before passing out from phone withdrawal.  (If the lady that’s giving me Mildred is reading this, please let me assure you that while I love my pets quite deeply, I don’t LOVE my pets.  The lotion thing was a fluke.  Really.  Lucy always gets a little silly after a bottle of champagne.  Once I put on her tiny little ball gag, I was able to sleep quite peacefully.)

I managed to get sunburned.  In MAY.  I’m starting to think that whole “sensitivity to sun” thing I had going on during chemo just might be here to stay.

I shared another terrifying Craftastrophe with the world.  It makes me ridiculously happy that you guys think of me when you see horrifying crafts.  I mean, what artist DOESN’T want that?  On the other hand, I’m a little disturbed that Rod Stewart’s warbling ALSO makes you people think of me.  Clearly I need to focus and and redouble my efforts to have my name be synonymous with vagina.  I’ll start by showing you my new favorite emoticon:  ({})

I think that’s enough vagina for one day…

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I barely had time to read the poster propaganda before Nicole was back in the room, honing in on my breasts.

“I’ll fasten them for you in the interest of time.  Slip this on.”

I pulled the swankiest straps I’d ever seen over my shoulders [...]]]> If you missed the first installment of “A Tale of Two Titties” start here.

I barely had time to read the poster propaganda before Nicole was back in the room, honing in on my breasts.

“I’ll fasten them for you in the interest of time.  Slip this on.”

I pulled the swankiest straps I’d ever seen over my shoulders and waited for Nicole to strap me in.

“Should I be able to breathe in this thing?”

“Your bra was far too lose.  This is just right.  I promise.”

*wheeze, wheeze*

As my boobs were eye level for the petite Nicole, she had a tendency to stick her face in my cleavage as she analyzed fit.  “May I?” she asked with her hands poised inches from my chest.

“Um. Yes?” I replied.  “You’re the boss.”

Her pudgy little fingers were suddenly inside the cups, pulling my flesh this way and that.  I cursed our decision to schedule the bra fitting before dinner and cocktails.  “We just need to pull you in a little here on the sides.  Oh, make sure your nipples are centered.”

“I prefer my nipples justified.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.  Am I supposed to be spilling over the top like this?”

“Do the windshield wiper,” she instructed.

“Is that like the running man?” I asked.  Suddenly she hooked her index fingers into the low v of the bra and pulled them up and out towards the straps.  “I’ll take that as a no.”

“It looks fantastic,” she cooed.

“It feels like a torture device,” I responded.

“Well, your current bra is far too loose.  To be fair though, this one is a little too tight.  Why don’t you take it off so you aren’t miserable, and I’ll go grab a selection of similar sizes for you to try.”  She snatched the bra from my hand and left.

And there I stood.  Just me and the girls.  Hanging.  All alone.  With the weird disposable thongs provided for those trying on panties.  Who knew?  I crossed my arms and tried to fashion my own support.  Seventeen hours later, Nicole returned.

“Are you excited?” she asked, blinking her lashes and bouncing her blond pony tail wildly.  Clearly all she needed was a few moments away from my spirit sucking bra ignorance to recover her original level of excitement.

“I am giddy in anticipation,” I replied, arms wide to receive whatever minimal coverage she was willing to offer me.

“How about this purple lace number?  I think this bra is just beautiful.  It also come is chartreuse and we have matching panties.”

“Nicole, I’m kind of a basic t-shirt bra kinda gal.  The most exciting color I own is baby pink.”  I watched her face fall.  For a moment, I worried where she might wipe her nose as she stared up at me between my boobs.  “…and that’s why I’m so excited to try on some crazy purple demi number covered entirely in lace and bows!”

Nicole flashed her white teeth as her face exploded into a smile three times her size.  Seconds later I was practicing my windshield wiper move and wondering how I could escape the dressing room without causing a scene.

Forty-five minutes later, I gathered the bizarre collection of lace and foam in my arms and headed to the register.  It turns out I’m stacked, Interwebz.  I’m rockin’ a 34 D – a far cry from the 36 B I’ve been wearing.  Only in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the show room floor did I look at the prices.  “Holy Mother of God,” I whispered to my girlfriend.  “Is this what people really pay for bras?  Do you have any idea how many bottles of wine I could buy instead of this bra?”  I shook a turquoise lace number in her face as I estimated the total in my head.  “Fuck me.”

“But how do your boobs feel?” she asked.

“Like the boobs of a fifteen year old girl,” I replied.  She smiled mockingly and stroked her fire engine red purchase.  I looked down at my boobs.  “I’m sorry if I ever hurt you, ladies.  I didn’t mean it.”

“Would you like to see the matching panties?” asked Nicole a.k.a. Bernie Madoff.

I sighed heavily remembering the elastic string hanging down my thigh, underneath my jeans.  “I suppose.”

Back in the dressing room, I decided to forgo the disposable thong and try the lace boy shorts over top of my granny panties.  After examining the polyester content and frightening profile, I decided I didn’t want to spend over $100 per pantie for guaranteed crotch rot.  Somehow I still ended up with a ridiculous thong amongst the pile of my future purchases.

The next sentence is harder for me to type than you can ever possibly imagine.  I spent more on my bras than I did on Phillip.  Let’s say that again – my outing at Intimacy cost more than my new Mac.

*faints*

*regains consciousness*

*rereads last paragraph*

*faints again*

Every frugal fiber of my being is screaming in protest.  I’m fighting the urge to wrap those lace impostors of treasury bonds up in their purple scented tissue paper, throw myself at that bewitching blond’s feet, and beg her to refund my money.  That’s why each and every bra I purchased still has all their tags attached – even though I’ve already worn all but two of them out of the house.  It’s hard to evaluate the comfort level of a bra with a hard piece of card stock in your armpit.  Also, my t-shirts lay awkwardly over the little booklets on how to care for your new bra that cling to the shoulder straps.

After all this trauma, I’m abandoning all plans to purchase panties.  I’ll worry about those in another five years.

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