Some data fiend decided to see how data on drinking habits correlated with all sorts of other fun factors like religion, education and politics. Educated godless liberals with large vocabularies, it seems, enjoy a beverage more than most.

This just in – Educated godless liberals with [...]]]> Breaking news, Interwebz – Smart People Drink More Alcohol.

Some data fiend decided to see how data on drinking habits correlated with all sorts of other fun factors like religion, education and politics. Educated godless liberals with large vocabularies, it seems, enjoy a beverage more than most.

This just in – Educated godless liberals with large vocabularies AND a house guest affectionately known as Hooch McD enjoy beverages EVEN MORE than most.  Add in another handful of girlfriends, and suddenly the previously mentioned godless liberal has consumed many beverages in rapid succession and can’t figure out how her cell phone ended up in the dishwasher.

Again.

Not surprisingly, the course of conversation inevitably turned to (you guessed it) vaginas.  (Speaking of vaginas, please tell me you watched Betty White on SNL this weekend.  I’ve watched it four times already and I will never, ever get tired of hearing Betty talk about her muffin.  EVER.  I SO want to be Betty when I grow up.)

Amy:  Are you still using the sex swing as a plant stand?

Diane:  Currently it’s holding up the kayak.

Hooch McD:  Is kayak a euphemism for muffin?

Me:  Technically it is a boat…and you can fit small men in it.  So I guess it is now.

Amy:  Speaking of…what do you do when your man uses a name for your kayak that you just find completely…unattractive.

Me:  Worse than Brunhilda?

Gwen:  Hey!

Diane:  You named Gwen’s vag Brunhilda?

Me:  What?  She has a thick accent.  Amy, how bad can it be?

Amy:  The Clam.

(The entire room shudders in horror.)

Diane:  Just call his stuff something worse.

Me:  Like “Mildred.”  I don’t think the cat will mind.  Seriously, “The Clam?”  How exactly do you work that into foreplay?  “Why don’t you cook up some linguine, ’cause the clam sauce is ready”

Diane:  Just call it “the little guy.”

Me:  Oh!  Call him Tattoo!  “Dah Clam, Boss – dah CLAM!!!”

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Parental Advisory
• Look, A Walnut!
• Why Weekends Make Me Tired
• Vajazzling (and the Other Weird Things People Send Me)
• The Demise of Facebook

A friend passed this on to me… Thought I would pass it on to all my fitness peeps.

I’m thinking of Volunteering…  not running in it. Although I was tempted. Anyone else tempted by the insanity?

http://toughmudder.com/

Oh where to [...]]]> Sometimes I wonder how well people really know me.  For example, my sister in law sent me this email earlier this week:

A friend passed this on to me…
Thought I would pass it on to all my fitness peeps.

I’m thinking of Volunteering…  not running in it. Although I was tempted.
Anyone else tempted by the insanity?

http://toughmudder.com/

Oh where to begin?  I guess the beginning is always the best place to begin, right?  (Unless you’re watching a James Cameron movie, then you really only need to watch the last half hour.)

“Thought I would pass it on to all my fitness peeps.”

I’ll pause for those of you that know me (in real life) to pick up the shards of whatever fragile item you just dropped to the floor in surprise.  Mmmhmm.  I’m a “fitness peep” now.  Did you not get the memo?  (PS If  I had my new computer already, I’d totally make a little graphic of a tiny piece of paper featuring a lady bug wearing a sweatband and holding one of those shake weights.  For now you’ll just have to pretend.)

Remember me?  The gal that only runs when chased?  The gal that couldn’t hit a ball with a bat unless I was really mad at the guy and had unlimited swings?  The gal that had to ice her crotch for three solid days after riding a bike for a whopping three miles?  The gal that hasn’t stepped foot in a gym since 2008 despite the fact that she lives directly across the street from one?  Turns out kids, all it takes to earn the title of “fitness peep” is attempting a Bollywood workout video once in your life.  Done.  Now where’s my fucking tiara?

Then I clicked on the link.  I actually asked aloud to my empty apartment, “Has she met me?”  I like mud as much as the next gal, but I generally only play in mud when it involves a wedging table, maybe a wheel, and eventually a kiln.  This mud-based activity falls soundly outside of my mud-embracing boundaries:

Tough Mudder is the TOUGHEST one day event on the planet. This is not your average mud run or boring spirit-crushing road race. Our 7 mile obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test all-round toughness, strength, stamina, fitness, camaraderie and mental grit. Forget about your race time, simply completing the event is a badge of honor. Not everyone will finish, but those who do make it to our post-race party will have truly earned the right to call themselves a Tough Mudder.

Just reading that description made me so exhausted I nearly hurled.  (In other related news, did you know you’re not supposed to mix Vicodin and Ambien?  True story.)  Generally I’m not big on participating in events with the words “spirit-crushing” in the description.  I’m about five bazillion percent sure I’m not their target demographic.  Also, I’m about seventeen bazillion percent sure I was sent that email by mistake.  Clearly my SIL mixed up her “fitness peeps” mailing list with her “people that like vagina jokes” mailing list.  I’m guessing there’s a whole mess of fitness junkies that won’t be opening emails from my SIL at the office any longer.

Then yesterday, one of my favorite people on the planet sent me this email:

i dont know why this made me think of you… but it did
http://gothamist.com/2010/02/26/vermin_line.php#more

To which I responded, “Um.  Thanks?”  What I really meant to say was, “ARGHHH! IT’S WORSE THAN ROD STEWART!!! AGHHHH! MAKE IT END!! DO YOU HATE ME?!?!? MY EYES!!! IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, MAKE IT END!!!!!”

Then I paused and thought a moment.  This gal knows me pretty damn well, on both a professional AND personal level.  We worked in the same cube for over a year together.  We discussed many books together.  We traveled multiple continents together.  We consumed MANY bottles of wine together.  I mean, in theory this gal should “get” me, right?

So how come when she sees a photo of bedazzled stuffed rats glued to a headband she thinks of me?  Is it possible I have a skewed vision of myself?  I mean, I never even considered wearing a headband before receiving her email.

Vajazzled

Other things people sent me this week under the heading of “this made me think of you”:

• Vagazzling courtesy of KeepingYouAwake – I’d try and fight this one but no less than seven people landed on my site this week after searching “Vagina Bedazzler.”  I’m so proud I could add some Vicodin and Ambien to my wine and puke.  I’m pretty sure Mom is thinking the exact same thing at this exact same moment.  (To clarify, I mean she’s thinking, “I’m so proud” not “Maybe I should bedazzle my vag.”  If she’s thinking the latter I’m pretty sure I don’t need a play by play of Dad’s reaction.  Oh hell, I’m in trouble again.)
• I Heart You Online courtesy of Submom – cute little Australian chicks singing in harmony and no use of the <3 emoticon in sight?!  Perfection!  It boggles my brain a bit that sweet school girls playing a ukulele and singing without any obscenities makes Submom think of me.  Then again, I’m pretty sure “click on my face” has to be a euphemism for something.  She also sent me a lovely article about a penis mall.
• I’m not even going to tell you who sent me this, but it’s safe to assume we’re related.  Sure Dufmanno wants to get these matching tats before we beat all the Connecticut girls at chicken wrestling at the pool during BlogHer, but I think it’s just too soon.  Do I talk about unicorns and genitalia that much?
• I love drag queens.  I’m always running late.  Put the two together and you get Busy Drag Queen.  Just so you know, my calves look just like those of the ‘gal’ in the video.  Come to think of it, that’s probably why I get lumped in with the ‘fitness peeps.’  Who knew David Lee Roth kicks and punching the air counted as a work out?  I’m pretty sure I had this one coming.
• Then I received an invitation to join Busty Older Women club on Facebook from my friend Creamed Corn.   You know me too well, CC.  I’m nothing if not a sucker for busty older women.  I totally have naked posters of Betty White and Angela Lansbury hanging above my bed.

The sad thing is, even though I would have never looked at any of these things and shouted, “Holy shit that is so me,” they made me giggle madly and accidentally snarf wine through my nose.  Obviously you people know me better than I know myself.  My whole world has been turned upside down.

So I’m pretty much just waiting for Rod Stewart to marry me at this point.  I mean, that’s the only possible next step, right?  There’s no telling what I’m capable of at this point.  Even I don’t know what I’ll do.  Yesterday I bought a Mac, for Pete’s sake.  The laws of the universe are in flux.  Next thing you know it’ll be dogs and cats living together.  The horror.

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“healthy shit” Obviously someone is really pumped about embracing a more health conscious lifestyle.  Good call because this site is obviously the place to go what with all the references to wine, beer, and [...]]]> It’s time, yet again, for the monthly wrap up of seriously disturbing search terms that landed people in my tiny little Buggin World.

“healthy shit” Obviously someone is really pumped about embracing a more health conscious lifestyle.  Good call because this site is obviously the place to go what with all the references to wine, beer, and ranch dressing.  I suppose it could be interpreted another way, but even I draw the line at documenting my bowel movements….so far at least.

“poconos kill polish“  During my brief stay in the land of champagne glass shaped hot tubs, I didn’t see anyone kill anything.  There were a lot of burly men clad in bright orange vests, but I doubt they were hunting little metal tins of tinted wax nor people whose ancestry can be tracked back to Poland.  I think both groups can visit the area without fear of assassination – unless they strap on a pair of antlers and loiter in the woods.

“creamed corn panties“  Ew.  Seriously ew.  Though the phrase does remind me of a NC band I use to love back in high school – Picasso Trigger.  The lead singer would wear a huge Depends undergarment with the words “Surfs Up!” scrawled on her crotch.  The bass player would spit water on the crowd while the guitarist would chug cans of creamed corn until he hurled on stage.  *blink, blink*  Ahem.  That was in interesting trip down memory lane.  In hindsight, maybe I can understand why Mom was a little weirded out by my musical taste.

“shamrock pasties“  What else would you pair with creamed corn panties?  I know what somebody’s getting for Valentines Day!   Thank Vishnu its still frickin’ cold here on St. Patrick’s Day.  The last thing I need to see is a bunch of stumbling co-eds wiping green vomit off their chests while trying to keep their pasties in place.

“I found God in Ohio“ Well, duh.  As Rocco always says, “If the end of the world comes we’re going back to Ohio.  They won’t know about it for at least another five years.”

“my date vagina face“  You really do need to distinguish between this and your “every day vagina face.”  How many of your first dates have gone down (that’s what she said) in flames when you accidentally whipped out your “waiting in line at the grocery store vagina face” or your “what the hell did I just bite into vagina face.”  This is a fun game!  I’m going to start substituting “vagina face” every chance I get.  What?  Don’t judge.  I see you making that scowly vagina face at me, Mom.

“dyed ferret“  See?!?!  You guys (and by you guys I mean Falling) had me thinking that ferret dying was not a typical past time.  Obviously, I’m not the only one doing it.  Maybe I’ll abandon blogging and set up a punk rock ferret shop in my apartment.

“I’m that baby mama I’m that baby daddy“ You’re also a hermaphrodite and will doubtlessly be contacted shortly by TLC for a new and groundbreaking reality TV show.  Congratulations.  FYI – I’m more likely to watch your new show if you hire The Situation as your doula, k?

“shhh its almost over“  That one ranks pretty high on the creepitude meter.  It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the vagina face again.  Maybe I should stop watching so much SVU.

Speaking of which, this post is almost over.  I’m not even going to touch “Husker Du Gallipoli” because it just makes my head hurt.  Also, to the person that sought “where should Ellie rub me” – I’m not rubbing you nowheres if you can’t even spell my name right.  I’m totally giving you the stink eye vagina face right now.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go research ferret restraints and non-toxic dyes.

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I’m not [...]]]> I can’t decide if Magda over at I’m Just Sayin’ is trying to A) kill me or B) have freaky lesbian monkey sex with me.  She’s given me ANOTHER award.  Clearly she has ulterior motives or serious issues.  Odds are high this will end in death or sex.  Either option makes me mildly uncomfortable, frankly.

I’m not a big fan of option A because I am staunchly anti-death…at least when it’s my death under consideration.  Not that I’m pro-death in other cases.  Though I did recently read a disturbing piece about how cannibalism would have far more impact on our global footprint than veganism.  I don’t know what to tell you – people send me weird stuff.

As for option B, that’s not quite as black and white.  There are the obvious positives (not death and lesbian monkey sex spring to mind), but then there are the negatives, too.  I’ve never met Madga in real life.  That girl could have full on face herpes (fist bump to @KeepingYouAwake).  Generally, that’s a pretty big turnoff for me regardless of the flavor of monkey sex.  Plus the girl doesn’t drink tequila.  If there’s anything I’ve learned from Mom, it’s that lesbian sex should involve tequila.

Now I sit here thinking about my “Your Blog Sucks and I Like You Anyway” award and wondering if there really is such a thing as lesbian monkey sex but being too timid to google the term.  I’ve seen enough freaky stuff for one week, people.

The Backhanded Compliment Award

So anyway Magda is all “I LOVE YOU – here’s an award” and then she’s all “I HATE YOU – ’cause it’s the your-blog-sucks-but-I-like-you-anyway-award” and then she’s all “I LOVE YOU – you’re ‘de-fucking-lightful’ and I keep telling people about you” and then she’s all “I HATE YOU – and I’m going to add crazy pressure and needle you into coming up with more award related blog posts” and just when I’m about to pass out she’s all “DANCE PUPPET, DANCE!” and then I’m weeping on the floor in the fetal position sucking vodka through a straw…again.

Is there an award for the worst sentence structure of all time?  If so, that bitch is mine.

On to the dancing, I suppose.  Magda likes to pick these awards that involve work and rules and details.  Now I have to list five things I enjoy and then thank five of my “loyal followers who make your day with frequent and cool comments.”  My fingernails are sweating from the pressure.

Five things I like (in no particular order, stream of consciousness style):

• Sea Monkeys
• Wine
• Beer
• Vodka
• Banana Slugs

That was weird.  I should probably jot those down to discuss next week with my shrink (a.k.a. Dirty Diana).  Let’s move on to thanking my Fab Five Followers:

Cooltoff:  You’re like a sponge.  I don’t pay attention to half the shit that comes out of my mouth/keyboard, yet somehow you pay attention to all of it and then make witty obscure references to things I don’t even remember saying.  Then I feel silly.  So, thanks for that.  Keep it up.

Submom:  Your name sounds like some kind of super cool indy record label for mom rockers.  Your political affiliations make me look downright conservative.  You’re seventeen kinds of niftiness, even if you do drink bubble tea willingly.

Don:  If it wasn’t for your witty comments and the laugh-induced tea stains on my shirt sleeves, I’d probably never bother to change clothes or do laundry.  Without you, I’d smell like the inside of a belly button.

Falling:  I just think it’s adorable that you claim to have never dyed a ferret.  That is reason enough for a Fab Five Follower shout out in my book.

KeepingYouAwake:  I know, I JUST gave him an award two days ago and I should be spreading the STD love to a wider Circle of Friends but I just can’t help it.  He is THAT FUNNY.

Thanks, bitches – you rule.  And for you other dreamboats that I didn’t mention specifically?  Yeah, I suck and you were totally robbed.  I still love you, though.  I doodle your names in the margins of my notebooks all day long.  For reals.  Don’t go.  Please don’t go.  Don’t leave me here…all alone…with Magda…in the dark…with her evil plans…please…

*whimper*

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

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I REALLY like to make up new words and [...]]]> I like words.  Like a whole lot.  Sometimes I like to find new and creative ways to use words.  I think that might be the result of excessive punnage at the family dinner table.  Seriously, we’ve had guests request road maps to navigate the conversations at family functions.

I REALLY like to make up new words and phrases.  (see use of ‘punnage’ above, also toe-gina)  That’s another family trait, I’m pretty sure.  Mom does it when she’s flustered.  In her rush to express herself she often speaks the two thoughts she’s thinking simultaneously.  (Example: “Like fish you are.”  While it sounds like Yoda offering guidance, it was actually used in a more threatening, “The Hell you are” kind of way.)  Dad does it when he’s forgotten his hearing aids.  If he doesn’t understand you, he repeats back a string of syllables that may or may not resemble your previous statement.  (Example: “Pound your elf into a bovine,” instead of “Drown yourself in more wine.”)  We’ve developed some pretty fantastic family sayings over the years.

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Here’s another family insight – My little brother and husband talk about poo quite a bit.  I don’t really understand why.  Neither of them comes into contact with an inordinate quantity of shit in their daily lives.  Neither owns a dog, has an infant, or works in a nursing home, but based on the frequency of feces as the primary topic under discussion, you’d think they spent every day of their lives in waders just to navigate through the copious volumes of crap they see.  So it should come as no surprise to learn that they both love the word shart.  It’s just disturbing to see two grown men, their six foot plus bodies doubled over, smacking each other in the arm and giggling wildly when one of them works shart into the conversation.

On one of my road trips this year, I drove through a little town called Shartlesville.  (I know, you’ve probably already beaten me to the punch, but just roll with me here.)  Even I had to giggle a little at the sight and I wondered how I could possibly get a photo of the sign for the two maturity stunted males I’d left in Jersey. But then I got to thinking, shartled should really be its own word.  To get the ball rolling, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing the entry for dictionary.com:

shar⋅tle

Shartle in a sentence: Don’t fire that gun or you’ll shartle your mother.

–verb (used with object)

1.	to disturb or agitate suddenly as by surprise or alarm, resulting in a shart.

2.	to cause to shart involuntarily, by or as by a sudden shock.

–verb (used without object)

3.	to shart involuntarily, as from a shock of surprise or alarm.

–noun

4.	a shart inducing sudden shock of surprise, alarm, or the like.

5.	something that shartles.

---

Origin: summer 2009 as a result of Elly’s chemo brain wandering during a road trip to Virginia

I know, right?  Now remember, as your second grade teacher and Big Bird taught you, the best way to learn new words is to use them in a sentence.  Try and work shartle into at least one conversation today so that you can make it a permanent part of your vocabulary.

Today’s post was brought to you by the number 2.  You’re welcome.

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For example, I have a friend that we affectionately call Creamed Corn.  You need not know the reason [...]]]> You might be surprised to learn that I have some pretty weird friends.  I’ll just pretend you all responded correctly.  In case you’d like to play along at home, any of these responses will work: Gasp!  What?!  Not you!!

For example, I have a friend that we affectionately call Creamed Corn.  You need not know the reason why, Interwebz.  You need only know that it is his nickname, and it suits him perfectly.

Creamed Corn has a thing for vinyl.  Not my kind of vinyl – shiny grooved discs that are my far the best medium for recorded music.  No Creamed Corn likes the kind of vinyl that covers the chairs in doctors’ offices or the kind Lady Gaga uses for elaborate masks/head-dresses.  THAT kind of vinyl is his thing.

I remember chilling in the living room with Gwen one afternoon, when Creamed Corn popped around the corner and asked if it was possible to iron vinyl.  It seemed he’d snagged a roll of white vinyl from a fashion show and had set about making sheets for his bed.  I mean, what would YOU do with an extra roll of white vinyl?  I thought so.

This is the guy who once said, “There is no such thing as too much vinyl.”  When he realized that the moisture factor made vinyl sheets somewhat unpleasant in early August, he decided to repurpose the sheets into a sheik lining for his bedroom closet.  His apartment is filled with random dead rat and dead cat vinyl sculptures.  At Christmas, he decorates his tree with home made vinyl garlands depicting reindeer in compromising positions.  There is no limit to what the man can do with his favorite medium.

While somewhat eccentric, Creamed Corn is also a giving man.  Not only did he make Pegger the Kegger a pair of vinyl crotchless panties for Christmas, the following year he made vinyl bras and panties for my entire family (in-laws included – lucky bitches) so no one would feel left out.  I can’t imagine how many hours he spent at his little Hello Kitty sewing machine that year.

He does commissions, too.  When we found out Mom was going to get to keep her nipple after her biopsy, Creamed Corn eagerly whipped up a pair of vinyl shamrock pasties at my request.  He even pointed out he had lined them “for maximum comfort.”  Initially he asked for photos of the pasties in use, but later changed his mind when Mom offered to model the panties as well.

The moral of the story is Creamed Corn is creative, generous, and maybe a tidge of his rocker – just the way I like ‘em!  When he sends me links, I’m always just the teensiest bit hesitant to click.  (I mean, he did go through a phase where you’d end up with a giant rubber fist in your bag if you left it unattended in his presence.)  You just never know what to expect.  That link could be a video of a Barbary Ape slow dancing to an Air Supply ballad, or it could just as easily be four clown midgets doing interpretive dance with spray cheese.

Paper Bag Boozecat

Yesterday I was in a gambling mood, so I went right ahead and clicked.  It was magical, I tell you.  I have a new guilty pleasure!  I might even stop counting down to the next showing of New Moon with this new joy to distract me.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Boozecats.

Here’s the basic premise: apparently this dude (I’m assuming it’s a dude) and his friends realized they didn’t have a single photo of themselves where they were not holding some form of alcoholic drink.  These are my PEOPLE!  What happens when you combine the need for a non-drink holding photo, mad photoshop skillz, and a couple bottles of Boone’s Farm’s finest?  Yup, it’s called Boozecats.

Where else can you find your two favorite things combined?  (I’m just going to assume that you share my penchant for kitties and alcohol, Dear Reader.  Try to tell me I’m wrong.)  This one makes me miss Simone even more than usual.  Granted, I never stuck THAT end of a cat in my mouth, but the sentiment is the same.

I’ve just lost twenty minutes of my life giggling at people drinking kitties.  Perhaps I need to get out more.

Does life get better than a frat boy drinking a kitten in a pint glass?  No, I state unequivocally.  It.  Does.  Not.

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Good thing [...]]]> Today I’m hosting my sad little Hoboken Thanksgiving for the handful of orphans I was able to round up.  Rocco has yet again banished me from the kitchen.  Sure I managed to ruin three cutting boards and break the lemon press, but we’re up three blisters and two new scars.  By my math we’re ahead!

Good thing my Sweet Little Missus is such a bitch in the kitchen.  If I was driving, Thanksgiving Dinner would consist of eight bottles of wine and a side of nuked corn niblets.  With my wife working his mojo in the five square feet we call a kitchen, there’s the slightest chance in hell we’ll actually be serving food.

I have Thanksgiving envy.  Earlier this week I was lucky enough to be the only uterus in attendance at Gay Thanksgiving ’09 and I’m still feeling a little insecure about my domestic goddess-ness.  Seriously, you try hanging with a bunch o’ boys that have impeccable taste in all areas and see how you feel.  It was like some bionic Thanksgiving Hybrid – the food of Ina Garden,the decor of Martha Stewart, the conversational prowess of Oprah Winfrey, and the flair of Liberace.

I wore a leopard print dress and brought cheese balls.  I think it worked.  The wine didn’t hurt, either.

Don’t get me wrong, I have my stable of adorable gay boys that accompany me to Sandra Bullock movies and critique my shoe choices.  (No, I’m not counting Rocco…but I TOTALLY could.)  Other than their penchant for penis, most of my boys blend in with your average Joe.  If you ignored the extended pinky holding the cosmo and looked only at the black polo and tool bag, you’d never guess they were Friends of Dorothy.  Oh I suppose there’s the whole the-girls-don’t-slap-them-when-they-cup-their-breasts-thing, too but we really do try to discourage that practice in public, so it shouldn’t count.

Sunday’s flock o’ gays was SOO much more FAHbulous than my usual crew.   Why does it make me giggle with such giddiness when those adorable boys refer to each other with feminine pronouns, Interwebz?  (She’s stuffing the turkey – wink, wink.)  Will that ever get old?  I was like a kid in the candy store…if that store only carried lollipops.  It was enough to make ME want to wear a floor length ballgown.

I was, by far, the most boring person there.  One gentleman was a museum curator who also oversees an arts magazine.  I was screaming in euphoria as I sampled the roasted brussel sprouts and pancetta when I learned they were made by a professional chef at the party.  Another guy (Gal? Should I try out the feminine pronouns, too?) recounted his tales of working on Broadway Bares between complimenting my wine.  I hadn’t met so many fascinating people since my last party at the Hustler Club.

As I inhaled a plateful of sinful deserts, I chatted with an animator working on a ballet production of Alice in Wonderland somewhere on the West Coast.  He was still worked up from watching a roller derby match earlier that afternoon.  He was still wearing the t-shirt, which he vehemently pointed at with each re-telling of his derby tales.  His enthusiasm was contagious.  Dainty Inferno was his favorite, but Mac-N-Sleeze also got an honorable mention in his book.  It sounded fan-frickin-tastic!  If I hadn’t already defied death this decade, I might well consider joining a derby team, myself.  My name could be Ells Bells…or El-ectric Shock Therapy.  Maybe next decade.

Somehow the subject changed to plastic surgery.  He’s just returned from LA and was recounting the latest fads in gay surgical enhancements.  Apparently the most popular is calf implants, followed closely by six-pac abs.  Having spent some time on the beach during his visit, he was most amused by the “queens that had since gained weight and now had washboard abs floating upon a mound of fat.”  It’s a pretty disturbing sight from what I hear.

Not to be outdone, I wanted to share some sort of plastic surgery insight into the breeder culture.  I was glad I’d actually paid attention to one of the five million links Rocco posts on Facebook each hour.  “Well, I hear labiaplasty is the next big thing.  Well, I mean, you aren’t exactly the target demo but…”

“Labiaplasty?” he repeated with fascination.

“Yeah, apparently camel toes are right out.”

“Is that a big problem?  You girls have them out on display a lot?”

“Dude, don’t look at me.  I don’t even believe in waxing.  If you’re not willing to seek the treasure, you’re not worth the prize.  The world’s acceptance of my meat curtains is pretty low on my priority list.”

It might have been my imagination, but I think he wavered in taking his next bite of food.  “Labiaplasty,” he murmured quietly.

“Apparently some girls are self conscious in leotards.  Hell, you couldn’t pay me to wear one in public – but it’s not because I’m worried about how my labia are looking.”

It just went downhill from there, dear reader.  Leave it to me to try and work labia into the topic of discussion at a gay party.  Conversely, Rocco absolutely KILLED with his gay porn mustache.  I’m trying not to let my catty jealous side show, so back to focusing on the positive a.k.a let me tell you about my balls.

My cheese balls were the second most popular set of balls at Chez Gay.  The girls were oohing and ahhing ad nauseam at the tastiness of my balls.  There was a whole lot of “you made these – YOU?”  Yes folks, while boiling water is unnaturally difficult for me, I’m a fucking pro at whipping up mounds of tasty cheese-itude.

Just in case you’re overwhelmed by having to bring something to a festivity of fabulousness and lack kitchen skillz, I’m posting the recipe below.  It’s straight out of Better Homes and Gardens, my bitches, but all the trendy peeps are hitting Epicurious and other hipster recipe sites so our secret will be safe.  If you rat me out and go telling people how easy these are, I’ll think really, really mean thoughts about you and your little dog, too.  Seriously.  Mums, the word.  I recommend you serve these with generic Triscuit or Wheat Thin knock-offs (the ones from Trader Joe’s don’t have palm oil, FYI – no need stopping your guests heart with anything other than their awe at your mere presence).  I’ve tweaked it so your lazy ass can make two at a time.

Chez Gay Cheez Ballz, Bitches

(if you want to see the official recipe, Better Homes and Gardens calls it merely “Cheddar Cheese Balls”…yawn)

2 cup finely shredded cheddar cheese (sharp, like my wit)
1 8-ounce package cream cheese (chop it in two)
4 tablespoons butter (not bacon fat, though Rocco has tried)
2 tablespoons milk
2 tablespoon chopped green onion (you can totally use freeze dried chives if you forgot to buy this shit)
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce (I really like this stuff so I tend to measure heavy handed)
dash of cayenne pepper (or Tabasco I suppose)
snipped parsley or chopped walnuts/pecans (I’ve used dry parsley in a pinch)

1.  Bring the cheeses and margarine to room temperature.  If you were too dumb to think ahead and do this, just nuke the bitches for like 30 seconds.  I know you used the “add one minute” so try and watch and nip it in the bud before they turn to liquid, k?  Dump half of the goo into your food processor fitted with the blade that looks like a ninja weapon.  If you don’t live in a tiny place and own a food processor that can do both batches all at once, bully for you.  You especially better not rat me out on how easy this is because you’re already on my list, Diva.

2.  Add milk, onion, Worcestershire sauce, and hot pepper – half if you’ve got a dainty processor like me, the whole shebang if you’re Rachel frickin’ Ray.  Push that “food processor” button until it looks like uniformly combined goop.

3.  Repeat if you’ve only used half the ingredients.  They aren’t going to keep forever, you know.

4.  Slop it into a bowl, cover with something plastic and let chill.  Ideally it would percolate for 4 to 24 hours, but I’ve faked it after a mere hour and a half.  Have some wine, go for a jog, write a blog post…distract yourself and don’t pick at it.

5.  Shape mixture into two large balls, or whatever series of obscene shapes strike your fancy.  Just note, it’s easier to cover the cheese with the parsley/nuts if it’s in a spherical form.  I promise, whatever shape you decide on, I won’t judge…much.

No really, that’s it.  If you’re headed to a party, I like to freeze my balls for twenty minutes or so before departure so they retain their shape and don’t look like labia upon arrival.  If Gay Thanksgiving ’09 had been a lesbian party, there might have been no freezing.  Then again, I don’t know any lesbians that eat cheese.  Regardless of audience, the aforementioned crackers are still mandatory.

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Chemo Clepto
• Illumination
• Milestone
• The M Word
• October

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m the teensy weensiest bit Type A.  And yet, somehow I’m also incredibly good at unemployment.  What can I tell you, Interwebz?  I’m an enigma.

The last time I enjoyed unemployment was fresh from my “downsizing” at Columbia Records.  (That is a story that you won’t get out of [...]]]>

NaBloPoMo

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m the teensy weensiest bit Type A.  And yet, somehow I’m also incredibly good at unemployment.  What can I tell you, Interwebz?  I’m an enigma.

The last time I enjoyed unemployment was fresh from my “downsizing” at Columbia Records.  (That is a story that you won’t get out of me without a publishing contract or at least three glasses of wine.)  I spent the summer writing in the park and flying home to participate in tennis clinics with Pegger the Kegger.

Just before my departure and while I still had access to the Sony Music catalog, I made friends with a low level peon (like me) at a book publishing company and traded a couple of Destiny’s Child CD’s for a series of recipe books.  Notice I didn’t say cook books.  I mean, there were probably some cook books in that cardboard box of goodness, but I chose to focus on The Complete Book of Mixed Drinks and The Ultimate Guide to Pitcher Drinks.  I am my mother’s daughter, after all.  Between my full calendar of social events and working my way through those two books, those three months flew right by.

Now I’m rolling up on month thirteen of unemployment.  Granted it hasn’t all been beers and backhands; I did spend a big ‘ol chunk of that time focused on not biting it and then recovering from not biting it.  Still, this is the longest I’ve gone without some sort of authority figure assigning random projects and tasks to accomplish.

Apparently that’s a bit of a problem for little ‘ol Type A Elly.  All this loosey goosey fly by the seat of my pants stuff occasionally makes my brain hemorrhage.  I need a PLAN (it runs in the family – just ask Mike).  I need deadlines and deliverables and Gantt charts and marketing plans and…and…and…phew.  I remind you, when Aloysius said I should do word puzzles and exercise my brain to combat chemo brain, I decided to learn HTML.  I have a tendency to aim a little…high.

So I’ve taken to creating random goals and deadlines for my self as I plug away at whatever the hell it is I’m doing out here in Hoboken.  Random, bizarro deadlines and goals that is.  I just spent ten minutes lecturing myself when I realized I’d exceeded my ten day time frame to read that new cheesy Stephanie Meyer book.  I know, right?  Could I be a bigger slacker?  Don’t EVEN get me started on the Portrait Project; it’s been two weeks since I decided to take a break from Elphabbie and I haven’t even sketched out the next piece.  I can assure you I’ve given myself quite a talking to on THAT subject.

…and poor Mom wonders if my visiting a shrink every single week is excessive.  Side bar: Last time I visited Dirty Diana (a nickname based solely on affection) she laughed at my outburst and said, “You’re really funny when you’re angry.”  The list of things I never expected a shrink to say continues to grow.

So in the sick and twisted little world I live in, I decided that I needed some outside arbitrary challenge upon which to base my self worth.  On Stalkerbook, I’d noticed that a whole mess of nifty friends had decided to take part in NaNoWriMo.  I sat down and pondered that possibility for all of fifteen minutes before Lazy Elly screamed, “Are you fucking crazy?” at Type A Elly.  “Need I remind you we weren’t even able to read a cheesy novel in ten days?  How the hell are we going to WRITE one in thirty?”  Even Type A Elly had to admit the task seemed a tidge extreme.

Enter NaBloPoMo.  Back on the first day of Movember, I pledged to write a blog post every single day.  Even Lazy Elly thought the challenge wasn’t too daunting.  I generally churn out a post six out of every seven days, what’s one more?  (No Lydia, I still refuse to publish more than one a day.  I’ve got a novel to finish reading, remember?)  There was no sort of requirement for length or quality so my usual silly ramblings should qualify, right?

But then it turned into the month from hell.  Lazy Elly tried to throw in the towel no less than fourteen times already (yes I’m aware it’s only the 15th).  Type A Elly will have none of it.  There’s even a pile of gold star stickers next to my Martha Stewart calendar so Type A Elly can savor each successful accomplishment.  So onward I trudge.

There’s a lesson here kids.  Don’t quit your job.  You’ll go nutso and start writing about the voices in your head.  Besides, that shit causes cancer.  Quitting your job, I mean.  The voices in your head just cause carpal tunnel.

NaBloPoMo.  NaNoWriMo.  Throw in a “Mr Roboto” and we could have a hit song on our hands!  Someone somewhere is having far too much fun randomly shorting and slurring their words.  Do we blame it on Jennifer Lopez or Washington Mutual?

I might have to start implementing the practice myself.  Tonight is SuNiDinWiRo (Sunday Night Dinner With Rocco).  Next week we’ll celebrate LiBroBiDaBa (Little Brother’s Birthday Bash).  Wait till I tell Aloysius I’m gearing up for LaLoCreTuHoNoMoCan (Lay in a Long Creepy Tube and Hope there’s No More Cancer) Day.

Anyone else feel the urge to chant “Mekka Lekka Hi Mekka Hiney Ho?”

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Please Tell Me That White Stuff is Glitter
• Thank You, Thankyaverramuch
• Waking
• Sock Puppets (and Other Lonon Excerpts)
• Things That End in “Asserole”