Cyclothymia

No Blowjob For Tad

My momma always said don't marry for money, but go where the rich boys are and fall in love. With that in mind, I'm packed and ready to go spend memorial day weekend at Figawi, half-heartedly fending off the advances of drunken sailors. My motto for the weekend is WWMD: What Would Muffy Do? I've got my party pearls on and will let you know the depths to which Muffy sank when I get back.

Girlfriends' Guide To Self-Tanning

1. If the self-tanner you have chosen says "for face and decollete," take a moment and consider whether there's a reason for that. Then say, firmly and decisively, "screw it, I don't want to buy two, and the face is more important, right?" Don't bother to ask the sales person, you'll worry about that later.


2. If the instructions for the self-tanner you have chosen involve using a cotton pad to "gently and evenly sweep" the tanner across your face, neck and decollete, do not stop to consider what "gently and evenly" sweeping a cotton ball over your entire body will entail. Just go ahead and get started, you'll worry about that later.


3. If you notice spots that look a little streaky, alternate whether you go over them again or just leave them be. Consistency is overrated, you'll worry about that later.


4. When you get to your hands and feet, just pinch your fingers and toes together and swipe blindly. Who knows whether having a tan between your fingers is more unnatural than stark lines of brown across the tops of your fingers? You'll worry about that later.


5. Having used several hundred cotton pads to wipe every square inch of your body, spend a surprising amount of time debating the crack of one's ass, and how tan it should, or should not, be. Let's worry about that now.


6. Wake up in the morning and discover it's officially "later," and therefore time to get down to worrying.


7. Exfoliate ad nauseum, and consider canceling your swimming plans for later in the week.


8. Fret.


9. Exfoliate.


10. Definitely decide to cancel swimming plans. Consider calling in sick to work.


11. Notice the fine job you've done on the crack of your ass and face (in that order).


12. Say "fuck it," put on some long sleeves, long pants, and put hands in pockets.


13. Go to work.

Happy tanning!

Shooting For Average

Trivia was a disaster last night. We ain't just ignorant, we're also stupid. It's been long time since we've been shellacked like that.

Here are two that I'm ashamed to say we got wrong:

What is the name for the interaction of light with the surface of materials such as minerals (eg. quartz) and metals that comes from the greek word for light?

What is the common name for the common medical condition known as epistaxis? It does not usually require medical treatment. However, the condition can occur either anteriorly or posteriorly, and the posterior version sometimes requires medical treatment.

So At A Knock I Emptied My Cage

It's taken a mere 6 months, but I think I'm finally happy in my apartment. Until now it's been a bit of a love-hate relationship, with the occasional night out together ruined by alcohol fueled character bashing, followed by drunken make-up sex. Mmm, yeah, picture THAT internets. Last year I saw that guy who was arrested for having sex with a bicycle, and I totally judged him, but that was before this apartment. Now I know better, he was just getting settled in with a new bike.

You see, I was happy from day one that I elected to get a place by myself. I consistently think to myself several times a week..."ah, ain't nobody here but me." And then I continue eating my ice cream and watching TV naked. I'm not sure what that says about me...probably that I hate people, and that my dream is to be eaten by my cats when I die alone so that we can finally become one complete body and soul. I'm exaggerating of course, I don't eat ice cream several times per week, but I do wander around naked ALL THE DAMN TIME. Just ask the cats. They won't admit it at first, because they're understandably creeped out, but they'll fess up eventually.

The catch, of course, was that I'd either have to live outside the city (ew at this stage of life), or get a really small place. And my place? It's not just a shrew's tit, it's a pre-pubescent shrew's tit. Something that only a pedophilic shrew could love, especially because I have a ton of shit and clutter makes me unhappy. Imagine taking a 2 bedroom apartment, cutting the stuff in half, and then stuffing all that in one room. I was like a crazy lady hiding under stacks of newspapers and cat litter, only occasionally emerging to go carry my end of times placard. The situation was weighing on me.

So, this past weekend I prioritized home-making and decluttering. Painful as it was, I did find some interesting things. Like, a 2 year old check for over a $100, uncashed. Doh. Like the title for my motorcycle. Yay! Extended raping by the Mass RMV bureaucracy avoided! Like a totally kick-ass tuxedo halter top. Yeah, you read that right, I'm basically Jennifer Beals. I also spent about 3 years painstakingly painting my shelves in a nice duo-tone color scheme. Who knew poop brown looks so good lining shelves? Inmates with a flair for decorating, take notice - it's a warm, inviting look, however you will need at least 2 coats + touch-ups depending on your base, so save up.

A friend came over to hang out on Sunday and I was all like, hey, you're a person, with hands, thus you are well-suited to helping me switch litter boxes! She was like, AWESOME, I SHOULD COME OVER MORE OFTEN. And then we did it. So now I have a comparatively tiny litter box that takes up less than a 1/3 of the kitchen, and since it's covered and filled with "The World's Best Cat Litter", the stench and dust is drastically reduced. I'll miss that fine coating of clay dust everywhere, but I guess I'll just have to adapt. I'm trying to resist calculating the cost per crap of this litter though, because it ain't cheap.

I would go out on a limb at this point and say that the apartment is perhaps even approaching "cute", or at least "homey". I have one big *cough* area of wall that I need to figure out what to do with, and I have yet more decluttering to do, but I'm, like, totally stoked at the progress. I'd even have a boy over now.

Itinerary Of A Pretty Damn Good Day

Sleep in a little, but not too much.
Meet a friend for an easy 6 mile run.
Hit the gym for upper body and stretching.
Meet a friend for a leisurely chat over coffee.
Back to the gym to finish stretching and revel in the newly renovated wet area.
Browse in a gourmet food shop for a while.
Home to read a good book, dork out on WOW, and watch some Monk.
Eat some HD Vanilla Swiss Almond.
In bed by 9:30.

This girl? Parties HARD.

Moto Mamma

I rode my motorcycle today for the first time in months and months. I had forgotten how intoxicating the wind, the rumble, and the whiff of gas is. Rawr.

So Tender And Caring

I don't know what's up with me lately, my mental state of late has been so unpredictable. (Yeah, you're all giggling to yourselves asking what I think is abnormal about that...pbbbbbth.) My dating life is a rollercoaster, mainly because there is someone things are developing with, but because I'm a huge chicken with intimacy problems the experience is alternately very traumatic and very exciting. And sometimes just baffling. And then of course there's someone who's very interested, but who I've ruled out and miss having as a friend. I'm tired of losing friends.

But, aaaaaaaaaanyway, I just remembered that when I thought about writing a blog post yesterday I hadn't intended to write about my knickers and their bunchy-ness at ALL. I had intended to write about the lovely, accommodating, and surprisingly fearless folks I encountered at East Coast Grill Monday night. I'm allergic to oysters, along with pistachios, dust, cats, trees, grass, shoes, and life in general. I am not, however, allergic to any other kind of mollusk other than oysters, so I'm free to indulge my love of the thai mussel appetizer from ECG. I hear they're easy to make at home, just coconut milk, lime, steamed mussels, and some spices, but although I'm exploring my omnivorous side of late with seafood, I’m most definitely not at the stage where I’m ready to actively kill an animal, no matter how cortextually-challenged it might be.

My dinner partner ordered oysters as an appetizer, and when they brought it out and set it in front of me instead of her she mentioned that I was allergic. Apparently this activated the ECG "Keep Patron Alive" alarm, because they immediately followed up with a visit from the chef who told me that mussels are also mollusks. Yes, I know. Yes, I know it's weird to have such a specific allergy to oysters. Yes, I am grateful that allows me to eat delicious things that you also like, such as your mussels.

Did the concern end with the educational segment though? No sir, it did not. When the waiter delivered our entrees there was a little yellow card with it. I saw on top the header "I'm allergic to oysters!" and immediately looked for the dotted line on which they expected me to sign my life away before allowing me to continue. Was there any such thing? Nope, it just said "Please wash all utensils before using them with my dish. Please clean the grill before preparing my food. Please wipe dishes before serving my food. Please wipe my ass before I leave the washroom." And so on. It was basically a list of preparation demands that they'd made on my behalf. I thought that was pretty cool.

Totally Trippy, Man.

So it's 2008 huh? I'm not quite sure what to make of that because my brain keeps telling me 2000 was yesterday, yesterday, yesterday, dammit. This has been a rollercoaster of a year with exciting things, disappointing things, good friends, bad friends, stressful things, fun things, red fish, blue fish. Although I'm orders of magnitude more happy than I was at the beginning of 2007, it's still all been rather befuddling, so I'm pleased to be moving on. Even if my brain thinks I'm moving on to 2001.

My plans for the coming year involve some interesting prospects, such as tricking some poor med school into letting me pretend I'm a doctor, traveling to warm places where I can be half naked while stalking fish and coral, running farther than I'd strictly like, and quite possibly growing up just a tad, although I wouldn't hold my breath on that one.

On that note, here's Jesus welcoming us all to a very fulfilling new year, and reminding us that God is indeed everywhere:

Give your soul a little freedom.

Do you remember in middle school and high school how at the end of the year everyone would vote people as "most likely to succeed" or "best smile" or "person I'd most like to see being raped by a llama"? Well, like everything else in today's world, there's now an electronic version. It's an application on facebook called "compare people". I like how they just put it flat out there - the only thing more honest would have been "popularity contest". Anyway, as with so many things, I mock it, and then join in.

One of the things that I was voted was....best dancer. I was really surprised by this because I am NOT a good dancer. I had mandatory dance lessons as part of my gymnastics training when I was younger, and the instructor basically wrote me a doctor's note saying "Please excuse her from the class. She's hopeless and I think she might have palsy."

After a little thought, however, I know why people think I am a good dancer. Basically I enjoy it so much I create an optical illusion. I have gone clubbing a couple of times recently for the first time in, oh, say 4 years, and oh. my. god. I had such a great time. I'd forgotten how dancing is one of the only ways I can completely lose myself in my body. I feel sexy. I love the fact that I can have that taut sensation of The Possible with someone, without any pressure to take it further. I feel happy, and I am not thinking about a damn thing other than the music. In some ways it's similar to spinning - it's dark, the music is loud, and you're doing something rhythmic. I have no idea what else might fall under that category.

After clubbing the first time I was barely able to walk the next day. My quads were done. It gave me an idea. I put on some music at home one day when I didn't feel like going out for a run or to the gym, and put on my hr monitor, and went to town. It was very easy to keep my heart rate above 140, and adding in random squats and other lb exercises gave little pulses to 150. Not quite running, but decent, and so much more fun. Seriously validates my decision not to get a roommate - gettin' down in your undies is one of the great pleasures of life. My only beef is that I can't blast the music as much as I'd like.

I thought I'd share some of the music I go for in one of these sessions. It's mostly electronic, because that's mostly what I do high energy dancing to, and I particularly lose myself in listening to it. For me it's very zen.

Shakey Shaker - Hallucinogen
Somebody to Love - Boogie Pimps
Tijuana Groove Is In the Air - Digweed
Adir Adrimi - Balkan Beat Box
Corporate World - Dust Brothers
Buttons - PCD
Think Locally Fuck Globally - Gogol Bordello
Touch It Technologic - Daft Punk
Scorpion Frog - Infected Mushroom
At The End (Johnny Vicious Remix) - IIO
And of course, the perfect:
Castles in the Sky

Castles In the Sky is a surefire magic carpet ride to happy times for me. Go wiggle your hips people!

White Trash Holiday Fun

No, I'm not talking about making beer can tree decorations, or blowing up the giant inflatable santa lawn ornament, or even festively dyeing your Wal-Mart cigarettes red and green. I'm talking about tasty holiday treats. I brought one of my childhood favorites to the football party this weekend, and it was a huge hit, so I thought I might share it here. You can make this while completely shitfaced on molson, it's that easy.

Ingredients:
Peanut Butter (none of that fancy ass natural shiate)
Ritz Crackers
Chocolate Chips (not that semi-sweet baking stuff)

Step 1: Make lots of peanut butter sammiches with the crackers and peanut butter.
Step 2: Melt the chocolate and dip each sammich in it to coat thoroughly.
Step 3: Stick sammiches (on wax paper or tinfoil) in the freezer for at least 10 minutes.

There's nothing precisely festive about them, except that they're about 1000 calories each.

While I'm at it I'll share the other dessert that I made for football, which was referred to as "sugar-dipped crack", because it also strikes me as kind of white trash, but I should note that the person I got the recipe from is perfectly lovely and not white trash at all.

Ingredients:
Pillsbury crescent rolls in a can
Marshmallows
Sugar and Cinnamon
Butter

Step 1: Melt butter.
Step 2: Mix sugar and cinnamon to taste.
Step 3: Roll marshmallow in butter and then sugar and cinnamon mixture.
Step 4: Take one crescent roll and roll it around marshmallow, making sure to pinch dough closed on all sides.
Step 5: Dip the top of the crescent roll in butter and then sugar and cinnamon mixture.
Step 5: Bake at 375 for 12-15 minutes.

These taste like apple pie, which is a little disturbing, but negates the need for keeping those expensive pieces of fresh fruit around. Also, obviously this recipe is a lot more complicated and involves the oven, so limit the liquor and stick to pot.