Monday, March 29, 2010

What's Cookin'?

I hate to cook. Actually, I loathe it. Detest. Am repelled by. I am a danger to myself and others when trying to use a sharp object, impatient with recipes and raw meat nauseates me, though I'm happy to eat it if someone else cooks it without me seeing.My children live in fear of the weeks that I single parent, sure that they will starve. I can overcook ramen noodles with the best of them, though, and as long as there is pizza delivery, no one will get hurt. I enjoy going out to eat, too, but really for the social aspects of it. I have annoying dietary issues that can make eating out a challenge, and that can suck the life out of trying the hot new restaurant. So I would not call myself a foodie. I do a disservice to Jewish mothers everywhere. Food does not equal love, to me. Food equals get off your ass and make it yourself.

Yet, I am drawn to Cook to Bang like a moth to a flame. This is like a look inside an alien mind. I honestly didn't know that anyone would go to such complicated lengths to get laid. It's not as if I've never heard that old "quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach" saw, it's just that I have learned over the years that actually going straight through the sternum is much more effective. Truthfully, I don't look at the recipes themselves. I love the whole concept of Cook to Bang, and the care that the author/founder, Spencer Walker, has taken to get his brethren some pussy. He could be a ginormous douchebag for all I know, but he isn't cooking for me. He is cooking for YOU, males of the species:

COOK TO BANG is not just gourmet recipes broken down into steps so simple a monkey could make them. It’s not just a smartass seduction guide. COOK TO BANG offers simple, effective methods for of enjoying the two greatest pleasures, food and sex. So unleash your inner Kitchen Casanova. COOK TO BANG!

And apparently, this dastardly weapon of seduction works. If you look at the testimonials, while the majority are from straight dudes, there are testimonials from gay guys and lesbians thrown in, as well as FOREIGNERS. It even works in other languages! I think they are about as authentic as Penthouse letters, but they certainly supply a huge laugh.

Up here in Porkland, Oregon there’s very little tail that hasn’t expired or gone lumberjill. But when you do find one you can’t just be another emo hipster with a cool tattoo. Cook to fucking bang! That’s why they call wining and DINING them. That FLAT ON YOUR BACK FLATBREAD PIZZA recipe cost me a short trip to Trader Joes and a 3-pak of Trojans.

My game has been so bad for so long that my friends thought I was gay. Girls always thought of me as their guy friend that they could say anything to except for “I want to ride you like a pony”. Thanks to the tips on this website and the Baked Briez Nuts recipe after dinner I felt like Sea Biscuit after 8 furlongs. The perfect breakthrough for the “Let’s just be friends” talk.

"I never thought this would happen to me, but last week when I was cleaning my neighbor's pool..." Yeah, yeah. Andrew. Or should I say "Andrew". But as you can see from these clever quips, the recipe names are the best part of the whole experience. And I have to admit, if someone went through the trouble of cooking me a meal of CUNNI-LINGUINE with a side of SO READY TO MEAT MY BALLS, I might be a wee bit entingled. But in order for it to work, he would HAVE to tell me the names of the dishes. And wouldn't that be revealing too much, revealing that his WHOLE GOAL WAS TO GET IN MY PANTS? Not so romantic anymore. Now it's just amateur porn on a plate, only not as grainy.

Still and all, I applaud the concept. It is more productive than a pick up line and less illegal than a roofie. And there is something sweet about it, because someone has taken the time to actually think about what you might like. Sadly, I am not a fan of the grand romantic gesture, and this kind of falls into that category for me. Vacuum the house without me having to ask and you are talking romance. Add a bag of M&M's, and I'm yours. No cooking required.

Monday, March 22, 2010

A Lovely Bouquet

The whole Vagina Preoccupation I seem to be having lately has gotten a fair number of comments. Without a doubt, my blog about Vajazzling caused a mini-uproar, with women asking "What the fuck?" and men asking "How can I get that job?". I found the whole concept utterly hilarious and was hoping someone, male or female, would volunteer to try it out and share their results. No one has, sadly. But my Vagina Preoccupation is merely a reflection on a larger, societal Vaginal Obsession, if you will. Why, just today, I came across two fantastic pussy-related subjects. One is a site called I Love My Vagina with poetry and fan letters to one's own ladyflower. Here is a lovely little piece that should be set to music:

I love my Vagina, it's been good to me.
Never had a problem, has worked with me to solve some of my own problems ;)

It's never been sick or tired and its always there lol

Oddly, if you take out the word vagina and put in the word "co-worker" it has a similar meaning, although far less interesting. This site is a laugh riot and not safe for work AT ALL. But if your late at night Zappos and Chatroulette isn't doing it for you, this may. I suspect it is a gateway site, however, to far more vivid sites describing self love, like Literotica.

But hold on to your hats, folks, because this is as bizarre as vending machines in Japan that sell preworn schoolgirl panties. There is now a perfume called Vulva. And it is not a perfume FOR your vulva, either. It is meant to smell like a...well...vagina. I swear to god. I honestly wish I made this up, and even more, I wish I had created this commercial. Again, NOT SAFE FOR WORK, but hilarious and icky.

It is, of course, possible that this is a joke. But so far, not a single vagina related thing I have shared is fake. The rehymenating blow-up doll, the vagina facial--all true. The thing that gets me is this. On one hand, one very shaky hand, I admit, women have been made to feel dirty about their scent, so this is a somewhat feminist step forward. HOWEVER, I really don't want to think of who is BUYING this perfume, because there is no need to buy it for a woman. Ever. For obvious reasons. Ugh, I am getting totally grossed out. And yet I am fascinated.

So I am trying to move on to find a less graphic subject, but it isn't easy.I am also trying to deal with my Diet Coke jones. You will all have to be patient. Rome wasn't built in a day.

I cannot get these links to light up, but in case you are interested, here they are: (Vulva Perfume)

Monday, March 15, 2010

Pop Tart

I went to Trader Joe's today to buy more of the vanilla meringues that I am currently obsessed with, and they were giving away samples of something, as they do every day. Often they offer vile juices, like a watermelon/cucumber mix, or fair trade coffee, the smell of which peels the enamel off my teeth. Today they had "organic blueberry toaster pastries". And all the conscientious shoppers were crowded around the fool in the Hawaiian shirt, for a tiny square of unfrosted, fake Pop Tart, as if he were the Messiah himself. And I wanted to take those substandard rectangles of fake pastry bliss and throw them to the ground, like the tablets at Mt. Sinai, and castigate the legions for worshiping this golden calf. This golden calf of Trader Joe's,of Whole Foods, of doctor's orders to STOP DRINKING THE NECTAR OF THE GODS, Diet Coke. This golden calf of HEALTH. Damn all of you for buying into this concept of staying healthy, and dragging me in there with you. Because this is one of the things I resent most about getting older--I DON'T HAVE a twenty year buffer during which I can eat endless amounts of french fries and not worry about it. The worry is HERE. IT IS HERE. And I FUCKING HATE IT.

When I was in my twenties, not once did I think an errant pain or inexplicable infection meant I had cancer. I didn't wake up in the morning, groaning like my grandmother. I didn't even have a doctor! Who gave a shit? I lived on Diet Coke and chips and salsa, and was perfectly happy to not have to think about what corrosion was occurring inside my corporeal body. I didn't have gravity issues, gray hair, pterodactyl lines, chicken wings or even a size eight foot. I did not wake up in the morning and say a prayer of gratitude for the new day, drink green tea to detoxify, eat organic or worry about my weight in any other way but relative hotness. In short, I was young and blissfully stupid, and as I stood in smoke-filled clubs in Boston in the late 1980's, inhaling second hand smoke and losing my hearing, I was having the time of my life. I was an idiot in every way and I wouldn't change very much. If anything, I would have broken more hearts.

I have fallen into the trap of "well being", simply because it is now my reality. I have friends with cancer, friends with parents and even kids with cancer. People in their forties die, and while it is unusual, it isn't unheard of. Having children means planning ahead, so there is the clusterfuck of life insurance, wills and trusts. And, frankly, I don't want to die right now. Plain and simple. I have a lot to do, and dying would seriously interfere with getting my CD done and my dream of playing The Paradise. So, I gave up my Diet Coke, and it's been nearly four weeks. It is no easier, I feel no better, and I want to tackle every motherfucker who pops open a can in my presence.

But don't think I have lost my edge, people. On the contrary, this has forced me to get creative. If I am going to accept my fear of aging, my fear of death, I am going to fucking EMBRACE my fear of boredom and run with it. Late nights, playing music, stirring up trouble, moving way the hell out of my comfort zone...all on my new and improved To Do list. Because even with all the worry, i'd rather be where I am now. And no way am i going to look back and say that my twenties were the best years of my life. I really, really think those are now. I will make them that way. Just watch.

P.S. Trader Joe's organic toaster pastries do not make you healthy. They make you a Pop Tart Pussy. Either eat the real thing or stay home.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Spring Fashion Issues

Every so often in life, people have experiences that radically alter their world view. Sometimes they are large and religious, like seeing God or being brought back from death. Sometimes they are straight up miraculous, like the birth of a child. Sometimes they are devastating, like losing a loved one. And sometimes, they are so disgusting, so indescribably ick, that it makes you hate people. Such was an event many years ago on the vaunted Green Line B trolley, the slowest of all the trolley lines on the face of the Earth. Between stopping at every stop light and dodging BU students with no concept of self preservation, it takes hours to get downtown. Absorbed in my book (probably a pretentiously conspicuous Paul Bowles collection), I heard a metallic clicking noise. On second listen, it wasn't a clicking. It was a clipping. A clipping noise. Of nail clippers. I turned around to find a woman clipping her toe nails on the T, right behind me.

A woman was clipping her toe nails on the T, right behind me.

Yes, it took some time for me to comprehend, as well. Because this is an intimate grooming ritual, which, like plucking one's eyebrows or trimming one's nose hair, one does not do in public EVER. EVER. NO exceptions. I cannot think of an emergency in which toenail clipping in public would save your life, so I am going to go out and limb and say NEVER FUCKING EVER. I remember feeling skeeved out the entire way to class, and indeed, getting waves of nausea for the rest of the day. That feeling has never left me, and resolved my already very strong feeling that personal grooming should be taken care of without the benefit of a fare paying audience. I was glad to get off the train when I did. I can't imagine what she was planning to trim next.

What made me think of this powerful life moment? Spring is here. As the tulips and crocuses push their little heads through the soil, the people of Boston come alive. And just as the snow melts, the Bostonians clothes melt away with the raising temperatures, revealing waaaaaaaay too many things that no one wants to see. I am not talking about a gut, necessarily,or even pasty white skin (I embrace my pastiness, thank you very much) but, really, things that fall into the personal grooming arena . In other words, clip your damn toenails. If you are going to make the decision to wear sandals or flip flops (dubious for a man, to begin with, if you ask me) then have the decency to degnarlify your yellow talons before sharing them with the world. If you can grate cheese with them, they are too long. I do not expect every man, woman and child to go to the excellent MiniLuxe Spa and have a heavenly paraffin wax pedicure (divine, people!) but please clean the grit and cut the claws. I don't think that is too much to ask. Asking for you to buff the gross dead skin off your feet is overkill, i'll admit, but if you could do that too, I would appreciate it. But remember, kids, do this in the privacy of your bathroom. You can take an eye out with one of those thick Winter ungulae.

Oh, and one more thing. I know I promised to stop with the vagina stuff, but this is so ridiculous and falls so neatly into this very subject, I had to share:

Enjoy the beautiful weather!!

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

An Extra Bizarre Wednesday RANT: Vegas Vagina

I will eventually stop obsessing about all things vagina , I promise. I thought I had covered everything, but that shows how limited my aforementioned frothy imagination actually is. Apparently, a totally bare ladyflower is so yesterday. Now, the cool thing is Vajazzling, applying a lovely rhinestone pattern to your painstakingly naked pussy. Like the woman in the video at this link. This is NSFW, although you can't really identify much, but do you want to explain to your boss why you are watching rhinestones being carefully applied to a vagina?

I am completely, utterly taken aback by this, but not because someone is adorning their privates in some way. After being a member of an all woman's gym near a college campus, I have seen more curiously placed tattoos and more appallingly placed piercings than I can ever erase from my mind. But, people, let's start with the basics. This takes a looooong time. A wax is over in the most painful two minutes of your life, but this takes so long, your aesthetician will be in your will by the time it's over. And I cannot imagine what one talks about with the woman who is APPLYING GLUE TO YOUR HOO-HA. Doesn't that sound wrong all on it's own? If it doesn't, it should. Because anyone who has ever had a band-aid on even a slightly hairy arm knows how much pulling one off hurts. Imagine that times three billion from probably the most sensitive skin on your whole body. How sexy.

But ok, assume that you are interested in this personal decor. Look at it. It's like a really sparkly case of genital warts. Through tights or underwear it would look like reptile skin. And during relations of a sexual nature, the friction would either a) cause a rug-type burn on your partner, assuming he/she overcame the shock of your bespangled pubis, and/or b) the dislodging of said gems as to cause a choking hazard.

Maybe I am missing the boat and the Studio 54 Vagina is here to stay. Lord knows I have missed the boat before--I thought the return of skinny jeans would die a quick death. And maybe I'm wrong that the sudden unveiling of this particular work of art, in a romantic, candle lit room, would not send blinding rays of light into the eyes of the unfortunate standing there. But I will say I cannot imagine bedazzled testicles, nor any man who would undergo such a thing. I may be overestimating the male sex, but I think, when it comes to testicles, men think they look fine just the way they are.