Class is now in session

Look ma, I'm internet famous!

And why I save these conversations for a Sunday morning (with a Jack and Coke hangover, no less) is beyond me...

Lazy Love

Today is a day for love. Or the manufactured construct of love. I don't have time to write about that shit, though. I did, however, have time to repost some shit. ENJOY!

I have completely neglected this bitch. But don't feel bad, I've pretty much neglected e'erything else as well. As a matter of fact, dishes from my last home-cooked meal (read: the morning of Sunday, February 6th) are continuing to rot in the sink. Don't judge. I got food poisoning that night and puked so hard snot dripped outta my nose and tears streaked my face. Which leads me to today, Valentine's Day. A day for sappy sentiments and even sadder, sappier suckers. I have nothing against Valentine's Day. As a matter of fact, I've had a handful of awesomely successful Valentine's chock full of flowers and food and sex.

Today was not one of those days.

Today, I had to make a trip to Kooky Korean Doc's so that I could fish around in my own poop, so that in a week Kooky Korean Doc can tell me if I'm gonna die, or if I just have hemorrhoids. Or colon cancer. Or e.coli poisoning. (Yeah, pretty sure it's not that last one, but if it is, hooray for my new "I'm headed home soon and need to lose 20 pounds FAST" diet plan!)

So yeah, this Valentine's Day was THE SHIT!

*As much as I'd fucking love to end this post with that wildly successful pun, I can't. After I told Kooky Korean Doc about my probs, he asked me the routine follow-up questions: What did you eat? Are you feeling stress? How is your sleep? Do you have lelijun? WAIT. WHAT?

"Do you have lelijun?" he repeated. I ran the word through my Konglish Translator. Lesions? Do I have lesions?

"Like spots?" I asked, still baffled.

"You are American? Do you have L-E-L-I... I am Christian!" Kooky Korean Doc proudly proclaimed, as he pointed to the Bible on his desk.

Oh FUCK.

"Uh, no, I do not have RE-LI-JUN," I enunciated carefully. But back to the potentially cancerous growth in my intestines, if you will.

"You are happy?"

Exasperated sigh. "Yes, I am happy."

"Me! I am happy or not happy?"

REALLY exasperated sigh. "Uh, happy?"

And on it went until he pulled out a sheet of paper entitled "Seven Steps to Spirituality: Reasons Mindy's NOT Getting into Heaven", or some such ridiculousness.

*Parenthetically: I am all for religious freedom -- practice it, revel in it, bathe your damn kids in it -- but for fuck's sake please, please, PLEASE keep it at church. And while we're at it, keep it off the streets of Itaewon, everyone there is already going to hell. Oh, and my front doorstep too.

Anyway, seeings how I could never say any of those things to Kooky Korean Doc, I batted my eyes, smiled politely and said, "Religion is for church. Health is for hospital. Please, no religion here."

He sat back. He smiled. Then he asked if I was ready to poop.

Signs of the Apocalypse

Search keywords that may or may not have led *YOU* here:

Cooking with sperm

AND

Snowman of sperm

I just. I can't even. UGH.

*UPDATE. Please read this.

February, You Bitch

I want to go to bed so badly, but I just painted my nails. Ugh, why do I always do this?! First world probs, fo sho.

Also, soft core lady porn has been on permanent rotation at my house for the past three days. I'd like to personally thank Sarah Hamrick for loaning the entire series of The L Word to my roommate. (Insert sarcasm here.)

The inversion continues, but every morning I believe Erik Jones when he tells me it's just "FOG". I feel like believing his lies makes my morning commute somehow more bearable. Of course, by the time recess rolls around and the "FOG" has yet to lift, I'm cursing Erik and his bogus morning weather report. This is seriously jeopardizing our friendship, Jones.

Cabin fever has officially set in.

Goddamn you winter, GTFO.

A Little Dash of Gay

OMFG, that last blog post has been a huge point of contention between me and my GAY ASS roommate.

Sunday night I rushed home to tell her all about how I felt up my cousin at my sister-in-law's baby shower. I was so excited to finally touch some fake boobies. Now, it's not like it was a damn goal or anything, but when given the chance to compare my real set to her fake set, I jumped at the opportunity. WHO WOULDN'T?!

My roommate, and lifelong lesbian, sees it differently. Gay, totally gay, she claims. The fact that I touched my cousin (FAMILY) makes it even more gay, apparently. Like, Kentucky gay.

I, however, am much more enlightened that she. I prefer to view it as a clinical exploration of the body. I was simply interested in comparing the look and feel of my very real breasts to her very fake ones. I'm an inquisitive person. I'm also a tactile person. So the fact that I squeezed, bounced, and otherwise fondled my cousin's fake boobs all in the name of science is really not so gay to me. Is just good research, really.

What say you?

I Went to This Baby Shower and All I Got Was to Second Base With My Cousin.

This is not a New Year's resolution failure, people, I was just seriously lacking in blog fodder. As per usual, my winter times have been filled with copious amounts of beer, food, and sitting on my ass watching the Wire. (I may have also written an entire semester's worth of Kindergarten AND school-age curriculum, in addition to a grant, but that's besides the point.) What I mean to say is this -- winter is boring, y'all, and bitching about the 3-week inversion, total lack of sunshine, and sub-zero temps does not make for easy reading. So daily blogging fell by the wayside in pursuit of warmer endeavors, like sleeping.

But today I hit pay dirt. Beware, this story involves two loud-mouthed cousins, a little bit of lesbian action, and a baby shower.

My brother and his wife are pregnant with their second child. For most people, this is a joyous occasion. The promise of new life always makes people so damn happy, and to celebrate the impending birth people throw baby showers. These "showers" are really giant estrogen fests, chock full of sticky sweet treats, inane baby games, non-alcoholic punch, and a cake made of diapers. Did I mention the total lack of alcohol? Needless to say, baby showers are not really my bag, mostly because of the lack of alcohol, but also because I don't really like babies.

*Parenthetically: Oh, who am I kidding?! I don't like baby showers because I am jealous -- jealous because there is no "you made it to 30 without an expensive, unplanned pregnancy" shower. I mean damn, I could use a raft of free shit, too. But no. Good behavior is rarely rewarded. So I waltzed into that baby shower colored a lovely shade of bitter. I'm not proud of it. I know it's not a good look for me. But there it is.

After doing a lap to survey the snack/gift/prize tables, I settled into a seat near the left side of the room. I was soon joined by my mother, stepmother, cousin Rosanna, and her 8 year old daughter, Sydney. Slowly, the rest of the ladies (because it's ALWAYS ladies) grabbed seats and readied themselves for some FUN.

We played the usual baby shower games -- guess mommy's circumference (I won), baby animal match (I won AGAIN), name that nursery rhyme (second), and how many? (I won one, lost one). Normally I'm not a terribly competitive person, but timed trivia is totes my bag, so victory was really the only option. Bitterness coupled with sweet victory was not making me any friends, so I did the next best thing -- I pulled out my cell and started taking pictures -- pictures of my sister-in-law and her mountain of gifts, pictures of my half eaten plate of little smokies, pictures of the fam.

See, don't we look nice? Everyone looks happy, there's a bit of cleavage, no one's got food in their teeth. That cleavage thang was a sticking point for my mom. Upon reviewing the picture she happily declared, "Look, I've got some cleavage!" My cousin Rosanna demanded to see the pic again, wondering if she, too, had the cleave. At which point moms turned to her and said, "You should. You paid enough for it."

WAIT. WHAT? WHAT?!

My mouth agape, I was speechless for the first time that afternoon. "Didn't I tell you?!" moms questioned.

WHAT? UH, NOOOO.

"Yeah! I got a boob job, uh, last September!" my cousin proudly declared.

The shower effectively stopped being a shower at that point, at least for me. It was now a Top Secret Exploratory Mission, wherein I was tasked with rounding second base with my cousin in the neighborhood clubhouse men's bathroom. It was, I soon found out, NOT a mission impossible.

I grabbed her arm and slyly whispered, "Can I see them?!"

"OH YEAH!" She loudly and emphatically agreed. Why buy the cow, eh?

So we snuck off to the women's bathroom, only to find it fully occupied. UGH, of course. Being related and having relatively (HA!) little shame, we both shrugged our shoulders, nodded our heads, and ducked into the deserted men's bathroom. After securing the lock and double-checking the stalls, she pulled down her tank top, lifted up her sports bra, and presented her fantastically augmented fun bags. I stared in awe -- not because I've never seen boobs (I've got a fine set myself), not because I've never seen fake boobs (porn, anyone?), and not even because they were hideously weird or deformed (although that would have been fun). I stared in awe because we were in a men's bathroom, sharing body parts like children. There was no shame or weirdness or gross-me-out factors involved AT ALL. In fact, it seemed so natural that my only response to her fake tits was, "Can I touch them?" And there, in the men's bathroom at my sister-in-law's baby shower, I felt up my cousin. I was pleasantly surprised to find them soft yet firm, with just the right amount of bounce. And my cousin being a fairly small woman, I found the upgrade suited her quite nicely. She showed me the scars, one on the underside of each breast, and claimed nipple sensation was even better than before. Gone were the bulky, padded bras of her teens and twenties, replaced with dainty, lacy sports bras or nothing at all. I nodded and mhmm'd while she discussed the finer points of her fake-boob-attaining-decision-making-process at the snacks table. Rosanna was born with a cleft lip and palate and has been visiting plastic surgeons all her life. OF COURSE she'd been looking at breast augmentation pics for ages. It was a natural choice, she explained.

After we'd both loaded up on snacks and shit, we returned to our table. Both my mom and step mom were silent on the subject of boob jobs and neither one dared ask if I'd actually completed Mission: Impossible. But for me, it was a TOTAL WIN.

Thank You for Being a Friend...

Laziest. Blog. Post. EVAR.

Ladies' craft night and shit's gettin' real... OLD. Knitting, crocheting, scones, and box wine. Golden Girls 4EVER, bitches!

Wine in mugs for old, gnarly fingers

Also, scarf number three is coming along swimmingly, thankyouverymuch.