I have no reason to live

I have long subscribed to the theory that I am bulletproof and immortal. This despite multiple orthopedic surgeries which I have largely lumped under the heading “design defects” which have no real impact on my immortal status.  So on Monday when I could not stand up straight due to stabbing pain in my stomach, I forced myself to visit the doctor. Since I had spit up blood and no one having met me could ever accuse me of wasting away from consumption, it was a fair guess that I likely had an ulcer. I’m no rocket scientist (I went to law school which pretty much excludes extra smart people), but it kind of seemed obvious that this was an ulcer since I don’t have a flask in my desk drawer and despite my claims that my liver fled to live with Keith Richards years ago where it’s less toxic, my drinking days are largely now the stuff of myth.  The ER doc was less than amused by my self-diganosis and insisted on “tests”.

The tests included the following:

1) Stabbing me repeatedly in both arms and hands (which sucks epicly) attempting to take blood.

2) Realizing I am a lawyer and have no blood.

3) Stabbing me again for good measure because the nurse just realized I’m a lawyer.

In the end, the learned doctor determined I have an ulcer.  Thank you Captain Obvious. Aside from forcing me to take medicines, he laid down the following edicts:

1. No alcohol. I argued that no self-respecting lawyer can make it through to Friday without a martini?. He did not care about my problems.

2. No chocolate. I protested this was un-American and he told me to suck it up.

3. No caffeine. I attempted to rebel at the thought of no morning Red Bull, but could not stand up straight to kick him in the balls.

The end result of this is that I have survived for an entire four days on entirely healthy, non-caffeinated substances. I would cheerfully roll a nun for a Red Bull right now. They tell me this is part of a “lifestyle change”. I’m not sure I see a continued reason for living without caffeine, chocolate and vodka.

I am one step away from “Help I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up“.

Cooking with Susan

As I have mentioned in the past, my parents were largely indifferent to my survival as a child and I was left to fend for myself a good bit.  Once in a while, my parents would realize that some portion of our upbringing was likely to bring shame upon them and they would take some step to remedy our filial deficiencies.  For my sister, my Mom realized that she had some natural inclination toward crafty things and so Susan was taught to sew. I got an F in home ec in 6th grade because my bean-bag frog was found wanting by Mrs. Chapman, the home ec teacher.  However, since I had exceptionally good grades, my parents were generally content to let things like my lack of artistic and/or domestic talent slide. By the time I got to college, my Mom realized she had failed me in that I had absolutely no domestic skills: my house was a wreck, my buttons were stapled on as a needle and thread were beyond my abilities, and the contents of my refrigerator included an ancient package of frozen pollock and condiments. Something had to give.  The solution: send me to culinary school, in Italy. And so it came to pass that I mastered the art of cooking. In Italy. Some would call that overkill.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my sister married and had kids. Sadly for them, Susan’s culinary talents were absolutely non-existent. Susan called me one night to ask me for the recipe for meatloaf. I gave her a recipe. Two hours later she called back for advice. This is a near-verbatim transcript of the conversation:

Susan: Hey, the meatloaf came out kind of weird.

Me: What do you mean by ‘weird’?

Susan: Well, the cheese on top kind of blew up and then deflated like a sad balloon over the meatloaf.

Me: I don’t recall telling you to top the meatloaf with cheese.

Susan: Well, after I poured the meat in the pan, it looked kind of sad so I thought I should cover it with cheese.

Me: Poured?

Susan: Well, I didn’t want to touch the meat and egg mix with my hands like you told me so I put it in the blender. Then, I only had a 13×9″ pan so I took the brick out from under the leg of the sofa and covered it with tin foil and put the brick in the pan to make it smaller like a loaf pan. Once I poured it into my new loaf pan, it looked sad, so then I thought, “cheese fixes everything” so I cut cheese slices and used the torch to seal the edges of the cheese over it so I wouldn’t have to look at the meat-like liquid. Now the cheese has blown up and burned and is floating in a sea of grease.

Me: That’s not sad, that’s tragic.

Susan: How do I fix it?

Me: Open the trash can lid and deposit the contents of the pan there. Then pick up the phone and call for pizza.

I still cannot sew and Susan still cannot really cook. Susan is now divorced (probably not related to her cooking and more related to his tendency to date girls young enough to say things like “Who is Prince?” with a perfectly straight face.)  However, I think Susan really just needs a keeper before she poisons anyone. If anyone wants to marry a 40-year-old menace in the kitchen, let me know. 

P.S. to Susan: You can thank me later.

Williams-Sonoma: purveyor of kitchen tools and adult implements

I have a wedding to go to in two weeks and my friends are registered at Williams-Sonoma.  Scrolling through the kitchen tools section, this gem popped up:

A stainless steel butt plug, with teeth

I wish I knew who wrote the copy for this product because they deserve a huge shout out for managing to get such a staid institution to publish something so sublimely subversive.

I Owe Alabama an Apology

I have always said that Alabama exists to make Tennessee look good. Cross the state line, set your clocks back 20 years. Insert your own Alabama joke here. This was before I drove the length of Georgia on my way to the Everglades. Alabama, I apologize. You may be backwoods, but you are no Georgia. 

I-75 is pockmarked with billboards. To amuse myself on this very long road trip, I started paying close attention to the billboards. Leaving aside the billboards advertising hotels, gas stations and restaurants, the overwhelming majority of billboards along the interstate in Georgia are about “getting rid of liberals”, abortion and massage parlors/strip clubs.  Apparently, Georgia is overrun with people who frequent sex parlors and strip clubs that get girls knocked up and that are just ripe for being marketed to via the billboard. I’m not sure what liberals have to do with this, but maybe they oppose people going to sex parlors and knocking up girls.

You have many options available to let someone love you long time in Georgia

Once you are done fornicating, it’s time to deal with that unplanned pregnancy:

Apparently, abortion accounts for 20 percent of Georgia's GDP because abortion billboards account for most of the billboards

Then, for some unknown reason, the liberals must be removed from Georgia. This was next to an abortion billboard:

Apparently, communists oppose easy abortion and strip clubs in Georgia because Jody Hice wants Obama out.

So if you are a communist-hating, strip club patron who likes to knock women up and/or you like to have abortions after fornicating, Georgia looks perfect for you. For the rest of us, close your eyes and think of baseball.

Dressing for the holidays: sexpantz

I loathe clothing that  requires more than spandex to shape it and hold it up on  my body. I also loathe shopping. I have in the past considered wearing a muumuu since the only thing it actually touches on the body is the shoulders and because a muumuu is basically a trashbag with armholes, that extra cookie I ate for lunch isn’t going to show. However, the only people allowed by law to wear a muumuu are anyone over 300 pounds, Italian grandmothers over the age of 60, the Olsen twins and Divine (God rest his soul).  It is December. I have parties to attend. I need clothes. Dressy clothes.  Desperation is a powerful motivator that can force me to shop.

There are three relevant rules of fashion in my world in this instance:

1. Yoga pants are awesomely comfortable.

2. Holiday parties require dressy clothing (translation: nothing grey heather or with the word “Hanes” on the label).

3. Velvet makes anything look Christmas-y.

Taken together, the solution is obvious: velvet yoga pants. Here is what I found online:

Nothing says fun office party outfit like hot pink crotchless velvet yoga pants.

Yes, someone sells something called “sexpantz”.  You can buy various kinds of sexpantz: catpantz, hotpantz and dancepantz. I am particularly fond of the leopard print catpantz modeled by a man. If you look, don’t say you weren’t warned.

This site begs the question: who would buy these things? Apparently, according to the metatags, members of the LGBT world and Burning Man revelers.  

No self-respecting gay would be caught dead in stretch velvet assless chaps.

While I have never attended Burning Man as I am now way too old for that kind of chemical joy, I am reasonably confident based on vague memories of misdeeds from the first Lollapalooza, that these pants would not sell well to that crowd.  They’ll be naked and covered in mud and velvet really does not hold up well in mud.  As for the LGBT world, my gay friends would rather send a Christmas card to Fred Phelps than wear velvet assless chaps. Leather, sure, but cheap stretch velvet?  The horror.

I guess I now understand ass waxing. If your ass is on display, you’ll need to make a good impression because first impressions matter.

Wax ecstatic

There are some people in this world who need more to be worried about in their lives. Consider, if you will, this little gem from our helpful friends at eHow: how to wax your perianal area. Translation: asshole waxing for the do-it-yourselfer. Seriously. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about before. Now my asshole needs to be hairless.

Miss Kitty explains how to get your wax on.

Being eHow, Miss Kitty gives detailed instructions on how to accomplish this. One key thing she forgets to mention is the ever-important rule to always lock the bathroom door first. If Troy came in and saw me hunched on the floor with wax on my ass and a mirror in my hand to check it out, it would be a toss-up as to who would be more traumatized.

You'll need to be an octopus to hold your ass cheeks apart and accomplish trimming ass hairs as instructed at number 3.

I am thinking that you may need a few months of Pilates or yoga to allow you to have the leg strength to squat with a mirror and wax while holding such an awkward position for long periods of time. Finally, the “tips and warnings” section has this superb suggestion:

That phone call to your BFF might be awkward. "Katie, do you mind coming over tonight and helping me wax my asshole?"

And after the waxing, apparently you need anal bleaching. There is no end to the shame.

l have always wanted my own aircraft carrier

A lawyer I know (and don’t like) regaled a captive crowd with tales of his new RV at a miserable continuing education event I recently endured. Presumably, he intends to drive very slowly in the left lane, annoying everyone behind him because he’s like that. He also still wears his high school class ring. But I digress.

The lure of the RV, if there is one other than knowing you can drive it unashamedly in national parks while wearing darks socks with sandals and a wifebeater, is that it is a truly portable home. You can drive to a location full of old people (like say Arizona or Florida) and park and stay as long as you like. If you end up parked next to a jerk,  there is something really awesome about being able to walk over to your annoying neighbor,then  knocking on his door and saying to his face  “I wish you and your entire extended family pain and suffering on Christmas” and then driving off permanently into the sunset. If I could lift my house and bail out now, the old bag and her dim-witted slob of a grandson next door would get an earful immediately.  

It occurs to me, though,  that the RV is not a solution to my undersirable neighbor problem. I have for years longed for 25 acres complete with a house with a double-gallery porch, an allee of live oaks, a rocking chair, a mint julep and a shotgun to keep the undesirables (basically everyone) away. What I really need is an aircraft carrier.  Park it offshore and hole up. No one is going to fuck with an aircraft carrier. Of course, aircraft carriers are in short supply. Troy says you can buy anything on line, so I googled ‘aircraft carrier for sale’. Voila:

Your own private floating island with an airstrip - and guns. Sweet.

Troy points out it has no engines because he is a killjoy. I guess we’ll just let it float and see where it takes us, but ‘Invincible’ might be an unfortunate name for a very large boat without engines. Maybe we could rename it. Like the ‘HMS Giant Fucking Catfish or something’. While fun, naming this the ‘Minnow’ seems a bit diminuitive, and also gets that song stuck in my head. Then I read the fine print. “Cannot be used for warlike purposes”.  Excuse me? Isn’t the point to owning an aircraft carrier to use it for potentially warlike purposes? If I had this, I would totally sneak up on Gulf Shores, Alabama, and stage pirate raids to kidnap people and hold them hostage until the the State of Alabama publicly apologizes for being Alabama. And also, for Cam Newton.

Giant Jesus vs Aragorn

The Giant Jesus erected in Poland has been all over the news in the past few weeks. Stephen Colbert had a crack at it, too. No one  has mentioned this statue’s unholy resemblance to Aragorn, though. You be the judge:

The Lord versus Lord of the Rings: who wins?

 

Let’s compare the the two, shall we?:

1. Flinty and stern faraway look ? Check.

2. Aquiline nose, long hair, beard, and deeply hooded eyes? Check.

3. Gold crown? Only the Lord. Oh wait:

He's got a crown.

Memo to Giant Jesus: Aragorn called and he wants his look back.

Thanksgiving shopping: Black Friday preview

Thanksgiving is the day we are all supposed to come together and eat turkey, giving thanks that our ancestors were saved by people they would subsequently pillage and infect with smallpox. To celebrate, some people sit in silence with their families simmering with unspoken resentment, eating high calorie foods while watching football. My family traditionally gets hammered and trots out my ancient and deaf grandmother to sit in the corner and shout out vaguely inappropriate comments randomly as the day progresses. (On an unrelated side note, I am grateful my grandmother does not text ,which is something to be thankful for on this day).  Since I no longer live within driving distance of my family, I have created my own traditions. Thanksgiving is now the day I get on line to see what I can buy for Christmas gifts without ever having to leave home. Ebay is a good place to start. My mother-in-law has a sitting room in her home devoted to animal prints so I came up with this:

The perfect gift to and from a person with the social conscience of a flea

What exactly is the companion piece for this lamp? An elephant leg trash can?

An imaginary conversation between two people who would own this lamp:

“What a lovely lamp.”

“Thanks. I shot this zebra on safari in Botswana last year and had lamps made. It goes perfectly in the game room with the African white rhino head hanging above the mantel with the inlay of tortoise shell above the pool table with the carved elephant tusk legs next to the leopard skin rug we bought from that nice man in Russia last summer.”

“It is just darling. Harold and I are going to Canada in June to club baby seals. How is Frank?”

My sister thinks I am deranged, but she’s the one sitting next to me on the Imac looking up hydroponic growing systems. I bet I know what she’d be thankful for.