Monday, February 27, 2012

Super sexy magical voodoo face goop mask thing.

So I'm not as hysterical and militant about artificial products, or chemical-containing beauty supplies.  I got the batshit out of my system, I guess, and have sloooowly drifted back to earth. 

But I have discovered quite a few things I love to use that are homemade, free of crazy toxins and chemicals, and will probably not make me grow tumors on my bits. 
So while there might be an occasional shampoo or body lotion in my armory that isn't organic or "natural" by any stretch of the imagination, I do still try to make as many of my own things as possible.  Both for health and awesomeness.

My sexy new kitchen appliance.  

I've recently gotten hold of my very first food processor, because I am ignorant of kitchen appliances and all their super important jobs.  If this is not the most awesome and all-important piece of kitchen necessity, then I don't know what is.  I feel like I've wasted half my life, chopping vegetables by hand.

This is completely unimportant to the story...

So in the spirit of health and awesomeness, I decided to use my new food processor to churn out some special facial voodoo goo, that would give me the butter-soft skin of a prepubescent girl.  I might have my hopes set a little high, but one never knows until one tries.

So, first things first, the ingredients:

Half a banana, because all homemade facial masks have to contain banana.  It's just a rule.  I think.  And also they're kind of shaped like penises, so that makes the mask extra naughty.

Five or six teeny baby tomatoes.  Because I heard somewhere that tomatoes on your face are good.  I think.

Two or three strawberries, for the same reason.  And for seedy, scrubby bits.

An egg.  The whole egg.  Because I'm a moron, and you're supposed to use egg white.  But that yolky thing is probably rich with mineral-y goodness, and even if it's not, why waste a perfectly good embryo?

Some pulverized almonds.  For scrubby bits.

Some honey, because it's supposed to be awesome, and will also make a sticky mess of your eyebrows, which is important.

Milk.  I think it's moisturizing, but I honestly don't know.  They had a whole TV commercial in the 80s that told me it would do my body good.  So, why not?

Some sugar, for more scrubby bits.  Which turned out to be a huge fail, since the granules dissolved in all that gooey liquid.  But at least it makes the mask taste sweet when I get it all over my lips.

And some kaolin clay, which is seriously awesome for your skin, and helps my voodoo goop thicken up a little, instead of leaving it to drip off my face like a messy horror show.

I also added a spoonful or so of baking soda, once I got it all mixed and smeared on my face bits.  It was still super drippy, and I thought the baking soda would help it thicken up.  Plus, that shit dissolves the soap scum from my bath tub, so I have no question that it will help clean the grime and bad decisions from my pores.
It's probably also worth mentioning that adding baking soda to this recipe causes something magical and scientific to happen, and that shaking it up in an old sour cream container with the lid tightly secured is a bad idea.  The container swelled and threatened to blow up, and kill me, and spatter my bathroom with sticky goodness.

So you throw all that together in a food processor or blender or something, and make it into goop.  Oh, and make sure you don't measure anything, because that would make a lot of sense.  This will probably be the most fuckawesome facial slop in history, and I won't be able to recreate it because I'm a moron who doesn't remember to use a measuring spoon.

Now slap it on your facial parts, and shriek in surprise as you suddenly discover that this shit is ice cold.  Something a person will just have to adjust to, since you'll definitely want to keep this in the fridge.  I doubt spoiled milk is very pleasant as a facial cleanser.  Or ever, really.

Oh, before you do all of that, remember to add in the drops of lavender and tea tree oil that I forgot to mention...

Now after you've slapped it on your skin, and are waiting for the magic to happen, take a picture of yourself so you can show everyone how sexy you look.  For real.  Text that picture to everyone in your address book, because they will like it.  If you're feeling super sexy, make that picture your desktop background, and marvel at your beauty.   Like this:

Super sexy voodoo goop mask product, for your desktop background enjoyment.

And then you go take a shower, scrub that shit from your face, and marvel at your buttery goddess skin.  I hope...
If I don't update this post within an hour or two, someone should probably come and check on me to make sure my face hasn't melted off.  Or at least throw a towel over my nude bits, so the fireman doesn't see me naked...


Like kisses from a unicorn.  If a unicorn gargled glitter and silk, while baby koalas cuddled on its saddle made of rainbows and angel tears.
Mix this stuff up, and slap it on your face!  

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Eff you, Internet.

Google is the devil.

Moreover, those self-diagnostic health websites are the devil.

Sweaty palms become cardiac arrest.

A sudden stomach upset becomes swine flu.

An overly-moody period becomes period cancer.

I don't think there is actually such a thing as period cancer.  But the internet is a big place, and I haven't done a very extensive study of the subject so far.

A rational person would just make a damn doctor's appointment, and stay the fuck off of WebMD until the day arrives.  An irrational person, (ok, me) would make an appointment, suddenly freak the fuck out, start to worry about things more than ever, and google every horrific thing that could possibly happen.  Or not happen.  Because we've established that such a person is fucking irrational.

So now I will go to bed tonight, and toss and turn all night with thoughts of dying from hemorrhoid cancer
 or vitiligo or the plague.  And rickets.  I think there's a thing called rickets.

I totally have rickets, I know it.

Fuck you, internet.  With a condom, tho.  So I don't get herpes.

And now for something completely different...

A little different today.

First, click this.  She rules.  One of the smartest and most loving women I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  And also one of the cutest.

And this adorable, brilliant and seductive blogger has called me out, in one of those "TAG ALL THE PEOPLE" things.  Which means I get to divulge 10 unsolicited secrets about myself.  And since I am my favorite subject, I will dive into the task head first, and recoil in terror later.

After which, I'm supposed to call out six other bloggers to do the same, but that's incidental.  We're here to talk about me now.

1.  I don't like zig-zags.  Flashing rainbow-y zig-zags in my vision are a sure sign that a migraine is coming, that it's going to kick my ass, and that I will lose total control of my senses within the hour.  Fuck zig-zags.  Fuck them in their pointy asses.

2.  I probably have an eating disorder.  Taste and texture inside my mouth should not make me nearly as happy as it does.  I am never as happy as I am when something scrumptious is invading my face hole. You could make a crude joke right here, but what are you, gross or something?  

3.  Sometimes I'm paranoid to the point that I wonder if I'm schizophrenic.  I also believe that most people have an ulterior motive in being nice to me.  It's all a big joke, that all the cool people are in really nice to me, and then get together to laugh about it later.  Kind of like when they talked that boy into asking Carrie to the prom.  Only I don't have telekinesis.  Or that Drew Barrymore firepower thing.  I think I veered a little, here.

4.  I just want people to like me.  Which is sometimes a problem because I also tend to be opinionated, and never think I'm wrong.  But despite the fact that I can seem like a rough broad, I'm kind of a marshmallow.

5.  The best way to describe my marriage is "hysterically co-dependent."  Our "normal" functioning married couple friends think we are the strangest people on earth.  Several of our friends even sleep in separate bedrooms from their spouse.  I think they are secretly martians.

6.  I am militant and immovable in my views on homosexuality.  If I find out you are a homophobe, it will piss me off and make me not want to be around you.  Ever.  So I will leave you to your backward, hillbilly beliefs, and go off to make out with my girlfriend.  

7.  Sometimes I'm compelled to bite someone.  My teeth start to feel weird, and I can only make it stop if I bite someone.  Which is unfortunate for my husband.  Who is soft and chewy.  

8.  No one is within biting range at the moment, and after typing out that previous sentence, I had to bite my own arm.  Despite those things, I am still technically sane enough to walk among "regular" people.

9.   My arms are covered in self-harm scars.  Which I refuse to hide.  I am unsettled when someone stares, and relieved when someone asks.

10.  I literally have no fucking clue what I'm doing, and it scares the hell out of me that I'm a grown up.   I'm terrified.

Good times.

I don't think I'll be very good at the tagging thing.  Instead, I will put links to a few of my favorite bloggy things, and you can give them a ganders.

Sexy, and  unapologetic.

A Grammar of Chaos
Brilliant girl.  I learn and remember stuff here that I never would have retained otherwise.

Disturbing, sexy, graphic.  Most definitely NSFW.

Witness to Foolishness
Stuff pisses her off.  She rights beautifully about it, here.  

Single Dad Laughing
How to be a single dad, or any kind of parent, without sucking.


Thursday, February 23, 2012

My new fancy mirror, and why Scott will probably turn into a lizard.

Nieman Marcus is coming to live with me.  Which is a huge deal, considering we're not allowed to have nice things in our house.  Even the higher-quality shitty furniture in our possession quickly becomes a huge crumby pile of crap once it's had the misfortune of being placed inside our home.  Even still, something from Nieman Marcus, something that poor people can't afford, is coming to live with me.  In the form of an evil, Snow White-esque, magic mirror.
Probably.  The actual levels of evil and magic haven't been properly tested yet, but rest assured I will update you the very second it opens up a portal to hell...

Scott: I just picked up a mirror, and the paper says "destroy in field." It's from Nieman Marcus. I'm gonna have to look at it and see what's wrong with it. 

Me: The fuck? Why would you destroy it in a field? Seems like an odd request of a delivery man. Can't Nieman Marcus destroy their own mirrors?

Scott: I don't know. Can't destroy it in the street, or a building...

Me: Well of course not. We're not barbarians. 

Scott: If it's a neat frame, we could put new glass in it for a few dollars.

Me: And go against the wishes of Nieman Marcus?!?!?

Scott: Yes! 

Me: Maybe their definition of "destroy" is somewhat liberal. Being a piece of fancy furniture in our home surely qualifies as destruction on some level...

Scott: Haha. 

Me: What if they want it destroyed because of its evil powers?!

Scott: They didn't put that on the pick up order...

Me: Well of course not. They didn't know whether you were a regular delivery man, or an evil henchman. Of course they lied.

Scott: Haha. 

Me: Bring me that evil mirror. I'm going to ask it who's or my half-sisters.

Scott: It's you. 

Me: Yeah, I thought so. But having it confirmed by an evil mirror makes it undeniable.

I'm pretty sure that "It's you" comment was just an attempt at keeping me from trying to use my new magic mirror to turn him into some kind of lizard.  But the gesture was nice.  And if it turns out he was lying, then at least I'll have a pretty cool, high-class piece of Nieman Marcus-ware to display in the living room where his picture used to hang.  And my pretty sisters can fight over Lizard-Scott.  

The Colors of Madness

Yesterday I flung paint wildly at the wall. Stripes of blue and pink and green, haphazardly smeared in swoops and swirls, changing the blank canvas of the wall into a cornicopia of colors and shapes. Spatters of red, angry and sharp, amidst the gentle billowy curls of pink. Blues and greens mashed into bruised globs, turning themselves over and over again, into a black mass, and escaping into single colors again at the edges .
I flung my lonliness and frustration in wet orbs against the plaster, watched as the emptiness exploded awash with color.

Today, I blot gently over the fresh wounds, small, controlled circles of thick white paint, leaving barely a faint stain of yesterday's madness.

My canvas is fresh again. And ready for my next hysterical outburst.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Whining like a bitch.


And it's pretty much every day lately.  On some level, my head pumps and throbs like speakers at a shitty concert, leaving me burrowing deep into my bed in desperate search of sanctuary.
From the light.
From the wind.
From the sounds of my childrens' voices.  My poor teenager can barely speak to me, because the sound of his voice literally makes me want to vomit.
My ears are ringing and rumbling, to the point that silence around me makes me stabby.
My stomach is in knots.  I feel as if I ate fire.  This is either a symptom of my condition, or a side effect of the medication I dumped into my belly to try and fight it.

I am unwell.  There's no denying.

As a general rule, I'm a healthy person.  Every physical I have ever had, has suggested that all those mysterious numbers doctors like to see, are right where the doctors like to see them.  I've got my physical quirks, but all in all, a healthy person.  "But you need to lose some weight," they'd all assert. "Fuck you,"  I'd think.

Now they're right.  I'm unwell.  And as much as I hate to admit it, it's because I'm fat.

I do not now, nor will I ever accept that "fat" equals "unhealthy."  My stance has not changed, and I will forever be a militant fat-activist of sorts, insisting that fat people are not immediately lazy or sickly just because of their fat.  This is why I'm so pissed off that my own fatness actually does have a direct effect on my health.

And boy, does it ever.  I'm miserable.  The days I don't spend trying to avoid the very tip-top of the headache-pain-meter, I spend trying to encourage my food to stay in my stomach, since nausea is a prominent side-effect of my condition.

This post is really nothing more than a whine.  I'm sick and I'm resentful and likely only making such a post because the medication has fogged my brain into thinking it's a good idea.
Tomorrow will be better.   I'll be in a state of weakness and near-euphoria once this thumper passes.  And I suppose I'll put in a few extra minutes on my treadmill, in hopes of shedding the offensive weight, and settling back into a somewhat normal existence.

But I'll be bitter.  Harumph.    

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Proof that my husband is trying to kill me.

Poor, homeless, defenseless bird, soon to
be poisoned to death by my husband
and his "need" for new tires.  
I am probably getting a bird.
This is a well thought-out decision, and in no way a reflection of my potentially impulsive decision-making process.  I have been thinking about it since at least 2:00 this afternoon...

My husband is somewhat less convinced, but his judgement is questionable, at best.  He thinks we need to spend our money on new tires for our van.  I mean, goodness.  Isn't there enough pollution in the world?  There are gazillions of homeless birdies out there, and he wants not only to deny one of them a loving home, but to add four rubber tires to the pollution of their precious environment.  Thoughtless, and quite frankly, not what I'd expect from the wonderful man I married.  I feel as if I don't know him at all.  I hope no one thinks less of him after reading the conversation I've just had with him, via text message...

Me: Can I have a parakeet???
(Evidently he didn't take me seriously, because he didn't respond.)

Me: WHY YOU NO ANSWER?? I need a parakeet! 

Scott: You no need parakeet. I just got to a stop.  That's why I no answer.

Me:  I can forgive your delayed response, in exchange for a parakeet.  I need it to live.  Do you *want* me to die?

Scott: Why the hell would you want a cat snack in the house?

Me: I don't think it's nice to assume that our cats are bird eaters just because they're cats. That's racist.

My poor cat, who is racially discriminated against by my husband.  

Scott: You've seen Sunny at the window. That bird will last a week.

Me: That sounds like a guarantee! A guaranteed week of bird-filled entertainment!

Scott: Umm, no. 

Me: You are denying a defenseless bird the warmth of my bosom. You are a bully. A cat-racist bully.

Scott: Where did all this come from?

Me: Probably not from anywhere neurotic or having to do with any mental health deficiencies. But
that is beside the point. This has been my dream for a long time. At least twenty minutes. Nothing else will make me happy. Don't you value my happiness? 

Scott: Nice try. No bird.   (Heartless.  Cruel, heartless monster.) 

Me: Can we get a sugar glider?

Scott: I think there are laws against those.

Me: Maybe. You're right. We should just get a parakeet instead. You're the best.

Scott:  *sigh*  

I mean, I think it's pretty safe to assume that I win, and I can only expect him to come parading thru the door this evening, gorgeous little birdy in tow, with an enormous cage, and loads of little birdy toys, including whatever that weird shit is that they like to gnaw on.  

Estimation of what my new bird will look like.  Except mine
will be way awesomer.  
The amount of cashews I
unknowingly ate while composing
this blog.  Oops.
See?  If I'd had a bird, I could
have shared my fucking
cashews with him, and
spared myself the twelve
pounds I'm going to gain.
And the early heart attack I'm
going to have from all this
comfort-food.  My husband
wants me to die.   He is trying
to kill me.   This is proof.