Crottins

This last week has posed a real challenge coming up with things to write about. What does one resort to when stumped? I thought about picking up the threads of a post on Suburban Bliss, but the backstory would be a bitch to write up. It does kind of strike a nerve for me. For what it's worth, it is worth a look, and while not strictly ladies only, in is more topical to women. I also thought of doing a memorial post for my Father-in-Law, who passed away on St. Patrick's Day, but honestly, who would care to read it? So, what you wind up with are these little crottins which I choose to serve you:

Cocktail weenies: is this the most obscene-sounding snack in the world? I mean, first, you have "cock." It's a pink sausage for fuck's sake, and you're going to call it something starting with a euphemism for penis? Then there's "tail," which is a euphemism for female genitalia - as in "get a piece of tail." With my perverted imagination, I've already got quite the picture show in my head. The pièce de résistance though is the last word: "weenie." As a child, I had boy friends who routinely referred to their equipment as their weenie. When you see the stubby, flesh-colored meat stick on a plate, nothing quite puts you off as much as making that association with your former 8 year old friends. Ick. I think I'll stick to the bacon-wrapped scallops, thank you very much.

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When a big girl - euphemistically speaking - has to buy clothes, it's rarely a pleasant prospect. Add to that prospect the additional complication of fashion constraints, and you've got a nightmare in the making. The memorial service was yesterday, which necessitated the purchase of a new black garment, as all the other serviceable black garments I own are too small for my current tonnage. I found, after much frustrated searching, a conservative black suit, suitably voluminous to cover my ample ass assets which didn't make me look like a plus-sized prostitute. Swathed from neck to ankle in black polyester, I was, and was glad of it. Perhaps I shall make use of it again when my Mother-in-Law finally gives up the ghost. If not, Miss Peanut will have a black pup tent for girl scouts.

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As I mentioned before, my Father-in-Law passed away. He was 85 years old, suffering from senile dementia and Parkinson's disease. Before he became completely infirm, he was quite a character - oh, the stories I could tell. Ornery as cat shit, always trying to stir up some good-natured trouble, hardworking, alternately caring and cantankerous depending on which way the wind blew - he was an original. People said of him that when he was created, they broke the mold (and then proceeded to beat the hell out of the mold-maker). I'll miss the old bugger.

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Number 57,432 on my list of Things That Annoy Me: Acne drugs. You know, back when I was 13, acne medication was reserved for those kids who had really horrible, pitting, disfiguring acne. Those of us with mild to moderate pizza face had to suffer through those years, relying on them to "build character." Nowadays, practically every student I have is on some form of acne drug. It makes them all beautiful, to be sure, but it also makes me feel like such a dirty old woman as I can't help but admire all the tall, clear-skinned young men that enter my classroom. Not that I'm going to go LeTourneau, because 13? Yuck! But honestly - they're too handsome for their own good. Please, take away the Accutane, people. Zits protect them.

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Number 74,963 on my list of Things I Can't Do Without: Baby snuggles. My boyfriend, Max, is just as cute as ever. I submit for your perusal, exhibit A - Max at Play.

Is he not the cutest boyfriend ever? He's such a love, and I'll be seeing him and his lovely parents again on Easter. Can't wait to cuddle him.

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Makeup is the devil's palette. In my teen years, I liberally slathered my face in foundation, caked on the powder and blush, smeared my lips in fire-engine red, and loaded down my eyelashes Tammy-Faye-style in an effort to disguise my insecurities about my looks. In college, I simply couldn'tbe arsed to keep up that regimen. It was all about efficiency and getting the fuck out of bed in the mornings. Here's my college regimen: sweats? check. ponytail? check. lip balm? check. Voila. Instant undergrad - just add coffee. Nowadays, I usually wear some, just so I can feel professional. Yesterday, though, I went all out and wore the full face. It was so uncomfortable! I felt smothered in paint - like the Bond girls in Goldfinger (which is an urban legend, by the way, as you can't smother in paint unless someone holds you down in a vat of it). I looked like a porcelain doll, though. Do I want to be that uncomfortable every day just to look pretty? Hell no. I can't imagine that anyone actually does the full face every morning. Do you?