Okay, I admit it: I have a tendency to torture myself. Whether it’s setting my own broken hand, starving myself in a seven day detox or getting all of the hair ripped off of my nethers in a Jewish Community Center, I have a special proclivity for putting myself through some ridiculous shit. I would like to point out, however, that in every most cases I have a legit reason for torturing myself. For example I was forced by a lack of medical attention to set my own hand and the detox was bolster my health and the Brazilian wax was necessary because it was the start of swimsuit season.
See? Good reasons for insanity in all most cases. And such it is too with The Flaming Buns that I had a good reason for torturing myself.
If you’ve watched my videos on youtube then you can probably tell that I’m constantly sniffling between perpetual allergies and/or a cold. One of the things that really sucks about this–aside from the obvious abundance of snot–is that because of my cardiac issues I’m not supposed to take regular allergy or cold medicine so I usually just suffer through it. However the other day I was scrolling through Pinterest–where all good ideas come from–and I found a homeopathic cold remedy in the form of a Ginger detox bath which promised to help you sweat out your afflictions. The next thing I knew I was grabbing my keys to make a trip to the supermarket.
“Where are you going? It’s dark out!” my mother exclaimed as I headed toward the front door. (My mother is from the school of thought that females should not go out after twilight or they will surely be accosted by ghoulies, beasties and long-legged nasties.)
“To get some ground ginger,” I replied.
“Why do you need ground ginger at 9:30 at night?”
“Because I’m going to bathe in it.”
And as she is so used to doing, my mother just accepted that I had said something inane.
After aquiring the ground ginger without being kidnapped–though I told my mother that I fought off a hooligan who tried to shiv me and an old man who offered me candy–I dug the baking soda out of the cupboard and went upstairs to brew a Gingered Kat Stew.
I ran the tub full of hot water, added the ginger which turned the water a disgusting shade of brown, shook approximately a third of a cup of baking soda into the mix, eased myself into the mess, grabbed a book and let myself cook. It only took about ten minutes before I started to sweat but you’re supposed to soak for at least forty minutes to get the full effect of the ginger so I continued to soak and read my book.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened but at some point I looked up from my book and realized that my ass was hot–and not “hot” as in “cute”, “hot” as in “I feel like I’m sitting in a vat of salsa”. While I had been occasionally swishing the water around in the tub, a healthy amount of the ginger had settled to the bottom and I found that I was sitting in a layer of pure ginger. I swished the water around some more but it was too late; my buns were officially on fire. It wasn’t exactly painful though so I went back to reading and sweated out the remainder of the time, however by the time I got out of the tub, my ass was numb. It was one of the most fucking bizarre sensations I have ever experienced… and of course I made worse by smacking myself and then laughing like a bloody lunatic because I didn’t feel anything when I did it and my mind instantly made a dozen filthy jokes. But aside from amusing the hell out of me, I will say that this ginger soak did actually clear up my stuffy, sniffly nose, and not only that, but I went to sleep soon after I got out of the bath and didn’t wake up once during the night, which is very rare for me.
And in a hilarious turn of irony my next tale of maschicsm is already in the works except that instead of burning ass, I’m going to be freezing it off. Tomorrow, 1/19/13, I’m going to be jumping into the semi-freezing Atlantic Ocean with my Gal-Friday of insanity, Jewels, and my brother Mike (known on here as “Gator”). Again there is logical reason for this madness and we are not arbitrarily jumping for my hypothermic fun of it but because we joined the Polar Bear Plunge to benefit the Special Olympics. Jewels and I have already our minimum donation goals thanks to some brilliant peeps who I’ll be linking to their blogs/twitters as my featured Super Peeps next month, but my brother hasn’t reached his goal yet, so I’m extending my thanks of pimping to anyone who contributes to his goal, too. For a minimum donation of 5 bucks toward Gator’s/Mike’s goal, I’ll shout you out in the post I do about the Plunge and also have the link to your blog on my sidebar in all of its glory for thirty days (or more usually).
But before you think that I’ve gone soft and am helping my brother because I’m a nice person or something, let me clarify that by donating to my brother you are actually still helping me because if Gator/Mike doesn’t reach his goal, he can’t plunge and I will feel much better about plunging into icy water if I can look over and laugh at my brother’s freezing ass.
Finally I wanted to add that by donating, not only will you be helping me, but you will also get bragging rights that you personally helped me in my latest tale of what-the-fuckery.
How can you resist that, right?
(And this is Number 25 on the List of Shameless Shit: Ask for help.)
Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.
What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?
Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.
Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door anyway. This is very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.
I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from their fifteen pound frames.
“Can I help you?” I asked him.
I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”
“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman spiel.
“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck to me and yet it was.
“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.
And then the evil part of my brain woke up.
“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.
“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”
“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.
“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.
“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”
He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”
“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”
He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”
“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.
His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”
“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”
“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.
The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”
His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.
The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.
I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.
I’d like to add a side note that door to door salespeople on my street are ridiculous and relentless. They do not take no for an answer and will visit your door every single day until they wear you down. Considering this and the fact that I was unable to fall back to sleep after the interruption, I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.
*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.
I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and tumbles out of my mouth by telling her that the number is probably that high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.
She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.
As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t feel the frantic need to be in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea – I’m not one of those women screeching that she never wants to be in a relationship again while at the same time her head is swiveling in every direction for a Y chromosome – but rather, I’m okay with being on my own. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the caliber of guys that I’ve dated since my liberation. I can’t argue that they haven’t been a bunch of toads, but at least I ended it when I kissed them and they didn’t turn into a prince. I am. But apparently this is an avoidance tactic of my part.
However, I think I may have recently discovered the true reason why I’m not in a relationship ship, and this is thanks to a resurgence in popularity of the Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You post. The first time I published that, the general consensus of comments agreed that it was indeed a very wrong story. Since the second posting though? I have received a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but imagine my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”
I replied with, “I have not. But then I don’t date much.”
Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”
And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will probably never be in a relationship: I can honestly say that I will never, ever find someone with whom I am so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees. In fact I will happily demonstrate my love by telling him that’s his rodeo and he can handle his own lasso.
But seriously, you all have some weird relationships – which is fine, but I just don’t want to know the details of them.
Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.
I’ll admit that some the ridiculous events in my life are a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a completely innocent bystander. I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery. I can’t make this shit up.
For example, I was given a certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas. (Don’t ask, just go with it because that’s a story in itself.) I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo the aesthetic torture of having a stranger apply hot wax to my nether regions and then yank it off, but I was assured that this place was the best. With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate. The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website. It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address. I happened to notice there was a “JCC” in the address, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”. It wasn’t until I typed the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.
I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center did, but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include chocha grooming. Since I’m well-versed in life throwing me the perverse, I just rolled with it, and called to make my appointment. When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building. I’m actually part ethnically Jewish, which was a good thing because I planned on praying through the entire procedure.
The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge. Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive. I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building which thankfully turned out to be correct. After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa, but then I wandered the halls for ten minutes searching frantically for the correct door for fear that I would have to actually ask someone where to go. I finally stumbled in a blind panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised. The receptionist – who was a gentleman old enough to by my grandfather – assured me that I had found the correct place. (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an elderly Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)
As shocking as it might sound, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic. Aside from being aware that there was a daycare center right next door, and there was only a wall separating a bunch children from the room where all my business was just out there, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience, and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article, “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.
In other news, I’ve started edits on my book. I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down by every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it, and would be willing to show it off. My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can read, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum, and I’m still adapting to keeping up with it. It’s a lot of work -I pretty much live on my computer -but I love it.