Show us something that's ridiculously cute.
On an only tangentially cuteness-related subject; el señor Tacobelle and I went to Boystown today for hot gay sex... er, I mean sushi and shopping. We hit up Tulip, a really classy sex toy store -- and we're not just talkin' classy for a place that sells plastic dongs; this store raises butt plugs to objects de art -- which was nice, especially since most establishments of that particular nature either go for a seedy, furtive feel or the whole novelty, bachelorette party, tee-hee vibe. Not that Tulip didn't have vibe... and vibes, which, incidentally, was what I dropped by for. I picked up a basic slimline, which I promptly named Axel von Beaverfuchs because, hey... you just gotta name those things. I mean, getting tooled with a red plastic phallus and two AA batteries sounds about as appealing as a pap smear, but deep dickin' with Axel von Beaverfuchs? Yeah, that is a good time right there.
Anyway, after our brief foray into the world of riding crops and dildos, my human male accessory was craving some tempura so we stopped off at a sushi joint by Medusa's Circle. I just had a Diet Coke, but he informs me that the food was really good, and reasonably priced, too. We shamelessly eavesdropped on the two middle aged ladies seated next to us, one of whom had recently been to Japan, read a book about Japan, or something of that nature, and was getting all loudly pedantic on her companion's ass. Did you know that fresh wasabi tastes so much spicier than old? Wow. But what can you expect from a person who makes a point to conspicuously mention that she likes warm sake... just like real Japanese people drink! Not that I am knockin' the warm sake or sophisticated wasabi pallet, because lord knows I'd love to have both right now, but I always assumed that wampanese posturing was reserved for those among us under eighteen, and with a healthy appetite for anime, you know?*
But yeah, after filling up on delicious, unauthentic, Americanized swill we left that singular paradise of pride flags, tastefully appointed hair salons, and cutting edge punk rock fashion that is Boystown to return to our squalid little natural habitat and finally managed to catch a mouse who's unobtrusive existence we've been suspecting for a while -- there were no droppings, no prior visible presence, but either there were rodents in residence or my dog was falling prey to rapidly encroaching canine schizophrenia. The fearsome vermin was lurking in our bathroom, possibly waiting to strike, but luckily by using my catlike reflexes, an empty glass, and a piece of cardboard, I was able to trap the beast. And by using my finely honed through years of girlfriend-hood wheedling powers, I convinced the ever so accommodating Tacobelle free that little dude in our backyard. Girl: one. Incredibly cute vermin: zero.
*Obligatory disclaimer: I have nothing against a robust appreciation of Japanese (or any other) culture, as is probably made apparent by the above picture, the majority of my CD collection, the overwhelming love of Excel Saga which burns in my bosom like a battery acid spill, so on and so forth, and if lusting after scantily clad Asian boy singers hairstyles is wrong then I don't want to be right. But this woman was just one of Those People. You know, the type who voluntarily set foot in a perfectly scrumptious restaurant and then proceed to list the myriad ways in which real sushi bars, in Japan, where, ninjas and samurai and Sephiroth all get together to knock back Pocky while geisha give them foot massages using suggestive Hello Kitty merchandise, are so much better. Whatever, lady, whatever.
After listening to my boyfriend detail various drama-lama-bang-bang from a show he went to a couple days ago, I have empirically concluded that "and then he quit the band" is quite possibly the best phrase with which to end a story. As such, I've decided to co-opt it for personal, incessant, and not really relevant use.
Okay, so. I spent last week house sitting for my mom while she took a much needed jaunt to New York City with her boyfriend. Which is to say that house sitter was my official position, though in actuality I spent most of my time the, you know, ancestral digs lounging on the couch in a sybaritic sprawl enjoying television, air-conditioning, the presence of a washing machine in the next room as opposed to next block, readily available low fat foods, cigarettes for under $7 a pack, et cetera -- all of which are patently unavailable in my apartment.
It was a pretty cushy gig, though I've come to realize that there really isn't much to do in the suburbs besides smoke copious amounts of pot, hit up house parties, and drink like an exceptionally alcoholic fish. And while that is certainly entertaining, the whole "duuude, I was so wasted last night..." scene is one I've, if not really outgrown, at least find tedious and grueling enough to make a once-every-couple-months-or-so occurrence. I did, however, enjoy seeing my extended and quasi-family (that's my mom's boyfriend's kids; a rather clunky and to my ear Springer-esque phrase which I am loathe to use in conversation), and my little brother, who was back from college for the summer and the reason a house sitter (or only person with a real ID in residence, depending on one's perspective) was needed.
By the end of the week, though, I was ready to drag my hungover ass and the freshly laundered backlog of dirty clothes I'd accumulated since moving back to my own humble abode.
And then I quit the band.
It has come to my attention that recent posts might make it appear as though my creativity has packed her bags, boarded a bus to Vegas, and is keeping the jewelry. Actually, this is not the case and I've been doing a great many arty things: as my boyfriend and his rapidly diminishing home tattoo supplies can attest I've been hitting the India ink pretty hard, not to mention struggling to wrangle my free trial of Corel Painter into submission, and, of course, making Adobe Illustrator my woman and making it enjoy it, all to various degrees of success.
These two were done in the crippling throes of menstrual angst... er, I mean with Corel Painter. And, on a side note, as frustrating as I may find this program (which happens to be very), I have decided that when my free trial runs out, and when I next rob a bank/find a wealthy old man willing to write me into his will in exchange for use of my nubile young body/discover how to maximize my earning potential and start chain smoking and walking confidently in all manner of impractical footwear for profit, yeah, I gotta get me some of that.
So there I was; standing in the bathroom, arms painfully contorted behind my head, shirtless, covered in hair from the waist up. A low, monotonous growling filled the humid air. Clearly my transformation into a werewolf was almost complete. That... or I shaved my head again.
Aww yeah, business in the back, party in the front.
My homie for life, Mister Rachel, has a sister. That sister, who's name just happens to be Robyn, has a rat. Robyn is moving to Arizona because fortune has smiled upon her, or she really likes palm trees and old people, or because it's where Mister Rachel and all the rest of her filial entourage now resides, or some other fourth thing, and as such has to find a new home for her baby rattie-pie. Being that I have a new home and not enough rats... yeah, I am now the proud owner of a shiny used rodent.
He's a taupe hooded guy with black eyes and freakishly perky ears, unlike my existing dumbos, Squeeze and Pampsy, who have gotten me used to the clownlike, floppy eared look. He is also freakishly skinny, so he was promptly christened Nicole Richie, as opposed to "the testicle rat," or "gramps," which were his previous monikers. We then fed him an apple, but cautioned him that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels and the ratio of poor taste to amusement around the kitchen table shifted not insubstantially in the direction of the latter.
Topping the list of things I never thought I'd have occasion to say but are, nevertheless, true, I have to mention this: Nicole Richie is a sweetie. I am profoundly glad to have Nicole Richie in my home. Nicole Richie rocks. Also pretty rockin', while Robyn was over Mister Rachel called and, with the addition of a few boyfriends, and ignoring the fact that one of us now takes the form of a cellphone, it was a pretty reasonable facsimile of the good old days of yore.
Parenthetically, though, it kinda sucks when your friends become autonomous lifeforms no longer bound by school and parents and the town where you all grew up. Ah, my babies, making for exotic, far off lands, compelled to strike it out on their own there, and not taking me with them despite the fact that, minus a few limbs (which I would gladly sacrifice), I could easily fit into most overhead compartments. But such is life, and if there is a social void that can't be filled with numerous fuzzy, squeaking rats then I have never run afoul of it.
Anyway, I'll take some pictures of the new addition to the family once he acclimates himself, as I don't think Nicole Richie would be comfortable with a camera shoved in his face at this juncture. Which... again, is something I never thought I would say.
Furthermore, my boyfriend is off hanging out with some local DJ-type person at a local party-type event tonight. This prompts two astute observations: Tacobelle sure is a popular fellow, and apparently one's beat matching prowess is directly proportional to the amount of metal one has stuck through one's dangly facial bits because one out of three "alternative" looking people is, inevitably, a DJ. The rest play guitar in a totally brutal band, Rapeblade, and would you like to hear their demo tape? It's right here...
Le sigh.
Having nothing better to do, a digital camera, and an un-air conditioned apartment that was growing steadily more reminiscent of the interior of a (fabulously appointed, clothes strewn) toaster oven, I sagely decided that the time was ripe for a good long meander about town. Of course, before I succumbed to the ravages of heatstroke, I took some pictures of my neighborhood and the surrounding area.
Today I went shopping at a Salvation Army-esque discount store in my neighborhood. Inside it was bedlam; think Filene's Basement, only with more curb stomping and polyester pantsuits. I was in heaven. I must have gotten carried away in the zeitgeist because I now own more shiny clothing than anyone in their twenties and not a stripper should.
The high point: a fire engine red, off the shoulder Mexican peasant dress which perfectly matches one of my, erm, whorier choices of lipstick and looks fabulous with a black pleather corset belt.
The low point: a chain and leaves print shiny polyester jacket that looks like something you'd find at the estate sale of a chain smoking, slot machine playing Jewish matron, which my boyfriend absolutely detests (the jacket, not the matron. Yetta is very nice, thank you.) and refers to as "the thing."
Miscellanea: a sheer silk scarf commemorating the millennium past and, uh, the joy of fireworks, a handmade espresso colored a-line shift, a cream colored long sleeved shirt/mini-dress (assuming one has no modesty and great legs) boasting a truly garish leopard print pattern done in gold foil, a black and silver polkadot top that is so very, very 80's -- puffed sleeves, shoulder pads, a waist bow, the works -- a grunge-era purple flower patterned babydoll dress, a sheer beige buttondown shirt, and this fabulous silvery tanktop which gives the impression that I am, in fact, composed of three gently undulating disco balls stacked on top of each other.
Ah, believe me when I tell you this: there is nothing so satisfying as knowing that one could stage an impromptu drag show with nothing more than the contents of one's closet, some eyebrow pencil, and a penis.
Parents of young children and individuals of a particularly delicate constitution be forewarned, the following anecdote is gross times dos and contains passing references to both my sex life and face holes and the horrible juncture wherein the twain meet.
Okay, so, yesterday my boyfriend and I were enjoying one of the more carnal benefits of living together. All was going well... too well, it would seem, because right at the, uh, rocket launch, volcano eruption, explosion in the hotdog factory, et cetera, et cetera, I just so happened to bite my lip. Hard. And my right labret popped out.
The backing was propelled entirely though my lip, carving a swath of destruction as it went, before finally bursting through the front of my face in a shower of blood and gore and recently liberated lip meat. Seriously. My chin looked like the unrated edition of Hostel. Fortunately, my boyfriend,
Of course, by that point I was laughing too because... my lip erupted in a heroic spray of blood and metal during the physical act of love. I... lipjaculated. And that, internet sirs and madams, hardcore.
It is the sort of dark and stormy day that makes me feel wasteful for not having any dramatic revelations that could be punctuated by thunder... or, indeed, any dramatic revelations in general. Of course, there are those amongst us who would consider not secretly plotting the seduction of your tacky rival's beau while simultaneously conducting a torrid love affair with the pool boy, concealing a secret love child, faking your own death, and thwarting your evil twin's diabolical designs to send your intricate web of lies crashing down around you like so much ice tinkling into a highball glass a blessing. But, I ask you, what fun are those people?
Anyway, as a sharp fork of lightning cleaves the sky above, I would just like to take this opportunity and note that I dyed my hair jet black. But, you know, with drama and suspense and... insanely cheap off brand L'Oreal? All in all I'd say it looks pretty good. For Glamor Wig Model #336, now only $9.99 at a Party City near you.
This is Teacakes coming to you live from, respectively, scenic La Villita, her shiny new (ish) apartment, the kitchen, el señor boyfriend's laptop, and finally, her own warped little mind.
And to state the totally obvious, I finally have internet access again... via a phone line snaked through the open window. Because, you see, in Little Villiage we do it classy. With a capital "ASS."
How was the move, you ask, while preparing to nod politely and stifle yawns as I launch into long, excruciating descriptions of putting together bookshelves, debating whether to place the dining table in the center of the room or against the wall, and other assorted miscellanea. Fortunately, however, it's taken so long for me to get online (owing to the lack of a phone jack -- something I assumed that every apartment pretty much came with and, thusly, there was no need to ask about or look for prior to moving in. Weird, right?) that the bloom is off the rose, the furniture is pretty much arranged, and my precious dead Japanese rockstar dolls sit in an undisputed place of honor above the kitchen cabinets glowering down at all who enter. Which is not to say that our place anything approaching organized, as that would be a horrible lie, one for which the pile of my boyfriend's clothes and art supplies laying scattered on the living room floor would probably never forgive me.
Which brings me to this: the boyfriend. I used to think that gaining real insight into a person's character and habits was as simple as asking their sign, who their favorite Malice Mizer lead singer was, and possibly what brand of cosmetics they favored (if applicable). Now I realize that you never really know someone until you've lived with them for a couple months. And I have to say, I love my boyfriend and I love the shacking up, but damn, dude is weird. I mean, he salts his watermelon. Who does that, I ask you, who? Is that normal? Is there some great unseen majority salivating on their keyboards at the mere mention of salty melons? Am I wrong in being completely and utterly appalled by this? He also salts his cucumbers which... again... a wee bit strange? He gets indignant about poor grammar in advertising, is a militant advocate of the oxford comma, and occasionally requests food he doesn't even like in his sleep. And four damning words for you: sandals in the shower. Also, for somebody with that many clothes he is certainly naked a lot, often to comedic effect -- just saying but anybody who has never had the singular experience of seeing a nude boy frying hot dogs in a skillet is definitely missing out on one of life's finer and funnier experiences. Of course, I am probably a big old freak too, but having lived with myself and my inexplicable habits for twenty one years, the act of, say, filing my toenails or my staunch refusal to eat/touch/look at/think too much about meat with bones in it has long since ceased to shock. And at least I don't salt fruit.
Recent Comments
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studio524 said:
[this is good]"one could stage an impromptu drag show with nothing more than the contents of one's closet, some eyebrow pencil, and... read more
on All Dressed Up and... Nobody to Blow? -
Teacakes said:
Yeah. I bear a not entirely slight superficial resemblance to Dil of The Crying Game, right? Which is pretty cool,... read more
on I'm Blue, Doobie Doobie Doobie Do -
studio524 said:
[this is good]On you it looks stunnning. Really gorgeous. read more
on I'm Blue, Doobie Doobie Doobie Do -
Ah-ha-ha-ha! Yetta-wear! I love it! But really, I have no idea what to do -- maybe use it to mortify... read more
on All Dressed Up and... Nobody to Blow?