I make porn in my kitchen

I decided to go all Becky-Home-Ecky for Christmas this year and make cinnamon rolls from scratch using the pioneer woman's recipe (thepioneerwoman.com). They looked awesome and easy. They ended up to be awesome, but not easy.  Because I ignored her instructions, went all maverick with the dough, and ended up panicking and unable to remember the smooth moves of the Cinnabon people at the mall.

So when I cast out uninstructed, I had an extremely hard time with the rolling up. I tried some black belt dough-handling skillz, but to no avail. Dough does not respond to awesomeness. I finally got that shit semi-rolled, sliced, and into pans for baking. At this point they looked like Dali's cinnamon rolls. No problem, I thought. Baking will heat those fuckers into uniform concentric-ring-having breakfast wonders. 

Last night I prepared a cinnamon roll to give to a real life blog reader (Hi, reader!). I placed it on a Diego plate, because it was either that or Transformers and I felt like Diego has more Christmas feeling in his heart, and covered it with foil. As the foil conformed to the roll, I noticed that it was weirdly shaped, reminiscent of....well, let's move on.

So then I gave the roll to my real life blog reader. We both looked at it, looked at each other, and pretty much sprained our throats snorting with laughter. Because, internet, that cinnamon roll was baked into a vulva. For real. Even through the aluminum foil....panty, you could see all its folds and nubs. And then when you peel back the foil (pervert!), it glistens with icing and is pretty inviting, if you're into that.  

I'll be making more of these soon.  

Found it

Which renders the post before this impotent. *snickers*

On a different note, I went to the mall today. That's right, two days before Christmas. I realized shortly into my foray that I am a buttmunch for thinking that was a useful idea. In addition to having absolutely nothing of note in any stores, the mall just makes me feel icky. Like a big misanthropic people-hater. Which I kind of am, in a really compassionate, humanistic way. What can I say, I'm enigmatic.

So I left shortly after getting there, in spite of wanting to hang out with one of my blog-reading real life peeps (shout out, peep!).  

Season's Greetings, blogosphere. 

Mt. Vesuvius

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My son, Pigpen

One thing I love about my younger son is his unapologetic grossness. He's had smelly feet since he was a small infant, which was so cute. It was like stinky feet, but with just enough baby essence to make it adorable. And last summer I actually took him to the doctor because one of his armpits had, to put it delicately, turned into a man. He proudly displays his pits at least once a day, asking me to take a sniff, waiting with gleeful anticipation for the moment when I recoil and gag.  He's always the one with his hands in his pants, finger in his nose, and boogers sneezed into a giant booger stalactite (yes, that's right, it's stalagmites from the ground; stalactites from the ceiling).

Once I found him wearing nothing but a dvd. It may take you a moment, audience, to figure that out. How exactly does one wear nothing but a dvd? And how does one wear a dvd? That conundrum was no obstacle for my little boy and his multi-purpose man tool. Yes, I captured it on film. How could I not? Some day he will want to know, and will want others to know, that he once wore a dvd on his penis. And I wanted to make sure I could give that to him.

My life has just improved a hundredfold

Exams are done. Woot! And I just found out that I pulled an A- in cell biology. Which is no small feat for two reasons: one, the professor said at the beginning of class that he does not often give A's, and two, because I started off the class with a C on my first exam (3 exams=your whole grade). So, to translate, I am the master of cell biology. 

A in EMT class, not sure yet about my history of medicine class, but probably something good like an A. A for awesome, baby! I'll be sure to keep you updated, audience, because I'm sure you're checking back often to relieve the stress of not knowing my grades.

Hold on, everyone

One exam down, four to go. Well, really six if you count the National Registry in a couple weeks. Which I don't because I'm all about the now. I'm studying (no really, this is just a refreshing, blog-entry kind of break) cell biology as we speak, which I wish I had more time to delve into. Really grab that cell by the horns, as it were. Because if there's something I like to study, it's tiny invisible shit.

Well, now I have to talk about the tapeworm. I got all fired up just thinking about cell biology, and that's not even my true passion when it comes to pathogen-focused education. I didn't mean to get all worked up, but who wouldn't get excited about the electron transport chain? I mean, have you seen how neatly it all flows, culminating in the uptake of that one single electron into a high-affinity oxygen molecule? Good stuff, people.

So the lowly tapeworm. Why is it so compelling, you ask? How is it not compelling, I answer you? What else could enter you stealthily (your choice, beef, pork, or fish), unfold from its tight quarters when your stomach acids dissolve its cocoon, cycle itself through childhood, puberty, and early adulthood, take up residence in your intestines as a sexually mature adult, and then just hang out there, all without you knowing? I mean, true, you would start losing weight as the tapeworm absorbed the nutrients you ate (why do we not use this, Wisconsin?), and you might start being alarmed as sections of the tapeworm are jettisoned out your ass in the hopes that one of them can find a home in someone else, but in general, the tapeworm is a benign intruder.

And may I wax lyrical for a moment? The fish tapeworm, which is not my favorite of the tapeworms (can't decide between beef and pork, leaning toward beef) has the most beautiful name--diphyllobothrium latum. That's positively musical, internet. It almost brings tears to my eyes. And it's not the only one like that either! Parasites, which are sincerely the most disgusting and fucked up disease causing agents known to humankind (bless their hearts or triradial lumen-having areas) have a collective poetry of names.

For your enjoyment:

enterobium vermicularum: the pinworm (itchy asshole)

clonorchis sinensis: the Chinese liver fluke (it is known for its horniness. It lays around in your liver and has sex all day, making little baby liver flukes. Parasite porn!) 

dracunculus medinensis: the Guinea worm (just wind it around your pencil! And then wait a day, and wind some more!)

trypanosoma brucei rhodisiense: African sleeping sickness (wake up, fucker!) 

yersinia pestis: the agent of plague (carried by fleas, not bad humours as once believed)

entamoeba histolytica: diarrhea on a grander scale than normal

Okay, I'll stop now. But that was the most fun I've had in a while. It was like visiting old friends, except they're friends that don't expect you to talk and do gross things like make your nuts swell up to 20 kgs so you have to haul them around in a wheelbarrow.

Back to the grindstone!

Hey, it's my sister's birthday

My big sister is just a bit older today. She's pretty much a perfect big sister: caring, giving, and slightly bossy. Anyway, internets, she's the real deal, the cat's meow, and the bee's knees. Here's to my big sister (clink)!

One thing about my big sister's birthday is that it is also my ex-cousin-in-law's (seriously, such a long story) birthday. And every year on this day, I argue with him about how old he is. Here's the kicker: I'm right. You heard me correctly, folks. I am arguing with a person about how old he is on this day and I am right. This is where I point out one of the many crazy things about people from Syria. I can say that because I've assimilated into being half of one of them over a period of 13 years or so. And also because, as a group (ethnic or otherwise, like Trekkies or swing dancers), I love them dearly. So that means I get to say whatever I want. It's called street cred, people. 

I'm a total voyeur

The thing about the internets is that you can just stealthily, sneakily, surreptitiously be there. No need for introductions, no shaking hands and greeting, not even a smile needed to acknowledge that you are there. I like that. I'm a big fan of the blending in, the camouflage (the reason I spelled that right is because I kick ass, not because I used spell check.).

But then, with all the blending in, you realize at some point that you're kind of the creepy neighbor next door peeping through the blinds and listening to the police scanner. There are people on the interweb that I actually feel like I know, and care about, even though I've never seen them or really even interacted with them much. And that's just weird. Because if there's someone out there that has lurked enough in my corner of the interworld to feel like they know me, I would not be so excited about that. 

So as much as I love you, internet, you are a mixed bag. 

Male strippers are too free

One thing I don't like about male strippers is their freedom with their genitals. They just fling them about. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's genitals flying everywhere. If I were at a bachelorette party and was drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper (best pop ever), and a male stripper came near me with his genitals out, I would want to cover my drink. So that little molecules of essence of genital did not get in and contaminate it.

Why the fuck is that picture so big?

Seriously. That is one fucking big picture of me. And I don't usually really love pictures of me. But you know, here I am, imparting wisdom to the blogosphere: they should know who I am. And whether or not my freckles are evenly distributed.

*they so are.

EDITED: picture removed. I wanted more anonymity. And also I hate pictures of myself.

Decisions, decisions.

One of the things (as if I needed actual things; I can honestly procrastinate on my own steam for eons) that has held me back from blogging is all the decision making that goes along with it. Like the colors--as a synesthete (www.synesthete.org), that could affect my whole perception of myself and my words. And then there's audience--whom do I want to read this blog, and more importantly, whom do I most decidedly not want to find it? And then there's whom--did I just completely lose control of my pronouns? See, lots of decisions. 

So then on top of that, I have to decide about what I want to focus on. Do I want to bitch about things (totally satisfying, but kind of Andy Rooney-ish); do I want to document my fascinating life (narcissistically assuming anyone gives a shit); do I want to concentrate on a theme or purpose (like politics, because the world is currently without my insight); or do I just want to be another awesome, totally unique mom-blog?

Then I realized that it's my blog, and I can do whatever I want. Which means that I can do all of things, or not even one of them.  And since it's my very own blogarific bloglet, I have decided that the theme will be thus: my thoughts on whatever I'm thinking about.

It's about time.

Seriously. It's about time. I've had so many blog posts composed in my head over the last few years. Years, I tell you. It's been like a little sidebar to my life, the posts that write themselves in the first person as my life unfolds. So here I finally am. Fuckin' A.