These zits are bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Dec 29, 2012



I've gone and done another song for your listening/reading displeasure. This time around it's to the tune of Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani. Listen to this glorious ear worm of a song while you read along . . . if you feel so inclined. If you don't catch yourself humming about zits or bananas after reading this at some point day, I'll consider myself a goddamn failure.

Uh huh, there's another zit.
I need to stomp my feet like this

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

I knew about this festive shit
And I thought maybe I could resist it
Families offer us chocolate crap, getting everybody fattened up
So I've gotta accept the flack, gonna pick this ack'
Gonna go to town, gonna squeeze it out
That's right, put those bon-bons down, getting everybody fattened up

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

So that's right dude, check out this double feature
No Clearasil, no "healthy preachers"
Gotta have fun and be a sinner, cuz these holidays only come once
So my pants'll get tight, gonna drink 'til I crawl
Sure ain't no porcelain doll, gonna have a pallor hue
That's right I'll be expanding as I bite another pumpkin pie crust

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

Let me hear you say these zits are bananas.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S
(These zits are bananas)
(B-A-N-A-N-A-S)

Again
These zits are bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
(These zits are bananas)
(B-A-N-A-N-A-S)

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

When I got exactly what I wanted.

Dec 20, 2012

At this time of the year, while we are busy being thankful for what we have, whining for what we want, and rolling our eyes at our crazy families, I like to reflect on Christmases past and the lessons I've learned from them.

Picture it; it was 1989.

Big hair was calming down but the bangs were staying high. Girls' foreheads all over the Western world were being burned on curling irons. Neon colours were still staking their claim on at least 30% of "fashionable" wardrobes, mostly thanks to the likes of Vuarnet logos. No one in my class even knew who Vuarnet was, but we still had to own at least one thing from that brand (even if it was from the Tiger brand store which meant it had a slight imperfection that made its price 60% cheaper). I went there a lot with my mother.

Seriously, who the fuck is Vuarnet? I laugh now that I know . . . 23 years later.
I detest skiing!

Anyway, I was then at the stage that I didn't need toys anymore for Christmas.
I was mature.
I was sophisticated.
I was fashion forward.
I was 11.

All I wanted was this utterly amazing and outrageous winter jacket I had seen on a previous shopping excursion with my mother. I begged and pleaded for this jacket. It would be a statement piece! To channel my inner Ferris Bueller, "It was so choice." And also? It was over $100. My mother had flat out said no. Even at 11, I realized that that was a lot for a jacket, particularly to be worn for someone of my age but all rational thought had escaped me. I was fixated on that jacket and I needed to have it.

I played dirty.

Being the only child of a deceased only child had given me a particular advantage — I was spoiled as hell by my grandparents. Whenever my mother noticed me using my "powers", she'd rip into me like an enraged mama tiger, so I had to learn to be subtle and crafty with suggestions. Except for this jacket. I was ready to accept the heat as long as I could feel that cool textured nylon/polyester blend against my neck.

The first chance I got, I took my grandmother shopping and got her to buy it for me. I remember the adrenaline pumping through my veins as my grandmother handed the shop clerk her credit card. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears; I knew it was wrong but I never once hesitated.

Needless to say that on Christmas morning, when I unwrapped my present from my grandparents, while busy expressing my phony expression of surprise, I glanced at my mother; I could tell I was screwed. She was biting the inside of her lip like she did whenever she was utterly furious with me. I avoided her for most of the day.

The next day, she didn't yell or scream or do much of anything. She just walked passed me while she was cleaning and passively but coldly said, "I am disgusted with you." It was the first time since my whole obsession had begun that my actions really became apparent to me. Ugh.

The worst part was when I wore my new "spoils of war" to school. It really was a statement piece alright. I mean, I was always one of those that enjoyed standing out a little bit . . . but . . . not like a sore thumb. This jacket was a sore thumb.

I instantly hated it — more than I think I've ever hated a single item of clothing, ever.

But I had to wear it. All. Fucking. Winter.

And the year after as well.

T'was a worthy punishment.

Not the exact same jacket but pretty fucking close.
Seriously.

The lesson I learned from that year? Well, I guess it's pretty obvious. Be careful of what you think you want or must have at all costs — it might not be worth who you step on to get it.

A lot like fame, I would surmise.


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{Etsy image source}

The ones left behind

Dec 17, 2012

I've had the words spinning around my mind since it happened, making me nauseous. I cannot get them to stop. I have been trying to put them down in some form of organized structure, wanting to get it right. Needing to get it right . . .

Those children. Their parents. The survivors. That town.

I have lived in "that" town.

My neighbors were those parents.

My students were those survivors.

In 1996, I was an obnoxious 18 year old living in a different country and I can honestly say that I don't remember "that day", but 8 years later I moved to that tiny little town which is cozily nestled around the river Allan in beautiful Perthshire, Scotland.

Almost every person I have met (and even to this day, if someone asks), when I told them which town I lived in Scotland, they have reacted with raised eyebrows and have forced out a somber and deflated, "Oh."

And it has been sixteen years now.

It stains a small town forever; the name becomes synonymous with tragedy. All other beauties and triumphs are stolen and that is all that remains — to the outside world looking in, anyway.

I remember being taken aside on my first days of teaching. I was told names of students that had physical (and emotional) scars of which I was to "avoid" mentioning at all costs, and yet it still didn't really sink in. It wasn't until the moment that I actually saw those visible 9 year old scars on my then 17 year old students — that was one of the most difficult moments of my life. Fucking gun shot wounds on these children. I just wanted to pull them close and hug them, but of course, I couldn't do that. And I couldn't cry.

Teacher's college doesn't exactly prepare you for that — but really, is there anything that possibly could?

On the 10 year anniversary of that horrific day there was not an official memorial or gathering, but every resident quietly lit a candle in their windows as a tribute to those 16 children and 1 teacher that have not been forgotten.

And that night, as I walked my dogs around my dark and silent neighborhood, it glowed.

It glowed with sadness.
And love.
And loss.
And hope.

So after the events of Friday, I wept for the people of that town. I wept for a loss that I cannot possibly comprehend. And today, as I write these words, I weep for their future because that, I have lived in.



Who's a Skor Whore? Me!

Dec 13, 2012


I did my very first recipe a few weeks ago and I have to say, it was pretty fun -- likely because I suck at cooking most things, but boy, oh boy, I can bake the fuck out of a boxed recipe!

This recipe is as easy as the first one, plus it's a great stress reliever! You'll see why.

I call this one, "Four Skor and 3 dress sizes ago."

You will need:
1 Betty Crocker Butter Pecan cake mix - Oh my God, I didn't even know that existed until I discovered this!
1 bag of SKOR minis (or SKOR bits, or 4 SKOR bars) - If these are hard to get in the USA, well . . . that sucks to be you. Come visit me in Canada and we'll work it out.
1 can of Sweetened Condensed Milk - I will add that my MIL insisted that it be Eagle Brand, I have no fucking idea why, but just thought I'd put that out there. Use another brand and tell me how it goes on the other side of the law, mmmk?
1 chopstick
1 mallet


Aside from these items, you'll need whatever the box tells you. Seriously, you know how this goes. Probably an egg, some oil and usually water or milk. Whatever.

1. Bake the Butter Pecan cake in a tin or something. I like the big flat ones but the circles would work too; it's not like it'll change its molecular structure or anything. **Using PAM or butter is a good idea unless it's a no-stick Teflon surface**

2. While it's baking, empty the SKOR minis into a giant freezer bag. HAMMER THOSE FUCKERS INTO TINY PIECES, like, not into oblivion but good sized little bits. A rubber mallet or meat tenderizer is good to use. Don't break your counter top whilst hammering in a fury. Try not to eat too many bits, but who are we kidding? They are so goddamn good.

3. Then, after the cake is done and while it's still hot, STAB THE MOTHERFUCKING SHIT OUT OF IT with the chopstick or something comparable.


Here's my attempt, but apparently, I could have stabbed it twice as more. Pssfftt. Everyone's a critic.

3. Pour about 2/3 of the sweetened condensed milk over the cake. Again, don't wait too long, do it while it's hot. You can put the entire can on it, if you like -- it' really a personal preference on how "gooey" you like your cakes. I found 2/3 was a good amount.

4. Immediately after you pour that crap over the cake, sprinkle all the SKOR bits you have left over the cake.


5. Calm the fuck down and try to let it cool for an hour or more. I know the smell is making your pupils dilate but if you wait a little while, the milk and chocolate will seep into all of the stab wounds and make it even that much more fabulous.



Enjoy this amazing meal dessert. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm a slave to anything with pumpkin, I would claim that this is better -- but since I am, I'm going to have to say it's a close tie.

Let me know how it goes if you try it!! I love seeing pics, even if they do look like roadkill. Ahem.

x


Chicken for the Tuna

Dec 6, 2012


Welcome to WHAT'S YOUR DAMAGE? If you're just tuning in, people send in their problem (anonymous or whatever suits you) and I will do my best to answer in all my dysfunctional glory.

Dear Lady E,

I have always wanted to have a threesome/foursome/moresome. In my head it seems like one of the most exciting things my partner and I can do together. I have been with women before, and found it exciting, but always missing something. That something, of course, is the sausage. I am crazy about the sausage. I love to hit the sushi bar, but I truly miss the raw, unbridled power of the penis.

In the past, I have attempted a threesome with disastrous results. I had been with a woman several times, and the opportunity came up to be with her and her husband. We ran with it. The evening started out great, with drinks and laughs, but once the bedroom time began, the husband was strangely silent, and did everything he could to avoid eye contact. As a seasoned watcher of behavior, I knew right away that this wasn't good. Things never recovered from the initial awkwardness, and I left scarred forever. (Well, mostly). I was single then, so I had nothing to lose by trying it, but it was a pretty unsatisfying experience from my point of view, and I was left feeling very gun shy.

Fast forward a few years, and I have met and married the worlds greatest man, and am finally happy and secure in my life. I am completely fulfilled sexually, and know that my husband digs me above all others. I have 100% trust in him, and never for one second believe he would want to give up what we have together. We are both interested in experiencing a threesome to add another layer of intimacy and fun in our relationship.

Recently, a crazy opportunity presented itself. I was drinking with a very attractive, very sexy new friend who indicated that she hoped our first threesome experience involved her. (JAW DROP). This woman is beautiful, funny, quirky, fun, and generally way, way out of my league personally. I actually can't believe that she said it, and I'm 100% sure she's serious. This all could have gone down THAT NIGHT, but guess who chickened out and ran scared? Yep, me.

I don't know what the FUCK is wrong with me? I do want this. I do trust myself and my husband. I know he's not leaving me. I totally 'get' that this is a shared experience that will be fucking incredible. I WANT TO DO THIS!!!! Why can't I get the hell over my tendency to RUN?!?

Help me Lady E, before I fuck myself out of a sweet threesome opportunity!

Sincerely,

Chicken for the Tuna

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Dear Chicken,

Ohh, Chicken, my dear. I know where you're coming from on this one all too well. I believe that much of our hesitations stem from our own insecurities about ourselves. I have no doubt that you do have a great relationship with your husband and have a genuine desire to share this sensual experience with him, and that's the first hurdle conquered!

Some people will get on their anally retentive high horses and judge, saying that if you're seeking a third that there is something wrong with your relationship, but that's bullshit. People can believe what they want, and we can ignore them profusely.

The one thing we must accept is that we're all strange creatures with varying levels of fuckedupness. To find 3 people that are all on the same level can be quite difficult -- if it was so easy, there'd be a lot more threesomes going on . . . probably. You need to shed that awkward experience you had in the past and realize that it had NOTHING to do with you. Obviously, that guy just wasn't on the same level as you and your lady friend. It does take a special guy that can step up and handle two women at once; I understand how it could be intimidating. Men LOVE the "idea" of having two women at once, but in reality, many of them would take one look and . . . sppppluuurt. (The sound of their brain popping, as well as some other fluids. Ahem.)

I believe we, as woman, are able to "handle" the situation much better, maybe because it's easier for us to contain our enthusiasm, but whatever; our hang ups are much more personal. Even women that appear to have the perfect body still hate something about themselves. Is this a good thing? Of course not, but I just thought I would point that out. If someone (man or woman) has expressed a sexual interest in you while you have your clothes on, it's pretty safe to say that they have a good understanding of what is underneath, bumps, stretchmarks and all. I mean, we aren't exactly freshmen and that's actually what makes us awesome! We know what's important by now, and what's not.

False expectations, silliness and idealizations are rookie mistakes. And we ain't rookies, baby!

It's actually less stressful with a married couple (that are happily secure with each other) rather than 3 singletons because there's no "What if he likes her more than me?" crap. Because, hello! We are female humans and that would totally happen. You already know he loves you more than anything, so relax and enjoy the dual pleasuring.

Going back to the varying levels analogy, just remember that it's NEVER personal. There's some people that will click and some that will not. Who cares! Move on and try again . . . or don't. It is not a big deal. I mean, look how long it took to find the GUY, amiright? Snort. When the timing is right AND the people are right, it will happen and it will be fabulous.

It will be just like watching a really fucking cool planetary alignment, you'll throw your head back and there will be lots of ahhhh's and ooooohhh's.

Good luck with your quest!

And if you ever want to do a trail run, I'll shoot you my number, I mean . . .

Never mind.


Love and smooches,
Lady E.


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1984, bitches!

Dec 4, 2012

My mother has finally decided it's time I get the rest of my crap from her basement, much to my husband's horror. On the plus side, I discovered my school treasures dating all the way back to kindergarten. My mom likes to blame all the hoarding on me, but there's no way I started keeping those things from way back then on my own - all neatly categorized in order by year. Ahem!

Anyway, I have been laughing my arse off at my seven year old self for the past two days, so I thought you might as well join in on the ridiculousness that is mini me.
Loving the fake tan and leg warmers, Cyndi!


I don't know about this one, but the accuracy is amazing.


This actually explains a lot . . .


I was scrap booking before scrap booking was cool!


Holy fuck, I really do love winning!


And it appears my artistic abilities peaked in 1984
because I'm pretty sure I still draw sunsets like this:


Magritte can stick this in his pipe and smoke it.



 
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