Immersion Blenders.

Immersion Blenders.

A thing liked by me.

Immersion blenders.

That thing you pack in your suitcase, just to tease TSA agents into thinking you're taking down a massive and violent dild' on your business trip.

Immersion blenders.

When I was young, I used to test out my gag reflex by repeatedly imagining what would happen if I blended hair with water. Don't worry. Now that I'm a grown woman, I have grown up woman sick thoughts.

Immersion blenders.

My first IB was made of plastic. Rookie mistake. Plastic melts in piping hot pots of curried coconut curry soup and other things containing alliteration. Not being one to toss away a slightly melted kitchen appliance, I gave it to my brother. If anyone can eat small amounts of melted plastic per use, without consequence, it's him. He once told me that he is worried about being able to make babies because his sperm are so powerful that they would implant an egg from one end, and shoot through it on the other side.

Speaking of eggs, I can't seem to get the shell to come off smoothly these days when I hard boil them. I end up wasting half the egg when I attempt to peel it, and then end up crying alone at my table, mourning the loss of my caloric intake. I follow the instructions word for word on Yahoo Answers, but I'm starting to think that this is all just part of God's bigger plan.

Hard-boiled eggshell removal. Not a thing liked by me.

*Man in trench coat slaps my face, shakes my shoulders, and walks away.*

Where was I.

Goodbye plastic, hello metal!

Since making the switch, I haven't looked back. Except for that one time when I was blending a breakfast smoothie and did happen to look back (in anger), and ended up spraying blueberry smoothie all over my white kitchen. It was almost as much of a disaster as when I was having my period and my vagina sneezed.

Blender that you immerse.

In my eyes, anything that you can consume without having to chew, ranks high on my "Things Liked By Me" list. Thanks to my handy immersion blender, I can soupify the shit out of nearly anything. I recently read that pureed foods should be avoided because they trick your mind into thinking that you are drinking, resulting in less satiation than eating something big and thick.

Hmm.

Lucky for me, I'm the Queen of Trickery, and I've decided that I'm going to blend all my food, and then store it in molds shaped as different types of whole foods. How post-modern of me!

Immersion Blenders.

I like testing how high I can lift it before it starts spraying in my eyes.

Blender a la immers.

The weirdest thing I ever blended with one of these bad boys was hummus. I guess that's not very weird, but I did do something weird with it afterwards, that involved hair and water.

At least once a month I get lost in a fantasy world wherein my hand is a clitoris and my job is to immersion blend soups all day.

Immersion Blenders.

Bon Appetit.

Decor.

Decor.

A thing liked by me.

Decor.

Oft obscured with "Dick-Whore", my nickname at Jewish summer camp.

Decor.

Can you use the word in a sentence please?

No. You don't deserve it.

Decor.

I recognize that this is a very broad thing to like, but please also recognize that this is my blog, which means that I build the agenda.

Decor.

A couple years ago, before I got American Netflix and a portable chocolate wiener, I read Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers. I cursed my reckless parents for not giving me 10,000 hours of anything growing up, except for shelter, love and affection. I know, I know. How awful of me. But at the end of the day, THERE IS NO MONEY IN BUTTERFLY KISSES. TRUST ME. Tickling will never be an Olympic sport, and there is no National Hug Association All-Star team.

My life was in shambles. I spent my nights curled up on the shower floor, letting my snot and saliva drip down my face, saying things along the lines of, "I don't even know who I am anymore"/"Is this real life?"/"Why?" (etc...), and being generally super dramatic and unreasonable. Then one day, while I was picking the Winners price tag off of one of my shampoo bottles with extreme precision, I came to a realization that hit me like Chris and/or Bobby.

I had 10,000 hours of wallpaper picking experience.

Decor.

OK, fine. Maybe it was a total of 3.7 hours throughout my life, but 3.2 of those hours were spent picking wallpaper as an unpaid minor, so I definitely get bonus hours for child labor.

At the tender age of 4, and after living in a newly built house for less than a year, my parents decided to buy a house in a much more remote and coyote-infested area. The house we moved into had fleur de lis tiles on the entire main floor, and every wall was covered in wallpaper more hideous and textured than Uncle Bernie's hemorrhoidal sphincter.

Decor.

A thing liked by me.

Decor.

I've seen nearly every faux finish known to man,  and I've been with a lot of deceitful men.

I genuinely want to know if the carpet matches the drapes.

Gallery walls are more important to me than current affairs.

Things That Are Important To Me
1) Gallery Walls
2) Extramarital Affairs
3) Current Affairs

The only time I pay attention to news, really, is when I can squint at the content boxes, and fantasize that they are all precisely organized in an eclectic way on a 14 foot wall.

Decor.

Honestly, who buys Style at Home for the articles? That feature in last month's issue on curvy cloches drove me insane. I locked myself in my bedroom all weekend.

Decor.

I reupholster my dining room chairs to match my outfits.

I've got enough vases for a man to deflower every night of the week.

I was going to convert my closet into an office space but got distracted re-visiting the cloche pics.

Decor.

A thing liked by me.

Clean Slate

Clean slate.

Not to be confused with clean slits, which I am also a staunch advocate of. Ladies, clean your vaginas. Men, clean your Fleshlights.

Clean slates.

I cleaned mine recently. Bought an economy sized bottle of Windex from Costco, gave a little shpritz, and watched it do it's magic.

It's not that my slate was filthy, or unkempt, but it was full of things that didn't necessarily reflect the woman that I have worked so hard to become.

 

So, the first thing I did was sever ties with my pimp, Lorenzo, and gots myself an education.

I switched from a career in fashion, to the world of gaming, and naturally moved from high heel induced blisters to game controller hand blisters.

Jokes.

 

I don't actually play video games, and hand blisters are for peasants and monkey bar enthusiasts. 

Disclaimer: I blister easily.
So back to my shiny new slate, and the act of untarnishing it.

I've dusted it off, which according to the "10 Rules of Slatewashing" by Mel Gibson, includes taking a step back from not only professional relationships but also those more delicate and precious relationships. Relationships of the heart and genitals.

For the most part, I've worked hard and thick to keep this blog a little less deep and a lot more throat, so I'll save the New York City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty in the midst of the calm, the witty details for my goose-filled pillows as I cry myself to sleep each night while simultaneously running through practice makeout sessions with them.

Re-emerging into the world of Singledom is much like what I would imagine climbing head-first back into the birthing canal would be like. At first it seems counter productive, painful, against human nature and generally fucked up.

I'm still at that stage.

I'll keep you posted as to when I get to the point where I am fully naked and someone is feeding me from a tube and carrying me around everywhere. That will be my golden moment!!!

Slate cleaning.

An act oft touted by ingrates, Neo Nazis and addicts.

I ask not for forgiveness, sympathy or compassion for my past indignation. Everything I've done up until this point, has been worthwhile, invigorating and has contributed to making me the absolute gem of a woman I am today.

But I needed a cleaning.

The cleanse was of my life, and not, contrary to public demand, of my colon. I'm open to pouring myself out and refilling the vessel of my entirety with new and exciting challenges and adventures, but the idea of squirting luke warm water into my asshole seems more like a leg opening experience than an eye opening one.

Slate Cleaning.

Probably the last thing liked by me in 2012. I'm sorry I've been a shitty blogger. Perhaps 2013 will bring more content for your pure and unadulterated entertainment.

So as we approach the fake, non-Jewish New Year, take a look at your own slates. I'm not telling you to quit your jobs, dump your partners, and start wearing lipstick on your cheeks. 

That would be totally irresponsible.

Just dim the lights, find a handheld mirror, put on some nice music, and take off all your clothes. 

But you can leave your hat on.