Monday, June 25, 2012

the hot hula.

issue eleven. first of all, let's talk about how this would never be a real magazine cover ever. at least not the kind you flip through while bathed in the harsh fluorescent glow of your local supermarket as your twenty-two two-for-one lean cuisines and handle of vodka scoot by on the conveyor. two black women? on a magazine cover?! cosmo ain't playing that. NOT EVEN DURING FEBRUARY, SON. this shit would fly off the shelves in nigeria, though. just saying. get at me, africa.

holy fucking balls, i got an okcupid message from a dude who reads this blog. the dating horizon is so bleak that at this point i only check the shit every few weeks, but my stomach still fell right out of my butt when i logged in and saw that i had a message waiting for me. seriously?! omg MAYBE THIS IS THE ONE. isn't that how cinderella's fairytale started? trolling for potential prince charmings on her smart phone while waiting for the motherfucking bus? i looked around to make sure no one was bearing witness to my shame, nosy ass public transportation bitches, then i took a deep breath and i opened it. all the message said was "BITCHES GOTTA EAT." then my heart tried to claw its way out of my throat, hurl a brick through one of those bulletproof windows, and throw itself under the tires. sometimes i forget what a small town chicago is, then i remember that i write about my vagina on the internet and post my butthole on facebook and tweet about my cervix and please remind me why i have a dating profile again? I AM SO DUMB. ain't no anonymity in the digital age. i'll wait here while you open another window to reactivate your account and try to find my ass. first one who finds me and wins my virginity.

the internet is totally where i'm going to find my soulmate. stop laughing. your future stepfather is somewhere out there in cyberspace creeping that shadowy cropped picture that obscures my skin beard and that poorly lit bathroom self-portrait that manages to nicely disguise the stretch marks on my tits. FOR REAL, THOUGH: how do you hot, attractive singles meet people to have sex with in real life? that is a serious goddamned question. i really want to know, please. where do you go? when do you go there?  let me stop those of you who are about to say "the library" or "CHURCH" and point out that you might have stumbled across the wrong blog, kitten. also: i tried that shit already. i've got news for everyone convinced that i am going to spend an eternity in hell for smiting mine enemies and coveting my neighbor's ass, i'm really going to hell because for a few months in 2001 i used to go to church and troll for available dudes.

i thought a bible-reading virgin would be a welcome change after years of scumbag low-level weed dealers and a dude who worked at KFC, and every sunday i would sleep my hangover from the night before off and put on actual slacks and an actual blouse to spend nine hours sitting in the back of a church listening to gospel music and making eyes at hot deacons. unsure of the etiquette rules surrounding dating my fellow parishioners, i joined the "new members bible study" in the hopes that one of the junior ministers who ran the class would go over the rules. actually i was really hoping it would be like a mixer kind of thing, speed dating for jesus or some shit. there had to be other hot young backsliding singles looking for spiritual guidance who adhered to a rather, um, loose interpretation of all those pesky "thou shalt nots."

sunday after sunday i'd show up powdered and pressed with a song on my heart, yet every week i'd leave the sanctuary with my collection plate as empty as it had been upon my arrival. church is full of old people. and married people who actually wake up and scramble eggs for each other in the morning. and adorable little kids in frilly dresses shorts suits reciting memorized easter speeches. church is not for bitches who show up half an hour late and never tithe and have read too many books that enumerate the similarities between the christ story and that of the pagan sun god, horus. needless to say, i was unsuccessful in my quest. i bought frankincense and myrrh and everything.

here are some choice selections from my dumb ass profile, in case you need inspiration or aren't internet-savvy enough to have found it already. from the "what i'm doing with my life" section: i write comedy. and perform it in front of people. in my real, paycheck-earning life i work in an animal hospital and do freelance copy editing for catalogs you would never in your life order anything from. unless you buy a lot of wholesale foodservice items. in which case, let's talk about stainless steel flat-bottomed woks.

RIVETING, I KNOW. okay, and from the "i spend a lot of time thinking about" portion: rap beefs, why my fantasy team sucks so hard this season, tacos at big star, stepping up my 401k, new pandora stations i want to create, what my celebrity crush is up to, how to destroy my enemies, why jonathan was the best new kid on the block, spanish grammar, whether or not ghosts are watching everything i'm doing right now, new balance classics, teaching old ladies how to dougie, state monopoly capitalism. and, drumroll please, THE MOST IMPORTANT PART: "you should message me if": you can do so in complete sentences. you need to be at least as smart as a horse or a dog or something.

le sigh.
is there a service or someone that could maybe just write this bullshit for me? if not, one of you nerds needs to start inventing that shit posthaste. i sent this to lauryn a couple weeks ago and she was like, "YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO PUT THAT ON THE INTERNET," but it was already out there, mocking my barren vagina with its smirking hideousness. and i know, who gives a fuck about what you write, dudes only look at the music section and your pictures. if any of you has a better idea i'm all ears. have you figured out a foolproof way to distinguish yourselves from the millions of other jerks trying to get noticed in the cesspool that is internet dating? how are you getting laid? facebook? craigslist? adult friend finder?! what are you saying that makes people want to put it in your butt? or what is it you're NOT saying? holler at me.

bitches gotta eat. let's pretend for a minute that the ability to cook something reasonably edible without killing anyone who consumes it might land you that guy or gal of your dreams. every time i actually make it past all of the good stuff that makes a magazine worth the exorbitant $37 newsstand price (kim kardashian's favorite exclusive brunch spot in LA, killer whale skin wedge booties), and suffer through all the boring, practical shit (i'm not really going to maximize my closet space, am i? how many different euphemisms are these assholes going to come up with for "sit up?"), there is always a two-page story featuring "easy, no mess, single girl recipes!" and shit. plus, you know, cocktail ideas for that luau-themed toga party you are never ever going to throw.

but those recipes are always so gross. and the chick "cooking" in the accompanying photo spread is always doing silly things like NOT SWEATING and BEING ABLE TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PARSLEY AND CILANTRO. whenever a recipe calls for fresh herbs and i have to stand in the produce section at the grocery store for twenty minutes trying to figure out which pile of leafy greenery is the fennel or what i'm going to do with all that extra motherfucking dill because this impressive recipe i'm going to make requires "a liberal sprinkle on top" to make it pretty like the picture yet i can only buy that shit in a bunch the size of my forearm. i groan every time i see fresh rosemary in an otherwise delicious-looking recipe, because i know i'm going to waste 3/4 of a $5 package of that shit because i'm neither imaginative nor inclined to cook often enough to come up with something else to do once i finish impressing some dumb dude.

i like to make easy food when it's for a person who might dump me in a week, because then i feel less like an asshole. there is NOTHING WORSE than getting dumped after you braised lamb shanks for a motherfucker. so here is a recipe that requires 1 one motherfucking skillet 2 no complicated breaking down of meats or expert chopping and 3 NO FRESH GODDAMNED HERBS. i had sex after making this, like, three separate times. and i didn't need to walk around whole foods with a translator and a food glossary to find what i needed.

  • 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 6 medium shallots
  • 4 medium-large parsnips, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
  • 1/3 cup apricot preserves
  • 2 tablespoons whole-grain mustard
  • 1 teaspoon ground ginger
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 8 medium skin-on, bone-in chicken thighs
  • kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
  • 1/2 cup pitted prunes, roughly chopped
  • 1/2 cup dried apricots, roughly chopped
  • 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
don't worry about the prunes, hooker. first thing i thought when i got this off the food network website was, "this dude is not going to eat any goddamned prunes." so i just didn't say shit. AND HE ATE IT. here's the thing: when you put some food in front of a person while over-explaining or apologizing for it, bitches aren't going to want to eat that shit. that's just human nature. if you just serve me some food i will eat it without question, because i am polite. as will most adults, at least those of us who weren't hatched or raised in the wild. but if you hand me a plate while apologizing with your eyes and saying something weak like "it's okay if you don't like it" or "it's probably too salty," even if it's perfect i'm going to think, "this shit is too motherfucking salty. this dumb bitch can't cook." i act like i'm martha fucking stewart when serving up some food i probably dripped sweat in, and fools always eat it right up. and ask for seconds.

put a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 425. heat the olive oil in a large ovenproof skillet over high heat. add the shallots and parsnips and cook until golden, shaking the pan, 2 minutes. whisk the apricot preserves, mustard, ginger and cumin in a bowl. season the chicken with salt and pepper; toss with the apricot glaze. scatter the dried fruit in the skillet. place the chicken, skin-side up, on top. add 1/4 cup water and bring to a boil. cover and cook until heated through, 6 minutes. uncover and transfer the skillet to the oven. cook until the chicken and vegetables are tender and golden, 20 to 25 minutes. push the chicken to the side of the skillet, then stir the vinegar into the pan juices (add up to 2 tablespoons water if the sauce is too thick). serve with rice.

if you can't make this you don't deserve oxygen. seriously, it's fucking easy. a child could make this shit. and phrases like "1-inch chunks" and "roughly chopped" are a lazy bitch's best friend. did you notice how little slicing and dicing is required? those are actions that make the sex not good enough, girl. i was flipping through a magazine and saw a complicated lamb recipe next to an underwear model wearing an apron and playfully poking a dude with a pair of grill tongs and immediately thought, "what could this dude possibly be capable of sexually to warrant the preparation of LAMB?!" seriously, i can't buy fancy meats or pull out the mandoline or roll out dough to make pasta from scratch unless you've given me an orgasm or twelve. until then, your ass gets chicken.

happy to be nappy. oh dear god, the complicated relationship between a black woman and her hair. i first shaved my head when i was sixteen years old. and i wish i could say that it was some act of punk rebellion. or, better yet, ENLIGHTENMENT. but no, i was just tired of waking up early to curl my hair only to sweat it out during the walk to school. and tired of spending hours in a chair getting my hair pressed. or ironed. or RELAXED, which might be the least relaxing thing a woman could ever have done to her scalp.

i'm not going to get on a soapbox, because i understand more than anyone else 1 that this is an intensely personal decision and 2 what i say can easily be misconstrued as judgement, BUT: i haven't permed my hair in sixteen motherfucking years, and that, to this day, is still one of the smartest moves i've ever made. i did it before it was cool, when motherfuckers walked up to me on the street and said outrageous shit like, "are you a lesbian?" or "is this some kind of cry for help?" because i'd decided to buck convention and let my hair do whatever it wants. you got a wig, you got a weave, you got a perm, you're good with me. if you want to talk about it, though, we can. i'll tell you all my top secret hair products and everything.

zip it up, zip it out. goddamn, it's hot. and my apartment, which basically sits on top of the beach, is a motherfucking sauna. i live in a space the size of your coat closet, yet it is 100% impossible to cool. last summer i had ten thousand temper tantrums while standing in a room that maintained a cozy 95 degrees despite the air conditioning unit that hummed away in the window. nothing is more frustrating than being hot while standing in front of the THING THAT IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE YOU COOL while it refuses to do so, so this year i'm trying to take a new approach: not putting the air conditioner in and coming home as late or as little as possible.

at first i was like, "i'm just going to mellow out and be zen about the heat," but "zen" isn't really my fucking thing. i like to rage about shit. or, more accurately, i like to grumble in bitter discontent, alternating that with a mostly annoying childlike whine. i can't focus when i'm hot, and everything makes me irrationally angry. rodney and jess are sending their cleaning lady over next week, and maybe hot and clean will make a difference in my attitude. the past two nights i've been staying at cara's which, you better thank your lucky stars, means i can get a lot more writing done. because i'm not hot. and her internet is way better. and her computer was made this century. I MAY NEVER GO HOME.

my number one summer strategy this year is to only wear elastic-waisted maternity pants. let's get this part out of the way: they are not attractive, not in the most generous sense of that word. but they are also not hot. well, less hot. less hot than jeans, and less thigh-touchy than dresses. i alternate them with the battery of ankle-length vagina-airing maximum dresses (CAFTANS) in my closet, but i'm still mostly hot. and the addition of a spanx to the ones i look lumpy in is counterproductive. obviously, i will be dead by august.

the hot hula.
i think we've already exhaustively covered my abhorrence to sexual positions that require detailed instruction, but just in case we haven't let's do this again: SOME OF US ARE TOO DUMB AND EASILY DISTRACTED TO ATTEMPT ANYTHING MORE COMPLICATED THEN THAT KNEEL WITH YOUR BELLY ON A PILLOW PROPPING UP YOUR ASS THING. and even then i'm like, "really, dude?" what i lack in adventurousness (read: memorizing the explicit lovemaking details as laid out by "sexperts" with no documented expertise) i make up for in man-i-don't-fucking-care-just-do-whatever-you-want-in-less-than-twenty-minutedness. SERIOUSLY. you need to spit on me or something? FINE. imma just set the timer to go off in fifteen minutes so i don't miss this new episode of girls, and wherever you're at when it goes off is where we stop. you need to use some matches and jalapeƱo peppers on my mucous membranes? WORD, NERD. just don't interfere with the real housewives marathon i'm trying to watch, homey.

this is what terrifies me about actually being in a relationship: do you really get to the point where you have to resort to doing shit called "the passion python" and "the erotic accordion" to keep a dude satisfied? if so, i'm about to adopt a three-month maximum dating policy. end shit while shit's still fresh and i still seem like i might have other tricks up my sleeve. TRUST ME, I DON'T. this is it, pal. what you got is what there is, and if you need something called the "canoe canoodle" in your life just let me know. so i can get all my eyeliners and bobby pins out of the bathroom and find that "mo' betta blues" dvd i lent your ass before you conveniently forget where i left it after this breakup.

it's not just that i'm lazy. because yes, i totally am. it's also that these positions are awkward, and fucking ridiculous, and obviously dreamed up by sadistic dudes. take, for instance, the sexy sprinkler: save this position for a day (or night) when you two have the backyard to yourselves. stand beside a soft-spraying sprinkler and bend over so the water hits your genitals. if you can't reach your hands to the ground, place them on your thighs or calves for support. your partner should stand behind you and put his hands around your waist as he enters you. and, as if it weren't totally apparent at first glance, WHY YOU'LL TOTALLY FUCKING LOVE IT: the sprinkler provides the same kind of clitoral stimulation as a handheld nozzle. and the aroma of wet grass boosts your sense of smell, making this a supersensory experience.

bitch, you must be kidding. first of all, WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY THINK WE LIVE? now, i'm finally at the age where friends of mine, my peers even, own property. like, real houses and shit that require the ownership of a lawnmower, and not a single one of them has a yard you can fuck in. you need some palatial, estate-type shit to get busy in this way. even if you keep your clothes on this shit is impossible to achieve without offending everyone within a block radius. isn't hose water cold? doesn't most grass have feral cat pee and rabbit turds on it? to whom does this sound like an appetizing sexual experience?! EVEN IF you had miles and miles of empty field out back behind your castle, do you really want to get butt-fucked while being pelleted with ice cold water from that rusted-out sprinkler that is responsible for the slow deaths of your perennials?

yankee candle has a scent called "fresh grass" or something similar. get one, light that shit during foreplay, then throw a glass of water in dude's face as he "enters you." voila.