Jul 262010
 

After I gave myself a Trix’stache for Crunchy Betty’s Food On Your Face contest, I was 99% sure I didn’t do it right. So I emailed Leslie, the writer of Crunchy Betty. And I was right! It was wrong. It was supposed to be a facial mask made from natural products, so I scoured her website looking for something that was easy enough for me to not screw up, even though Leslie said I didn’t have to. I was determined at this point to do it up proper-like.

First, I saw that I could just take some aging bananas and mash it all upon my face. Good thing Henry likes to leave fruits and vegetables laying around in open graves, attracting fruit flies by the droves.

“What exactly are you doing?” Henry asked when he saw me monopolizing prime counter space while he was trying to cook dinner. I turned around with banana entrails coating my fingers.

“I’m doing something awesome. Go away.” I squirted honey into the bowl and ran off to the bathroom where my banana mush could make love to my face in privacy.

Not a minute after pushing him away, I was yelling down for Henry to help me.  He walked in just in time to catch me dry heaving into the shower curtain.

“It’s just bananas!” he said all condescendingly. But the consistency! The color! It was like mucous. Think, chunky mucous collected from a team of hawkering truckers.

I have a real problem with putting stuff on my face. Even store-bought masks that are all honeylicious and gooey; not gonna happen on this girl’s face, which might make one wonder, “Then why are you bothering with this, dummy?” To which I might answer, “I don’t know.” Although, I do have a lot of time on my hands. Time and determination, my friends.

I can handle clay-type facial masks though, so I went back to Crunchy Betty and found one that sounded like it would fit within my parameters of acceptable epidermal food-smearing.

Mocha-Frappucino Mask

  • 2 Tbsp freshly ground coffee (the finer the grind, the better)
  • 2 Tbsp. cocoa powder
  • 3 Tbsp. milk (whole), heavy cream, or yogurt
  • 1 Tbsp. honey

Henry was angry because he had to stop cooking his dinner in order to supervise. I was trying to mix everything together with the tablespoon measuring thing and I didn’t think it was all that big of a deal. Mr. Pampered Chef started rummaging through drawers in search of the proper mixing device. Then he goes, “You should add an egg to that for protein.” Henry always has to urinate on things to make it his own. It’s really annoying.

“You know I’m not eating this, right?” I asked.

But Henry knows everything! Even stuff about what is good for FACES. God, that Henry. Am I right? I don’t know how he finds the time to learn everything about everything in the entire history of the planet.

Next thing I knew, he had cracked an egg on the counter top and was separating it while it was still in the shell. I think he secretly hopes that I’ve been filming him on the sly doing all these things throughout the years, so that one day I’ll have enough footage of his sheer ingenuity and culinary aptitude to submit an audition tape to Food Network on his behalf.

Oh, I do. But that’s not where I’m sending it.

Anyway, my gag reflex thanked me for the new concoction. The texture was pleasant against my fingertips and it didn’t make my face feel harassed by viscousness. It made me feel like a cake, so I added candy stars which have absolutely no benefit to the skin as far as I know. But they sure are pretty.

In the instructions, Leslie says to “apply to a sleepy morning face.” Henry read that and said, “Does it work on miserable, bitchy night time faces, too?” Oh, our house is bursting with so much love it hurts. Ask Alisha. She was once accidentally impaled with an ice pick that I chucked at Henry out of love.

I like this picture because I look like Henry with a shit-beard.

Chooch wanted in on the action. But he’s just like me and HATES having stuff on his face (which is why I was surprised he was so willing to be made up into a zombie at his birthday party last May. Probably because he saw his BFF Bill do it first.)

That’s as much as he’d let me apply before shouting with authority, “OK! That’s enough now. Christ.”

It didn’t take very long for the concoction to harden against my face and I could feel my skin becoming taut beneath it. The best part about it is that it smelled SO GOOD. And it didn’t drip off my face  like bungee-jumping pus.

And if you like the flavor of coffee grounds, then the mask tastes great. Just lick it off your face; I did. Who needs a shower and a washcloth?

The coffee grounds were less brutal than I imagined them to be. I don’t know what I was expecting, to rinse my face and find that I’m suddenly the new addition to the Bodies exhibit? It left my skin super soft and oil-free. Stupid me came running downstairs, yelling, “Touch my face! It’s so soft!” only to have two pairs of gross male-hands grope my cheeks. I probably could have stood to repeat the process after that.

So go on. Get yourself over to Crunchy Betty and find some stuff to put on your face.

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May 052008
 

Or: Henry’s son Blake and my friend Sarah are good sports.

Blake wore a Chiodos shirt and I was happy.

At least I didn’t have to worry about their stilettos getting slurped into the mud.

Blake was atop a train for this and I was so nervous that a) he was going to fall; b) someone was going to see and call the cops. But then I was like, well, if he falls, maybe he’ll be knocked out long enough for me  to steal his Chiodos shirt.

"Sarah, I only see you once a year, but I’d love to take your picture." And she didn’t think it was weird at all, which is why we’re friends in the first place.

More Photos Here.

 

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May 022008
 

Awhile back, I had the moronic idea of slapping together a photo shoot because I apparently really like torturing myself with projects that don’t amount to anything in the long run.

I placed an ad on Craigslist and several girls responded. I emailed back and forth with some of them and they seemed very cool and eager to do  this. They understood that it wasn’t for some glamour magazine spread, but perhaps they’d walk away with new pics for their MySpaces, who knew.

Then something happened. Something by the name of Chuck. He responded with great zeal and boasted that he’s been known to slip into a dress on ocassion and he’d gladly slap on some lipstick too if I wanted. I was like, sure whatever dude, just please show up.

Chuck began emailing me every day, like the cyberspace version of my Aunt Sharon, offering little suggestions here and there. There would always be a sentence starting with "What if…." Some of his ideas were cool, but then he was starting to get too alt porn on me.
 
I ended up canceling the shoot because the weather was shitty, but Chuck asked if we could meet at the location and go over some ideas, get to know each other, etc. Of course, I made Henry come too. Chuck showed up wearing a Steelers pullover and ballet flats on his sixty-year-old man feet. Dude, Chuck was OLD.
 
He was nice, though. We tossed around some ideas, yet they all seemed to veer into the direction HE wanted to take it. "We can make the girls wear mustaches. Let’s dress like fairies. Let’s be naked." <—Chuck’s ideas.
 
Then he told me I was weird and I was like, "Wow, I’ve officially hit rock bottom."
 
Afterward, he began emailing me about this nineteen year old model he knows named Jeanne. Jeanne is into alt porn and lingerie. I kept reminding Chuck that I wasn’t trying to get all Suicide Girls with this. I didn’t even need a real model, just a BODY willing to put an animal mask over their face. Bottom line. He kept trying to get me to call Jeanne and I kept saying, "Yo Chuck, bro, listen up — I don’t even call my FRIENDS. No way am I calling some stranger to talk about some dumb ass pitchure takin’ idea I had."
 
So Chuck played the middle man and tells me, "Jeanne is concerned there are too many girls that will be there. Would you be willing to stay after and just shoot Jeanne and me?" Oh, I’d love to. LOVE TO. Because that’s what would truly make my world turn, taking racy pics of you, Chuck. Of YOU.
 
Finally, last week, I sent out an email to him, one of my fake addresses, and two of Christina’s, stating that straits are so dire that I was forced to get a second job, leaving me with NO FREE TIME. No photo shoot, sorries.
 
He replied immediately and said that’s too bad, but he’s also free on Fridays and Mondays.
 
I ignored him.
 
He emailed again and asked if he could email the other "models" to see if they want to work with him on his bizarre genderbending assignment.
 
I ignored him, so he emailed my fake address and Christina’s two addresses anyway.
 
I was one of the people who was going to work with Erin at the photo shoot this Sunday that was cancelled.  If any of you would be interested in possibly working with me in the future please send a reply to this email.  I’ve basically been into gender identification stuff.  anything weird and pulls ones focus as to how gender is socially viewed.  Sometimes it involves full crossdressing , 50% crossdressing , or maybe just 33 1/3 % crossdressing or poking fun at how gender is usually viewed. I love the 40’s fashion look so i get involved with that a little.

Erin is a great girl with a lot of talent and I wanted to work with her but being that this was just for fun she was unable to commit.  From time to time photographers contact me with an interest in doing a shoot with me and I was just contacted by a professional photographer yesterday who is interested.  If any of you are interested in doing some professional work for your portfolio and also helping me out with some of my stuff just let me know.
 

if i don’t hear back from you i promise i won’t bother you any more.
 
Then he emailed me asking to borrow my sacred tutu that Merry made me.
 
I ignored him.
 
Finally today he emailed me again:
Hi Erin,
Needless to say I’m a little disappointed about the cancellation of the shoot but I understand and under the same circumstances I would have done the same thing.

I was just thinking, your photo projects seem like a lot of fun and you have not only the photographic skills and talent but you seem to be responsible and a pretty good organizer.  You should try to pull some girls together for a shoot but charge them for you time and a cd.  If you got three girls and charged them $20 for your time plus $5 for the cd that’s $25 a piece and if you got 3 girls together for the shoot that would be a total of $75.  That’s still not a lot of money but I think anyone who was looking for a free shoot can fork out $25.

The other thing is, I ran across this article a while back about this female photographer who photographs nude men. These’s nothing illegeal or immoral going on.  She’s been doing it for 25 years and she’s married.  I’m sure there is a market for that in Pittsburgh.  Men are  basically exhibitionists. Maybe it sounds sleazy but I think it’s pretty cool.  You could probably make some pretty good money doing that. Judge for yourself from the article.
 

I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER, nor do I have the credentials to pretend to be even close to one. This was supposed to be for fun. I would feel like an asshole making people pay me when I can’t guarantee that anything is even going to turn out! I’m using toy cameras for Christ’s sake. And why does he keep trying to lure me into the world of nudity?
 
Unable to ignore him any longer, I replied and told him of these concerns, and also reminded him that my tutu was not storebought, but something that is very precious to me, so no he cannot borrow it. I also told him that unfortunately, my desire to follow through with this project in the future has been diminished because what started out as a fun thing has been weighed down by too much stress and too many details that have veered away from my original concept and vision.
 
I got an email back saying that it’s OK, he understands and that he’s buying a yellow baby doll dress today and if he paid me $50 would I photograph him in it?
 
THIS ISN’T FUCKING GLAMOUR SHOTS, BITCH.
 
Bob brought up the horrifying possibilty that Chuck might still show up on Sunday, since he lives so close. "What if he brings his own people and tries to steal your idea, and then sees you and everyone else there? You’ll have to tell him the truth then."
 
I considered this for a moment. "No, I’d still lie." It’s like sit-com in me, I’m telling you. Even when I want to tell the truth in these ridiculous situations, I find myself weaving alternate truths. It’s what happens when I panic. I’d make a great President.
 
I don’t have a problem with cross dressers or nudity or old people who are into both of those things, but I DO have a problem with pushy people trying to take my reins from me. Back the fuck off, asshole. This is mama’s gig, go sit down.
 
Big Bob at work told me that the problem with being harmlessly weird like me is that it’s like a gateway for sickos. I’m not sure what he meant, and I don’t particularly think Chuck is a sicko, but I think the lesson I learned is to not post on Craigslist. Maybe stick with MySpace.
 
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Apr 212008
 

Kara was in town over the weekend and invited me to lunch at Zenith. It was really her friend Valerie’s idea, whom I was excited to finally get to meet after knowing her on LiveJournal for a few years. However, Kara made the mistake of telling me that her fiancé Chris commented that Valerie and I have really different personalities and he wondered how well we would get along. This of course turned into the Telephone Game and by the time I told Henry what Chris had said, it went something like, "Chris said Valerie is a crazy asshole and she’s secretly hated me for twenty years and is going to be waiting for me in an alley with barbed wire, a chainsaw and a turkey baster and OHMYGOD!"

Turns out, Valerie was really nice and I didn’t hate her and she didn’t seem to hate me either. People usually like me for the first three months, so we’ll check back with her over the summer.

Zenith is half vegetarian restaurant with an amazing tea menu and half antique shop with a mother lode of religious icons and musty racks of polyester muumuus; I saw at least eight dresses that I desperately want to purchase for the animal mask photo shoot, Kara found a new wedding dress, and Valerie found a very Blanche Deveroux bathing suit. It’s a good thing she didn’t buy it, because she totally wouldn’t have looked right in it unless she built a lanai off the back of her house and furnished it with white wicker, which she should actually do and then invite me over every weekend so I can lay out and read some Danielle Steele. Maybe also she can brew up some mint tea and serve me some of that shit.

And even though Zenith has quite possibly the best collection of wall-mounted owl tsotchkes to ogle while taking a piss, my favorite part was our server, Keith. (I’m pretty sure he was Kara and Valerie’s favorite part, too, but I could be wrong. No, wait, I’m always right.) Even in his sleepy state, he was personable and helpful and super cute; he would make lazy laps around the empty restaurant, butting into our conversation now and then. When I asked to take his picture, he initially declined, maybe in fear that I would Photoshop it and he’d find himself on some raunchy, nude waitstaff website — I have that shady, no-good look to me, I guess.  I eventually talked him into it and for someone who, minutes earlier, was so opposed to the prospect of being photographed, he began busting out an arsonal of GQ poses with no hesitation.

This picture does no justice to his awesomeness! I keep wanting to call him Ben, though. He really looks like a Ben to me.

Keith brought us out our side salads, the largest salads I’ve ever seen stuffed into really small bowls; it was like the vegetation version of clown cars. As soon as he set the bowls down in front of us, leaves of lettuce the size of elephant ears began unfolding and springing forth. It was the most difficult, not to mention aggressive, salad my fork tines have ever speared.

After feeling like I had just slashed my way through a jungle in ‘Nam, Keith delivered my black bean burger which was capped with another lettuce leaf the size of a yarmulke. "Oh good, more lettuce," I said before casting it to the side.

Meanwhile, Valerie and Kara talked about cheese and condom-wrapped plunger sticks, but I was too busy trying to keep my mind from detonating over all the photographical ideas that place was feeding me. I want to go back there every day until I exhaust every vision I have, or drink every tea on their menu, whichever comes first.

Valerie's feet in the bathroom!

(More photos here.)

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Mar 312008
 

 

Like anyone else, Christina enjoys lingering underneath a welding mask before going to see a show.

(View set here.)

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Jan 182008
 

1. We ordered hoagies at work and I forgot to put in my implicit request for any and all onions to be removed from mine so now I’m sitting here pulling them out of my mouth and I keep imagining that they’re earthworms. One will slip past me occasionally and the crunch it makes between my molars makes me want to bleed out. How is something capable of being crunchy and slimy all at once? Aren’t those two things diametrically opposed? I’m in Hell is what’s going on here. Fucking onions, they can ruin any meal. I’m doubly swoll about this because the last time we ordered from this place was the night Chooch had his accident and I had to leave work and head straight to Children’s Hospital. I forgot the second half of it was in my purse, and by the end of the night it was all balled up and squished, but I still ate it the next day for lunch. At least it didn’t HAVE ONIONS ON IT. Seriously, whoever decided that onions were OK to eat? Fuck an onion. Additionally, my sandwich was wrapped in a sheet of industrial paper large enough to cover a picnic table, making my re-wrapping attempt awkward and frustrating at best.

2. Wednesday was the first work fight I had since Tina moved to day shift. Collin told me to "die, I don’t care;" and I can’t lie to the Internets: it stung. (By the way, this was completely unprovoked.) I proceeded to not talk to him for the rest of the shift, until toward the end when he and Bob were talking about Rocky Horror Picture Show. You probably couldn’t tell, but I’m one of those people that has to chime in on topics close to the heart. Plus, I like to remind people that I know a lot about a lot (OK, everything). Collin said something crusted with PMS, I believe it was: "Oh, you’re talking now?" I mean, I tried real hard to achieve his suggestion that I "die," but was unsuccessful. Then we had to have a powwow about how to keep interoffice relationships harmonious. I hope he took something away from that (and not just the joy of finding out he made me cry) because I’m serious about asking for a seat change! He was nice yesterday and he’s kind of being OK so far tonight, although I think he implied earlier that I’m dumb. I don’t know what’s up with this week, but there appears to be an epidemic of men developing bleeding vaginas, because Henry was being douche-tastic, too. I felt like dropping some Pamprin in their drinks. Jesus Christ.

3. An order for five animal masks has been placed. Photo shoot on the horizon, reserve your spot soon, holla at yo’ mamas.

4. "X French Tee Shirts" won’t stop looping through my head, and every time Craig Wedren sings the word ‘down,’ I feel suicidal. I should have ordered me a shotgun, too.

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