fupafighter

Oh Christ...

Well another Easter Sunday has passed (or as C so reverently called it "Queefster Cunt-Day"), and as far as I'm concerned, the only things that hath risen were my weight and the acid in my esophagus, prompted by gorging on obscene amounts of food. Thanks to Chef Pot Roast's dinner gathering, eight people effectively ravaged the cuisine that bears aforementioned host's name. Besides the actual dinner feastage, C and I arrived early to "help out," meaning that she threw some shit into a bowl, mixed it, and then left the kitchen to go drink on the couch while I chopped the vegetables that she had originally delightfully offered to cut herself. So the devouring of all appetizers and hors d'oeuvres actually began two hours earlier for us, henceforth by the time the guests arrived, I at least was showing first trimester fupage. By the end of the night, I was ready to give birth...to twins.

My gluttonous misery was so gargantuan that I actually switched cabs at the end of the night b/c one wouldn't let me smoke out the window. I guess my levels of stubborness fluctuate with how fat I am. I'm usually pretty stubborn. That's a tell-all right there.

Just a quick review of the menu: 2 savory pot roasts accompanied by stewed potatoes/carrots, slices of glazed Virginia ham, a serious vat of home-made macaroni and cheese, bacon-cheddar dip (Die dip Die!), hummus dip, puff pastries of goat cheese and spinach, a plethora of sliced baguette pieces and veggies, and to finish the feeding frenzy, babka and hip-hop cake. Move over Fat Actress and make room for Fat Intern.

Food aside, we had a lovely group of people--some new in the mix--that provided for stimulating conversation. I've never delved into such great depth on subjects such as dutch ovens, masturbation, farts, donut-bumping, and Kevin Spacey. We truly are an intellectually provocative bunch.

Anyway, thanks Chef and to all who have pushed me that much closer to liposuction and stomach stapling.

Pictures Are Usually Worth A Thousand Words

But these pictures of Restoration Inferno really don't capture the night's ridiculousness. Maybe that's b/c I opted not to take the camera inside the bathroom where I had a guest marinating in her own sauce, and since I was with her, I missed the event happening simultaneously on my balcony, a twin purge event not to be missed, over and down 7 floors to 73rd street. Or how about when my orchid took a ride on C's shirt, only to knock over a coke that I was told I vehemently scrubbed out with great haste. There was a variety of public displays of affection, not to mention a private game of spin the bottle on my balcony that involved, uh, me and three other people. And let's not forget the abundance of liquor consumed, and quite frankly, we barely look a little loopy. Or am I just deluding myself? Anyway, I'm sort of pleased that we don't look like the death we all felt like the next day. Or maybe I just need to get someone else's pictures...or, uh, maybe I really don't.

Restoration Insane-O

I guess you can safely call a party a "success" when the only reason that one person is puking off of the balcony is b/c there is another person puking in the toilet. However, even though Restoration Inferno was a slammin' good time (and obviously I've obliterated enough brain cells to the extent that even 48 hours later I can't find a better word than "slammin" to describe the evening), there are several mysteries that remain and may never quite be pieced together:

1. What happened to the vat of bacon-cheddar dip? All I know is that one minute it's sitting in the kitchen, steaming and full to the brim, then two hours later (after donning my nurse outfit and attending to the severely nauseated), the crock pot looked like it had been raped by a number of fingers.

2. What the hell was in the blue vodka? Sure, it was pretty, but the gastrointestinal destruction that it left in its wake was certainly quite the opposite. I personally believe it was the downfall of both people who suffered from volcanic spewage. It poured like corn syrup, tasted like saccharin, and ravaged like Mt. Etna. It's definitely a good argument to stick with the basics--bring on the solid Smirnoff.

3. How many people actually had a free for all with my Itunes account? There are definitely the signature identifiers such as an assortment of Patti Griffin songs, however, there are a few questionable purchases that makes it harder to point fingers. Oh well, I suppose no music library is complete without a little Sade in the mix.

4. What exactly did we do with the "Nick" sign? It started out as a benign gesture to include a friend who was unfortunately away, but it slowly descended into a debaucherous display of lewd and filthy gestures, all of which was captured on film. I know that I was posing with it at one point, however I can't quite recall the degree of molestation poor Nick experienced at my hands.

5. Where did the hours of 2:30 to circa 4:30 go? I firmly believe that there is a cosmic black hole that descends upon certain parties and virtually removes large chunks of time from the continuum. It seems like no one can answer this question with any certainty, and it makes me think that either we were all struck by some somnambulistic virus, or the more likely case, we were so fuckin' wasted that between 10 people we can't come up with a viable answer. Frightening, really.

6. How did 13 people get so ridiculously trashed? I mean seriously, you always have your token alchies (not that I'm ever a part of that group, oh no) who get totally eff'd-up and provide the fodder for stories the following day, but normally there are those few who can pace themselves and have fun at the expense of but a few beers. Okay, we didn't have any of those (and by "those" I'm usually implying "losers"). I feel like within the span of half an hour of being in my apt., every guest transformed into the uncontrolled alcoholic version of themselves. Granted that five bottles of vodka and about sixty beers later I shouldn't expect any less, but still, I'm in awe of our collective liver.

Pictures and more commentary are to follow, however I want to give a shout out to everyone who helped knock a few more years off of my lifespan on Saturday night. You are truly spectacular and provide even more reason for me to keep turning my apartment into a fully functional bar.

The Man That I Will Marry...

...is DJ Dru from Barrage. Not only is he the cutest and sweetest guy ever, but there's no standing up to a man who plays Toad the Wet Sprocket's "All I Want," Soul Asylum's "Black Gold," and "Nothing Better" by the Postal Service all in a row, and that's pretty impressive at a boy-bar. It's like taking an emotional roller coaster every Wednesday night, not to mention stepping into a time machine in which I'm taken back ten years, to my first Spin Doctors concert, where my mom kindly declined some pot offered to her by the people in front of us. This incident then turned into a little lesson on the ills of miss mary jane--(say with accent) "See dos peeple een frohnt uv us? Dey ver smokeeng de poht, and now dey cannut even stahnd. Dat is vy de poht is horreeble."

Hey, she had me at "de". Anyway, I want to slip Dru some ruffies, secretly impregnate myself, and give birth to a child who'll have the raddest taste in music ever. Funny thing, it'll probably be the straightest kid ever.

On a side note, the heating guys are here, again, installing my new unit in an episode I like to call, "Let's see how filthy Natalie's apt. can get." Normally I'd be breaking out into hives and sweating saccharin at such a sight, however this tub of cool whip and handle of vodka are doing wonders for my nerves.

UHH!

So I've somewhat proudly mentioned before that I have no shame, however, there's something just ever-so-slightly embarrassing about a friend hearing you be, ummm, "intimate"--not only through a wall, per say, but how about a flimsy wooden door that doesn't even shut properly? Not that one would actually be conscious of volume control at that specific point in time, but it's just the mere suggestion of activity that leaves an open playing field for the imagination. Not to mention the asinine questions that may follow from those who are, let's simply put it, "less informed." There's also the issue of portraying sound effects that are insignificant, benign, please barely even audible, and solely for comedic purposes, morphing them with every mention into some primal and lecherous echo of the original. Being a good sport, however, I'll bear the derisive aftermath of my carnal desires.

While on the topic of desires, my friend's fingernails are finally growing out, save but one, a middle finger that's nail and flesh remain as smooth and rounded as the surface of a pebble caught for centuries 'neath an undulating sea. This digit that I've affectionately dubbed as the 'clitronome' has witnessed more friction in it's day than the country of China, and I predict that within five years this now proud finger will be rubbed down to nuthin' more than a nubbin', a half-pint standing shamed amongst a perfectly manicured hand. For the time, though, this clitronome I'm quite certain will never miss a beat.

It's Ba-ack...

I'm rendered speechless yet again. It seems that my laryngitis drops by with more uninvited frequency than my Aunt Flo, however don't all of you rejoice in my silence just yet--I'm planning to nurse this baby from start to finish with a lot more smoke and booze than the last run.

Observation. Funny that both times I've lost my voice have been after dates. I'd venture to say they were "successful" dates in that case, b/c more likely than not I spent the entire evening talking, naturally about myself. Since I so *rarely* get a chance to do that, maybe the aftermath is worth it. I don't know how much I am a fan of dating. I find that fucking first and dating later is far more gratifying. Dating then, literally, becomes a waste of breath. And if you're going to be wasting your breath, you might as well be simultaneously deriving some sort of pleasure from it. Plus, when I date first, I'm usually distracted for the duration of the evening, calculating approximately how long it will take for me to seal the deal. Whether or not this is healthy behavior remains to be seen, and it's probably not a good idea for me to post it across the internet, but I think we've covered the fact that I have no shame, I'm a slob, and after this posting, it's fairly clear I'm also a slut. (I'm adding requisite JUST KIDDING here for posterity's sake)

Guilty Indulgence #703

I'm normally the first person who admits to partaking in those secret little pleasures that people seldom ever bring up in civilized or sober conversation (let's also note that I rarely ever have either). Like when one of your professors loves American Idol, or when your friends can't get enough of the Surreal Life, or if you actually like watching Paris Hilton on television, or you've flattened your Uniball from excessive use...oh wait,nevermind. So here's another one of those excesses that I'd prefer not to disclose, however, I'm just slightly concerned that if I keep this one under wraps that it just might fester into some strange malignancy of the soul.

Well, here goes...I love Fat Actress. It's completely cliche and even moreso un-PC (and we all know how that upsets someone like myself), but damn, is it funny--AND embarrasing to watch! But one has to appreciate the utter lack of subtlety in the comparisons drawn between Kirstie Alley's ass and the back of a cab, and her blatant admission of "No Beaver" when contemplating her possible options for getting laid. If any of you get Showtime, turn your brains off for half an hour and partake in what could be the guiltiest indulgence of all--poking fun at fat people.

Eskimo Update

I've been recently informed that my new heating system has been ordered and should be here in one week. Hence, I must endure seven more days of chiseling ice shingles off of my pubes with a spackle, and you all must suffer through my incessant whining for the equal duration. And just when we think that that bitch mother Nature has given us a break with the weather, She goes through a menopausal swing and throws a few more snow showers in our direction. If She's anything like the rest of us, I'd say She just needs to get laid.

Oh well, the 7-E Ice Age will be over soon, and at least it's nothing grotesquely horrific, like...having a rat in my apartment. Or whatever.

My Own Igloo

I should probably take full responsibility for (yet again) the lapse in postings, however per usual Natalie standard, I'm going to blame it on something (anything) else. In this case, I haven't posted b/c as some of you may well know, I've been living in the arctic for about, eh, two weeks now. My heating unit, after performing a soap-operatic demise, has been completely nonfunctional and I've been reduced to toasting my toes and fingers next to sub par space heaters. Basically, I've been sleeping in fleeces and wool socks, then sweating profusely, then removing said fleece only to be shivering once again. Peeing during the night has become a sprinting event, and TV watching has transformed into a conscious exercise of trying to retain any small amount of body heat. Come now, what sorts of conditions are these for a little Floridian to endure? How can a girl comfortably pleasure herself to yellowed and withering pictures of J.C. Chasez when she can't even feel her digits? It is truly an unacceptable situation, and I fully intend to celebrate through alcohol-induced merriment once civil temperature hath been restored.

Note on the weekend, Saturday night was a good friend of mine's 26th birthday party. Aside from the fact that we are all sliding down the slippery slope towards geriatricism, we at least can still party (to some degree) like champions. Even though it was weak sangria, I'd say five pitchers amongst five people is fairly respectable, and though it's been ages since I've been in a group Irish-carbomb chug, it was just as satisfying as I remembered it to be. I do give more props to some than others in that department, however. My only disappointment of the night was that I was unable to perform any interpretative dance to Belinda Carlisle's Heaven Is A Place on Earth at Alphabet Lounge. I mean, seriously, baby I was afraid before, but I'm not afraid...anymore.