It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 25, UPDATED

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Cupcake porn.

It's coming...it's coming...it's coming...pant pant pant ...
but I am awaiting permission to use a couple of photos.  Of vagina cupcakes.  Because if you use pics of vagina cupcakes without permission, particularly ones made with rainbow fondant, someone is going to show up at your door and punch you in the uterus.  But they are well worth it people, and may possibly put you off of eating cupcakes for a spell.  AND, I am so excited, Graham the Australian Dishwasher Installer is coming over at 11 to install my new dishwasher!  I have been without one for FIVE FRIGGING MONTHS and I am dying over here to fire it up!  Photos of Graham, if he lets me, on the blog Monday.  Whoreticulture Friday?  Later today.  On Friday.

9:37 a.m. 
I've spent the morning cleaning my house so Graham the Australian dishwasher installer doesn't think I'm raising my children in filth, which, essentially, I am.  But does he need to know that?  No.  He is installing my dishwasher, and I need him to think I'm at the top of my game.  I hope he lets me take pictures of him.

I haven't heard from the one vagina cupcake girl yet, but I think I have a solution, so let's carry on with this thing.   There is a seedy underground in the bakery world, and I'm finding it focuses on one main area - cupcake porn.  Lest you think I am trolling the internet for bakery snuff films, let me explain how I found genitalia pastries.  Current Husband was making some breakfast for himself, and said, "Hey, come look at this bagel, it looks like a vagina!" and I'm thinking "Is he coming on to me?  Because I haven't had my first cup of coffee" and he says, "No really, look at it" and I did and yes, it did slightly resemble a vagina:

 CH promptly slathered it with cream cheese and wolfed it down.

I, on the other hand, passed on breakfast.  Not that I have any problem with bagels, and I can totally see how women can get really sick of long johns and all of their baggage and move on to bagels, but I just wasn't hungry anymore.

This incident left me thinking:

1. Is CH like the kid in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing dead people, he sees vaginas?  "Look at that tire, it looks like a vagina."  "Look at that coffee mug, vagina." "Duct tape - vagina. "
2. Are there lots of food items that look like vaginas?  Oh yes.  Yes there are.

  I Googled "Vagina Cupcakes", 

and I hit the motherload.

The best ones, far and away, are the rainbow vagina cupcakes.  They are bright and cheerful and have personalities.  The person who made these cupcakes has apparently had her photo of them stolen a million times, because she will essentially stab you in the Fallopians if you use it, so I will send you to her instead of posting the picture.  They are gorgeous, check them out by clicking here:

Platter of Vagina Cupcakes, coming up!

Aren't they pretty?  It's like Rainbow Brite.  Wouldn't OB-GYN's love it if more vaginas looked like this?  Wouldn't it make their jobs more exciting?  The question is, would you eat one?  And what flavor would these be?  Because I would lean toward Red Velvet, just on authenticity.  Or Strawberry.  It would depend on the time of the month.  But never, ever chocolate, because that would seem less like sexy and more like a medical issue.

Think Rainbow Brite is the only variety of Vagina Cupcake available?  Think again!  Here is a snatch of what's available at another blog, at www.craftster.org, member name "squidknit":

 How about those little ball-bearing clitorises?  

And this crafty baker said she did varying 

degrees of bush to represent all vaginas.

Cute, but again...could I really open wide and take a huge bite out of this?  And the sprinkles?  Could I have those in my mouth?  In the spirit of equality, I will say that I would also have a very hard time taking a bite out of THIS:

 Holy shit, what did you do to that delicious cake!?!?

 And really?  Do those blue veins indicate some kind of STD?

At least a circulatory problem.

These photos come to us courtesy of www.bachelorettesuperstore.com, where they have all kinds of naughty items described lovingly in this pretty cursive font.  Here is a somewhat nicer penis cake photo from their site:

Would I let a penis with googly eyes near my Precious Lady?

If I ate the one on the right, would I be a Purple Penis eater?  Are these The Penises of Sesame Street? Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Cookie Monster, Bert and Ernie?  This is what I think about when I see stuff like this.  (I know, it's sick, but I can't turn it off.)  I think what this photo really illustrates is that it doesn't matter how much you doll it up, dicks are just ugly, and not that delicious.  From what I've heard.  My favorite penis cupcake still goes to this big winner:

Clowns with erections.  It just doesn't get creepier than that.

I want to know a couple of things - 

1. Have you ever made porno pastries?
2. Could you eat a genital cupcake, or would you succumb to the "ish" factor? 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!  I'm going to have a carrot.  NO!  A banana.  NO!  A donut...Aw, crap, I'll just have another cup of coffee.

 

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 19

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Titty cheese.


I nursed all three of my children, and was happy to do it.  There is something magical about nursing a baby - the closeness, the bond, the toe-curling pain when a greedy little piggy latches on to your cracked pre-mastitis nipple...but I digress.

Current Husband never tasted breast milk.  He was a little grossed out by the whole leaky pipes deal, particularly since we tended to have a lot of icky nursing pads in the garbage, which honestly smell like rotting roadkill if not taken out promptly.  I have friends whose husbands happily relieved their engorged breasts during nursing if the babies were full, but CH was never that guy.  

Therefore, I will not be taking CH to Klee Brasserie in Chelsea, NYC, because of this article in the March 9, 2010 New York Post.  (Observations by me are in blue, lest you think they are part of the NY Post story and I somehow end up getting sued):

Wife's Baby Milk in Chef's Cheese Recipe
This Chelsea restaurant has gone from brasserie to brassiere.
Chef Daniel Angerer is letting diners at Klee Brasserie munch on cheese made from his wife's breast milk.
(Say what, hoobastank?)
"It tastes like cow's-milk cheese, kind of sweet," he told The Post.
The flavor depends on what the cheese is served with -- Angerer recommends a Riesling -- and "what the mother eats," said Angerer, who once bested Bobby Flay on TV's "Iron Chef."
Breast milk doesn't curdle well due to its low protein content, so a little moo juice has to be added to round out the texture, Angerer said.
(WAIT!  DID HE JUST RECOMMEND A WINE TO ACCOMPANY HIS WIFE'S BREAST MILK?  Uh, Chef, I just made a mousse out of the 4000 mounds of winter dog shit in my yard, do you have a wine recommendation?  Hey Chef, I'm banging your wife, is there a wine you would recommend?  Chef, I have a human liver and some fava beans, do you have a nice Chianti you could recommend?)

"Just wait until you see the innovative ways 

I plan to cook the baby poo...."

After blogging about his efforts with the human cheese, customers started demanding a sample, he said.
"The phone was ringing off the hook," the chef said. "So I prepared a little canapé of breast-milk cheese with figs and Hungarian pepper."
(When people call me demanding my biohazardous body fluids, I tend to lean toward the figs and Hungarians myself.  It's a no-brainer.)
The response has been generally positive from those who've tried the cheese, although many customers are too squeamish to attempt it.
(Like me.  Hungarian pepper freaks me out, too.)
"I think a lot of the criticism has to do with the combination of sex and cheese, but . . . the breast is there to make food," said Lori Mason, the chef's wife.
(Wait...we get to have sex with the cheese?  Do you call Daniel "The Breast" at home?)

Since the restaurant began offering customers a taste, Mason has been inundated with creepy queries, she said. (Like, "Hey, would you make some cheese for me out of your wife's breast milk?")
"Some people who clearly have issues have . . . e-mailed me saying, 'I wasn't breast-fed as a child, so can I taste your breast milk?' " she said.
Mason politely declines the offer.
"I'm not here to walk people through their psychological problems," she said.
No Lori, of course not.  Your psychological plate is full with strapping on the double breast pump for your morning and evening milking schedule for the restaurant.  That Titty Cheese ain't gonna make itself!  And no Funyuns for you today, it might taint the milk, and we wouldn't want Mayor Bloomberg sending back the appetizer, now would we?
That said, Mason is now prodding her husband to make gelato.
Prodding him, is she?  So the gelato isn't going to be made out of HER bodily fluids...tit for tat, indeed!
After inquiries from The Post, health bigs said yesterday that even though department codes do not explicitly forbid the practice, they have advised Angerer to refrain from sharing his wife's milk with the world.
"The restaurant knows that cheese made from breast milk is not for public consumption, whether sold or given away," a spokeswoman for the city Department of Health said.
 The End.

Don't get me wrong.  If Dan and Lori want to make Titty Cheese at home and serve it on Ritz, that's great.  And if he wants to make Titty Tiramisu or Titty Tarts or Titty Yogurt at his restaurant, as long as he labels it for exactly what it is and doesn't slip it in (oh yes, I just said that) other dishes, go for it.  And perhaps the argument can be made that it isn't that different from getting a cow's bodily fluids and pouring it on our Trix.

So why does this all seem so...so...icky thump to me?  Is it picturing the source?  Is it that a cow can't look at me and say, "This would be great in custard...moo."  Or is it looking at Lori's lovely dimpled face and thinking "I'd really rather have a margarita with you than eat cheese, or anything else, pumped out of your breast"?

I am sure Daniel and Lori are lovely people, and their baby is a sweet little biscuit.  All I know is that I am suddenly feeling a little lactose intolerant.  There is something magical about nursing a baby, but there is something porno about eating Titty Cheese with figs and company and then paying for it.  To each his own, fo shizzle.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

Every Tuesday is Fat Tuesday in My Pants

February is the month of love.
And I love food.

(For those people who say, "Uh, Julie, it's Wednesday!"  Yes, I get that.  I write late at night because the full, coherent sentences come after the children have been bedded.  But perhaps in my world it is Tuesday every day.  Perhaps this is Julietopia, where I am queen, and days and time have no meaning and everyone gets sugar cookies and there are no taxes, or laundry, and it is always May and Starbucks delivers.)

This morning I sat down at my computer with my large, steaming cup of beige coffee and a bagel, and read with amazement that today is Fat Tuesday.  "Huh," I thought as the bagel crumbled out of my mouth and past the cream cheese on my t-shirt, "I thought every Tuesday was Fat Tuesday".  But maybe it's just MY pants that celebrate.

A friend in Mount Vernon, Iowa owns and cooks in the best restaurant on the planet, The Lincoln Cafe.  I'm not biased.  It is really the best food ever.  Ask anyone.  It's crack on a plate.  It's an unexpected check from grandma in college and summer camp and kids gone for the weekend and Girl Scout cookie delivery day and John Cusak holding up the Boom Box in Say Anything all run through a chopping mechanism with mango and cumin and some other wacky ingredient you don't recognize like bison or quail or quinoa (Matt just said via Facebook that he was repeatedly beaten with a box of quinoa as a child, and would prefer "eggplant" instead) and presented on a nice white plate.  And then it's a taste explosion in your mouth, like the best fireworks ever or Gourmet Pop Rocks on your tongue.  Matt's motto is "Honest Food" and they have t-shirts (like the one I was wearing with strawberry cream cheese on it) that say "Food Is Important".  I see that shirt and I think, Damn Straight.  And I don't care if the food isn't honest.  Lie to me, food.  Say you're negative calories.  I won't kick you out of bed.

Have I mentioned I love food?  So for all of you wanna-be poseurs who celebrate Fat Tuesday once a year, I give you my 52 Fat Tuesdays.  And you should see what happens on Merlot Mondays and Wasabi Wednesdays and Thigh Thickener Thursdays and Deep Fat Frydays.  Delicious.  And then it's on to Weekend Food!  Yay!

However, I am a realist, and know I will be killing myself by inches if I succumb to my gluttonous instincts.  The days of waking up on Saturday morning in the sorority and eating donuts and drinking 64 ounce fountain Mountain Dews to chase away the residue from a night of 10 beers and Taco Bell or Quik Trip microwave food after the house dinner of Starchy Crisco Ground Beef Casserole with Oreo Mint Dessert are officially over.  (No disrespect, Suzie, it was all delicious, every last starchy fat bite.)  The day of my 35th birthday my metabolism said, "Well, my work here is done," and it took off, leaving me with a 3000 calorie a day latte habit and no exercise ethic.  That was five years ago, and I'm still drinking lattes.  Action needs to be taken.  Literally.

I did a brief stint at the YMCA, and actually made friends with an elliptical machine and got in shape, and then I stopped going, because who wants easy success?  It should feel like a struggle, right?  CH was doing MediFast, and wanted me to try it, and I was all, "you take your pyramid scheme diet plan and I'll stick to the Whitey's malts", but soon he was down 35 pounds and I was lactose intolerant.  I caved.  I got on MediFast.  And I lost 25 pounds pretty quickly and have kept it off.  So my jeans will zip, but my heart and cholesterol didn't get the memo. 

I am still lacking in the cardio/exercise department.  On Monday, when the girls were testing me switching rooms, I found a pedometer, and decided to put it on.  By the end of the day Monday, I logged 3500 steps.  Hey!  That's good, right?


Uh, NO.

I Googled how many steps I should be taking a day, and it told me some vile stat that said I should be taking about 10,000 steps a day to stay healthy.  WTF?!?!  I consider myself somewhat active, but I guess writers who sit in front of their computers all day are actually in the Michael Moore/Marlon Brando/Kevin Smith Institute of Health.

"Monday was an anomaly," I thought.  "I'm more active than that!"  Today, I got up from the computer, carried loads of laundry up and down the steps, and walked laps around the house while on my weekly call with one of my freelance clients.  Then I took the kids to their piano and cello lessons and to a playdate...but that was driving, which oddly doesn't show up on the pedometer.  So here I sit, with 4090 steps.  Crapola.

Apparently my dog is getting fat as well, as neighbors are starting to comment.  George the Superpet lays around all day with me, and to make matters worse, he gets his lattes with whole milk.  Since OUTSIDE still resembles a weather station in Antarctica, I'm going to give myself a pass for another few weeks, get my Girl Scout cookies in and eaten, but as soon as it thaws out there, I'm going to have to leash up the dog and get out in the hood.

I love food.  I hate exercise.  My dog is large and energetic.  I, sadly, am aging and bitter.  But I ordered 15 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and I want to eat a big dinner at the Lincoln Cafe soon.  Lonely Nikes, I will be with you soon.  And baby, we were born to run.

p.s. Happy Birthday Matt!  I'll trade you a birthday cake for a pulled pork sandwich....

 

The Sixth Food Pyramid Part 3, Resolution #12

Today in the Midwest it's 19 degrees outside and breezy.  I'm hiding in the basement with George, the Superpet, because there is a large, fiery ball in the sky and I'm afraid.  It's making everything bright outside and looking deceptively warm.  George the Superpet has taken up a defensive position in case of alien attack:

"Say hello to my little friend...."

So back to the Sixth Food Pyramid.  I'm sure you're just as sick of it as I am, but sometimes when you take up a theme, you have to finish it.  I may not have packed the "best" lunches today, or dressed the kids in "matching" and "clean" clothes, or had everyone at school "on time", but God as my witness, I will finish a theme on this blog.  And dress up and photograph my dog.  Because I have priorities.

As a refresher, this is the Sixth Food Pyramid: 

There is the small, happy triangle at the top, composed of latte after latte.  The middle section is made up of salts and fats, derived from Taco Bell, Papa John's pizza, and beer, with a healthy dose of sleeping in.  But everything needs a base, and this pyramid has the Holy Grail of bad eating:  Orgasmically delicious desserts, baked and DELIVERED by someone else.  Oh yes.  I know people who bake.  With pure dairy butter.

The Base of the Pyramid is Built of Desserts from Friends

Bitches.  

And I say that with love.  I noticed last year that every photo of me had this middle-aged woman in them with a double chin and Michelin Man middle.  I don't know who she was, but she kept blocking me out of every shot.  Then Youngest Daughter made a comment about how Mommy's belly was softer than hers, and "are we having another baby", and "why don't you put the muffin down, lardass?"  (Okay, YD didn't say that, but I know she thought it.  She is equal parts sweetness and Howard Stern.)

Mommy went on Medifast.  The first week or two were a little difficult, much like a client in Dr. Drew's Celebrity rehab.  Mommy would eat her soy bar and look at the children's meals much like Wiley Coyote would look at the Roadrunner.  But once Mommy kicked the sugar, she lost 30 pounds and all was well in the world.  Hey, that was EASY!

Until desserts started coming, that is.  We have a school festival every year, and a friend of mine bought a year of desserts from another friend of ours who is a supreme, other-worldly good baker, to which words cannot do justice.  Friend #1 decided to split her desserts and send half of them to my house, so every other month, a little slice of heaven appears at my door.  For example, she makes a Cherry Chip Cookie that is a sugar cookie the size of a small plate, filled with butter and delicious cherry chips and covered in sugar.  Oh.  My.  Lord.  Here is what that cookie looks like:

I ate it.  But you get the idea.

Then she makes these amazing desserts.  Cakes, bars, pastries.  She covers her eyes when she walks down the boxed cake aisle at the grocery store (this has been witnessed) because she can't live in a world where cakes are not made from scratch.  (I've been a long-time resident of Boxed-Cake Planet.)  She does not understand the concept of margarine, and therefore, she is the one who really CANNOT believe it's not butter.  There is a Raspberry Bar that is literally to die for.  I won't eat them, because every who has is dead.  But happy.  Here is a From Scratch Chocolate Cake with, you guessed it, Homemade Ice Cream:

  Yeah.  I ate that too.

Last week, I felt like I was finally getting back on track with my diet after the Food Binge other people refer to as "Christmas".  My phone rang.  It was The Baker, and it was time for my desserts.  DAMN!  She offered to bring Red Velvet Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting.  I started salivating profusely and said, "Okay".  She said she would bring them over the next day.  Fresh.  

I tried to put those cupcakes out of my head, but images of sugary, velvety deliciousness kept creeping in.  Would I eat the first one with a coffee or with milk?  Would I use a fork or just shove it in or mainline it into my arm?  The next morning, I started watching the clock.  Three hours until cupcakes.  Two.  One.  She was late.  Where was she?  Wasn't she supposed to be here by now?  WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CUPCAKES!!!  The very cupcakes I told myself I didn't want yesterday morning.  And now my mouth was dry and cracked and dusty.  My body was twitching.  I couldn't focus on anything.  Finally, her van pulled up.  The entire family gathered round.

I waited for her to carry them to the door (it's COLD out there!) grabbed the tray, said thanks, and slammed the door in her face.  I put the tray on the floor and shoved one whole cupcake in my mouth.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod they were so good.  Cream cheesy red velvety sugary warm cakey love.  Every member of my family sat on the floor, in various stages of shoving cupcakes in their mouths.  Here it is:

Gone.  All of them, gone.

I meant to take a picture of the actual cupcakes, but really and truly, my family devoured them.  There were TWO DOZEN cupcakes.  There are five members of my family.  We ate 24 cupcakes in less than 48 hours.  It was the weekend, so let's factor in 20 hours of sleep (honesty IS the best policy).  That leaves 28 hours, 24 cupcakes, and five people.

MATH MOMENT:  24 cupcakes/five people = 4.8 per person

Spread over 28 hours, that means each member of my family had a cupcake about every 6 hours while awake over two days.  Cupcakes eaten while sleeping or in dreams are not factored in.

RESOLUTION #12:  Stop dieting.

Let's be honest, this is a losing battle.  I love food.  And people keep showing up with the stuff at my house.  I know too many people who can cook really, really well and are very generous with their talents.  (Don't even get me started on the pork tenderloin mini sandwiches with warm red and green pepper and onion relish served at Book Club a few months ago - I still dream about them).  

Rachel Zoe?  Come on over, I can help.  Victoria Beckham?  I can put a smile on your face.  Everything tastes better than being skinny feels, Kate Moss.  Kirstie Alley?  Get the F out of my house, those cupcakes are MINE.

I am Ted Kennedy

So you may have gathered by now that I was on a trip with my high school friends last weekend. Assuming anyone reads this blog, I'm going to bore those of you who weren't there with yet another story about how great it was. It was total blissed out margarita soaked relaxation. Again, I'd like to point out that these people have seen me in more compromising positions than I'd like to admit. They've seen the sick, the sad, the experimental makeup phases, and making out with teenage boys. And that was just last weekend.

So, when people have seen you so bad, you want them to see you look good. Okay, maybe it isn't THEM I want to see me look good, because somehow they love me just as I am, but after 25 years of photos with these people, I want just ONE photo to put on my mantel where I don't stand out as "the one with the good personality". Pretty much all of these gals look hot without even trying, but last weekend, I tried. After reviewing a number of group shots in Scottsdale, I've had a Come To Jesus moment - it's not gonna happen. The one constant in all of our group photos is that I look like various stages of Ted Kennedy in a wig.

Let's explore this for a moment.

By virtue of being the tallest person in the group, I am also by default the heaviest person as well. There is a price to pay for height, and I'm not one of those skinny tall people. Because I love food. And wine. And chocolate. And sloth. I let myself go to the Foodie Dark Side a couple of years ago because Current Husband didn't seem to mind, and was happy to take the journey with me. We found lovely little restaurants who worship at the altar of butter and cream, and surrounded ourselves with people who can really cook. Au revoir, Hamburger Helper! Adios, Taco Bell! Ciao, Olive Garden!

The result of all of this debauchery? Hello, Muffin Top! Welkommen, varicose veins! Wie gehts, triple chin!

Last weekend's trip has been in the planning for over a year, so in January this year, I went on the cliched New Year's Resolution diet. For once, I was not going to sport three chins, puffy cheeks, and bulbous nose in every shot. (I'm not exactly sure how losing weight would change my nose, but work with me here.) I was looking a lot like Ted Kennedy's "go drinking and whoring with my nephews in Miami Beach and have one of them accused of raping a girl while I was passed out in the living room" phase, which isn't kind to the camera. Or the physique, really. (Or your reputation, if you're actually Ted Kennedy.) After nine months, instead of having a baby, I dropped one. I lost 20 pounds, moved down a size or two, and felt pretty MILFy.

I get to Scottsdale, and meet friend #1 off of the plane. She is tall and lovely and skinny, and has nary a line on her face. It's just one girl, right? The rest of those bitches can't look this good, can they? Oh yes. Yes they can. As they started showing up, my hopes for Skinniest Girl in the Picture faded. Because let's be honest, you never really get over those dormant body image issues.


Yes, I am the one who is filibustering in the Senate on the left.


I still look like Ted Kennedy, albeit in his "Victoria Reggie yachting on Martha's Vineyard" stage, so perhaps it's an improvement. Okay, so I'm Ted Kennedy in a wig. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not "fat" (whatever that means anymore). I'm very happy with my current figure, it's the camera that hates me. At least I'm funny. Because doesn't every girl grow up hoping she's the funny one instead of the beautiful one in the pictures?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

And then it gets better. Tomorrow's post: Friends don't let friends rip off skin tags.