NTKOG: The kind of frugal, level-headed domestic goddess who takes yo’ Depression-era grandma for a run for housekeeping money.

I am: at least a solid half-level above Microwave Gourmet in the kitchen. Isn’t that enough? No? You beasts!

I am not: secure enough with the essentials of domesticity to even begin considering thrift, frugality or any of those other Laura Ingalls Wilder motivational cross-stitch staples.

The Scene: My postage-stamp Brighton apartment, which is just about big enough to hold one — as long as you don’t have big dreams.

Let me level with you a bit, kittens: Ignore the number in the description up there. I haven’t just done 222 or 250 or even 300 of these NTKOGs — I’ve done more than I can easily count. The problem? Not all of them make good stories. In fact, half of the things I do specifically for this blog end up getting scrapped because there just isn’t 500 words of content in ‘em.

I’ve taken to thinking of these failed NTKOGs as didn’t-kill-me’s. ’cause that’s all there really is to say. Wore a too-short skirt work? Didn’t kill me. Told off a homeless dude for sticking his arm in my shirt up to the elbow? Didn’t kill me. Sat up until 3am drinking boxed wine on the curb with a Jordanian immigrant? Well, you get the message.

Unsurprisingly, many of these didn’t-kill-me’s are stories that take place in the privacy of my own apartment, where I try day by day to take on the non-glamorous task of finally becoming an adult. Still, in the spirit of frugality (and saving you having to read a post every single day ’til August 23), let us indulge for a moment in a compost heap of domestic-themed NTKOGs.

NTKOG #224: Washing and re-using various disposable household goods. This one was brought on by my year-long spurning of paper towels. Heck, if I can save a tree or two, how many casualties could I save in the plastic rainforest?

Cue many weeks of rinsing and reusing plastic cutlery at work, using old wine bottles as water carafes (’till they crowded out my fridge, that is — whoops), and painstakingly washing and drying my old Ziploc bags.

The Verdict: Oh man, this made me feel like the special guest star of a Hoarders prequel. With the exception of the wine bottles, which felt a bit roguish and debonair, it’s just — it’s just so much effort to save something that costs mere pennies. Plus, I’m not convinced it’s environmentally useful, what with the massive water consumption it entails. Voting this one a thumbs-down with a double serving of, dude, I am not my grandmother. (Which is probably a good thing, or else my fridge would be too crammed with decades-expired cans of lard to have room for wine in the first place.)

NTKOG #225: Eating expired food. See what I mean about the non-glamorous thing?

Let me be straight with you: I’m such a paranoid culinary princess that I can’t even eat leftovers more than 24 hours later. And the second we approach the expiry month of a food product? See ya.

Nonetheless, conquered my revulsion by working through two half-gallon bottles of month-expired soy milk. Which, unlike moo milk, tasted exactly the same as they did the day I bought them.

Later, growing riskier, I cleaned out my seriously limp crisper drawer into a pot of chili that tasted — what’d'ya know?! — exactly like my usual recipe. But my craving for zombified produce reached its pinnacle when I prepared and ate, of my own free will, banana-nut dinosaur muffins out of these:

I generally have a rule against foods that can be described as "sludgey," but even three weeks old, organic bananas are too $$$ to throw away.

The Verdict: The first didn’t-kill-me I’ve been delighted and surprised to find actually. didn’t. kill me.

NTKOG #226: The kind of gender-neutralized toolbelt-wielding lady who fearlessly handywomans her own environs. By which I mean. I scraped and re-grouted the crusty tiles in my bathroom. For fun.

The Verdict: Okay, this one actually did almost kill me. Because my Roomba was running in the other rooms I, like an idiot, closed myself in the bathroom for three hours with the caulking solution, then hyperventilated and passed out very briefly in the bathtub. Which is a lot funnier in retrospect than it was at the time.

Oh whatever. Like Bob Vila never had a bloopers reel…

Meta-Verdict: One doesn’t like to brag but — this guy? Totally not dead yet. No, no, hold your applause.

Correction: I might have died of cuteness after eating these.

NTKOG #211: The kind of guilt-wracked secret-keeper whose innermost thoughts are suitable for publication and/or framing.

I am: obsessed with secrets, both as social currency and as potential drinking-game fodder.

I am not: too into sharing my own. I hold very few things close to my chest (um, hi, ever read my blog?), and the rare secrets I do keep? Stay mine for a reason.

The Scene: The hallowed archives of Post Secret — possibly the most brilliant, poignant and occasionally hilarious interactive public art project ever conceived. I saw its creator, Frank Warren, give a talk at PWCU my senior year, and was incredibly moved by the presentation. In fact, in that overflowing auditorium of jaded undergrads, there wasn’t a dry friggin’ eye in the room. And ever since, I’ve been resolved to create and send my own secret.

So then why, three years later, is this still an NTKOG? Over the years, I’ve sketched, drafted and collaged dozens of Post Secrets but — I just didn’t want anyone else to know. As a writerly dude, I have to safeguard my emotional bomb-dropping. We don’t get many secrets in this world, and I know that if I just bide my time with mine, they’ll find the right way to come out in my fiction. And then there are the secrets that will probably never find their way out. But — but those are just too awful for human consumption, right?

Well, card’s on the way. We’ll see.

Anyway, since I’m obviously not going to scan my secret on here (anonymity’s a key aspect of the project!), I thought I’d give y’all a taste of my collage skills with a Post Secret inspired post about a topic I rarely discuss with other humans. As I’ve at least cryptically alluded to on here, for the past five or six years I’ve suffered from violently distressing dreams, bordering on intense hallucination.

I don’t talk about them a lot, ’cause they’re a friggin’ downer, but The Ex has many battle stories of me screaming him awake night after night, or rocking in my chair, half mad from days of wakefulness, fearfully policing myself against sleep. See what I mean? Total effin’ downer.

But here, for your amusement, Post-Secret-esque illustrations of a few of my more common nightmares:

The Verdict: Sharing secrets must be a good thing, right? Or else the internet wouldn’t be anybody’s best friend.

The lovely Amy of Just A Titch was awesome enough to post an interview with me today as part of her Start Fresh Summer series. Check it out to read a little about the life dream I threw away, why I’m less of an asshole now, and thoughts about how to scrap your so-so life and start fresh!

On List Addicts, embarrassing early-aughts hiphop I physically cannot stop myself from listening to on repeat.

NTKOG #204: The kind of suave, adorable attention whore whose daily soundbytes qualify — in her own mind at least — as capital-N News.

I am: tolerably amusing in bite-size chunks, some have suggested. However…

I am not: super into thrusting my name into the semi-literary world in any milieu less masturbatory than my fetal fiction career.

The Scene: My tiny apartment office, transformed for a few weeks into a cutthroat all-publicity-is-good-publicity (diet)coked-up PR maelstrom. There are bloggers out there, I’ve heard, who want to get famous — and bully for them, I say, but this dude just wants to write. However, for just a few days, I had a singular goal: to slide my words or, god willing, smiling mug under the face of every semi-literate man, woman and gender dysphoric warrior in America.

Considered and promptly rejected the idea of emailing terse, over-hyped press releases about myself to cranky Conde Nast interns. But how else to infiltrate the media? Guerrilla newspaper stuffing? Hacking TMZ’s Photoshop programs? Uh, sky-writing?

Enter Help A Reporter Out: a service that pairs stressed-out reporters with aspiring journalistic starfuckers with no aim greater than seeing their own names in print. Perfect! Signed up for the site and sat back to let the offers roll in.

Good news about HARO: the service sends out three digest emails a day — as well as several last-minute tweets — specifying exactly what sort of sources they need and, where applicable, exactly which opinions the reporters need to hear before the paper goes to bed.

Less good news: unless you’re a paleontology-certified personal trainer willing to give five sentences about the economic implications of Mr. T’s social relevance, you might have your work cut out sifting through offers.

However, within two months, I’d achieved my goal of becoming a media darling. Sort of.

Current tally: several quotes in a super-bourg Boston Globe article, which hilariously referred to me as a nascent socialite (um, dudes, I don’t even own a hair dryer); a quote in a national women’s magazine, in which I discuss a sexual mishap that caused me to compare my escaped NuvaRing to a “gooey hula hoop”; a quote and PICTURE in — honest to god, guys — a NATIONAL BEAUTY MAGAZINE.

The Verdict: Apparently the (sweet, extremely awesome) reporters I’ve worked with are really emphasizing the darling aspect of my new media darling persona. Judging by the press, I’m a glamorous, sexually adventurous socialista. But, uh, last time I checked, I’m still the same old grungy, celibate socialist. Now with a few extra-hilarious google results after my name.

That said, I’ve stayed in contact with a few writers from said national beauty magazine, and periodically send ‘em more hilarious, unprintable soundbytes that — weirdly — sometimes get printed. So even if it isn’t my key to journalistic superstardom, at the very least, it’s an entertaining new hobby. You should try it too, if you’re so inclined. Then we can trade Talking Head business cards and share a throaty chuckle at the grim lots of those poor schmucks who don’t fritter away their lives as amateur media darlings.

Some Infrequently Asked friggin’ Questions! Part, like, five and a half, depending on how you count the announcement of last week’s giveaway winners! Click the “Shameless Self Promotion” category on the left sidebar to see the other entries from the series, if you’re so inclined.

From Jenn D.:

As a California born, East Coast transplant myself, I’d love to know what 3 things you miss the most about California life.

1. The weather. The weather the weather the weather. Call me an elitist West-Coast weather snob, but I have a little rule: if people in your hometown have to argue about which is worse, the summers or the winters, then maybe you should get a new hometown. (Personally, this desert rat can’t handle rain or extreme humidity. I don’t hate the snow, though.)
2. Amazing produce. Can’t beat a Northern California farmer’s market, complete with vegan spinach naan wraps, milk so fresh it’s sold unpasteurized, and champagne mangoes picked that very morning. ALL! YEAR! LONG!
3. People flying their dang freak flags. This might be Bay Area specific, but I love being able to go into San Francisco and see steampunks, anarchists, feminist goths, and super-fabulous transsexuals — all just, y’know, in their pajamas at the grocery store. Lots of the New England girls I’ve met are lovely creatures, but wear lots of fabrics with fussy little prints and never accidentally talk about sex dolls at job interviews and, y’know, actually care what people think about them. These are fine qualities, but I sometimes get sick of feeling like an incurable outsider.

Oh, and how do you feel about toe socks?

I live my life by an aggressively anti-sock agenda. Part of the rabid flipflop devotion.

From allypanda:

At the end of all this, do you feel like you don’t really like the girl you were before? Or have any regrets for living as you did before? Or is life all one big self improvement changing experience?

As thrilled as I am with the girl I’m rapidly becoming, I have no regrets or negative feelings for the life I led before. At the risk of sounding like a total doucher, I’m one of those people with a rare and annoying imperviousness to insecurity. Doubt, yes; angst, undoubtedly; but, not even too far from the surface, I love myself so much you can see it from space and have for many, many years — even at times when you would have had to be crazy to find much to love about me.

That said, I’ve never in my life felt so comfortable with other people. And every time I successfully test my limits or remind myself how much there is to adore about other people, I give myself more to love. If I could keep NTKOG-ing ’til the day I die — and what’s stopping me? — I think I’d be the happiest old crone ever lowered into this earth.

From Michael:

If you had grown up in England (God save the queen!), what would you say instead of dude?

Hmmm, “bloke” would serve well when I’m using “dude” to refer to dudes in the existential capacity of, y’know, dudeness, but what would be my ubiquitous go-to interjection?! I can’t tell you that, but what I can tell you is that a tired and distracted search for alternative slang interjections just led to me accidentally googling “British ejaculations”. At work. In front of my boss.

What’s the most unadventurous TKOG thing you do in your everyday life that makes you proud?

Most of the long-lasting NTKOG effects on my life are definitely subtle. The biggest one to me is that now I listen to more music in a single day than I used to in an entire month. And I’m being so literal when I say that. Now that I listen to 12-14 hours of music a day, it’s hard to believe that listening to music was once an NTKOG — but until a few months ago, I only had twelve songs in my iTunes library!

Other non-heroic changes that have made my life fuller and more beautiful: sending work out to literary journals (do it a few times a week); asking store-keepers for discounts for literally no reason (everyday occurrence now); having lengthy conversations with homeless people (multi-weekly). Plus, at least a few times a day, if I want something? I just ask someone. It usually works out well.

Is there a shameful secret weighing heavy on your mind that you’d like to share with your loyal blog readers?

There actually is, but I’m still working up the courage. It’s the answer to another “Ask Me Anything” question, though, so rest assured you’ll find out. For now, a bonus secret that I think a few readers don’t know: have you ever noticed the mouse-over text on every picture I post on here? It’s often my favorite line or two from any given entry!

From Dave:

If you won two matching $5.00 gift cards from a noted online book store, would you buy Wodehouse or Waugh (assuming quite correctly that you owned neither, but decided to give one of them a shot; Because after all it was costing you almost nothing)?

Oh my goodness, can we please talk about Wodehouse and Waugh? (“In fact, TKOG, it seems you can scarcely talk about anything else.”) They were contemporaneous — in fact, for a while they played on a cricket team with JM Barrie — and both of their oeuvres stand as the best existing studies of upper-crust British society (and its slang!) in the inter-war period. They’re also both laugh-out-loud funny and feature characters with bizarre names. These are some pretty big similarities, right?

The big difference: Wodehouse’s writing is light, drawing-room farce; Waugh’s early works are social satires so brutal they will singe your friggin’ skin. Which brings to my mind the excellent aphorism I once heard regarding the difference between comedy and satire: Comedy is light-hearted, but pessimistic; satire is mean-spirited, but still believes in change.

Anyway, I highly recommend both, but will always be a Wodehouse girl. And I’ll admit, I stay away from Waugh’s Very Serious Catholic Latter Works (including That Really Famous One).

From douchegirl (and several others via comment, tweet, and email):

Were you featured in the July issue of [a national magazine]?

Yes! It was! It was totally me! Sorry for editing all your comments, but I don’t want to go public with which magazine because I’m still attempting anonymity here. Also, I can’t BELIEVE how many of you recognized me! I don’t know whether that says more about me or about you…

From Erin, at The Fierce Beagle:

I’ll start with the obvious question: Are you, and also the folks you regularly feature in your tales, actually real human beings? And not, like, some 56-year-old dude coming up with all this while he’s supposed to be running spreadsheets at work?

Dude! Way to blow my big project reveal two months early! At least now I’ll save the cash and hassle of hiring a bunch of 20-something actors for the big blog wrap party in August. They totally wouldn’t have waded through all these dang archives to figure out their characters anyway.

–

I’ll see you tomorrow, possums! And for those of you who wished Nich a happy birthday yesterday, on here or on Twitter, many thanks and peanuts!

Kittens! I can’t tell you how much your comments and stories on yesterday’s post moved me. A few of them brought me to tears at my office desk, which was both touching and extremely socially awkward. I’d never really taken time to think about where I see myself in relation to domestic violence — I assumed that DV and I ran in different circles — but you guys have really convinced me that we all ought to be active observers, willing to take steps to avert potential tragedy.

So thank you guys for making my life better. And thank you for helping make me a better person.

That said, you know what good people do? Honor their friggin’ obligations! Apologies for the week-long wait, but, with no more ado, the ASK ME ANYTHING WINNERS! And thank you all so much for facilitating my self-absorption with your awesome questions! Both winners receive $5 Amazon gift certificates, which I have already emailed.

Winner, the first: Kate, who channeled James Lipton to ask:

What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
And, of course, what is your favorite curse word?

Three exceedingly good questions, which I mulled over for the better part of two hours and had a lot of fun answering here.

Winner, the second: Karolina, who played my weaknesses like Franz Liszt by asking:

1)Who’s your favorite member of The Drones Club? Which of the Eggs, Beans and Crumpets is, in your “humble” opinion the funniest, the dumbest or the most charming?

2)Could you please give some more excerpts of your pre-teen autobiographical ramblings?

Oh man, sucking up to teacher is an instant A+, apparently. My answers:

1) My favorite Drone is definitely Bingo Little, because he reminds me a lot of myself: he falls in love half a dozen times a day, is prone to embarrassingly showy gestures, and always makes a huge mess of it. Plus, I love that he’s the only Drone with an unswerving devotion to his life, who is an intellectual, literary lady whom I also quite admire.

Funniest Drone, for my money, is Freddie Widgeon, with his affable stupidity, easily won affections, and and fierce adherence to noblesse oblige. For stupidest, you’d have to search hard to find someone better than Tuppy Glossop at jumping for bad opportunities and alienating his loved ones, although I do like a man who values a midnight snack over his own matrimonial prospects. And most charming of course has to be awarded to Bertie Wooster — if only because that wildly agreeable con man Ukridge wasn’t an official Drone.

Man, also, as a bonus, because this is the one time I’ll ever talk about Wodehouse in such detail on the blog, my Drones crush: totally Oofy Prosser. He’s a self-absorbed skinflint with raging acne and zero social skills, but something tells me if I met him in real life, I’d be gazing soulfully at him within ten minutes. Sadly, all those dashing idlers were more likely to fall for tarted-up aristocrats with exquisite profiles and ’20s-racy names like Mabel. Something tells me that if Wodehouse were to write about me, I’d be cast as someone’s abomination of an aunt.

2) Yes you absolutely can have some more of my pre-teen ramblings! Here’s a poem that shows just how I earned the title Worst Teen Poet In Boston (subliminal message: come out in August to see me defend my crown of angsty thorns). For context, I wrote this in seventh grade and was absolutely not suicidal. I just thought that, in order to be an artiste (gag), one had to be actively courting death. Annotations in red.

i know it's illegal,     dude, it totally is not
but even still,
what does that change?

especially in nevada,
the land of sin,
and 99¢ shrimp cocktails.     i actually still say this sometimes

so where's the harm
in exercising imagination?
death must be nice.     oh hey, nice day for a NON-SEQUITUR! 

but even though the fantasy
of suicide is fun on occasion,     I like how I'm trying to be rational here. "Oh, man,
 I totally understand the urge to shuffle yo'self off this mortal coil, but let's do it
IN MODERATION, guys."i think i may have a problem...

is it right that all i do is think,
"geez, i'd love to be dead"?
instead of enjoying life?     and here I have lost the fine distinction between "poetry"
and "just kind of having an excessively angsty conversation with yourself"

everything i do becomes justification,
everything i tie, my hands work
invariably into a noose.     WHERE IS MY FUCKING PULITZER.

is it a hint?  from god?
or myself?  that, really
i'd be better off gone?     I actually wanted to say "better off dead" here, but was
 afraid that when this poem won its Pulitzer (see previous note), the producers
of that John Cusack movie would sue me.

maybe i'll try it sometime,     y'know, just for kicks
and see, if not anything else,
where the attraction falls.

but, when the knife hits its mark
maybe i'll discover it's not what i want,
and wind up in purgatory...
					again.     Oh man, NAILED IT! You see what I did there?
I am like the tween Maupassant of SEARING GODDAMN EMOTIONAL TWISTS!

Yeah, I was basically the most fun kid to raise EVER. Welp, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks for your questions, loves, and see you on Monday!

Back from the last night of Mortified. The show was sold-out and electric. My favorite Bostonians showed up to support me (bless your poor masochistic souls); unfortunately, because I was busy thanking them for coming out, there was no time for a drink before the show.

This posed a problem, as the one piece of advice I’ve internalized from my father concerns precisely such an occasion: “Always be one drink behind your audience. If they’ve had three, you should have two. If they’ve had two, have one. If they’ve had none — leave.”

Sauntered up to the bartender a few minutes before showtime. Hey, can I get a gin and ginger? I’m about to get up on stage and read some poetry I wrote when I was twelve. So, uh, you can go ahead and let discretion be the better part of pouring me this drink. Looked away while she poured, then tipped her and took a sip.

God bless her, apparently the girl remembered what it was like to be twelve.

Fantastic show all around, and, as for my performance, it reminded me that my very favorite sound in the world is a room full of people clapping and screaming for me. (Name-chanting: optional but stridently encouraged.) Funny, though. A year ago, you couldn’t have paid me to set foot on stage to intentionally humiliate myself. It’s amazing what a year of facing your fears will do.

If you made it to the show, I apologize if you found yourself uncomfortably aroused. That’s pretty much the normal reaction to me as like a human being. And if you’re a Boston dude, come see me DEFEND MY DANG TITLE in the August Mortified show!

NTKOG #196: The kind of brazen attention-seeker who struts up on stage and demands the crowd laugh at her. At her. Not with her.

I am: terrible at being funny to more than two people in the world at the same time. Though I’m decently funny in real life, the second you set this performing flea on-stage and ask it to dance — nothing.

I am not: great at getting on stage, period, actually. Some call it stage-fright. I call it common sense.

The Scene: Oberon in Cambridge, usually home to The Donkey Show, but for two nights only, scene of the hilarious, schadenfreudistic, cringe-inducing MORTIFIED! Where I was reading.

While the concept of reading my melodramatic tween poetry had seemed hilarious for weeks, within a few hours of the performance, my nerve shattered. Arrived at the venue too early and ducked into a Ulysses-themed bar, where I ordered a glass of Hendrick’s and sat gazing moodily at a battered Moleskine filled with my pre-pubescent poetry. My hands were shaking so hard I didn’t have to tilt the glass to my mouth.

I wish that were an exaggeration.

By the time I got to Oberon, I was decently booze-lubricated — which didn’t stop me from trembling, visibly, when I met my Bad Teen Poetry Slam competitor. (Who, btdubs, couldn’t be sweeter: the second she met me, she handed me a pack of Pop Rocks and exclaimed, “I love your blog!” Are you a cartographer, madam? ’cause you just found the route to my friggin’ heart!)

Made it through mic check without vomiting. Somehow.

Partial view of the crowd at Oberon. The blurriness approximates the view after I slammed down a gin&ginger after reading.

With half an hour to showtime, ran outside, hyperventilating, to call The Ex. Before he could even say hello, I blurted:

TKOG: I’m going to die. They won’t think I’m funny. I’m not awkward enough! Oh god, am I the most awkward and searingly intense person you’ve ever met?
The Ex: Is there a question there? Obviously.
TKOG: I need you to say it.
The Ex:  Okay. Vampire. I’m a vampire. What’s up?
TKOG:  No, come on, I need you to tell me I’m scathingly awkward.
The Ex:  Honey, it’s been a year and I’m only now starting to recover from how awkward you are. You’ll kill.

The pep talk felt good, but what happened inside made me feel even better. Apparently while I was outside badgering my ex, the rest of the readers had already clustered in groups. They stood at the bar, talking in groups of two or three, exchanging chuckles and all wearing better shoes than me. I tried to start a conversation with one of the girls, but she stood by quietly — nerves? — and I finally scratched the fixture.

Eventually, my poetry slam competitor worked her way over and started a pity-conversation with me, but was distracted every ten seconds as yet another of her hundreds of friends entered the performance. And she wasn’t the only one! Every other reader seemed to be rolling in a posse at least forty deep. Spouses, parents, exes, dog groomers — coming to support every reader except TKOG. I have three friends in Boston. None of them came.

I stood there, jamming myself as tightly into a corner as I could, fake-writing in my trusty Moleskine and stifling a panic attack, it hit me: at that moment, I was one sweet strain of Savage Garden away from entirely reliving middle school. A sudden surge of confidence. Yes, goddamnit, my poetry is as bad as I thought! I am awkward enough! Hell, I’m apparently still unpopular and unloved! I WAS GOING TO FUCKING NAIL THIS!

And, guys? Totally did.

The Verdict: Easily one of the most fun evenings of my year. The other readers were absolutely hysterical. Though I was expecting a straight reading, the performances are more of a blend of stand-up and annotated readings of the original material. I laughed, I gasped, I cringed.

As for my own segment, I felt magnificent. Some of the jokes bombed; some of the non-jokes got laughs. And when it came time for the audience to vote for the throwdown winner, well, let me just brag that my shameless mugging for applause has made me the proud winner of a vintage 1989 pair of control top pantyhose and a perhaps unreasonable amount of pride.

One more show tonight, at Oberon in Cambridge at 10:30pm. I’ll be the girl in the corner with no friends. Say hey and we can chat about X-Files fanfic and orthodontist visits.

NTKOG #183: The kind of girl who VAJAZZLES! Which is, for those of you over 40 or who don’t follow Jennifer Love Hewitt’s talk show appearances, a portmanteau of “vagina” and “bedazzle”. Oh yeah, guys, it’s getting sparkly all up in here.

I am: a no-frills pubic groomer. Cleaning? Of course. Trimming? Sure. Affixing dozens of Swarovski crystals into cutesy little designs? Uh…

I am not: super sparkly anywhere except my personality. Which, last time I checked, I don’t keep between my legs.

The Scene: After hearing a bit about the vajazzling trend, I poked around online to see how one even goes about getting bejazzled. Read quite a bit about embarrassing sounding spa trips, then stumbled upon Vajazzleville — a blog dedicated to spreading the word (and some soon-to-be-sparkly inner thighs) about the latest quirk in personal grooming.

Exchanged a few emails with Mark, the VAJAZZLEMASTER (at least I hope that’s what his business card says. in rhinestones.), and he very generously offered to send me a free kit to try it out on my own.

Now, before I started, I had a lot of misconceptions about vajazzling. For the edification of you fellow non-vajazzlers, let’s clear some shiz up:

Vajazzle Myth 1: Vajazzling involves gluing sparkles inside your lips, along the hairline, and right on top of the little man in the boat.

Debunked: Vajazzling can be performed anywhere on the abdomen, but is most popular on the “cushion-top” area. It’s basically a crystal tattoos (’90s prom, anyone?), and completely non-invasive. Personally, I embellished the cushion-top. Mostly because I can’t get enough of saying cushion-top. CUSHION-TOP.

Vajazzle Myth #2: Vajazzling either needs to be done at the salon, or is a time-intensive affair involving individually placing crystals with eyelash glue.

Debunked: I was pleasantly surprised to check out the Vajazzleville kit, which was a double-diamond design a few inches across. All of the crystals are stuck to an adhesive backing, so the whole design transfers easily and sticks firmly to your clean, dry skin. It took The Ex approximately thirty seconds to place mine, and most of that was spent debating whether to place it at a rakish upward angle or a horizontal bar evenly spaced above the lips (aka: the Clitler).

Vajazzle Myth #3: The vajazzle will look cute for a few seconds, but soon you’ll be shedding awkward rhinestones and/or your boyfriend will be picking gems out of his eyebrows for weeks.

Debunked: It’s been less than 24 hours, but the gems feel very firmly attached. They’ve survived several clothes changes, ten minutes of sprinting through an airport, a cross-country flight, and maaaaybe a little inappropriate fondling.

The Verdict: Guys, I am the antithesis of the vajazzle spokesgirl. I wanted to hate this, or at least think it ludicrous. I mean, come on, vagina bedazzling? Can you say Sex Trafficker Barbie? But once The Ex finished applying it, we stood in front of his full-length mirror, silent for a moment, then simultaneously muttered: “…whoa.”

Hey, remember that time I could never, ever, ever run for office? Good thing I didn't bother going to law school. But for plausible deniability, I swear, this is a picture of a temporary tattoo on my arm. MY ARM.

It’s — really, really cute. It’s hard to convey the full effect in a suitable-for-work shot, but … I kind of love it. It feels fun and sort of flirty; the way the light plays across it is captivating; it even — Gloria Steinem shoot me for saying it — makes me feel a little empowered about my vagina. I mean, how often do you look at your ladybits and think, ‘Goodness, you are a pleasure to behold!’?

I wouldn’t go to a salon for vajazzling, that’s true, but I also don’t usually shave my ladybits, so obviously I’m just super low-maintenance. I would, however, actually do this again if I, y’know, had maybe a boyfriend I wanted to pleasantly surprise or wanted to feel dramatically feminine during a girly club-hopping weekend. I’m shocked at how much I loved this. The only trouble now is going to be refraining from telling everyone who sits next to me on the bus: “Hey, guess what?! There are sequins. ON MY VAGINA.”

In fact, I liked this so much and I was so surprised that I think you need to try it to believe it. So, dude, come back tomorrow for a little giveaway to make that happen. Words cannot capture how intensely right now I feel that vajazzling is something to GET PSYCHED ABOUT. (And, again, big ups to Vajazzleville, whose name I had to pimp once for giving me a free vajazzle kit, but am mentioning again now out of sheer love for a truly great product.)

Morning, poppets! Sorry the italics monster has been eating my blog lately, but a few important thoughts before today’s (short, boozy) post.

• I’ve been having a pretty rough week for various reasons — including letting jerkfaces maul my self-esteem for two seconds yesterday — and it’s cheesy, guys, but I just wanted to let you know that your comments and support rock my face off every damn day. Thanks for being wonderful. Slash not being assholes.
• Today marks the opening of Muscles’s show, More Or Less I Am, a music-theatre staging of Whitman. If you’re going to be in NYC between now and May 14, check out a free performance! I’m going up this weekend to see it and couldn’t be more psyched! Also, THE HUGEST of shout-outs to Laura, as well as a few anonymous dudes, for making donations to this amazing project.
• Today, badass free-spirited freelancer-dude blog Untemplater isfeaturing a guest post I wrote about strolling through Whole Foods looking like a bizarrely perky walk-of-shame; related: why you should clean your closet. Hopefully this will turn into an ongoing contributing writer gig; feel free to click over to leave a comment letting them know they’d be crazy to pass me up!
• Other stuff I wrote today: on Secret Society of List Addicts, a few out-of-genre song covers that are way, way better than the originals. (WARNING: Searing confessions about Barry Manilow.)
• I promise the italics monster won’t rear its ugly head again ’til next Monday.

NTKOG #167: The kind of staggering daytime drunk who — paranoid about diluting her booze in the quest for a frosty brew — contentedly sucks down lager slushies.

I am: seriously diggin’ the nostalgia-boost of homemade frozen novelty confections.

I am not: sure that nostalgia and elevated BAC belong in the same mouthful. Beer scream floats, anyone?

The Scene: My apartment, a sweltering hydrophobic bunker in the final hours of the aquapocalypse. My third-floor apartment was so steaming I was afraid of my twelve-packs of Fresca popping one-by-one like an artillery demo, and the last ice cubes had run out days ago.

A beer popsicle, it stood to reason, was exactly what the troops clamored for. Finally, the perfect summer treat for the over-12 set! And it wouldn’t even stain your mouth red! Unless you’re really into framboise, I guess.

Set an ice tray of Newcastle in to freeze and, in the morning before work, beamed delightedly as I popped one perfect cube of boozeslush out of its holster. After I popped the chunk into my mouth, said beam froze into a mask of grotesque horror.

The thing I love about Newcastle is that it — like all the best of British cuisine — tastes so stolid and brown. A hearty slug of British ale is like listening to your favorite uncle’s infectuously rumbly laugh. The second you freeze said ale? Like listening to that uncle’s third wife’s pet Papillion getting dashed against a wall. Brutal. Shrill. You pray for its immediate end.

Worse, because I’d frozen the beer before it went flat, little pockets of carbonation opened as the bally thing melted, releasing mustard gas down my throat and deep into my sinuses.

Once I finished spitting the taste out of my mouth, dumped the rest of the cubes in a class and decanted half a can of Fresca on top of it.

Something about this picture really screams "diphteria!" to me.

The Verdict: Cold, diluted, none of the pissy reek of the frozen variant: it was basically a beer spritzer. If you’ve ever sipped a beer and thought to yourself, “yeah, that should probably be half as alcoholic and spend a dirty weekend with NutraSweet,” then have I got a breakfast recipe for you.

NTKOG #164: The kind of sickly over-confident writer who — casting aside the prescribed months of editing, polishing, self-doubt and anguish — feverishly types whatever literary mess pops into her head and emails it to editors before she even triple-checks the spelling.

I am: at a loss for literary inspirations that defy the sacrosanct writing workshop model. Which is to say: stories should be agonizingly written, soul-suckingly drafted, edited to the to the whims of popular taste, and, of course, prominently feature the quiet death of a dissatisfying marriage.

I am not: happy with the way my work feels when I do what I’m supposed to. But what other option is there?

The Scene: Various coffee shops around Cambridge over the past few weeks, writing my dang heart out like it’s a second full-time job. Which is kind of is. Minus the whole getting paid aspect.

Not to bore you with my daily schedule, but aside from regular writing for three blogs, at present I’m writing one short story and in various stages of editing with three others. A frustrating thing, though: I’ve noticed that the more I edit my fiction, taking in account the literary wisdom of the crowd, the further it gets from something I’d actually like to read.

This gets discouraging fast. So when I’m struggling with my fiction, in order to regain my sense of urgency, often I’ll write a little one- or two-page nothing. An essay or scene absolutely bubbling with insanity, but hot and fast and sort of sickly compelling. I’d return to these mini-essays or scenes over the course of my writing session and reread them with approval. “Good gravy,” I’d lecture myself, “Why can’t you write anything like that?!”

But of course I had written something like that. Exactly like it, in fact. So, two weeks ago, burned out by round after ceaseless round of rejection letters for my “good” and “proper” stories, I figured, frig it, what do I have to lose? And sent out a two-page raw horrorscape to a handful of different magazines. Rejection, rejection, rejection — and then, yesterday, when I logged into my email:

“It is our pleasure to accent your story for our” — wait, what?! It’s been so long since I’ve seen an acceptance letter that I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I stared blankly at the screen for a full thirty seconds before the news actually sunk in.

Later in the day, buoyed by my off-the-wall success, I decided to send out a truly unpublishable piece to a fledgling journal soliciting pieces for the inaugural issue. It was so crazy that I could barely reread it — let alone imagine another human being liking it…

Now guess who has an essay entitled “On Cock” coming out in a real honest-to-god magazine in the fall?!

The Verdict: Two pieces in one day? Well, my life is just about perfect. Not to mention the fact that somebody’s printing my linguistic erotica. And accepted it with a less than two-hour turnaround. And said my prose made her “tongue feel all jellified” when she read it out loud. Jesus, somebody pinch me.

Well, not too hard, though. Because I have another full day of writing today. And tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. But this is what I’m doing it for. I set out to my my dreams come true and goddamnit it seems like they actually are.

Okay. Stop reading this. Log onto Duotrope and submit some of your stuff — the crazier and rawer, the better, apparently!