John & The Crockpot Plus Eight ( to Ten Hours on Low)

I owe you one.

The weekend before last, I'd promised a week of posts about the crock pot and then two days into it, I realized that if I wrote one more word about it, I would not be responsible for my actions. So I tyook a crock pot break.

But I am true to my word, sort of, and I will tell you how the crock pot almost ruined John's life.

I'm sorry to have to tell you that John has never been supportive of my cooking endeavors. If I make meatballs, for example, he will say, "have you considered making something for the children not in a shape of a sphere?" If I heat some ravioli, he will comment, "I hope that you did not go to too much trouble" and if I order take out, he'll sneer, "you're lucky Husbandrinka doesn't give you one across the face". In other words, hurtful. Painful. But anyway.

So when I got the crock pot, he was similarly unsupportive.

"The problem with crock pots," he opined, "is that everything that you make in them tastes exactly the same."
"Fuck you, asshole," I said. Which I've always found to be an excellent way to win an argument.

A few, well, eight, hours later I called him.
"My lamb stew is delicious and I can taste each spinach leaf distinctly," I lied. "I've never been happier,"
"You know," he said, "I've been making some calls."
And he told me how he called friend after friend.
"Hey, Marta," He would say, "do you have a slow cooka?" (John explained that he had to pronounce it like that for maximum effect.)
"Of course," Marta told him. "And I make my chicken wings in it. And also apple pie."
"Huh," said John.
Then he called Gene.
"Gene?" he said. "Do you have a slow cooka?"
"I sure do!" said Gene. "How else would I make the best barbecue pork in the world?"
"I see," said John.
Then he called Ross.
"I have a question for you, Ross," John said, "Do you have a slow cooka?"
"I've had a slow cooker as long as I can remember,"Ross said. "It makes the perfect beans."
"You see," John told me, "not only does everyone have a slow cooker, but they all have a signature dish that they make with it."
"I told you!" I said. Although I'd said nothing of the kind.
"It's like a cult. And you know we were just saying that I'm looking to join some kind of an easy cult."
I nodded in sympathy, which John didn't know because we were on the phoen and it wasn't a video phone.
"So I was thinking," John said. "How big is your slow cooka?"
"Four quarts."
"FOUR QUARTS? That's nowhere big enough for your family of six."
"I do not have a family of six," I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," John said. "I was counting both of your thighs. Anyway. You have growing children and they need more food. A four quart is nowhere near big enough."
"Maybe you're right," I thought-said. "But where would I get a bigger one?"
"At Bed Bath & Beyond," John suggested. "I even have a 20 percent off coupon for you,"
"That's so nice of you," I said.
"And then you will want to donate that four quart misery to your favorite gay," John said.
"What?"
"Yes, charity begins with me."

It's almost as though he has an ulterior motive.

Some People Don't Love Themselves Enough

Best gay friend John called me on Tuesday night to let me know that he was having a stroke. Apparently, he had a very bad headache and he was sure that a stroke was imminent.

Like most normal people, he wanted to spend his last few moments on earth with me.

Unfortunately, his timing wasn't a great time for me because Young Ladrinka was on step 15.9 of the 42 step night-time ritual, where he emerged from his room carrying a Star Wars light saber and wanted to hear my top five reasons why we couldn't have a light saber fight right there and then and I had to go and yell and threaten, as needed.

Anyway. John and I talked for a few minutes, I provided some medical advice which included and was limited to his taking some Tylenol and then I told him that I needed to get off the phone. To get the kids to sleep.

"You still have those kids?" he asked.
"Shut up," I said. "Can I call you later, or are you going to be stroking?"
"What?" Apparently his stroke had robbed him of his hearing.
"I want to call you later, if you're not stroking."
"That's disgusting," he said, actually sounding disgusted.
"What?"
"Don't say things like that out loud. You think I'm sitting around masturbating, waiting for you to call?"
"Are you insane?" I asked rhetorically. "I was wondering if you were going to have a stroke. You know, stroking."
"Oh. I thought you meant would I be busy sitting here stroking my penis, so I wouldn't be able to talk."

Ok, I'm not a sexologist, but who strokes his penis? Doesn't that take approximately forever?

uPhone

John got an iPhone last week and our relationship is in deep peril. As is the future of our country.

He keeps forwarding email crap to me and I'm sure that the only reason that he does it is so that the ridiculous legend at the bottom, "sent from my iPhone", can mock me. He knows that I am insanely jealous and yet he seems to be unable to stop himself. I told him to disable it or I'd disable him, but so far he hasn't. Not only that, when I call him, this is how he responds:

"Answered on my iPhone: Hello."
"Fuck you," I say.
"Insult received on my iPhone," he says.

He also told me that his iPhone gave him a handjob, but I totally doubt it.

I'm super intrigued by an application that he told me his boytoy has. It's called Grinder and it has a GPS system shpowing where you are and where other guys who are cruising for a hookup in your area. Like their exact location. So if you're in the Village in NYC, your screen looks like Tokyo at noon. (I'm assuming that Tokyo at noon is very crowded, but I'm not an expert in these things. Of course I could have said midtown Manhattan at noon or Times Square, half an hour before curtain time).

I explain all this to Husbandrinka and hypothesize that if gay marriage were legalized, people wouldn't have to resort to this kind of shit, and Husbandrinka says, "I wonder if they have this for straight people, too."

And I'm sure that he is just asking because if there is one thing that Husbandrinka loves it's equality and he wants to make sure that everything is fair, and it hurts me to have to tell him that they probably don't have it for heterosexuals because then they'd have to specify if they're a boy or a girl and Apple can't really handle such a sophisticated technology, especially now that Steve Jobs is recovering after surgery. I mean, I'd log in, looking for a hookup and find someone conveniently a block away and get all excited, rush to the site, only to see that it's another woman. So then I'd have to either be all sexist and say, "sorry, men only" which is totally rude or become a lesbian which could destroy my family, to say nothing of the moral fiber of our society. I''m sure you see the predicament.

Ok, so I just spoke to John and apparently, Grinder shows a small photo of the person who is hookuping, so potentially you could see if you're meeting a boy or a girl. I don't know how Apple comes up with this stuff, I really don't, but I'm sure that it will be a huge relief to Husbandrinka.

Wait! I am guest blogging at Scary Mommy's today. Please go and read and comment. Because otherwise she'll have me killed. She's scary, you know!

It's So Hard to Find a Good Cult These Days

Last night, John and I were on the phone, telling each other how bored we are. Husbandrinka is away until Sunday. Everything on TV sucks. John's DVD player is not working, despite his having had it repaired twice. We have nothing to look forward to.

I suggested that we try to become religious. You know, to give our life meaning and happiness and shit like that.

"That's so weird that you suggested that," John said. "I just watched a program on cults last night."

Clearly, that is a sign. John saw a program, much in the way that Moses saw a Burning Bush, so we are well on our way to religious fanaticism!

"Well," I asked him. "Is it for us?"

Unfortunately, according to John, it isn't for us, because it involves many group activities and manual labor. And although John didn't mention this explicitly, the chances that the cult leader will work our last nerve is really high. God, if we get one of those cult leaders who says "axe" or "youse", that's going to be really, really hard for me. I mean, can you ask for a transfer to a different cult leader, or how does it work?

"Hey, maybe we can become cult leaders!" I suggested. John liked the idea because that would mean less work for us. The only problem with our plan was that we couldn't decide which one of us would be the leader--he's gay and I have freckles, neither quality historically screams "follow me to salvation". Also we don't have charismatic personalities and are generally very annoying. And the followers seem kind of needy. Besides, papa would totally kill me if I became less Jewish.

So for now, at least, John and I are cultless. Maybe some day.

Labial Whore

Dedicated to my beautiful and crazy-funny friend Heather. And not just because she wrote about labia before I did.

The other day, John called me a labial whore.
It was just a term of endearment, so to speak.
As soon as he called me that, he asked "wait, what is labia?" and I had to explain that they were gynecological lips. He pretended to faint, as gay men sometimes do when labial issues are discussed.
"It's not nice to call people labial whores," I told him, because I prefer that people are sweet and polite to their fellow human beings at all times. That's just the kind of person I am.

So, a few days later, John and I were talking on the phone and he told me that his friend David explained to him that there was the major labia and the minor labia, so it was basically just like the baseball leagues. And then John said something that will haunt me always:
"Does this mean that women have four labia?"

Jesus. The labial quartet does sound like a mouthful, doesn't it?

And since I believe in genital equality, I wanted to share what my kids and I saw at the Metropolitan Museum of Art today. Oh, don't worry, a full account of that trip is coming. But for now, we saw this:



Want a closer look? Coming right up!



Is a dick shield really necessary? And if it is, why does it have to be in the, as the tourists admiring it alongside us, asked "happy all the time" position?

Oh, and on a different note, don't forget to enter the Thomas giveaway! And the Wizard of Oz giveaway is still going strong!

I've Had Enough of You! Good bye!

There are some things that I don’t do well and one of them ending a phone conversation smoothly. I don't transition well. When I get tired of speaking on the phone, I say "Ok, good bye" which I thought was perfectly appropriate, until a college friend pointed out that it was really sudden and I didn’t give adequate warning.
What does that mean? Should I be starting every phone conversation with a "I don’t want to alarm you, but I will be ending this conversation at some point, so please do not get too attached"?
Recently John and I were on the phone and when I tried to get rid of him with a "well, I better get going," he became enraged.
"I am the man," he told me. "I will decide when this conversation is over." So we talked about that for a while, and about which one of us is the more masculine, all things considered and then he said something like, "ok, you're draining me," and hung up.

One of the magazines I read said that a good way to end a phone conversation is "I'm sorry that I have to let you go."  I think that sounds like you're struggling with mental illness, and not winning.

So, if you have any tips  on ending the phone conversation smoothly, please share.

Ok, I'm bored now. 

Bye.

A Sick Fuck

I had dinner with a girlfriend the other night and she mentioned a friend of hers, an elderly man that she'd known for years.  So I had a brilliant idea. "Hey," I told her, "Why don't you Anna Nicole Smith him?" My friend didn't think that the idea was quite as brilliant as I did, the main flaws being that she is not a whore like Anna Nicole Smith and this guy may or may not have any money,  and also apparently things didn't work out so well for Anna Nicole Smith. Overall,  I was left feeling like maybe there was something wrong with me.  You know, mentally.

This isn't the first time that Anna Nicole Smith has screwed me.  There was that time that there was a paternity debacle--who was her daughter's father?  Not The Howard Stern or that blond guy?  I had another brilliant idea at the time.  "You know," I told John, "I bet her son is the father of her baby."

"What?" John asked.  John is hard to shock.  Once when I had  a panic attack, John calmed me by saying, "Put your head down between my legs."

"Well, you know she and her son were always close, he died mysteriously, right when the paternity thing was hitting the fan. I  bet he was the father."

Instead of embracing my brilliance, John attacked: "Only a sick fuck would come up with something like that."

"Time will tell!" I was feeling smugly confident.

Unfortunately, time was not on my side and the blond guy is the kid's father. DAMMIT.

And then it happened again. The US Airway flight lands in the Hudson River and the pilot is hailed as a hero.

"I bet he did it on purpose," I told Husbandrinka. 

"Ridiculous.  He executed an incredibly hard landing. He saved lives."

"Eh."

"Why would someone do something like that on purpose?" Husbandrinka asked.

"You know, the attention.  I heard he has a lot of new fans on Facebook.  People will do lots of crazy shit to become popular on Facebook."

Husbandrinka didn't buy it.  And this morning he tells me that the New York Times reports that the co-pilot reported seeking a flock of birds to the right of the airplane. And passengers reported hearing a thud.  I don't know.  I'd like to see their Facebook pages before I decide.

Friendship

Many of you know about my friend John. We met at work, but I also love him. As a matter of fact, I think that if I were single, and he were heterosexual, and earned more money, and had a better personality, I would marry him. The marriage would really be helped along if he were the last man on earth. And if there were a law making it absolutely mandatory for everyone to marry. And if Proposition 8 were federal law, so I couldn't marry another woman. Or an animal. But only if he asked really nicely because I don't want to seem too eager or anything.

A few weeks ago, John and I had a mini argument, I don't even remember about what and I threatened him with Blog Death.

"I can kill you off on my blog, get lots of posting material out of it and people would probably even send me money for your funeral," I blurted out. What? It was the first thing that came to mind, don't tell me that you haven't thought the same thing.

"Oh, please," he said. "I have my own cult following on your blog." He may have mentioned that I was nothing without him, that he made me and could destroy me and uttered something mildly anti-semitic as well, I don't know. I'm not the type to dwell on the negative.

But it did give me an idea about how I could exploit John.

I decided that I would put up a poll to see who people wanted to ask questions of more--Husbandrinka or John. In no time at all, John was leading by a sizable margin. Insane.

"John is getting more votes that Husbandrinka on my blog," I told Husbandrinka.

"Who is 'Husbandrinka'? Is that me?" Husbandrinka asked. It's almost like he wants me to think that he doesn't give a shit.

So John won.

"Great," John said, when I told him on the phone over the weekend. I detected sarcasm.

"You know, you could be more loving and supportive of my blog," I accused him.

"Listen, if I were any more loving, you'd be pregnant and if I were any more supportive, you wouldn't need a bra."

He just comes up with this stuff. No wonder I transcribe his every word.

So, if you've been saving up questions for John, please let me hear them. I will do my best to get him to answer them, with only the slightest editing from me. A little tweaking here and taking in there, if you will.

Post your questions in comments or email me MarinkaNYC@Gmail.com
And remember, an opportunity like this does not come every day!  You're welcome.

How I Survive Subway Rides

Ok, so I already terrorized you with my subway fears, so now I thought I'd make up with some subway joys.  The key to a wonderful subway experience in NYC is to make sure that my friend John is with you.  If you are visiting New York City, he is available to escort you on the subway for a small fee. Lest you think that he is an escort just because I used the word "escort", however, you are a completely depraved pervert.

Here are the Top Ten Ways That We Make Subway Rides Fun!

1.  Who Would You Have Sex With?

Look at the people sitting across from you.  Going left to right,  number them.  Now, who would you have sex with, death is not an option?  Luckily, at rush hour, the contestants will change at almost every stop, enhancing the fun!    It's amazing how often both John and I will opt for a woman.

2.  Spot the Al Queada Operative.

Needless to say, this game is fraught with anxiety, and requires participants to  become temporarily politically incorrect.  The good news is that John and I have coded this game to perfection and now when we spot someone suspicious, we ask each other, "do you have your CELL phone with you?"  We pause dramatically at the "CELL" for about three minutes and make meaningful eye contact with each other, to make sure that the MEANING is clear.

3.  We would rather be single forever rather than end up with THAT.

Spotting that special someone on the subway who proves to us that being alone forever is better than spending twenty seconds with THAT.  Usually reserved for metrosexuals, whose eyebrows are tweezed into a hypernatural freak show.  We have no doubt that we feature prominently in other people's version of this exercise.

4.  Spot the My balls are so big, I take up two seats guy.

I'm afraid that I have to take the credit for this one.  It's the man who sits with his legs spread so far apart that he literally takes up two seats.   It is very difficult not to say to this individual, "kindly readjust your testicles so that they fit on one seat".  

John and I had a priceless moment once when a passenger with an ass shaped and sized like two baby elephants glued together at the trunk tried to wriggle into a seat space that is best suited for Barbie's fetus.  And that's how John coined one of my favorite terms, "If the ass don't fit, don't sit."   He's a regular Johnny Cochran!

5.  Avert eyes from the head wound.

Once John and I were seated next to a man who had a hole on the side of his head.  A gaping hole.   This was alarming not only for obvious reasons, but also because through the powers of telepathy John and I were able to communicate to each other that his brains were about to spill out on us and it was making us nauseated.  What really helped our "telepathy" along was John making the "I'm throwing up in my mouth" gagging face at me and my saying "I am going to vomit, let's move subway cars" to him.

We have also had to avert our eyes from a man who had a scab on his finger that was certainly small pox infected and numerous incidents of facial unpleasantness.

6.  Comment On Insane Buttons.

One day we saw a woman whose entire coat was apparently sponsored by PETA.  She had approximately 10,007 buttons screaming that "meat is murder" and "you wouldn't wear a coat made out of infants!"  John couldn't help himself and made comments like, "If I ever become insane and wear buttons on my jacket, arrange to have me shot, ok?"  The great thing about making comments about insane people on the subway is that they usually assume that you're the insane one and leave you alone.

7.  Who Has Marionette Lines?

Marionette lines are the lines from your nose to your mouth.  With age they deepen and scream for Botox.  John and I like to inspect our fellow passengers for such lines and are always depressed because we have the most pronounced ones.  We may need to visit some nursing homes to feel better about ourselves.  Or perhaps the morgue.

8.  Preggo and Queer

So, I just called John because I couldn't remember any other games that we played on the subway and he reminded me of Preggo and Queer, which we used to play when I was pregnant (Preggo.  Get it?  If I have to explain Queer, I give up)  We were a crime fighting team, looking out for the safety of our fellow passengers.  "It was about your extra testosterone and my not having any," he reminded me.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked.  "I didn't have any testosterone."

"You were a very manly pregnant lady," John told me.

This is totally untrue, by the way.  But I have to use it because my list is too short without it. 

9. Glamour and Romance Can Be Yours

Whenever someone eats on the subway, this phrase comes to mind. John said it one time when someone wearing a large pair of bedazzled jeans was eating a very large bag of potato chips and licking her fingers. (Finger licking is one degree removed from cannibalism in my book, except less appetizing.) John took one look at her and said "yes, glamour and romance can be yours!"

10.  Who Gets Nauseated First From Motion Sickness

This is usually limited to the bus that we take sometimes, to avoid the fraught with danger subway.  John will show me something on his ipod, which is usually a Bewitched episode and I will tell him that I get carsick if I watch it.  He then accuses me of making it up to avoid watching the video  I will not stand for such an attack on my character.  I will have an Altoid to cut down on my nausea.  He will accuse me of buying the Wintergreen Altoids specifically to spite him and tell me that the smell makes him gag.  I will say, "Fuck you." and he will say, "you're a witch and a Russian whore."  For some reason, usually no one sits next to us.