Betty Crocker

43 posts

Create-A-Word! (SuburboWASP Style!)

Heh. Denton’s smarmy non-apology to we commenters made me realize how far superior our new confection is. No ads. No Cheetos. No Black Swans. No First!!101!. Gawker is now like Times Square – fit only for tourists who want to… well, Gawk. And enrich others while doing it.

We can do whatever we want and no one can stop us and if I want to run through the grass Dad just cut until the green grass juice is on my feet instead of in my smoothie I can. We can tell secrets and jokes in our treehouse and I’ll pick one of Mom’s Tropicana roses and propose to all of you. (God, we gay kids even have hot pants.)

And then, after the ice cream truck is gone and we’re exhausted, we’ll tell a bunch of stories and make up words.

Tonight’s theme is SUMMER! Because it’s 3 whole months away and I can’t wait. Here’s what to do: make up a word, add a pronunciation code if you like, add a definition and use it in a sentence. Uncle Betts will show you how.

1: Oontzdouche: (OONTZ-doosh): A young person at the wheel of a rickety car, blasting music into the summer air that sounds like OONTZ-OONTZ-OONTZ! It goes on endlessly and carries through the ocean-scented air like a toxic cloud of throbbing, mutant moths and deformed sugar glider squirrels. Often followed by a squee of bad car brakes and the clink of a bottle of Miller, now filled with pee, into Mrs. Vacheron’s zinnia bed.

Our first cocktail party in the yard was marked by the Cheever-like hilarity of hearing an oontzdouche trying to compete with Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo”.

2: Sumstandard: (sum-STAN-dahd) The good feeling that you feel at the end of a summer day when you head into the lav for a badly-needed shower, snap on the light and see what you look like in the mirror. You have scratches all over you from gardening, you missed some sand between your toes, you’re a bit sunburnt, and you smell like someone sprayed a goat with No. 4711 and Bain de Soliel, and then the goat drank a few cold Sam Adams. It’s a VERY good feeling.

As the tub was filling and I saw how disheveled I was, I felt so sumstandard that it was like That Summer That Anthony Walked Me Into The Barnett’s Pool Cabana, Holding My Hand.

3: Gumfields: (GUHM-feeldz): The place in your mouth between your teeth where little bits of fresh, sweet corn kernels spend their nostalgic last moments before you pick or floss them to join their brethren. You have to pick or floss. They’re not coming out any other way.

I had two full gumfields, but my God, that farm stand has the best damn July corn ever.

You try! Make up a summer word!

Photo here.

Call me irresponsible…

Guyz!

I have completely checked out of my job emotionally, and that means that on Thursday and Friday, I just didn’t show up. This is bad. It’s not how I was raised and it’s not who I am or want to be. I have deep personal issues that need to be addressed so that this doesn’t happen for the next place. Here’s the problem. When you’re gay, and you parents are Mr. & Mrs. SuburboWASP, they usually send you the following message: you don’t have to BE perfect. You just have to look as though you are. What they don’t realize is that sending this message is incredibly destructive and can do horrible lasting damage, because it installs a very powerful button that other people can push, long into adulthood. It surely plays hell with your self-esteem.

It’s done damage to the perception of my professionalism, because the untenable and unchangeable fact is that the CFO is my de facto boss (even though that’s point blank illegal). The conflict of interest in such an arrangement is so obvious a kid could see it. If I’m responsible for enforcing the rules, and the guy in the best position to break them is capable of hiring or firing me and dictating my compensation, I’m in a bit of a bind.

I could almost deal with this if he wasn’t undermining me at every turn. So, I dropped my standards to the level of his expectations. And I blame my boss-on-paper, the CEO, for knowing about this situation and doing nothing about it. But at the end of the day I’m responsible for me. And when you quit, you should at least tell the guy who signs your paycheck.

It’s done a bit of damage to me and the Cap’n, as well, although he’s got the patience of a saint and is one of the kindest, most generous men who ever lived. (He ain’t perfect either, but being late to a dinner party shouldn’t trigger an uncharacteristic screamy rage-y meltdown in the car. And it was his fault, but still.)

Lessons For My Crasstalk Friends: It’s clearly time to make some changes, but recognizing that I require and deserve to be treated with respect is a real good start. Add to that the concept that I should tell people who don’t / can’t / won’t respect me to f-off very clearly rather than being passive aggressive.

Never – ever – give an unethical person so much power over you that he causes you to lose self-esteem, self-respect, lower your standards, or compromise what you know to be true. Certainly don’t let them drive you to do self-destructive things. It’s just wrong. I do enjoy a cocktail, but my limit is two. Friday night was a full-on Barfy Billyburg Barfly Booze Bacchanal. Unacceptable for someone my age and it ruined my Saturday, too. I even got the side-eye from Crocker Kitty Edmund – I’m told I picked him up and sang “Sweet Child O’ Mine” in his face and he hates loud noises. Then I puked in the guest room bathroom and he stepped in it. No more ‘tinis for me for a while.

So, my fellow Crasstalkers, this little Internettythingamabob that we have here has definitely been – and will continue to be – a safe spot for me to vent, brag, observe and complain, and that’s the fault of all of you. I’ve never been a part of such a diverse, fun, funny, brilliant club in all my life, and it’s making my wee crisis a lot more… wee. Thanks for that.

Interview 2 with the I-bank is on Tuesday. Wish me luck, because I think I need it.

Update – After taking the weekend to chew it over, and to rehydrate after a rollicking Saturday AM hangover, the Cap’n and I reached some conclusions. We’re going to just take this as it comes – if they can me (which would be bad for their business), Cap’n will take overtime to keep us afloat.

Odd Facial Hair Configurations And Other Stuff

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Give a man a day off, and chances are that he and Mr. Gillette are going to be having a time out. I have not shaved since Friday, except for my neck, which itches if I don’t. I now am sporting a 3 day pre-beard, neatly trimmed above my cheekbones, around my mouth, and below my jawline. This has caused a local sensation.

In the boudior: “C’mere, ya scruffy little cub!” Note: facial hair can be employed to good effect during intimate moments. Or in other words: “Good Christ, if you shave that off I’ll kill ya!”. My blue eyes got some compliments too, as though he hadn’t really noticed them before.

With a kitty: Edmund and Lucy are fascinated. Not only do I get the curious face paw, Edmund has been marking me as his by rubbing his face on mine.

In the lobby: Straighties Ellen and Debra are flight attendants for JetBlue. They see handsome men every single day. I went to get my mail and there was a decided tone to their “Helloooooo!”, and I caught the words “working out”. I have been doing nothing of the sort.

At the barber, where I got my usual very short buzzcut, Russian Mike said “I’m not touching this. Looks good. Real good! I clean up for you, but really you should keep.”

In the supermarket – ok, I dressed up a little, but a mom with a toddler ogled my ass and the cashier became a flibbertigibbet. I had no choice but to wink at her when she handed me my receipt. She giggled and ran her hand down my arm.

This does not make me confident, since The Beard is coming off tonight. It’s far too high maintenance and while it adds desired structure to my round and moonlike visage, I can’t babysit it twice a day.

But I have to say it’s fun. Countering the slob factor of skipping a shave or three by cleaning up your neck and evening out the top line works wonders, as does a nice shirt and shiny shoes. I wasn’t going for the look of a long haul trucker or Zach Galifianakis. More like Andrew Lincoln in The Walking Dead, who is one of the sexiest men who ever took a breath. (And if Jon Bernthal cast a wayward eye my way, there would be big trouble in Casa Crocker.) Jon Bernthal is all kinds of fine.

“Ya look good. I’m a lucky fucker.” Thus spake Cap’n Crocker, and there was a rib-crunching hug to go with it. You try making redskin potatoes and brisket when a beautiful, honest, brave, crazy, funny man says that to you. Just try it. Your potatoes will look like Legos and your brisket will be second-rate.

And he won’t care.

“Thurston, what do you wear to a rescue?”

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Lovey Howell spoke these words on Gilligan’s Island, when it seemed that a ship might pass their uncharted desert isle. Ginger immediately leapt to her feet and took Lovey by the arm – “Oh, I’ll help you.” The next scene shows Lovey in a nautical ensemble, complete with a jaunty hat.

I remember this because it’s precisely the question I would ask. I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I know how to find out. Remember, I’m the guy who brought brie, french bread and shrimp cocktail to a cop-and-marine-filled paintball match, was scoffed at, and proceeded to shoot the crap out of everyone. I will never forget looking John – a Nassau County Corrections Officer with a psychotic gun collection – in the eye, aiming at my friend Chris, and hissing “I’m gonna off that motherfucker.” He looked at me like he was scared, and he’s 6’6″ and diesel as hell. I held up some corrugated plastic as a shield, crawled through the scrub brush, and blew my beloved Chris away with a paintball at point-blank range.

The paint was purple. Not a coincidence.

So work sucks, and it’s time to go. My colleagues are nice except for the CFO, who is an undermining asshole. I didn’t know that the SEC was in to do an examination until the day after I agreed to take the job. The CFO makes a mint while I and my assistant are at the very bottom end of the pay scale. It’s a 3-person job and there are two of us. My bonus was inappropriate. Everyone’s was, including the CFO’s, but his was in the wrong direction.

And ultimately, I blame the CEO – a man I like and respect who has given his trust to the CFO, whom I don’t. No one does. If the man Googled himself, he would be appalled.

An international bank wants to see me on Friday – they have a huge real estate trust and a private wealth management division where Compliance work is needed. I must haircut, manicure, buy new shoes, buy a new belt, pick up my fancy suit pants from the cleaners, and find a way to turn Casual Friday into Froufrou Fund Friday.

I’m a bit unprepared – I can’t find the people I’m meeting anywhere online. But I will.

I am very sorry that I will be incommunicado tomorrow, but personal business calls me out of state and I can’t be back here before late tomorrow night. Peace, all.

I might know what to wear to this rescue. But the fact is… I want to write for a living. There’s half a novel in the can. Well, the Ralph Lauren shirt box.

High School “Glamour Gals” Are Not Doing What You Expect

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On a so-called “Christian” blog, a commenter named Colleen commented that she was a teacher, and she thinks that teenage boys are “disgusting”. If I was on the school board where she worked, I’d fire her bitchy ass so fast her dewlaps would flap.

Teenage girls are stereotyped as being screamy, vapid, obsessed with clothes and the attention of boys, which they don’t know what to do with when they get it.

In Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, the snooty maitre’d at Chez Quis regards young Ferris with disdain and says “I weep for the future.”

Negative stereotypes do apply to some teenagers. But like any gross generalization, it’s false to a large degree.

Half Hollow Hills High School West is a public school on Long Island, located between the affluent towns of Huntington and Dix Hills, and serving the not-so-affluent South Huntington and Babylon areas. Because it’s a large Long Island district, it’s ethnically and economically diverse. It’s one of the top ranked public school districts in the US.

They have a club called “Glamour Gals*”. What do they do?

Twice a week, these 15 girls go to Atria, an assisted living facility, and give manicures and spa treatments to the elderly residents. Some boys don’t want to miss out on the fun, so they joined them on their most recent visit. The boys and men discussed history, sports, and played trivia games. “The people at Atria get to make new friends with us, and we get to hear their cool and interesting stories.”, said Ross Beloff. Classmate Christina Napoi summed up the project by saying “People may say we’re doing community service, but it never feels that way.” The name of the club is likely to change once more boys join. (*source – Newsday)

The next time someone goes all “Get off my lawn!” at a kid who isn’t doing anything wrong, Imma lay some smackdown on ’em.

I always talk to my beloved nieces as if they were adults, and their parents have observed “They never have an attitude when we come to visit you!” Hmph. Wonder why that is?

If you have a young’un in your life, raise your expectations and treat them with respect. The results may surprise you.

Hallmark Has No Homos

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“I want you. Now.”

Well, who doesn’t want to hear that? So, despite the alarm going off, a curious kitty, and a pillow gone askew, I found myself right where I belonged – under 280 pounds of muscular manly man who required my presence and devotion.

At a rather critical moment, he stopped his attentions. In a Brooklyn-y growl, I was informed: “Ya bettah know that you’re the best thing that evah happened right heah.”

I couldn’t help it. This is so not like me, but I busted out crying (f’n Valentine’s Day and hormones) and buried my face in his big be-tatted shoulder. He grabbed my chin, kissed me, and recommenced driving me insane.

Without being more graphic I will tell you that I was his and he was mine.

So what’s that all about?

Well, I think it’s a bit different with two guys as opposed to a hetero couple or two lesbians. The underlying motivation – sharing physical pleasure with your beloved, and being as close to them as possible – is the same no matter what plumbing one has. But with two men there is more freight. I think, for a man, opening yourself up to a woman has a bit less risk. She doesn’t inherently understand what being a man entails. What she knows and feels is that the person with her is giving 100% – but 100% of what? Some women can understand the concept of manhood – the expectations of responsibility, the stifling of emotion. I must point out that many women are emotionally stronger than men because they have to be. But being a man is not a thing which is easily explained to someone who isn’t.

Two men in love are often opposite sides of a coin. Where there’s overlap – ego, stubbornness, appreciation of art, beauty and life – they simply nod and accept it. Where there’s conflict – largely due to jockeying for position in the relationship – it can either make or break a couple. When two dudes fight over a lamp, the lamp is very often not the issue. It’s a struggle for who’s going to run the show. Smart gay men – like smart straight men – figure out pretty fast that the person who appears to run the show often doesn’t.

I keep our home clean, and I make sure that Cap’n has tasty noms, clean clothes, and gets to the doctor and dentist when he needs to. I also manage our finances. That could be subservient, but it’s not. I have not had to worry about car maintenance for 7 years, and any chore I wish to defer will be done by him. I write notes and leave flowers, he sneaks up behind me and gives me stealth hugs, often with fantastically dirty commentary. I have not had to drive to a family event since 2003. He shines all our boots and shoes, I plan our vacations. We plant flowers on our terrace together. It works. I am one of the luckiest Gays that ever Gayed.

When I am very old, I will look across a well-worn Ethan Allen dining table at the Cap’n, and while his jaw will be a bit less square and his skin a tad more papery, I will find myself in those caramel-colored eyes and want to rub those big arthritic shoulders.

There is no Hallmark card for this. But that’s all right.

Valentines Kisses

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Ok, so I’m a happily married Gay who gets kissed more than his fair share, sometimes as gratitude for a taystay dinner and sometimes – the best times – just because. Let’s review some smooching stuff before Monday, ok?

Kisses derive from something immensely gross – an adult mammal passing chewed-up food to a youngun. But we love to kiss – at least, those of us with passion do, and it is a language all its own.

The Blown Kiss: “Daddy, I’m on a roller coaster!” or “You vicious ex-wife.” Either way, it has little meaning.

The Euro / Hollywood / WASP Air Kiss: This one says “I publicly ally myself with you, and I respect your makeup artist.”

The Kitty / Doggie / Toddler Kiss: You have always been nice to me, and as a fine judge of character, I pronounce you to be desirable company. The intent is pure and sincere.

The Neck Rub With Scruff: Obviously for men only. Dude, take your unshaven (but clean!) chin and run it down the side of the neck of your beloved, very lightly, while adding kisses along the way. He or she will go absolutely insane.

The Face Caress: For either gender, but women are better at it. Softly run your hand along your beloved’s jawline, then kiss him or her. This makes them “yours”,

The Big Bro Kiss: “I am secure in my masculinity and honesty to the point where I can publicly take you in my arms and declare that you are my family. I do not care if you are my buddy or my best friend’s wife, you are someone who I would take a bullet for and I don’t care who knows it. ” (Often tear-inducing.)

The Big Sis Kiss: “Were you having a crisis? You aren’t now. I’m here and you can let it all out. And, since I’m a Strong Woman, I will fix it. Oh, and about Mom? Yes, she is a bitch, and no, it isn’t you.”

The Man Sex Kiss: “You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen and I must have you right this minute and please do me the honor of letting me take you, over and over again, because you’re so damn hot and all I can think about is you and your body and where to touch next.”

The (Straight) Woman Sex Kiss: “If you don’t take this to the next level I will scream and I may scream anyway because you smell like a man who I want to make a baby with even though I can’t do that now and your eyes make me feel like the most desirable thing on the planet and I want and need and need and want.”

The I Love You Kiss: There are no words, but there is a process. It’s a kiss, followed by eye contact, then another kiss.

When Chicken Thighs Get Your Own Thighs Open Wide

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Cap’n was working late last night. A psycho decided to kill his stepfather, girlfriend and her mother, then stab a random pedestrian, then carjack someone and stab her too. Since he was tearing around Brooklyn in a stolen Pontiac with every cop in the NYPD looking for him, it was Cap’n’s job to find out if he had any prior arrests. And he had four, two of which were sealed because he was a juvenile… at the age of 20! How ridiculous is that?

So, the joy of my Valentine Party Basket was somewhat diminished in his office after this, which irked me.

There are few restaurants in his gritty precinct, and he wasn’t going to order in, so he’d be ravenous when he got home. I decided to do it up even though I’d likely be asleep.

Chicken, Risotto, Broccoli feast

4 chicken thighs, skin on

1 shallot

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup lemon juice (1 medium lemon)

2 tablespoons sherry

Black pepper to taste

Sea salt to taste

Fennel seeds

½ tsp. thyme

½ tsp oregano

Peel and slice the shallots thin. Insert the slices under the skin of each chicken thigh. Whisk everything else together in a small bowl. Line a small roasting pan with parchment paper and arrange the thighs on it. Pour marinade over it. Sprinkle with more pepper, if desired. Roast at 425 for 45 minutes to an hour.

Risotto: I use Rice Select Italian Rice and follow the package directions, BUT – I use chicken broth instead of water, and the last cup of liquid added is sherry. I also add mushrooms and cooked shallots.

Broccoli – frozen florets, blanched for 2 to 3 minutes in water at a rolling boil, then plunged into ice water. To serve, microwave for one minute with 1 tbsp. butter and the juice of half a lemon. Serve with lemon wedge.

I whipped all this up, covered it carefully, and left a note about the really good chardonnay in the fridge door and the bagged salad in the crisper. Then I took a place setting of the china he got me for Christmas out of the cabinet and stacked it next to the serving dishes, along with a linen napkin and one of our crystal wine glasses. Then I took shower #3 of the day and went to sleep.

At 2 AM, I should not have been surprised to find my ear being nibbled and a scruffy chin running down my neck as the long t-shirt I sleep in was expertly removed. But I was. I mean, we both put in long days and Sex Night is usually Saturday. Spontaneous Sex Night usually happens when we’re both home at the same time. But there we were, and ’twas glorious. More glorious was going to the kitchen for the last of the chardonnay and finding that he’d done the dishes.

I make no guarantee that making this dish will result in what P.G. Wodehouse would call “the pash”. But it will increase your chances. If it does, plan on Saturday being a Lazy Day.

Scrubbed, Sucked, Burned – And This Time, Russell Brand Is Not Involved

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I’m back.

The Groupon was $55.00, and offered a skin consultation, a mask, and my choice of microdermabrasion or a glycolic peel. The full value was close to $300.00, and I expected to tip at least $50.00, so total expense was $105.00.

The place was a former superintendent’s apartment in a fancy co-op building on Central Park West. It was furnished as such – very warm and welcoming, with real artwork and comfy chairs. This relieved me, because I anticipated cold sterility in the décor, and that would have applied to the customers as well. Why are some of these places so guy-hostile? We have pores too! Stevie Wonder’s Send One Your Love was on the stereo. Nice!

I settled in to wait, but I was the only one there.

The “doctor” who saw me was not a dermatologist – I’ve never seen a ruffled lab coat, but she had one. She looked like Colbie Callait, who I love, but then I worried a bit that maybe she smoked pot. (I think that if Colbie and Jack Johnson shared a bong, the cloud would be so thick that LA would have a blizzard in July.)

Dr. Colbie’s catlike eyes assessed me as she asked if I smoked, drank, and got enough rest. (No, HELL YEAH, No.) Vell, she said in her Russian accent, there’s a lot we can do to feex you up.

And she did! After a thorough cleansing that made every pore feel like it contained a French Gypsy, she started with the microdermabrasion. She decided this for me, because the fact of the matter was she thought I needed both. The only thing with the microdermabrasion was that some of the stuff got on my teeth and it sure is gritty. Otherwise it was just like having a vacuum suck out your pores. Then she put on a glycolic solution, followed by a glycolic moisturizer. Eet vill steeng, Dr. Colbie told me. This was held in place by some gauzy pads. She left and shut out the lights. I wanted to fake-yell Get it off! Get it off it burns like FIYAAAA! but it seemed like Dr. Colbie didn’t really have a sense of humor.

Alone in the dark with my face a-blazin’, I wondered if I’d look like Samantha from that episode of SATC when she got a peel and her face looked like strawberry jam. The music switched from Stevie Wonder to what Mike calls Black Sex Music: R. Kelly’s When A Woooooman Loves segued into a Rick James and a sista moaning Fire and Desire, which had me weeping tears of hilarious irony. After an eon, Dr. Colbie returned.

You steenging? she wanted to know.

Not too bad. I thought I could sense her disappointment through the bandage. She removed them, got me cleaned up, and showed me a mirror.

Pink. I was pinker than icing on Julia Allison’s cupcake. But it was a very clean pink. There was a residual tingle. When she left the room, I replaced the mirror on the shelf next to books, and being a nosy parker, I had a peek at the titles. What Spas Do Wrong, Upselling!, Marketing Spa Products.

She obviously had memorized every one, because she gave me the hard sell on a glycolic night cream. I paid $40.00, and later found out that it retails for $28.50! But it did get very, very good reviews online. Whatevs. She told me how to use it, so I guess that’s worth something.

I would go back, but I would NOT pay $300.00 + tip even though I know that’s going rate. My skin feels smooth, and looks (pinkly) terrific. Random note – on the way back, THREE random strangers either said hello or chat me up in the subway and the elevator.

So! Those of you with ladyflowers – your real problem is makeup, if you wear it, and your skin is thinner than mine. Pick one or the other, but don’t go for the double whammy.

Gentlemen – your problem is that you don’t exfoliate at all, ever, and those of you who do don’t do it often enough. Your mug is probably home to a few blackheads and dry patches. Get rid of them. When you go a-male bonding, tell the guys at The Swarthy Salty Sea Succubus that it’s so you don’t cut yourself when shaving your manly man beard.

Let the siege begin!

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In honor of Frolic Friday, let us commenters adopt a siege mentality to The Site Which Shall Not Be Named. No pageviews, even out of idle curiousity. Perhaps one post in crosstalk inviting dissenters here.

The interesting gentleman pictured above is Ralf Moeller, who pursued a career in bodybuilding until his stature brought him to the silver screen as a friend to Russell Crowe’s Gladiator. He also was in The Scorpion King, the tv version of Conan The Barbarian, and has worked on several techno / trance albums. This makes him similar to Crasstalk – an amalgam of multiple talents and hotness, big but still nimble, and if his sword ever needs polishing, there will be no shortage of volunteers.

I am serious about depriving Gawker of our company. They don’t deserve it. The site went to shite, as my Irish friends would say, and while I feel bad for Richard and Brian, both of them will land on their feet. But since Denton has chosen to take his business in this direction (which is his right), he should not get the benefit of our scintillating wit and he certainly shouldn’t get money for our pageviews.