Heather Christena Schmidt

Balls on a stick, covered in frosting and sprinkles. Balls mixed with egg and simmered in cranberry sauce for a few hours. Balls made out of cheese and chutney, rolled in a variety of nuts and miscellaneous hanging fruit. Balls drizzled in caramel and covered in – big surprise – nuts.

These will be the centerpieces of the party that we’re throwing this weekend in honor of Thanksgiving. The last minute cancelations on the old RSVPs have really started to roll in, which I don’t know if I’m upset about or happy for.

If I’m upset, it’s because I’m a little offended that we can always go to other people’s parties, but they never seem to be able to come to ours. What’s worse about it is that some of my Trailer Trash Mom’s hillbilly family actually had the balls (no pun intended) to say “something better came up.” Something better came up motherfucker? How about my fist up your rude asshole next time you give me shit because I can’t make it to your kid’s birthday party? But I digress…

If I’m happy, though, it’s because I’ll have all of those balls to myself.

This isn’t the first time something I’ve done has been ball-focused, though. And in fact, I’m starting to wonder if I have a little obsession with them.

Exhibit A

Food In Ball Form

This party will be the third one in which a lot of the food I’ve made for it is in ball-form. I do it all the time; in fact, I just made some balls for dinner the other night.

Is it the calm I get when rolling them out that entices me to do it so often? Is it the ease with which they cook evenly? Whatever the case may be, I roll so much of our food into balls these days, it’d probably be easier to make a list of the food I haven’t made squishy and sphere-like.

Exhibit B

“Suck on my hairy balls”

So I don’t actually have testicles. I know many of you have been wondering for a very, very long time. But I don’t.

And yet the words “suck on my hairy balls,” and it’s equally as effective variant “lick my sticky nuts,” come out of my mouth on average ten times a day. I say it under my breath when someone cuts me off. I say it to my uber-religious father when he annoys me. I yell it at my husband when I clean up his nut hair clippings off the floor.

OK, I totally just took that one too far, and to be clear my husband doesn’t actually clip his pubic hair. I don’t think.

But that brings me to the next point.

Exhibit C

Jokes Involving Testicles

I make a lot of jokes involving testicles. I’m pretty sure it’s because I hear them a lot, but then there are other times when it fits with just about anything.

This Friday I’ll be roasting a few of my favorite bloggers on my STFU Fridays post; all of which started out of an awful joke I made into something of a comic/picture, which (of course) involves a crack about balls. And not a night goes by that I don’t make fun of my husband for that one time he laid in bed scratching himself. Not a single night.

So what’s the verdict? Do I have an obsession with balls?

This evening I made some pumpkin bread and had a lot of leftover batter. So the only natural thing for me to do was to break out the cake pop pan and make some balls. Pumpkin balls, covered in nuts. Covered in nuts and drizzled in ball molasses.

Now my mouth is watering to squeeze as many of those squishy sacks into my mouth. See? I can’t even stop myself, even when I’ve taken it to a point even I am grossed out by. I’m totally obsessed. Are you?