Old McGranny had a cunt

A few summers ago, I was driving somewhere with my mom, sister, and little grannie. My mom and I were talking about something that set me off on a rant, although I can’t remember what. I was about to call someone a cunt-face, when I remembered that my grannie was in the car, so I stopped myself and said, “uh, I mean, she’s a C.” (Note that it didn’t seem to bother me to use such language in front of my mom, which probably strikes some people as odd, but she’s used to my foul mouth by now. And sheherself is not above calling people “fuckballs” and the like.) My grandmother said she knew what I was about to say.
I said, “no you don’t, grannie.”
She said, “Yes. Yes I do.”
“Well what was I going to say then?”
“You were going to say cunt. C-U-N-T. Cunt.” She then stared singing it. “C-U-N-T. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. C-U-N-T.” (It was a little like listening to a demented version of “Old MacDonald,” like: “old MacDonald had a cunt – C-U-N-T-!” Hopefully, my grannie will not be visiting any school children in the near future.)

OK, I admit I was shocked. Where did my cute little grannie learn such things? She seemed annoyed. “I was young once, you know,” she explained.

And really, when I think about it, it does make some sense. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Welcome to my family.

No, this is NOT my Halloween costume

My friend, who is a medical professional, sent me the following information concerning my worries that my face and neck will become freakishly large thanks to my new gut medicine, resulting in me joining a circus sideshow:

they are referring to "moon face", which means that you get puffy. this happens if you are actually absorbing the steroid, so i suspect its fairly rare. p

Indeed, further reading that I did on Entocort EC indicated that 11% of users got moon face (their actual clinical term from a study of 360 users). Of larger concern to me, however, is the fact that 15% of users experienced hirsutism on their faces. So I may join the circus freak show after all – as the bearded lady, which is sadly something I was well on my way to becoming before I started this new med. Bah!

It's true - every cloud has a silver lining

Generally I have a very negative and pessamistic view of things, so I was pleasantly surprised that after a very unpleasant incident, I was able to find something good. To whit: Foolishly believing that people in their late 20s and older are responsible, I agreed to have a wine, cheese, and cholocate party at my apartment. Generally, people were responsible. However, this did not include my usually lovable husband, who got very trashed and threw up all over himself and in our bed at 3 AM. I ushered the dumbfuck into the bathroom and made him take his clothes of and get in the shower. This was seriously the most vile smelling puke ever, probably because the wine he consumed at the end of the party was purposely left for the end because it was not good and it was less likely that people would care as the night got later. Also, he had a salad earlier in the evening and I discovered it is true that lettuce takes a long time to digest. Since his clothes were coated with reeking, steaming vomit, I put them in a trash bag and decided to let him decide what to do with it the next day, although I highly recommended throwing them out.

As a very uptight teetotaler who has made it abundantly clear that I do not tolerate such things, the following day was very very bad. However, I did realize that the shirt he ruined with barf happened to be a shirt that I seriously loathe. It was a bright orange button down monstrosity. I have often hoped that he would get rid of it. By spewing on it, he did create a very good reason for me to chuck it. So there's the bright side: I will never have to see that shirt again. And my husband owes me big time.

Maybe I can get a job in a circus sideshow

My mysterious digestive ailment was acting up a lot lately, so I got a new medicine on Friday.  I was a bit nervous about it because it is a steroid, and the last thing I need is bad acne, hair loss, weight gain, or worse, crippling depression, which are all fun side effects of prednisone, a steroid often used for treating asthma and Crohn’s disease.  Fortunately, my new med does not have most of those side effects, according to its website.  But I did find something equally disturbing:
What are the side effects of ENTOCORT EC?
The most common side effects of ENTOCORT EC are headache, infection in your air passages (respiratory infection), nausea, and symptoms of hypercorticism (too much steroids in your body).
These symptoms include an increase in the size of the face and neck, acne, and bruising.
Excuse my medical stupidity, but what the fuck does an “increase in the size of face and neck” mean?  I hope it is not like elephantitis of the head.  That sounds extremely scary.  Plus, if acne is a potential side effect (and I already have doosy on my cheek), if I get a ginormous face will that mean the zits increase in size proportionally?  I guess it’s better to have a giant face with huge zits than if the zits had an increase in size, but not the rest of my head.  Still, I certainly hope that none of this comes to fruition.  I have enough problems without worrying about my face not fitting on my head any more.  At least the meds won’t cause me to be depressed about having a giant face and neck filled with zits.

Blonde on brunette

Wow, what a great title for a porn movie, although I suspect it’s already been used. (Those porn industry folk are always crafting clever little take offs of mainstream flicks, so why not music?) Anyway, I was walking up the street on my way to a doctor’s appointment and some fake blonde was ahead of me on the sidewalk smoking her extremely little ass off and polluting my lungs as her smoke blew back in my face. I sped up to get around her, and as I passed, I noticed how crappy she looked with blond hair. Her dark brown eyes and black eyebrows clashed with the light blond locks. “Stupid bitch,” I thought to myself, “what the hell were you thinking?”
It’s not just her, though. It’s women everywhere who for no apparent reason seem to believe that blonds have more fun. Maybe that is the real cause for so many women having their pubic hair permanently removed via lasers or by enduring painful waxing: they think they can get away with the blonde if they remove the contradictory evidence. Well, that’s only effective if you also dye your brows and get colored contacts. What’s the point? Why not just wear a Halloween mask all the time if you so badly want to disguise your natural looks? It’s cheaper and less effort.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s some cabal of evil men out there who amuse themselves by hatching new ridiculous trends and seeing how long it takes to get large numbers of women to buy into the concept. I guess it got too easy, since now men are starting to get into crazy trends about their appearance. Did the cabal guys get bored or did a rival cabal of evil women form to give men a taste of their own medicine when it comes to beauty standards? I hope there is an evil female cabal and that they one day ask me to join. That’d be awesome.

Nipping it in the bud

For years I seem to have misunderstood the purpose of padded bras. I had only seen the ones that were designed to make your boobs look deceptively bigger and the kind that were meant to boost your boobs all the way to your chin, creating not only “attractive” cleavage, but also a convenient chin rest in case you were to suddenly nod off.

What I did not know until mere months ago is that some lightly padded bras could help me with an annoying problem I had: nipplage. It seems that I am always cold and as a result, have stupid nipples poking through my damn shirt. This is bad enough at social events, but highly horrifying at work, where I sat under an air conditioning vent freezing my patooties off for almost four years. Not good. Not professional. (Not that I usually look remotely professional at work anyway. You can’t wear low rise jeans, saddle shoes Keds, and a baby t-short that has a stick figure drawing of a person and says in child’s handwriting “Bush is a tush,” and look professional, nipples or no nipples.)

Anyway, my friend told me that I needed a padded bra, and I became annoyed. I didn’t spend $20,000 (OK, my insurance spent $16,000 and my parents $4,000) to have my rack reduced from a DD+ to a B- only to try and make my titties look bigger. Fortunately, my friends are used to me being resistant to change, and Paula explained that there is more than one type of padded bra. Sure enough, she was right. I bought 3. I look a little bigger in them and was very self conscious at first over my new increase in chest girth, but I realized how much better it was to not be self conscious about nipples, so it all worked out nicely. Hurray for lightly padded bras!

Warning: Crotch hair grows back way faster than head hair

I changed my mind: sometimes you do better know when you are seven years old what hairstyle looks good on you than when you are 29 years old. Initially I was pleased with the haircut, although it made my look stylish and my own age, two things I try and avoid. (Well, I don't try to not look stylish, but I never really do anyway.) But...

Things are not looking pretty after I washed my hair last night. When I woke up this morning, I looked like an escapee from a lunatic asylum - definitely a look I try and avoid. I remembered the burned out hippie who cut my hair warned me that i'd probably have to wet it down in the morning and put gel in it. Fuck! I hate doing anything but combing my hair, and I escpecially loathe hair products. Now I'm going to have to make some effort in the morning so I can vaguely resemble a functional human being every day. Damn damn damn. This is why I deliberately chose not to get this cut about 3 months ago. Only 6 months before it will look relatively normal again with my preferred lack of effort... I hope. At least if you make a mistake cutting off your crotch hair, you can very easily hide it. And it'll grow back within a week, anyway.

Score:
Fashionistas/hairless freaks: 1
Suzanne: 0

It's all shit in end, anyway

For the last three years, I have been plagued on and off by a mysterious digestive ailment. The bad thing about the mysterious digestive ailment is that I have bathroom explosions that make the burial of Pompeii by Mt. Vesuvius look like a day at the beach. Also, I have horrible gas that could kill a small child or person with a serious respiratory condition. The good thing is that sometimes it causes me to lose weight. (Yeah, I know it’s sick, but I got to find something good in the situation, and it’s not like I control whether or not I crap out everything I eat.) Fortunately, I have a tolerant husband. Not like he shits roses or farts perfume, but many people could be hypocritical about the situation.

I don’t really know what sets me off (other than not taking my supplemental digestive enzymes), I decided to keep what I call an in and out journal. Basically I record what I eat and when and what comes out and when. The saddest part of the whole story is that I’m not even sure what a normal crap looks like any more, so I try to be as descriptive about size and shape as possible. I am not always careful where I leave this important little notebook, and people have on occasion picked it up and started reading it, thinking it was a normal food diary, only to be disgusted by my descriptive entries on my turds. (Hey, if you are going to be nosy, that’s what you get!) Some of my friends have been amused, though. Those are the people I know are my friends for life.

Happy birthday to me!

Family events are always entertaining when your two grandmothers, aged 84 and 83, are wackadoos. Granted, one is an endearing wackadoo and the other is a spiteful one, but something interesting is always bound to happen with the two of them around.

A few years ago, we went out to breakfast to celebrate my birthday. It was bitterly cold outside, as it frequently is in Chicago in December. My bubbe wore her fur coat to the restaurant. (We were at Le Peep in downtown Evanston for those of you who want a clearly set scene and happen to know the Chicago area.) As we were getting ready to leave, the following argument broke out between Bubbe and Grandma:

Bubbe: I love my mink coat. It is beautiful. It is the best fur coat anyone ever had.

Grannie: Oh yeah? Well I love my beaver. My beaver is soft and fuzzy, and everyone loves to rub it because it feels so good.

Bubbe: My mink is the best. It is new and keeps me so warm.

Grannie: My beaver may be old, but it is still cozy and keeps me warm. I love my beaver.

This went on for a few minutes, getting progressively louder as it got more contentious. My mom and I nearly fell over laughing at all this. Other people in the restaurant stared as my grandma walked out, still shouting about her furry beaver. What better present could I ask for?

Head hair vs. "head" hair

Yesterday was quite an eventful day for me.  I got my first email from someone I didn’t know regarding my blog, I got my hair cut that is a dramatic change (more on that in a sec), and I also read my writing in public for the first time at Rev. Jen’s Anti-Slam.  I was scared shitless at first, but people there were really nice and supportive, so that made it easier.  I was pleased that my writing seemed to amuse them.  I will go back next week and read again.  (The selection will be about my old roommate who was obsessed with Glenn Danzig, her special crotch cloth for showering, and her theories regarding masturbation.)

As for the haircut, I realized as I made a fateful decision to chop off my medium locks and go short that I was only validating my mother’s insistence when I was a child that girls should have short hair.  Of course, from the ages of 5-9, when my mother told the haircutter what to do and I had no say in the matter, this led to much unhappiness.  I wanted nice long hair, like all the other girls.  After the cut, I’d inevitably be crying hysterically because I “looked like a boy” and then my dad would yell at my mom for doing that to me again.  A few months later, the cycle repeats itself.

It seems obvious to me know that young girls want long hair because it is the main way to quickly distinguish boys and girls before puberty, aside from style of clothing.  (And even there my mom thwarted my attempts to look like a girl, buying me the ugliest clothes at Sears.  I swore she bought them in the boys department and would refuse to get dressed in the morning if she gave me certain things to wear.  She swears that Sears only sold dowdy clothes, even in the girls department.)  Otherwise, bodies are pretty much the same.  There is a lot of importance placed on distinguishing yourself by gender.  The opposite sex is clearly yucky and you would not want to be mistaken for them.  Now that I guess I don’t worry about being mistaken for a boy, I was ready to go for the chop.  At least on the top of my head…

Some pro-pube maintenance commentary

I am very excited!  Yesterday I got my first email response to this blog that is from someone I don’t know.  (I would have said from someone who is a stranger, but the people who’ve posted and emailed me thus far are known to me and definitely stranger than the average person.  This is not meant as an insult, but a high compliment.)  Anyway, I thought “Social Drunk” had a valid point (note: I copied and pasted with no editing):

ok, i understand why you feel this way. my girl doesnt like to shave either. i myself dont like to shave my face. while i love cunalingus, and trust me - i LOVE IT - i dont enjoy chewing on the back of someone's head - which is what it feels like in my mouth. i'm sure you dont like a big over-furry cock in your mouth either. i shaved my area to be on equal terms with my gal, and i actually like it better. you dont have to shave it bare or anything, but keep it trimmed. a mustache is cute, a my-pet-monster is not.

I’m very happy to hear that “Social Drunk” is willing to do maintenance if he asks his girlfriend to do so.  It’s only fair.  Another female friend of mine also noted that some maintenance down there is a good thing.  While she’s getting laser hair removal on her bikini line only (she agrees that completely bare is weird) to address the issue on a semi-permanent basis, I add that one of my objections to shaving that sensitive area is the prevalence of ingrown hairs as the hairs go back and razor burn.  Both are gross and uncomfortable, and look like shit anyway.  My co-workers and I were discussing the re-growth issue, and we agree that it is a significant issue that should be added to the “to shave or not to shave” debate.

At any rate, I thank Social Drunk for his useful comments, and for cracking me up.  (A “big over-furry cock” is hilarious to me.  Although also a terrifying image.)  It also made me think of the possibility of promoting pubic floss as a natural and fun alternative to dental floss for earth-loving hippies.

If you get lost, the sea monster will give you directions after he finishes eating the crew

I have an obsession with maps.  If I’m going somewhere, I like to know exactly where I am.  I’ll study my little map before I go, and pull it out a few times as I’m going along my journey.  However, maps today are not as good as old maps.  Sure, they’re more accurate than they were 300 years ago, but they have much less character. Old maps may not have gotten people where they wanted to go, but they have scary sea monsters patrolling the waters, ships tipping over on sudden ginormous waves, and angry cloud faces blowing nasty winds.  Just because we’re all “modern” these days doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue such a fine tradition.  I miss the sea monsters!

I tried to revive the style when I was in high school.  I was taking AP European history, and one of our first assignments was to draw a map of Europe.  What an amazing opportunity!  I drew what I thought was a terrifying sea beast in the Atlantic Ocean, handed it in, and hoped for the best.  When I got my map back, I was pleased to have gotten an A on it, but my sea monster did not have the effect I intended.  My teacher noted that she liked my “cute” monster.  I tried to explain that he wasn’t cute, but very scary.  Then I realized that my career in cartography was not meant to be.  

If the shoe doesn't fit, lop your toe off

The question of why women insist on wearing uncomfortable things continues to vex me. If you need to modify your body in order to wear something, the obvious conclusion to me is to not wear it. For example, some time ago there was an article in the NY Times about women who have parts of their feet cut off so that they can wear pointy-toed shoes more comfortably. (Yes, there are podiatrists who actually find with this request reasonable - very frightening. I think if I ever need to see a podiatrist for any reason, I will have a litmus test. I will call the office and say that I'd like to schedule an appointment to have part of my foot chopped off so that I can wear my Jimmy Choos every day. If the receptionist asks me when I want to come in, I will hang up. If the receptionist asks me what crack I am smoking, then I know I can trust my tootsies to this podiatrist.)

OK, I admit that in the past, I used to stuff my feet into ill-fitting shoes if I loved the shoes but they weren't my size. However, that was when I was in high school. Kids do crazy shit like that. When you grow up, you realize it's not really worth the discomfort or having parts of your chopped off. I hate getting old, but it is what it is. See you at the nursing home in my comfy old lady shoes!

For the record

I realized that I haven’t really talked about George W. Bush, a regrettable oversight for a website that it about pubic hair. Basically, he’s a massive douche bag. If I want to live in a third world country, I’ll move to one. Thanks to the Bush family, I can just stay right here, and in the next few years it will come to me, thanks to their shitty policies.

I swear I didn't cause that smell this time

I noticed the following ominous warning taped up by the mailboxes in my building when I got home from work today:

October 19, 2005

Dear Resident [sic]:

On October 26, 2005, refinishing the interior of the elevators [sic] cabs will commence.  Please be advised that there may be unfamiliar smells throughout the building.  Although it may be uncomfortable for some, there is no need to alarm the residents.

We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause and thank you for understanding.

Sincerely,

Management

First, let’s take a moment to acknowledge that it is poorly written in general.  Now that that’s out of the way, we can focus on the more disturbing elements: what “unfamiliar smells” will be so bad that it will cause alarm?  I’ve had some unpleasant smells in my apartment before, like when my brother-in-law uses my bathroom after he eats Mexican food, not to mention the fact that I have an undiagnosed digestive ailment that often leads me to dispel gas that is so vile it smells like a small animal has died and is decomposing in my ass (I can assure you that it only smells that way).  I am used to bad smells.  Bad smells do not seem to cause alarm, just disgust and they provide opportunities to mock others and make doody and fart jokes.  No, I am concerned that this will be a stench on the level of nuclear decimation, like the time my friend ate meatloaf then crapped so massively it permeated my entire 200 square foot apartment, causing a temporary evacuation.  I’m not sure I can go through that again.

It's all about the potty humor

I just hate when my full-time job gets in my way of blogging. This morning I was at an interesting meeting in which City officials presenting a long overdue plan for reforming the child care subsidy system, which is why I haven't posted all day. But I was very pleased with their plan. Lately I’ve been extremely frustrated by the lack of progress I’ve seen over my 8 year career in child care facilities development and advocacy. I was trying to think about what brought me into this field in the first place, other than my dedication to fairness, equal opportunity, social justice, and all that shit. I realized that it must be the fact that I find the word “doody” and doody jokes to be utterly hilarious, as do most kids who are in child care. Every time I do a site visit, I know I can just shout out “doody” and instantly have 20 people fall on the floor laughing. Very few comedians have that kind of track record with audiences.

Now I'm just being mean

It is time to acknowledge that sometimes it is better to be shaven than not to be shaven.  While I find this to be infrequently true, it often crosses my mind when I am near Hasidic people.  Now don’t get the wrong idea: I am not anti-Semetic; I am just anti-zealot and pro basic hygiene.  (This is a problem that plagues fundamentalists of many faiths, but I more often run into groups of Hasidic guys than other smelly hairy religious nutjobs because of where I live and where I have traveled of late.)

Anyway, when you don’t bathe very often, it is not a good idea to have lots of bushy hair.  (It is also not a good idea to wear lots of layers of wool clothes, particularly in the summer.)  This just traps germs and accentuates the nasty body odors generated by sweaty adults.  While I have had some passionate debates with people who swear that it is not true that Hasidic people have sex through a sheet, I can absolutely see why it would be necessary.  How can you procreate like rabbits if you pass out from the smell of your partner?

While I was in Jerusalem in August, I went to the Western Wall.  Initially I was livid at the vile sexist conditions that existed.  For those of you unfamiliar with obnoxious tradition, the men and women each pray at their own segregated section of the wall.  Oddly enough, the women’s section is tiny and sucks ass, while the men have tons of space and lots of new prayer books and torahs to use.  As I stomped around the plaza fuming at the injustice, I considered that it might be worth risking my life and throwing a bloody tampon onto the men’s side of the wall and desecrating it.  (Actually, the idea still makes me laugh and laugh, although the mob that would surely beat me to death immediately for such an unholy action is not all that amusing.)  But only time and thousands of miles can bring an important truth to the forefront: the men clearly need more space because they reek.  And while I loathe segregation by sex, I do acknowledge that it spares the women (myself included) from standing next to gross germy men, and probably allows for a more introspective spiritual experience.

I’d still throw a bloody tampon if I thought there was even a chance I could get away with it, though.

CUSS Victory #1!

I was at the gym this evening, running on the treadmill, thinking that I might pass out if I didn’t stop running within the next two minutes, when an angel appeared before my eyes. An angel with pubic hair. I was a little concerned that I might have overdone it since I seemed to be having visions, but when I slowed down and finally focused my eyes, I realized that the angel was not some hallucination resulting from lack of air and/or dehydration. In fact, I was staring at an extremely large tattoo on the neck of the super beefy (in a muscle-y way) Asian guy running on the treadmill in front of me. His naked angel tattoo was quite sexy, and did indeed have a dark patch tattooed on the angel’s crotch area. A true miracle! (I considered congratulating him on his excellent taste in naked women, but I thought that might freak him out. But maybe one day I can give him a special CUSS badge or something.)

Crossword puzzles would be funnier if they had more slang

I don’t know if the New York Times crossword puzzle has become more difficult since I went on vacation in August, or if I’ve become dumber, but lately I almost never finish the puzzle every day of the work week. (I never could do Saturday, and usually don’t even bother trying.) In the last few years, I usually finished Monday-Friday puzzles on my subway ride to work, or at the latest, by the end of the workday. I was finishing up most Sunday puzzles too. I think my newfound hardship lies more with me, though, than a change at the Times. For example, two weeks ago, the clue for 1 Across was “Fudge maker?” and my immediate response was “ass.” As I went to fill in what I thought was obvious, I discovered that they sought an answer with four letters, not three. I had to admit that “rear,” “seat,” “tush,” or “butt” (all four letters) was probably not what the puzzle writer had in mind, either. The only other answer I could fathom was “elf” (as in Keebler, as in E.L. Fudge cookies), and that wasn’t even four letters. Eventually I figured out that the answer was “liar” (as in fudging an answer), but I decided that my answer was clearly better. Certainly funnier, anyway. And this is why I probably am having so much trouble finishing the puzzle lately.

Sometimes you feel like a nut

No, not that kind of nut. Perverts. Yesterday I went to the NY Giants game, which they won by one point in the last 10 seconds, causing me to realize that I could have skipped the previous 2 ½ hours and yet missed none of the excitement. However, I would have missed the disturbing actions of the 11-year-old kid sitting next to me. He had been eating a bag of peanuts when he dropped one on the ground. Initially, he showed good judgment as he seemed to cut his losses and let it go, but after he finished the rest of the bag, I guess he was still hungry. “No, kid, no!” I thought to myself as I watched him bend down and retrieve the peanut from a puddle of water. As he cracked the shell open and slipped the nut into his mouth, my favorite song from camp sprang into my head. Perhaps you are familiar with it? It’s called “Found a Peanut,” sung in a whining drone, and starts like this:

Found a peanut
Found a peanut
Found a peanut just now
Just now I found a peanut
Found a peanut just now

The next 14 verses involve describing the peanut (it was rotten), eating it anyway, getting sick, calling the doctor, getting an operation, dying anyway, going to heaven, getting kicked out, going to hell, shoveling coal, being born again, finding a peanut, describing the peanut (it was rotten), and learning a lesson.

This song was guaranteed to annoy adults. My mom would pretty much explode by the time I got to finding the peanut and it being rotten the second time around. Brilliant. Completely fucking brilliant.

Anyway, my point is that I hope the kid I was sitting next to at the game does not develop a habit of eating random nuts.

Who's got the Best Male Titties and more fun thoughts

Attending the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant was the most fun I’ve had since I went to the North Carolina State Fair the previous weekend and had the pleasure of watching my friend eat a fried Twinkie, a fried cheeseburger, and other fine foods while wearing a t-shirt that said “I beat anorexia.” The grease stains that eventually smeared the shirt were an especially nice touch. Maybe if she’s feeling generous she’ll permit me to post the photographic evidence.

Back to the Pageant... so I was disappointed that this year there was no award for Best Nut Sac. It seems that an individual with the moniker Tommy Nut Sac has won this prestigious and highly sought title for the last few years. Unfortunately, he was a no show this year, and I think they forgot to crown a successor because we had to be out of the space by 10 pm for another performance and were running out of time. Or maybe the MC was too drunk to remember. That’s just as likely. However, Best Male Titties was awarded to a gentleman named Chuck Funk, and very deservingly so. Like Tommy Nut Sac, Chuck Funk has won his title for the past several years. His titties were at least the size of mine (although some of you will think that’s not saying much) and about as cute, except not as cute because generally titties are not thought of as cute when they are sported by men, even if they would be considered cute on a woman. He also had gold body glitter painted on them, which added a hint of glamour, if I do say so myself. The title of Best Male Titties was conferred by the judges, not the general voting audience (which consisted of all the women and self-identified gay men who arrived before the show began.) I thought Chuck Funk also had the Best Pigtails. I was quite jealous.

The other fascinating thing about the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant is how many of the contestants wore g-strings despite their impressive girths. I’d actually say many of them actually wore g-strings because of their girths. And none of them shaved their pubes or legs. I guess there’s no point in doing so when your gut is hanging over the pouch anyway. Or when you have little candies in your pouch, which you throw to the screaming audience. (Screams of both horror, as in “He just threw candy at me that rubbed against his penis!” and delight, as in, “Yum! I love candy and this is hilarious.”) I wish more women would take a cue from these men. I mean, no one should wear g-strings anyway in my opinion unless you are flossing your ass for hygienic purposes, but if people insist on wearing modified eye patches (as described by http://www.gofugyourself.com/), it should be for lighthearted fun and self-mockery. Or you should be dancing on a pole for money. That also makes sense. I mean, every type of work has a uniform of sorts, and I can accept the g-string as the official exotic dancer uniform. (How enlightened of me, right?)

Good thing there's ass floss, or how would one get out the dingleberries?

I went to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant last night. Understandably, the place was packed. (I mean, who would want to miss such an exciting event?!?!) I took a break from hootin’ and hollerin’ and sat down for a few minutes during intermission, when someone wanted to get by. This someone was wearing low rise leather pants and a cut off T-shirt. The outfit left plenty of midriff showing, which the woman took as an important opportunity to share her thong with the world by hiking it as high on her hip bones as she could. As she passed by me with her ass in my face, I did not think, “Oooh – that’s so hot!” No, I started hoping that she wiped well after she went to the bathroom, as I could only imagine what the string wedged in her ass would dredge up when she changed her underwear.

This made me wonder who invented the thong and the g-string, and why. Was there some person who had something caught in his/her ass who wanted an efficient way to dig it out, and using dental floss as a model, invented ass floss? If that’s the case, was the product so good that he/she wanted to wear it all the time to prevent ass plaque, so a small piece of cloth was attached? I’d have to say that is a clever solution for people with dingleberry worries. But I don’t understand how it then got mass marketed to women (and adolescent girls) as comfortable underwear.

Shaving pubes: not just for women any more

I suppose I should concede that not only women have pubic hair insecurities. Many years ago, my friend dated a guy who freaked out about the quantity of hair he had in his nether regions. My friend thought nothing of it, but her boyfriend could not be convinced that it really as not a big deal. One night she woke up and discovered he wasn’t in bed any more. Worried, she went to see if he was OK. She found him standing in the bathroom with a leg propped up on the sink, his butt cheeks spread in front of the mirror, attempting to shave the hairs out of his ass area. No, she decided, he definitely was not OK. Any time you discover your partner engaged in such shenanigans, you may need to think about your relationship a little bit harder.

Alien landing snatch patch?

Here’s one for the alien conspiracy theorists: what if all those women got “landing strips” waxed out of their twats so that really tiny UFOs have a safe place to land? It’s millions of mini Area 54s. The earth doesn’t stand a chance.

Hopefully not my future

So I admit that I have definitely fretted over surveys that show that men prefer women with landscaped bushes or no bush at all. (Although I agree that when it comes to presidents, I also prefer no Bush, but that's not quite the same thing.) My husband, fortunately, is an accepting guy and doesn't demand that I engage in any special pubic grooming. But god forbid anything should happen to my husband. Not only would I miss him terribly, but I'd have to confront the possibility that no one will want me and my unkempt bod. This causes me great consternation.

I was partly reassured recently, then, when my friend told me about a doctor at the hospital she works at and his recent reaction to a patient. Basically, one of the residents was prepping a woman to have a breast biopsy. Once the patient was ready, he covered her up and left the room for a few minutes to scrub. The attending doctor, a gentleman in his 60s, went in the room and pulled the sheet off the patient. Immediately, he covered her back up and went to find the resident to talk to him about what was going on. The attending confronted the resident as he was finishing scrubbing and demanded to know why the he shaved the patient's crotch when they were just doing a breast biopsy. What was wrong with him - was he deliberately trying to get sued? The resident was amused, and explained that no, he didn't do anything inappropriate. The patient came that way. The attending was quite befuddled. He shook his head and asked the resident why anyone would want to shave all her pubic hair off.

When I heard this story, I realized that there are other men in the world who don't mind when women look like grown women. On the other hand, it depressed me a little because I realized that I might have to date people older than my father to find that attitude. Oy vey. Let's just hope nothing ever happens to my husband (and not only because I don't want to have to wax my box).

The pubic hair equation

It seems odd, but you can definitely use mathematical equations to solve the pubic hair or no public hair dilemma. Only women who've gone through puberty have pubes. Pubic hair is a sign of physical maturity. Hence:

Hairy crotch = woman = (ostensibly) fuckable
Bald crotch = girl = too young to fuck

This important equation has served humanity well over time. I'm not saying that just because someone has pubic hair that they are at an appropriate age for sex. But I am saying you can be very sure that if a girl doesn't have pubic hair at all yet, fucking her can lead to prison time. Say hi to your new cellmate and bend over.

A woman without pubic hair probably seems a lot less sexy now, huh?

Why the world needs pubic hair

Far be it from humble unstylish little me to suggest that the New York Times Style Section is lagging on their trend reports, but in a Sept. 1 article titled "Skin Deep: The Revised Birthday Suit," they breathlessly reported that significant numbers of women are opting for totally bald crotches, or if not totally bald, then certainly having large tracts of hair ripped out so they can look "sexy." Please. Cosmo has been reporting for years that men prefer women with little or no pubic hair. Brazilian waxes went mainstream along time ago. Which, quite frankly, scares me. What on earth would make a woman spread her legs wide in front of a cosmetician, allow her to smear hot wax into her vagina, and then have all her hair ripped out? This sounds like something the US government might institute as a torture tactic in Abu Gharib. (And they could easily justify it by noting it can't possibly be torture if gazillions of American women voluntarily have this done all the time.)

No, it is scary and wrong to me. For goodness' sake, pubic hair exists for a reason. We lost most of our body hair during evolution. We lost our tails. We grew taller. So what's left seems to have a purpose. And we need our pubic hair! Think of pubic hair as vagina eyelashes - they stop bad things from getting inside during sex and causing infections. Pubic hair is our friend.

I'm not sure how we so quickly arrived at this hairless situation, but it's arguable that it is the popularity of g-strings, thongs, and other revealing bikini bottoms and underwear that led to the widespread (ha ha) acceptance and even expectation of shaved beavers. Fair enough, but I'd say that if your cooch hairs are hanging out of your bikini bottom, the solution is not to have them torn out of your vag and butt, but to get bigger bottoms. Think of pubic hairs as an organic warning system of sorts. It's Mother Nature preventing you from humiliation by telling you to put on some clothes because you look obscene.

Let's face it: female genitals got the nicknames pussy and beaver because they are furry. And who wants a hairless cat? No one. Having a hairless cat doesn't even help if you are allergic to cats since the problem is with the dander, not fur. Feline pussies with fur are nice to stroke. Hairless cats are freaky. The same goes for human pussies and beavers, my friends.