Now Heaven Knows, Anything Goes (At the V&A, Part II)

The picture above is of a man’s linen stocking dated circa 1660-1670 on display at the V&A Museum in London. According to the placard, “Plain hose was worn under silk hose to create a smooth line over hairy legs.” OK, that is fucking brilliant. No need to shave one’s legs! Just wear an extra pair of hose! I suspect that an extra layer of hose would also keep women warmer in the winter by allowing us to retain our body hair and to wear an extra layer to trap body heat. Plus, I’m guessing that two pairs of hose work even better than one in terms of holding in one’s gut. (Please note: the "two layers is better than one" concept does NOT work for condoms, as the latex rubs against each other and causes breakage.) For smooth and sexy legs, though, you gotta admit that the idea is very, very clever.

Like the State of the Union Address, Uncontrolled Bush Can Hurt

It occurred to me a few minutes ago that there might, in fact, be a very good reason for trimmed and maintained snatch. Let’s suppose there was a woman who scorned the removal of crotch hair on woman. Let’s also suppose for a moment that the same woman got her period and used a tampon. Hypothetically, this woman could go to yank the tampon string to get it out, and since there are pubes hanging all over the place and she is not careful, she could also accidentally grab a tuft o’ hairs and pull them all out with said tampon. Ouch.

I’m not saying this happened to anyone I know. I’m just saying it could, and I could see how such fear could lead women to keep the bush pruned.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive, London Edition

While I did not take pictures at Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens on Saturday night, I was able to download a picture from the fan site Glitterboots. It is also possible to download music from the show. I warn you that the theme song, "Glitter Boots Saved My Life," does not leave your head easily.
I think this picture captured the insanity of the show quite nicely, although the audience in this picture seems to be more complacent than the one I was part of.

Attending the Theatre

What is London without the theatre? Husband had done some research before we left, and unfortunately our favorite ridiculous musical ever, Return to the Return to the Forbidden Planet, which we saw in some London suburb in August 2001, was not playing. (RTTRTTFP, I shit you not, is based on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, featuring the same dialogue but updated to the future and set on a spaceship. The soundtrack is 1960s Motown and Girl Group hits and all the actors, including the guy who plays the robot on roller skates, rotate playing all of the instruments and singing. At the end, the audience began batting around giant inflated beach balls.) Worse, it is re-opening in March, so we were just missing it. Husband was disappointed, but found an acceptable substitute: Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens.

Synopsis: “At Saucy Jack’s Cabaret Bar in the dark reaches of the Planet Frottage 3, the evil shadow of the ‘Slingback Killer’ looms. Cabaret artists are being picked of one by one – the heel of a sequined slingback stiletto plunged into their youthful chests. Will the Space Vixens arrive in time to halt the blood-lust and save the day by the power of disco? There’s only one way to find out…” Time Out called it, “A wild and wacky night of plasticry razzmatazz!” (I’m not entirely sure if that is a compliment or an insult, but it is quoted on their ads.)

With characters like Willhelm von Whackoff, Sammy Sacks, Chesty Prospects, Jubilee Climax (played by pop diva Faye Tozer, formerly of Steps – no, I have never heard of that group, but they supposedly had 18 #1 hits and 4 multi-platinum albums in Europe), and Bunny Lingus, how could we go wrong with Saucy Jack? It was almost sold out when we got our tickets before the show. To be honest, I was hopeful, but not expecting much. Then we learned that not only was Saucy Jack a disco musical, but it was also a magic show! How exciting is that!?!?

So the first act did not feature very much magic, and quite frankly, was rather disappointing despite the high level of interaction with/humiliation of audience members. The second act was much improved, and by then the groupies in the audience were completely wasted and heckling Saucy Jack, who highly enjoyed mocking them. Also, the theme sone, “Glitter Boots Saved My Life,” somehow managed to become even catchier the second and third times it was sung. Plus there was much more magic and male stripping, so I would say that it ended on a positive note.

If you are heading to London any time soon, I’m not sure that I could fairly recommend dropping £30 per ticket (like $47!!!!) on it, but Husband and I agreed that Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens was a gazillion times better than We Will Rock You, the painful Queen musical that husband insisted we see in London while we were in London in Sept. 2004. At the least, it is definitely worth writing home about.

Gourmet London Eats

Sunday in London, Husband and I met up with friends and spent a day walking around. Eventually we met up with other friends for tea. I love afternoon tea in England, especially because of all the yummy tea cakes and scones. Scones really do taste better with clotted cream and strawberry jam smeared all over them. Just saying clotted cream actually sickens me a bit, as I picture clogged arteries and sink pipes with big globs of crud blocking them. (It’s undoubtedly the word clotted that does it for me.) My friend’s husband, who is from New Zealand, warned me that if I ever saw clotted cream in the grocery store, I should not look at the nutritional information. Ever. Seriously, though. That shit is good.

Another delightfully unhealthy item I consumed was Cadbury Mini Creme Eggs. I do so love Cadbury Creme Eggs and was thus pleased to notice that packs of mini creme eggs were sold in the candy machines at every Underground station. (That they even have candy machines on every Underground platform is also amazing.) I bought three packs over the course of my trip so that I could bring home this 8th wonder of the world to share with my New York friends.

Not everything that is good to eat over there is unhealthy, though. London has the best fucking yogurt ever. I was able to enjoy Zingy Rhubarb, Peach & Maracuay (although I have no idea what maracuay is, it is damn tasty), and some sort of Cranberry & other fruit that I can't remember. I love yogurt, so all the variety - and low fat to boot - is super exciting.

Finally, we bought sandwiches and other items from the convenience store in the Knightsbridge Underground stationfor dinner. Is it sad that I have enjoyed my £1 sandwiches as much as the other (more expensive) things?

Check Him Out! (At the V&A, Part I)

Saturday, Husband and I checked into our fancy hotel.  (I love when he travels for business.)  We then ran off to meet Husband’s friend for lunch and to take in the Victoria and Albert (V&A) Museum.  For those of you unfamiliar with the V&A, it is a fabulous museum filled with completely random crap.  Not crap in the sense that it is like a museum that I would curate in my apartment, but crap in the sense that it is stuffed to the gills with strange odds and ends.  I saw three things of particular note to CUSS, two of which I took pictures of and will each be posted separately.

Item 1 for discussion is the reproduction of Michelangelo’s David.  This fine statue was copied in plaster and in a large room of other famous sculptures, statues, and architectural pieces that were also reproduced in plaster.  All were done in Victorian times.  In general, I found this completely hysterical, but in some sense, I suppose it made sense, as your average Brit was not going to travel to all of these places in 1875 to see the originals, so this brought the work to the people.  Sort of clever, really.  It was just a bit odd having everything in the same two rooms with no rhyme or reason on display.

Anyway, back to David.  As I walked past David, I could not help but observe that he had an extremely large tuft of pubic hair carved above his dick.  (I also thought it looked like he was circumcised, but I thought that didn’t really make sense for Renaissance times to have a circumcised statue – despite the character’s Jewish faith – as non-Jews did not get circumcised back then, and it is not like sculptors based their work on historically accuracy.  I mean, Michelangelo also carved Moses with horns, which was also reproduced in plaster and on display at the V&A.)  It occurred to me that I had never seen pubes on a statue before, especially not on female nude statues.  

How annoying is that?  To begin with, there are very few nude male statues.  Then, to add insult to injury, the one famous nude male statue fucking gets to have pubic hair, just like a normal human male.  Female statues get their marble pubic hair shaved off by the chisel.  Even in art, grown ladies can’t win.  This tempts me to get a permanent marker and scribble pubes on any naked lady statues I see.  That would be great fun and hilarious.  Who’s with me?

Flying High

Good evening from London!  We stopped back at our hotel room for a bit so that Husband can do some work in preparation for his meeting tomorrow morning (the whole reason he came to London in the first place), so I thought I might write up a bit about the trip so far.

As I previously noted, Husband planned to fly business class while I sat in coach, which was fine by me.  However, he was able to use one of his VIP System Wide Upgrades for me when we arrived at JFK on Friday evening, so I wound up sitting next to him in business class.  I have never flown business class internationally (he has been able to upgrade me domestically a few times), and let me tell you, it is fucking amazing!

To begin, I was given a fucking menu with which to order my dinner.  It started with a dish of warm nuts (ha ha) and then we got salad and “Grilled Citrus Scallops served with a marinated Cucumber salad” appetizer.  (I considered avoiding the scallops as it seemed like a good way to get food poisoning, business class or not, but I couldn’t resist.)  The salad came with an adorable tiny glass bottle of balsamic vinaigrette, which I was dismayed to discover after I ate it that it had 9 grams of fat.  Oh well.  Normal people began their wine consumption with the appetizer course, but I had a diet Sierra Mist.  Warm bread was also doled out.  The wheat roll was super tasty.

For dinner I could choose:

Beef Fillet: Fillet of Beef featured with a Red Wine Onion Sauce, accompanied by roasted Butternut Squash, Haricots Verts, and Mushroom Risotto

Barbeque Chicken: Breast of Chicken flavored by a Barbeque Marinade served with mild Jalapeño Mashed Potatoes and Creamed Corn

Fillet of Cod: Fillet of Cod enhanced by a Corn and Butter Sauce, offered with Haricots Verts, Mushrooms, and Chive Mashed Potatoes

Pasta Duo: Cheese Ravioli and Cheese Tortellini complemented by a Pesto Alfredo Sauce and a Marinara Sauce

Vegetable Plate: Seasonal selection including Cremini Mushrooms, sautéed Asparagus, Cherry Tomatoes and Whipped Potatoes

Quite frankly, the pasta duo sounded best but I really wanted to avoid all that fatty sauce, so I went with the BBQ chicken.  I was quite pleased and not really surprised to discover that the food was just as bad in business class as it is in steerage.  Chicken was rubbery and the mashed potatoes were scary.  Not that I would have eaten them anyway, as I don’t like jalapeño (too hot).

Unlike the main entrée, dessert choices were amazing:

Saga Blue and Jarlsberg Cheese accompanied by seasonal Grapes, Walnuts and selected crackers.

Breyers Chocolate Ice Cream with Blackberry Sauce topped with White Chocolate and Raspberry Brulee Squares

Husband ordered the cheese and I ordered the ice cream and we shared.  I don’t have any idea what the fuck “White Chocolate and Raspberry Brulee Squares” are, but they tasted like mini cheesecake chunks and were yummy.  I love Jarlsberg cheese and moldy blues cheeses, so that was good too.

After dessert, special Bose headphones that block noise were distributed and I curled up in my recliner – I mean, airline seat – with two pillows and drifted off for the remaining three hours before landing.  So it was a pretty fucking awesome flight to get out here.  I was slightly refreshed and up for a full day’s adventure, which I happily got.

Cheers for now!

Random Thought Before Departing for London for a Weekend Jaunt

I suspect that I would be 4% more intriguing if I had a British accent. Not a fake British accent like Madonna, but a real one from growing up there. (To be honest, I’d even settle for a return of my slight Chicago accent, which seems to have faded in the 11 years I’ve been living in New York.) A British accent would rock.

Here's a Jolly Drinking Song for the Weekend

One of the best things about the 1973 Disney animated version of Robin Hood is the song “The Phony King of England” about Prince John’s illegitimate rule.  For a song in an animated musical, it’s pretty political.  (I guess it would be hard to not be political in a movie about a tyrant who taxes the poor and a hero who steals from the rich.)   What utterly delights me is that it is SO applicable to our situation in America today.  Some verses don’t even need to be changed!  Follow along:

The Phony King of England
Oh the world will sing of an English king
A thousand years from now
And not because he passed some laws
Or had that lofty brow
While bonny good King Richard leads
The great crusade he’s on
We’ll all have to slave away
For that good-for-nothin’ John
[Substitute: US Pres for English king; liberals for King Richard (OK it’s not perfect, but good enough); Bush for John]

Incredible as he is inept
Whenever the history books are kept
They’ll call him the phony king of England
A pox on the phony king of England
[Substitute: President of the US for king of England, otherwise totally accurate!]

He sits alone on a giant throne
Pretendin’ he’s the king
A little tyke who’s rather like
A puppet on a string
And he throws an angry tantrum
If he cannot have his way
And then he calls for Mum while he’s suckin’ his thumb
You see, he doesn’t want to play
[No substitutions needed!]

Too late to be known as John the First
He’s sure to be known as John the worst
A pox on the phony king of England
[Substitute: Bush for John (too perfect, isn’t it?!?!)]

While he taxes us to pieces
And he robs us of our bread
King Richard’s crown keeps slippin’ down
Upon that pointed head
Ah! But while there is a merry man
In Robin’s wily pack
We’ll find a way to make him pay
And steal our money back
[Substitute: Democracy for King Richard; I wish like fuck he had something to substitute for Robin’s wily pack, but unfortunately no one tries succeeds against the Bush tyranny]

The minute before he knows we’re there
Ol’ Rob will snatch his underwear
The breezy and uneasy king of England
The snivellin’ grovellin’
Measly weasely
Blabberin’ jabberin’
Gibberin’ plunderin’
Wheelin’ dealin’
Prince John, that Phony King of England
Yeah!
[Substitute: sadly, there’s no one who gets the better of the Bushies, so nothing to change there; George Bush for Prince John; President of the US for King of England]

It’s good stuff, I tell you.

Ooh-de-lally!

A few weekends ago, I convinced Husband to join me in watching the best Robin Hood movie ever. That would be the 1973 Disney animated version of the story. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I loved the Kevin Costner version from the ‘90s as much as anyone else. (I freakin’ saw it three times in the movie theater!!!) I’m sure that the Errol Flynn film from the 1938 was also delightful, although I never saw it and quite frankly never intend to.

There are many reasons that the Disney version kicks the asses of all the other Robin Hood flicks. First, movies with nutty animals getting poked repeatedly in the butts with sharp objects are funny as fuck, especially when said animals are rhinoceroses. Second, it uses the term “ooh-de-lally” frequently. Just saying “ooh-de-lally” cheers me up immensely. Third, it has some wonderful little insults that would be great fun to hurl at people without senses of humor, such as:

• “You eel in snake’s clothing!” (Prince John the lion yelled this at his snake advisor Sir Hiss after one of their dastardly plans went wrong.)


• “Old bushel britches.” (Lady Cluck, Maid Marian’s chicken lady in waiting refers to the Sheriff of Nottingham, a wolf, this way. Big John the bear also uses it for the Sherrif. I have no idea what it means, but I like it.)


• “Scalveneer.” (Another Lady Cluck slur. Not only do I have no idea what it means, but I also am clueless on how to spell it. Maybe it is French?)

There are also two fantastic songs, one featuring the phrase “oo-de-lally,” and one a highly political song that is very applicable today. (More on that later.) I highly recommend a viewing to lift the spirits.

Motherfucker!

Damn, have ever had one of those serious motherfucker days?  I had one of those days today.  It started off OK, but then quickly went downhill in a ball of flames.  I swear, it is so true that no good deed goes unpunished.  Fortunately, I have not had one of those days that suck the root in a while.  I hope I don’t have another one any time soon.  

Well, tomorrow is Friday and I am off to London, so I really shouldn’t complain…

It's Time to Get Things Started

My friend M. (the very same one who introduced me to Flat D Innovations , makers of anti-fart underwear inserts) gave me the complete Season 1 of the Muppet Show on DVD. How awesome is that? The Muppets are just too hilarious. Plus, they were way ahead of the times. Thanks to Shrek, it’s super trendy to have children’s movies that are full of adult inside jokes. The Muppets did that in the ‘70s, dude!

Some time soon I plan to have a Muppet marathon.

Monday, Monday

Near then end of 2005, it occurred to me that while I loved my job as a do-gooder, I also really loved working on my little writing projects. Unfortunately, my ability to actually complete any of said writing projects was extremely hindered by the amount of time I was required to spend do-gooding, and this caused me immense frustration, thus leading to displeasure with my do-gooding work. Not a good situation at all. I decided that I needed a change of some sort so that I could continue to do good, and at the same time, actually accomplish something with one of my writing projects. I needed to drop a day from my real job, and that day needed to be Monday.

I explained my angst to the Boss, noted that Mondays are awful in general, and pointed out that I would still be a productive do-gooder if I could work on Tuesdays-Fridays. The Honchos at the organization agreed. Thus I currently spend my Mondays on exciting research and writing projects that lead me to all sorts of interesting places around NYC.

This past Monday, for example, I was delighted to go to the only medical library in the US that is completely open to the public. I happily studied a current exhibit it has on Medieval surgical procedures for head wounds. The exhibit was full of rare manuscripts, antique surgical tools, and grotesque pictures. Right on! I loved it. I also went to the largest synagogue in the US and viewed its Judaica collection. Interesting stuff, although not quite as good as head wound surgery in 1554.

Yes, if Monday must exist, this is the way to spend it. I hope to have a fun update on where I’ve gone and what I’ve seen every week.

The Dirtiest Word in English?

If there is one word I hate, it is the word panties. According to Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oaths, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphor, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters by Richard A Spears, “panties” is listed as thus:

panties (also panteys) women’s or children’s underpants [colloquial, 1800s-pres.]

What annoys me so much about the word is that once again, women and children share the same category, which in my mind infantilizes women. You never see men and children sharing the same name for something, unless it is something that everyone uses, like sweater or pants.

Also the word is just creepy. It has always bothered me and makes me think of some lecherous older relative. I much prefer underwear, undies, or even, as my friend Steph likes to say, drawers. “Drawers” is defined in Slang and Euphemism as “underpants for males or females. In their earliest form, long hose worn next to the skin. [since the mid 1500s].” Yes, drawers is a very equal term. I like it.

I'm Hungry - Can You Bend Over a Bit?

Someone fabulous* forwarded these pictures to me, and I almost spit water all over my monitor when I saw them. My spit take was a combination of guffawing and the urge to puke from all the airbrushing on these pictures. Not only does it make the model look like she's as smooth as a newborn, but she should clearly eat a few of the candies instead of wearing them.

Later that evening while I was at the gym, I saw February’s Esquire, which had a handy gift giving guide to lingerie just in time for Valentine’s Day. Some lingerie “expert” (and what the fuck is that? I wear underwear too – am a lingerie expert?) said that most women wear thongs, and guys should feel good about giving one to their ladies. The expert said to find one with a narrower band in the ass for comfort. How thoughtful. The cover picture had this insanity from Victoria’s Secret, which has a ginormous ass bow (slightly obscured by the textbox over it):I was shocked – shocked! – that the candy undies were not included. I guess they are not nearly as classy as the giant bow thong featured as a good gift. (It is kind of cute, but how does one sit while wearing this? I just don’t understand. What happened to worrying about your lady’s comfort?) Another perfect Valentine's Day gift overlooked by Esquire:

The candy pasties totally are hilarious. Crap, I’m tempted to run over to Condomania and drop $9.95 on them myself. I have no idea what I would do with candy pasties, but they are just too good to pass up, you know?

*(Many thanks – I hope to send you something from this fine collection for your Wak Candy Museum, which sounds great.)

(Crappy) Picture of the Naked People Bench in Berlin

On Jan. 20, I wrote about a naked people bench that I saw in the former East Berlin (For a Good Time, Sit Here )*. I said that I would try and post a picture that I had. I scanned it in tonight:

Of course the picture is not as clear in reality as it is in my head, but if you squint at it a bit, I believe you can just make out a very high, very round wooden bench boob on the woman part on the right side of the picture, and a very long wood (ha ha) bench penis on in the bottom left corner on the guy part of the bench. (Plus the tip of my awesome ginormous Triple Fat Goose down coat is just visible! Man, that was a great coat.)

Note that the picture was from 1997, long before your average schnook could afford a digital camera. (If they even had them back then.) That is my excuse for the poor quality of the picture. At any rate, that artist had a great sense of humor, and I hope I could convey enough to get a sense of how cool Berlin was when I was there in December 1997.

*Thanks to my bro-in-law for teaching me that bit of HTML magic!!!

London Calling

Huzzah! I am going to London on Friday! While we definitely won’t see the Queen or even the Queen musical (We Will Rock You – Husband insisted on getting tickets for it last time I was there with him, which was Labor Day Weekend in 2004, although I warned him that it would be awful. It was probably the worst musical I have ever seen. In fact, it was so painfully bad that it was not even good in the so-bad-it-is-good-way. Husband wanted to leave 15 minutes into the show, but I insisted we had to stay for the entire production since he ignored my warnings and spent good money on it.), I know that we will have a fantastic time.

I love London. It is probably my favorite place to visit. Hopefully, the weather will hold out and we can walk around a bit. I bought City Walks: London, which is a deck of 50 cards, each with a little map on the front of a neighborhood route and description on the back of what you should look for as you walk. I would also love to visit Sir John Soane’s Museum, which has all sorts of weird stuff, including a 1300 BC sarcophagus in the basement. Also, we’ll go to the London Eye and have tea with various friends who live on the other side of the Pond.

I am so lucky that Husband is traveling there for business and that I can afford to buy a ticket to come along, even if he is flying business class and I will be in coach by myself. (To be fair, he is Executive Platinum status and put me on the upgrade list. And even if he didn’t, it is his business trip and he should not have to go a lower class just because I am coming. He might not let me come on future jaunts if he had to do that….) Flying business class also nets more frequent flyer miles, thus we will be just that much closer to a free trip to Australia in business class, so I’m not really complaining. I just find it funny that we’ll board and then say good-bye as I head toward the back of the plane with the other peons, where I completely belong.

Yay! I’m going to London! I shall bring my laptop and if time permits, I’ll file dispatches to CUSS.

You Know You're Jewish White Trash When...

Back in the late ‘80s, when I was in junior high, I became sick of being a member of the only middle class family in the US that did not have a microwave.  I decided to take matters into my own hands and remedy the situation.  My sister agreed that a microwave would be a good thing to have, and we scraped up our feeble savings to surprise our mom with a microwave for Mother’s Day.  (Don’t you love gifts that the whole family can enjoy?  Once, at my mom’s request, we bought her several new trash cans as a Mother’s Day gift, but I digress.)  

Of course, as we lived in the suburbs and did not drive due to our youthful states, we did not have access to many stores.  We walked to whatever shops we could, but quickly acknowledged that we needed help and brought our dad in on the plan.  Once my dad was contributing towards the gift, our budget also changed considerably.  We were able to purchase a decent, middle of the line microwave perfect for our quirky middle of the line family.  That microwave is still proudly in use today, at least 16 years after it was purchased.

The old age of the microwave freaks my mom out, as she worries that it could be leaking dangerous, well, microwaves and radiation and whatnot when she nukes anything.  My logical solution is to get a new microwave and not risk it.  Prices have certainly dropped significantly on the technology that was new-fangled at least 20 years ago.  My mother, however, sees no reason not to use it until it is determined to be unsafe.  How pray tell, might one find that out, short of discovering that my parents are glowing green?  It seems that my mom read in some town newsletter that it is possible to have an inspector of some sort visit your home out a few times a year and test the radiation from your microwave for free.  I’m sure that the town is offering this service because they assumed that no one in their right mind would use it, as normal people who can afford it would rather just buy a new microwave for $60.  Obviously, they were wrong, and while I was talking to my mom recently about the inspector’s most recent visit to my parents’ house, she told me how much she enjoyed using such a valuable free service.  (Fortunately, the microwave is OK.)

Perhaps this Mother’s Day, I should just buy my mom a new microwave.

Wash My Mouth Out with Soap

Everyone likes soaps, shampoos, and lotions that smell yummy. I know that, otherwise The Body Shop, Bath & Body Works, Lush, Sabon, L'Occitane and a million other boutique soap shops would not exist. (OK, there was one super tiny fancy soap shop, Soap in the City, around the corner from my apartment that went out of business, so maybe not everyone loves special overpriced soap, or maybe they only like buying it from boutique chains. I swear that new chain soap stores appear every other day in Manhattan.) However, when even I like these things, I think it is fair to say that almost everyone likes them since I do not like most “girly” products. I never actually buy boutique soap, though, because I am too cheap. Why spend that kind of money on soap when I can get regular stuff (like Dial) for less then a third of the cost? (That is why I think fancy smelly soaps make good gifts – they are semi-affordable luxury items that people can make good use of.)

The other reason that I don’t buy yummy smelling soap is precisely because it smells yummy. I just have the weirdest temptation to start eating whatever I am using, be it body gel, bar soap, or shampoo. (I never use lotion unless I absolutely must because my skin is so dry that it is cracking off my body, so I am safe when it comes to yummy smelling lotions. I hate lotion.) Intellectually, I know that if I do eat the soap or shampoo, it will obviously not taste good. Yet the urge will not go away. Does anyone else have this problem?

You Go, Boy!

I didn’t watch the Golden Globe Awards last Monday. Usually I like awards shows and get into the whole can-you-believe-what-overpaid-undernourished-Ingenue-X-is-wearing? spirit of the event. However, I had seen a small preview of Joan and Melissa Rivers a few days before and I decided that someone who looks as alien as Ms. Rivers (and yet used to be so cool – what the fuck happened?) really should not be encouraged to add to the anti-woman atmosphere.

Yesterday I learned that I missed Isaac Mizrahi’s CUSS-like interrogations at the Golden Globes of overpaid-undernourished-Ingenue-Xes when he asked multiple starlets whether they were wearing any underwear and what type it was. As I watched the recap on VHI’s Best Week Ever while sweating my balls off on the stair climber, I was delighted to hear that tons of 90 lbs. stars said that they wear wearing “support” undies. No thongs, no g-strings. Aha! So they worry about hiding their guts, too! How exciting. Now, if only they would let themselves hang free a bit, the rest of us can follow suit…

The other big question popped by Mr. Mizrahi was to Eva Langoria (Desperate Housewives). He asked her what style her pubic hair was, which mortified her. Ha ha ha! I laughed cruelly and nearly fell of the stair climber machine as punishment for my meanness. People reap what they sow – if women would stop making designs in their crotch hair, people wouldn’t feel entitled to ask about it.

Busiest Dick Ever? President Bush Fucks Millions of Women Every Day

For a guy who proudly claims to be monogamous and faithful to his wife, President George Bush sure seems to fuck (over) a lot of other women both in the US and abroad. In the US, he and his cronies are doing everything they can to ensure that women have worthless sex educations, limited birth control options, and almost no access to abortion. Abroad, the situation is even worse. By blocking $125 million of funding since 2002 to the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), our “compassionate conservative” friends endanger the lives of millions of women and children by preventing them from receiving proper reproductive health care.

Want to tell Bush to go fuck himself instead of non-consenting women? Show him that Americans support sexual health here and around the world. To help women in the US pay for abortions, give to the National Network of Abortion Funds at http://www.nnaf.org/. For women who desperately need medical attention around the world, give to 34 million Friends of UNFPA, a program started in 2002 when Bush held the first $34 million in US funds back. Check them out at http://www.34millionfriends.org/.

Together, we can show our national leadership what compassion looks like.

Pro-Choice is the REAL Pro-Life

Nearly two years ago, on April 25, 2004, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law, Husband, and I boarded a bus near Lincoln Center at 6 am and began the short journey to Washington, DC to participate in the March for Women’s Lives. My cousin, who was 16 years old at the time, got into a car outside of Chicago, IL with four other teenagers and drove to DC to march as well. My aunt and uncle let her miss several days of school so that she could go. We were joined by people from every age group, every ethnic group, and every state in the country. It was the largest demonstration in Washington, DC ever. It was estimated that between 850,000 and 1.1 million attended. It was amazing.

Of course, there were counter-protestors with their propaganda and outright lies about abortion. At most, there were 200 hundred anti-women extremists who stood in little clumps along the march route and yell at us. We were called murders and perpetrators of genocide. We knew that they were wrong, and that by supporting access to legal and safe abortion, we actually save millions of lives of women (and often their families) each year.

Yet… every article about the March for Women’s Lives - a historic event, the biggest march in Washington ever - gave equal time to the anti-woman side as they did to the pro-woman’s lives side. That a march with a million people is given equal press as the protesters with less than 200 people encapsulates perfectly why the pro-women’s lives side is consistently losing these days. People hear the anti propaganda so often that they accept it as truth.

It is time to say no and demand to be treated fairly. It is time to remind people that being pro-choice is pro-life; that to be pro-choice is to save the lives of women. Say it to everyone you know, to everyone you meet, until our message is heard:

Pro-choice is the real pro-life.

"i'm not sorry"

I have a small button my backpack that says, “i’m not sorry.” My friend gave it to me last June at the annual conference of the National Network of Abortion Funds. I sport it with pride, and although I get a lot of quizzical looks, few people actually bother to ask me what it means.

My dentist is on of those few people. As was wrapping up my exam last week (I got an A+ - yay flossing and brushing regularly!), he noticed the button. “Interesting button,” he said. “What are you not sorry about?”

“Technically,” I explained to him, “this button means that I am not sorry that I had an abortion. However, I’ve never had an abortion, although I definitely would if I found myself pregnant, and I would absolutely not be sorry. But I wear this button in solidarity with those who had abortions and are not sorry that they have their own lives. I’m not sorry that about is legal, although I am very sorry that it is not affordable and accessible to every woman who needs one.”

My dentist laughed. “Well, that is certainly not what I expected you to say, but good for you! I wish everyone felt the same way.”


FACT: 89% of counties in the US do not have an abortion provider.

FACT: 6,000 women were forced to leave their homes and families in 2004 to travel to New York City to exercise their right to basic health care because their was no one in their hometowns who provided abortions.

FACT: The average cost of a hotel room in New York City is $300 per night and 85% of hotel rooms are booked over 200 days of the year, forcing low income women who travel to New York for an abortion to sleep on the street because they cannot afford a safe room.

Today is the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, but while abortion is technically legal in all 50 states, thousands of women cannot exercise their right to an abortion because of unfair restrictions and/or a lack of providers.

If you would like to help a low income come forced to travel to NYC for a second trimester abortion, email the Haven Coalition at havencoalition@yahoo.com.

My Bed in College was a Busy Place

While I was in college, I developed a habit of sleeping with an insane amount of stuff on my bed. This was because I had the top bunk of an extremely high bunk bed that for reasons unknown to me had no ladder. The only way to get into my bed was to climb up the side of the metal frame. One side of the bunk was partly blocked by my desk, which was not good to climb on because I didn’t want to accidentally break my word processor. (Ah, the good old days!) The other side of the bunk was next to the window, which was scary because if I fell while climbing up, I’d go right through the window and plunge seven stories onto Fifth Avenue.

I didn’t make it any easier to get up when I dug up my My Little Pony tent bed (like the one at left, but decorated with My Little Pony) from home one vacation and brought it back to my dorm. When the tent sheet was on, I had to climb up the side of the bed and instead of flopping right onto the mattress, I had to swing forward and around to get into the fucking tent. (That thing rocked, though. I wonder what I did with it.)

Coming down from the bunk was also literally a pain. The bed was at least six feet high. I usually jumped down and landing was hard on the ankles, especially since I lived large and on the chubby side in those days. It was still better than climbing down by that fucking window, though. After one or two close calls, I had to completely abandon that method.

Since getting into and out of bed was such a production, any time I needed something, it was a major effort to get it. For example, if I got in bed to do some homework but forgot, say, a pencil, I had to go through the whole rigamorole of jumping down and climbing up. As a result, I kept as many supplies in my bed as I could. My bed had pens and pencils, paper, books, Kleenex, pajamas, extra socks, sweaters, Theo (teddy bear), etc. in it. The room had a built-in bookcase that ran up the wall and above the bed, which was convenient for text book storage at the bed level and also my alarm clock, which of course required an extension cord to plug in.

The only thing I didn’t keep up there was food and water. No water because I seem to have wandered through the first 22 years of my life in a state of perpetual dehydration, so it didn’t occur to me at the time to have a water bottle handy. I didn’t keep food up there because it was too gross to have crumbs and shit in the bed, and I wasn’t a total slob. I say total slob as opposed to slob because I didn’t change my sheets all that often. Can you imagine the farce involved when a five foot tall person attempts to put a sheet on a bed that is six feet up in the air? It was ridiculous. I could’ve broken my neck! Unfortunately, I then developed the bad habit of not changing the sheets too often as well as sleeping with lots of crap in the bed. Needless to say, Husband is not pleased.

No Social Ill is Too Big or Too Small to Be Solved by Marriage!

As long as I’m on the Bush shitlist, I might as well point out that their plan to cure poverty and all social ills in the US by promoting marriage is fucking retarded. The idea behind it is that since a large proportion of single mothers live below the federal poverty line, if they just marry the first guy that comes along, all will be well. Instant wealth and stability in the household for the kiddies! Maybe in some cases marriage helps, but there is much proof that marrying any person with a dick actually makes the situation worse.

Exhibit 1: Recently a seven year old girl was tied to a chair and beaten to death by her stepfather. He justified his cruelty by explaining that the girl brought these beatings on herself by misbehaving, such as the time she cut her sister’s hair. He says he felt he needed to use all his strength to beat her so that she would learn a lesson. The fatal beating was precipitated after the girl ate a yogurt without asking and jammed the family printer. The stepfather had just lost his job, so money was tight and he really felt that his stepdaughter needed to understand that she couldn’t waste money by eating any time she wanted or by breaking things. Exhibit 1 illustrates that children are obviously not all better off when a single mother marries, and that marriage does not mean a family will not have money problems.

Exhibit 2: A very large percentage of the working poor are married couples with children. Usually both parents are in the workforce. So clearly, marriage does not mean that families do not struggle to pay for housing, food, health care, child care, and other life necessities. Exhibit 2 shows that there are more effective ways to spend public funds to reduce poverty.

Exhibit 3: A good number of “eligible” bachelors in many low income communities are in jail or have records, often for petty crimes. How the fuck is marrying someone who will have a hard time getting a decent paying job going to help lift families out of poverty? Exhibit 3 is proof that other policies would prevent the marriage as a panacea plan from working even if it wasn’t based on fucking stupid in the first place.

Perhaps a better way to solve poverty might be to offer health insurance, rent assistance, child care subsidies, and other social supports to working people with children instead of offering free marriage counseling. I know; I am such a crazy socialist liberal pinko commie porno feminist for thinking that way, but I just can’t ignore the evidence as conveniently as our “compassionate conservative” leaders can.

For a Good Time, Sit Here

The big dick statue in the Time Warner Center in Columbus Circle in Manhattan reminded me of the greatest bench on which I ever had the pleasure of resting my ass. It was at an U-bahn station in a section of what was formerly East Berlin. The benches at the station were all artsy but one bench stood out, literally by a head. The special bench was carved to look like a man and woman sitting on a bench. Tired commuters waiting for the train could sit in their laps, as long as they didn’t mind leaning their backs on a set of conical tits on the woman side of the bench or having a long, fat penis poke their butts and legs on the man side of the bench. It was nothing you’d see in the States, that’s for sure. It was really fucking cool. (I’ll try to find my picture and scan it in.) I loved it.

Does It Take One to Know One? I Hope Not, For My Sake

The nice thing about completely crazy people who ride the New York City subway is that they say aloud the things I am thinking but do not actually say since I am not completely crazy.  This occurred to me on last night’s commute home when a mentally disturbed, but harmless, woman got on the train one stop after I did and sat down across from me.  She immediately began ranting about Bloomingdale’s and how it was evil and “shoves it to you.”  I totally agree with the sentiment.  I fucking hate that store.  Every time I go there I am ignored by the sales people and if I ask for help, I am treated rudely.  I assume it is because I am an average slob who definitely looks like I don’t belong there and won’t spend a lot of money on stupid designed crap (true), but my husband is a very respectable-looking guy who does look like he would spend a lot of money on nice things there, and for some reason, he also is treated like crap by staff there, so go figure.  Once I was there and buying a $98 pair of Liz Claiborne pants, a $60 blue merino wool cardigan (which I subsequently lost at the dry cleaners because I am a dumb fuck and didn’t give it to them separately from the matching shell, so they only checked it in as one piece and that is exactly what I got back, which sucked because it was an awesome sweater), and a matching merino wool shell, which I think was $45.  I only got all this shit because I had a gift certificate for $250 which someone gave us for a wedding gift, but people at Bloomingdale’s are assholes and refused to sell us any electronics that we actually wanted, so my husband said I should use it on myself.  (He’s the best!)  Anyhoo, the woman who checked me out was so super nice and friendly, I became suspicious that she was not really an employee.  Turns out she was new and hadn’t finished her training on how to become a haughty motherfucker yet.

Back to the crazy woman on the subway last night… As she was bellowing about Bloomingdale’s, the guy sitting next to me started laughing at her.  She stopped for a second to eye him over.  He was sitting the way that annoying men do where they have their legs spread out all over the place and take up more than one seat.  “What?” the crazy-but-wise woman said.  “Are your balls so big that they take up seats for five people?”  Ka-ching!  That is so one of my pet peeves, and she so nailed him!  I always want to call people out on it but since I am not crazy, I keep my mouth shut in fear of an unpleasant response involving a fist.  I was surprised that the guy turned bright red and actually sat up a bit.  Turns out that there really wasn’t enough room for another person next to him, though, so he began slouching and spreading again.  Still, I found the public shaming was quite effective.  The woman did too and noted that it wasn’t his fault that the “seats are made in Japan, and Japanese people’s asses are smaller than ours, but they think we are asses.”  Interesting point, I thought.

While I was hoping that she would not try and strike up a conversation with me as she watched me write down everything she was saying, I did have a newfound respect for completely crazy people on the subway.

Fishing with President Bush, Chief Commander of Fucking Assholes

Damn, talk about timing!  Just last night I wrote about ways in which people have found CUSS through search engines.  One of the things that surprised me when I investigated their searches is how few porn sites came up when someone typed in unshaved snatch without using quotes.  Even sand in her snatch brought up very few porn sites until I entered “sand in her snatch.”

Well, never ones to let people live their lives, our dear friends at the Bush administration delivered a subpoena to Google earlier today demanding that Google turn over all their search records.  Basically our fearless “defenders” of liberty (if you happen to be rich, and also male, they’ll defend your liberties no matter what how corrupt you are) who launched a war in Iraq to stop their production of weapons of mass destruction “spread democracy” (like it’s margarine or something) have decided that they want to see who is looking at porn.  They are trying to force Google to turn over the IP (internet protocol) address of every person who has done a search that led porn sites to appear.  I know that Bushies claim that they trust families to raise their kids and that government should not interfere in family matters, and blah, blah ,blah.  I guess they don’t trust your family because the pathetic reason Uncle George and his cabal of rightwing lunatics provide for this invasion of privacy and people’s right to access information is to root out porn sites that use deceptive words to lure kids to their pages.  You know, like they so effectively rooted out Osama bin Laden by invading Iraq, a country that had nothing to do with Osama bin Laden.  Whatever.  

Sadly, I fear that anyone who looked up campaign for unshaved snatch with no quotes around the phrase will wind up in the clutches of our “freedom-loving” President.   Sorry about that.  I never meant for anyone to get investigated for reading some (hopefully) amusing commentary on social mores that I try and challenge.  And why do I also have a sneaking suspicion that searches on “birth control” or “abortion” will wind up in this fishing expedition for information on what Americans are up to?  I’m just paranoid, I suppose.  I mean, Bush and pals would never illegally spy on people who disagree with him.  Why would he crack down on feminazis, baby killers, and/or masturbators?  Silly little me to think that adults can read what they want in this “free” country.

Sometimes Being a Do-Gooder Pays Off in Weird Ways

I am so excited! I’ll be heading to California for work in early February, and my wonderful co-workers agreed that a quick stop at the Sierra Sacramento Valley Museum of Medical History would be a good way to relax in between presentations. There is almost nothing I love more than medical history museums, particularly when they are in English. (The last one I went to was in Zurich and the explanations were entirely in Swiss German, a language in which I understand essentially nothing. It was still an awesome museum, though. There were lots of gross and disturbing artifacts that didn’t need to be explained for the most part.)

The Sierra Sacramento Valley Museum of Medical History is small (only 1,200 square feet and the website claims it has room to grow) but has an exciting set of 16 display cases “featuring collections in the fields of Surgery, Clinical Diagnosis, Infectious Disease, Pharmacy, Radiology, Chinese Medicine, Obstetrics and Gynecology and Medical Quackery.” Medical quackery! Infectious diseases! Obstetrics and gynecology! These are my absolute favorites. Man, a work trip just can’t get better than this, I tell you. I am so lucky to work with people willing to humor my insane hobbies.

It's All About Artistic Value

Yesterday I was inaccurately accused of having a vagina obsession on this very blog. While it is not untrue that I am obsessed with the cooch, I say it is inaccurate because I am obsessed with all types of things considered taboo about the human body, not just snatch. So when I met some people for dinner last night at an overpriced restaurant in the most useless and ridiculous upscale mall in America (that would be the Time Warner Center mall complex on Columbus Circle), I was quite taken with two ginormous statues – a nude man and a nude woman – in the lobby near the middle bank of escalators. I’m pretty used to naked female statues, as they seem to be everywhere; no big deal. It’s the naked dude that caught my eye. The sculptor didn’t gloss over the details – the giant statue had an appropriately big dick and sack. I wasn’t the only one, either. A young girl, maybe four years old, stood in awe, pointing at his crotch. It seems a lot of people have enjoyed Statue Guy's company, as his penis was shiny from being rubbed. Unless it was shiny because he came alive after the mall closed, like in the movie Mannequin, and took care of business himself. (Hey, male statues have needs too!)

They Still Haven't Found What They're Looking For...

I’ve been tallying up the ways that people wind up at CUSS & Other Rants.  The most common search terms that brought up CUSS on a search engine (like Google, MSN, or Yahoo – no one seems to use AltaVista these days, does it even exist any more?) are “unshaved,” “anal,” or “snatch.”  “Anal” strikes me as a curious search word because it is wide open in so many ways.  Does the searcher mean “anal” as in anal retentive or “anal” as in show me some ass?  (Probably the latter, but who knows?)

I found a lot of derivations of “unshaved” as well.  There’s the person who was looking for “unshaved bikini line” and the one who sought “unshaved legs women.”  (FYI - CUSS was the first site that popped up for unshaved bikini line – we’re #1!  We’re #1!)  Someone was researching “prevalence pube shaving.”  I thought most of the sites identified by the search engines would be porn, and was surprised to find that was not true.  Man, the porn industry is losing ground!  Kind of sad, isn’t it?  The internet industry, like the VCR industry, was built on porn.  Oh well.  Times change and there isn’t too much I can do about it.  Gotta move on and all that shit…

My very, very favorite searches that brought people to CUSS are “sand in her snatch” and “say tushie.”  Both just crack me up.  The person looking for sand in her snatch did not use quotations and thus wound up with pages of random sites that contained the words sand and/or snatch.  Other contenders for best search terms: “merkin crotch wig,” “public beach sex,” “fake vaginas,” and finally (and probably most randomly) “heath ledger” + “receding hairline.”  

I hope that these people enjoyed their time at CUSS and that they eventually found what they needed, whether it was learning a new term, winning a bet, or jerking off in a sock.

Shocking Discovery: Pregnant Women Have Pubic Hair!

I was talking to my friend who is pregnant for the second time. One of the moms in her expecting mother’s support group was telling my friend that she was upset because she usually waxes her own bikini line. As her pregnancy progresses, she is having a harder and harder time reaching down there to wax, and realizes that soon she won’t be able to do so at all. My friend was a little puzzled. “So who cares?” my friend asked her. “Even if you want to go swimming, your stomach will cover the bikini line and no one can see if there are pubes sticking out or not anyway. I swim all the time at the Y and I don't bother shaving.” The other woman was horrified. “No, the problem is that I can’t imagine going to the doctor without waxing the area first.”

OK, OB-GYNs, of all people, should know that women have pubic hair. They should be very used to seeing women, especially pregnant woman, with giant bushes. If you are pregnant and your OB-GYN is surprised to see that you have pubic hair, you should immediately find a new doctor who understands human physiology.

At any rate, pubic hair growth should be the last concern a woman has about body changes that happen during pregnancy. There's discomfort from weight gain and the increasing likelihood of pissing yourself unintentionally, as the baby may be pressing against the bladder. “Morning sickness” is a misnomer - many women are puking all day, not just in the morning. During birth, all kinds of messy fluids will pour out of your vagina. That area between the vagina and anus may get cut open or ripped to make way for the baby’s head. In a c-section, the uterus is temporarily removed from the body. Forget the unregulated growth of pubic hair - these are the things that disturb me when I think about pregnancy.

Is the "War on Ugliness" Like the War on Terror?

From The Village Voice (“The Mane Attraction” by Rachel Aviv)

…George Michael, the self-described "Tzar of long hair." He was waging a "war on ugliness," lecturing women (the kind who "like lacy underwear") all over the world on how to embrace their femininity. His system for beauty was strict: no bangs, layers, rubber bands, blow drying, or washing more than once a week.

Wow, thanks for the helpful insight on how to be more feminine and less ugly, Mr. Hair Satan. Not usre who appointed you the arbiter of what is attractive, but thank goodness you took the mission seriously. Nothing is more important than a crusade to make all women look and act the same. Variety is an enemy that must be vanquished.

It's Nice to Know that People Care

Earlier today, I received the following insightful comment from “Anonymous:”

On another note, I read your description of yourself: a do-gooder whom loathes people. Sounds like you may benefit from some medication. I'm not being ugly, either. I have a bipolar father whom has benefited greatly from Prozac. You really need to lift that dark cloud that's enveloped you.

At first, I thought it was really funny. Then I became very excited because it dawned on me that only one person could write something like this, and that person is none other than Sen. Bill Frist (R-TN), MD!

Sen. Frist is not only the United States Senate Majority Leader, but he is also a respected heart and lung surgeon. You may recall a tiny incident last year when he made a speech on the Senate floor and said that, based on his review of a video, Terri Schiavo was not in a persistive vegetative state. He made this diagnosis after he "spent an hour or so looking at” the tape the prior night in his DC office.

Clearly, Sen. Frist spent a few minutes on my blog and decided that I must be bipolar because I am a misanthropic humanist. Goodness! You’d think he might want an expert in psychiatry to at least talk to me a bit before coming up with a doosey like that! In fact, a professional (or even average person on the street) might note that it is perfectly human to have conflicting emotions about things. Someone who really has a father who is bipolar (unlike Sen. Frist) might also note that bipolar disorder is a disease marked by periods of extreme mania and depression, not little internal conflicts about life. A person who really had a parent with bipolar disease would also know that Prozac is not really an ideal treatment for many bipolar individuals, as it is intended to treat only depression, and may cause a rapid swing into a manic state. My guess is that a person with a parent with bipolar disorder would not take it so lightly, as the effects of the illness are often devastating.

Anyway, I am glad that an important public figure like Sen. Bill Frist would take a few minutes out of his busy schedule of things he can do to destroy everything that is good about the US to try and help me. If only everyone had someone in their life who cared so much, the world would be a better place today. Brings a fuckin' tear to my eye, I tell ya.

Show Me Your Balls First

Thanks to the ever-vigilant blog reading of my friend D., I was pointed to a link from gawker.com to an interview in the UK Sun with Mimi Fowler, BFF of “Belle in the Big Apple” (aka Brooke Parkhurst). Mimi has a degree from Cambridge but works as a stripper in NYC although she came here to be a writer. Now, I admit that when it comes to stripping, I have very mixed feelings. On one hand, I find it extremely sad that an intelligent woman can only earn money in NYC by stripping, not by being smart. On the other hand, if women truly like their stripping jobs, then it’s not my business to tell them what to do. I'm not sure this article supports the concept, though. Some excerpts from the article and commentary from moi:

WITH a first-class degree from Cambridge University, pretty Mimi has the world at her feet when it comes to careers.

But rather than relying on her brains, her long slender legs and curves are proving the key to her fortune — as she spends her nights stripping at a New York lap-dancing club.

She says: “When people see me on stage, they just see the stripper — the girl in the G-string.

“Nobody cares that I have a first from Cambridge, and nobody wants you to be smart.

Does this sound empowering to you? It doesn’t sound empowering to me. In fact, it sounds like someone else is completely in control and able to project their fantasies unto Mimi and make her into who they want her to be, not who she wants to be. Maybe I am just confused, though. I mean, what do I know? I’m crazy enough to like relying on my brains, wanting to be seen as smart, and shit like that. Damn.

Mimi began her lap-dancing at a small New York venue but soon landed a job at Scores — Manhattan’s premier lap-dancing venue.

Despite its glitzy image, she says she still has to fight off advances by clients.

She concedes: “There is a dark, sleazy side to it. Guys whisper horrible things, they try and touch you. But you have to be strong and push them off.

I enjoy the power dancing gives me over men. I was never the kind of girl to go topless on a beach but stripping was like second nature.

“Men who come in often want to rescue us — like we are tragic women trapped in a job we hate.

Mimi explains: “It is classy — the biggest club — and all the celebrities and big spenders are there.

Perhaps I am don’t understand what it means to have power over others. I thought it meant that you control the situation, not others. What is powerful about being strong in order to fight guys off or having them believe that you hate your job (when you love it) and need them to rescue you? Nope, pardon my stupid little feminist head, but this doesn’t seem empowering to me at all. And man, that place sounds totally classy! If celebrities and big spenders are there, how can it not be? Nothing says “classy” like a guy coming in his pants as he stares at a woman’s tits while she gyrates on his lap for money. Silly me.

“I was never one of the hot girls at Cambridge. I had short hair and people thought I was quirky. But when you get on stage it’s great because of the attention you get.

“I’d never really felt sexy or like a real woman before.

"Now I’ve learned how to put on make-up, dance in heels, flirt and really work a man."

“They gave me a job, but told me that I had to sort myself out, to lose weight and look more feminine.”

Once again, pardon my foolishness. How was I supposed to know that in order to be a “real woman,” I couldn’t have short hair or go without make up? Crap, I don’t even really know how to walk in heels, let alone dance in them! Nor do I know how to really work a man for cash, whether I’m fully clothed or just at dinner. (Another one of Mimi’s fine characteristics is that she is a “dinner whore.”) Since Mimi was told to lose weight and look “more feminine” (whatever that means - maybe shaving her snatch?) so that she'd be considered acceptable to appear naked in front of paying men, I guess she has total power and control!!!

I am sooooo pathetic! If I wear comfy shows, have no idea how to put on make-up, prefer my hair short, gain weight or look less feminine (?), no one is going to fire me. Curse my powerless situation!

She adds: “No one thinks they are going to become a stripper. It’s usually just someone you know, or chance, that leads you there.

“But it’s the money and the feeling of power that keeps you there.”

Seriously, given how awesome stripping sounds, I don’t understand why my high school college counselor led me so astray. I guess it’s not too late, though, now that Mimi has enlightened me. Thank goodness society has its priorities straight and I could earn more money and power by helping guys have orgasms in public by swinging my titties in his face than I can by helping low income families! I am so excited for my new career! Oh – wait. I’m currently wearing wool socks, wool pants, a wool sweater, a suit jacket (unfortunately not wool), a wool sweater over my suit jacket, and a pair of gloves at work and I’m still freezing. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to gain power and wealth in a stripping career. I’d be too cold. Or maybe I could use it to my advantage - erect nipples would help me be more powerful as I danced my ass off to warm up. I’d just have to require men to warm their hands before shoving money in my underwear. Now that’s power!

How Sweet is the"Honeymoon Suite?" Not Very.

Setting aside the issue of clean linens at hotels, there is something very creepy (or unintentionally amusing, sometimes it’s hard to tell which) about rooms specifically designed for sex. I saw the whirlpool suites at Sybaris while I was in college, which amused me with their beds surrounded by mirrors. This past summer I actually got to experience the cheesy thrill of staying in a “sex room” for the first time.

My husband and I went to Tel Aviv for my friend H’s wedding in August. We arrived at the hotel at 4 am, and were told that there was only one room available. We were exhausted and gladly checked in. I knew something was off, though, when we got upstairs and opened the door to the room. I swore I heard a bad porn soundtrack playing in my head as I turned on the lights. The room looked suspiciously like it was the set of a cheesy soft core movie. There was a round bed with a mirror over it. The mirror had lights that were controlled by a dimmer, although not all the light bulbs worked. Tucked into the corner of the room was a chaise lounge surrounded by mirrors with some outdated track lighting dangling over it.

Nothing about the room made me uncontrollably horny. (It probably didn’t help that several of the lights on the mirror were burned out.) The whole situation did, however, inspire me to lie down on the round bed and take pictures of myself and others making funny faces into the ceiling mirror. It also me made want show it to everyone I knew, which I did.

While I wasn’t laughing uncontrollably, I learned a few things from sleeping in a round bed for 11 nights. First, if you and your partner are both near-sighted, you are not going to see anything in a ceiling mirror once you take your glasses off or contacts out (which would have been a downer had I actually cared to watch.) Second, it is hard to keep regular rectangular sheets on round beds, even when you are doing nothing so much as sitting on the bed reading a book. It seems that sheets are not available cut in round shapes. Another issue presented by a round bed is head support. You may wake up with your head dangling off the bed at odd angles, since normal beds don’t drop off suddenly and balloon out in other areas. Finally, I warn you that it can be startling and downright scary to see something moving on the ceiling when you wake up until you realize that it is not a ginormous bug, but in fact, your own reflection. Whew!

Beware the Dinner Hag

It seems like I’m not the only one obsessing in a seething manner about the whole “dinner whore” article from last Thursday’s New York Post, as a few others out there in the blogosphere have commented on it.  I was rereading the whole thing and came across a picture of Brooke Parkhurst and her dinner whore friend Mimi Fowler (an overeducated stripper from Cambridge – what a cliché!) and decided that all that dinner whoring must take a toll on a person.  Brooke and Mimi are each 4 years younger than I am but look like they could be my significantly older sisters from a parent’s previous marriage.  Feigning interest in someone for free caviar is just so sad and repulsive.

Of course, a middle aged man attempting to wine and dine a woman his daughter’s age is even more pathetic.  (Yes, I know that I live in a “narrow prison of a mind” according to some anonymous soul who didn’t like my previous thoughts on the topic, but tough titty.  It’s comfortable in there.)  I’m not letting them get away with their nasty habits and solely blaming the women for their behavior.  It takes two to eat caviar for two.

But Can Their Products Cure Social Awkwardness?

This is Brian J. Conant, President of Flat-D Innovations, (left) and Frank J. Conant, "Flatulence Guru," (above). I "met" them one day when my friend M. sent me an email with the subject "For your blog" and a link to www.flatd.com in the body of the email. (This was very good timing, as I was seriously despairing about evil women who screw the rest of us over by being total cuntfaces, and just then one of my delightful friends pops up and reminds me that there are some super cool, awesome, rockin ladies with excellent senses of humor out there. )

Anyway, here is what you will find if you follow the link to Flat-D's women only products:

At Flat-D Innovations, we specialize in producing products that neutralize embarrasing [sic] feminine crotch odors. Through research, prototypes and live testing (with real customers) we're pleased to introduce a new line of women’s products: The “FEM-D”, “Thong-D” and "Overpad Plus."

Our “FEM-D” was developed for women that have had flatulence and vaginal odor issues.


The “Thong-D” was developed for women who wear thong underwear and have flatulence issues.

Our “Overpad-D" and“Overpad-Plus”pads were developed for women that have their menstrual cycle (and/or incontinence) and are concerned about the odors associated with it. All three of these products were developed specifically for women.These products will give you confidence and eliminate the embarrassment caused by these types of odors.

Our products do not cure the odor but can definitely provide you with relief from the symptom.

Read our complete white paper on female odor control problems. Female Hygiene

Every time I read this, I laugh hysterically. What is not gut busting hilarious about people earnestly trying to sell women underwear that cure “crotch odors?” I really wish that I was smart enough to have written this first. The nice thing about Flat-D (that's short for flatulence deodorizer) is that is is doctor recommened (I swear the website makes this claim) and understands that men and canines can be smelly too!

If you have any questions after reading all about farts on the Flat-D website, you can email their medical expert ("Due to medical liability concerns only flatulence related questions will be answered by the doctor."), read an essay (Flatulence is part of life! By Frank Morosky, Flatulence Guru), or join their flatulence yahoo group. Great stuff.

Seriously, People are Fucked Up

Steph suggested that I begin a new blog called “Twat in the Big Apple.” It will be about a talentless hack who moves to New York to become a “writer.” Craziness ensues: she carouses the clubs and gets written up in Gawker.com; she quits her job at an arch-conservative network out to destroy any gains in women’s rights and self-determination because she decides that the don’t respect women; she gets a book deal and signs up for writing classes; she’s written up in the New York Post as a proud former “dinner whore” who used pervy rich men old enough to be her father so that she could get over 200 meals in fancy restaurants (worth over $30,000!); and she falls in love with a chef, which she finds ironic, although she is a woman who clearly loves good food.

Oh, wait. This blog already exists. Drats. Now my hopes for a book deal are dashed…

What’s truly sad is that the real-life blogger with such madcap adventures seems to no longer allow people to comment on her blog. (Could she not keep up with removing the nasty comments and emailing each person and calling him/her “an ignorant bitch” as I was so lucky have happen a few weeks ago?) Really, I can’t believe that there was a backlash to such a delightful specimen of the female human race. People are so mean.

Supply Side Economics

I have a problem when it comes to overthinking an issue. Last night, I started to worry what would happen if women really stood up and said “we’re not taking this beauty bullshit any more – we look fine the way we are!” and stopped going to nail and waxing salons, buying makeup, getting ridiculous plastic surgery, etc. On one hand, I hope it would mean that women would have better self-esteem and use the time we formerly spent primping on doing things that actually make the world a better place. Yet on the other hand, how many jobs would be lost? I don’t care about the cosmetic companies’ CEOs and other execs (they are evil, unattainable dream peddlers for the most part – is a choice between two lipsticks real choice for women? I think not), the advertisers (see CEOs and other execs), or the models (at this point, aren’t most big campaigns structured around famous actresses/movie stars? They have plenty of other income). The chemists who invent the stuff will also find other, hopefully more socially valuable jobs. The fucking hack plastic surgeons might actually have to practice medicine that actually saves lives, instead of wasting resources on unnecessary surgical procedures. How crazy would that be? No, it’s the factory workers (if makeup is even manufactured in the US – I have no idea), the nail painters, the waxers, and other “little people,” frequently immigrants who will be hurt the most. That sucks. It’s fucked up that a good thing could cause so many other problems.

Do You Starch Your Sheets, By Any Chance?

I admit that I have written some fairly disgusting things. I can’t help it; my brain just seems to work that way. It must be genetic, and here is the proof. I was talking to my bubbe a few years ago. She asked me what my plans were for the evening and I told her that I was sleeping over at a friend’s house. She became all bent out of shape over it, and told me that I should never sleep over at a friend’s house because there might be discharge on the sheets.

Hello? That is totally demented! How the fuck does that logic come to be? Was she sleeping over at her friend’s house back in Russia when she was a girl? If so, does she not understand that I am friends with people who have at least a modicum of sanitary standards. Yeesh. I mean, I definitely worry when I am staying at a hotel that there might be jizz on the sheets, but that is because I don’t know the people who run the joint. For fuck’s sake, there are my friends. If they give me discharge-y sheets it is probably my fault for being friends with someone who doesn’t wear underwear to bed or do laundry.

And Behind Curtain 1...

I was just chatting it up on IM with my friend J. back in the DR.  She has some other friends visiting her this weekend, so I told her that I was jealous and asked her where they were staying.  She told me the hotel’s name, and all the sudden I was transported back to Dec. 25, 2005...  

We had been wandering around the Colonial Zone and stopped in this funky (funky in the sense that it looked the same as it did in 1950) café for coffee and, in my case, a papaya batida (a delicious fresh fruit shake).  The back of the café had a ginormous metal door that resembled a bank vault, but one with a zillion padlocks and chains on it rather than a normal vault door.

My husband mentioned that he had to go to the bathroom, but J. didn’t think that they had a public bathroom.  I also had to go, so I suggested that we use the bathroom at the touristy hotel nearby.  (This is the same hotel that J.’s friends are staying at this weekend, which is what triggered my memory.)  Just as we were about to leave to implement the plan, J. decided she might as well ask if there was a bathroom.  The guy at the counter told her that as long as the ginormous metal door was unlocked, bathrooms were accessible.  My husband went off to find the men’s room.  When he came back in one piece, I went to use the women’s room.

However, as I was heading back, Julie told me to wait.  The counter guy was giving her the key.  She came with me and that was when we discovered that the door was padlocked shut.  We found that a bit scary and weird.  J. opened the lock and that’s when we discovered the dungeon.  It was one room with barely any light, a toilet, sink, and pink shower curtain, which separated the toilet from the sink and door.  I guess since there was no way to lock the door when using the bathroom, the idea was that you could hide behind the shower curtain if someone barged in.  J. and I decided to take turns waiting outside and guarding the door while the other person did her business.  I can’t imagine how disturbing it would have been to be there alone and have someone re-padlock the door while I was in there.  I could totally imagine the Gimp from Pulp Fiction hanging around there.  We peed quickly, and then we got the fuck out of there.

The batida was really good, though.

Think Slasher Movies are Gross?

Why is the female reproductive system so damn shitty? Almost every time I get my period, I get some seriously nasty diarrhea. It’s like my ass is jealous that my crotch has crap pouring out of it and wants in on some of the liquid action. I am definitely not the only one who suffers from this unfortunate malady. Several of my friends have mentioned the vag-blood/ass-runs connection. Another friend of mine told me that one of the first signs of pregnancy is diarrhea. She’s been pregnant twice, and it happened each time. Most of the women in her mom group had the same thing happen. So getting pregnant is not a solution to stop the runs. And you’ll probably get a lot of diarrhea from raising a kid, so there’s no way around the problem.

Happy Friday the 13th!

Dinner Whore or Media Whore: Probably Both, but A Whore Any Way You Look At It

I know I promised mere hours ago to not blog in the wee hours of the morning while I was falling asleep, but sometimes I find out something random that is totally infuriating that makes me violate my good word. What on earth could be making me so irate that I must break a promise and rant at 2:30 AM? It's my usual foes: cuntface whores and the New York Post. It's like the marriage of the lowest common denominators of insipidness and evil. Normally I wouldn't excerpt a NY Post article, but my little buddy Belle in the Big Apple is so over the top in it that I wouldn't want anyone to miss out. I am disgusted to present (with commentary provided by me, sort of like Mystery Science Theater 3000):

MEET THE DINNER WHORES By MANDY STADTMILLER

January 12, 2006 -- THEY'RE gorgeous. That's the first thing you notice.

How could a man resist taking these ladies to dinner, even if he suspects they might be staying in the relationship - or simply, at the restaurant - more for the pricey martinis than the possibility of marital or bedded bliss?

[Seriously! Men, like all people, love being used! How can they resist? I better keep my husband away!]

Meet today's modern - sorry, Ms. Steinem - "dinner whore."

Immortalized by frequent discussions on Craigslist, and most scientifically defined by urbandictionary.com, the frank term doesn't scare some of today's modern female daters.
"The concept of dating has changed," says 26-year-old blond bombshell Brooke Parkhurst, who estimates over the course of her 200-plus dinner-whore encounters she has run up combined tabs of $30,000 in New York and beyond. "Women used to feel like something had to be given in exchange, whereas now I'm perfectly confident that my company is enough."

[I really doubt that.]

But get to know the ladies, and see if you don't want to buy them a little dinner, too. Take Parkhurst, who says her D.W. days are long behind her now that she is dating a man who is fabulous in - where else? - the kitchen.

"It's kind of ironic," she says with a giggle. "A reformed dinner whore dating a chef."

[What is ironic about a person who loves food dating a chef? It sounds logical to me. Irony is when a chef dates someone who has no tastebuds or when a person with no teeth falls in love with a chef who hates making soup. And now that I know one of the ladies a bit, I think I'll just give more food to the homeless, who are far more deserving of a free meal.]
---------------------------------------------
If you want to read the rest of the article, go to belleinthebigapple.blogspot.com. There's a link to the Post article and also a link to Belle with her chef making gooey buns - I mean eyes - at each other. And they said feminism is dead...

Snachtoos Rock! (Not that I'm Getting One Any Time Soon)

Seriously, it is OK with me if grown women shave their crotches bare as long as they get freakin’ awesome snatch tattoos like this one. “No meat on Friday?” with a giant fish? Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

(Yes, some readers may be experiencing deja vu with this post. I seem to have put it up earlier without actually including the picture. I'm sure it makes much more sense this way. Quite frankly, unintentionally posting drafts is a very good reason why I should not work on my blog while I am falling asleep on at 1:30 am on a work night. I hope I didn't spoil the amusement/shock factor with my carelessness. I promise to be more alert when engaging in late night blogging in the future!)

My "Sin City" Sin

My little “Queen Kong” rant is not the first time I wrote about annoying sexist shit in “innovative” movies. I got some serious hate mail this past summer when Entertainment Weekly published a little letter I wrote regarding Sin City. I wrote:

I found your article on Sin City to be depressing. What is it about male-comic book writers? No matter how creative they are, no matter how far their imaginations can go in developing complex alternative worlds and building on wild ideas, they seem to be utterly unable to conceive of women characters as anything other than leather-clad prostitutes, strippers, or Madonnas whose pure love redeems their men. Frank Miller seems like a really interesting man. I eagerly await the revolutionary day he comes up with something outside of these tired (and, by now, boring) stereotypes.

OK, so I admit that I should not have clumped all male comic-book writers in with my complaint, as it made me sound like one of those male-hating feminist bitches, when I am actually a people-hating feminist bitch. That was definitely a mistake, and people let me know it. I agree that not all male comic-book writers suck, as many are wonderful storytellers and visionaries. (I’m thinking Neil Gaiman and Daniel Clowes, por exemple.) However, I stand by my bitching about female characters in Sin City, which I admittedly have not read nor seen. I do know that the movie seemed to require that none of the female characters wear clothes of a covering sort, including the character who works in a prison. I could deal with that if the men characters all wore revealing get ups as well, but that seems to be a ridiculous notion. Men? Without clothes!?! Never! And could it’ve killed him to not fall into the Madonna/whore dichotomy, a lame false situation if there ever was one.

Anyway, my favorite hate mail was from someone who turned out to be a freshman in college who was featured on some HGTV show for his Spiderman collection. Sadly, I no longer have that masterpiece to share (believe me, you would’ve loved it), but when I read it to one of my co-workers, he was slightly afraid that this guy might actually hurt me since I dared to insult his hero. (Somehow, I think that Frank Miller has heard it all before and that he could give a fuck what I think, which is fine by me.)

The most fun way to respond to someone who sent you a nasty email calling you a shit-eating asshole (I am paraphrasing here) is to respond with two words: “That’s nice.” Man, that sends the Rush Limbaugh set into a tizzy! Something to keep in mind for the future.

Last of the Holiday Roundup

These are the two super cool gifts that I received from my husband for Hanukkah:

When normal 29 year old husbands give their wives sleepwear as a gift, they tend to buy sexy nightgowns or slinky camisole pajamas. My husband is definitely not normal, as evidenced by these rocking fleece footie pajamas that he bought me. I decided that these pjs can be sort of like a sleek cat suit, one that happens to be made of fleece and is bubblegum pink with bright yellow duckies on it. Sexy, right? (I tried to show in the picture that adult size fleece footie pajamas can be sexy by flashing a bit of cleavage. I hope it worked.) I think they are awesome other than the fact that I might sweat to death in them. In NYC, landlords tend to overheat buildings during the winter so they don’t have to deal with old people bitching to them about being cold. (My grandmother should move here.) That means that unless it is subzero outside with a raging wind for several days in a row, it is about 4000 degrees in my apartment. A fleece body suit is a bit too warm in such conditions. Still, I like to tromp around in them when I can.

The second gift my husband gave me for Hanukkah that was just too good to not share is the book “The Hypochondriac’s Pocket Guide to Horrible Diseases You Probably Already Have.” This book is perfect for me because I always worry about potential ailments. For example, say I am tromping around in my fleece bubblegum pink cat suit with bright yello duckies on it, and I find that I have become insufferably hot although it is cold in the room. My first conclusion would be that I came down with a sudden fever. Logical, right? Or one time I found a scratchy dot on my stomach and just knew that I had shingles. This pocket guide allows me to look up symptoms and match them to an exotic disease that I may have contracted within the past five minutes.

Let’s test it out: say I have nasty boils. I look up boils in the index and find two potential diseases: mycobacteriosis and myiasis. Mycobacteriosis, also known as fish-handlers disease and swimming-pool granuloma, occurs when “your pet fish infect you with their mycobacteria.” Other symptoms are: inflammation, joint pain, lumps, rash, lesions, ulcers, malaise, nausea, and/or vomiting. There is a ton more info on the diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment, as well as prevention. However, I realize that I only have one other symptom – malaise – but that probably results from my general dissatisfaction with our society. I also don’t have fish, handle fish, nor swim in pools. So I must be safe. Cool.

Myiasis, on the other hand, is a disease “in which maggots crawl around beneath your skin.” Besides boils, symptoms include: pain, swelling, sores, fever, itching, and/or moving sensation beneath the skin. (This sounds seriously unpleasant. I think I’d rather have mycobacteriosis if I have to have one or the other.) The disease is contracted when a flesh fly lays eggs on skin, an open wound, or in a body cavity. (It is more important than ever to wear underwear that fully covers all holes!!!) It is just too nasty to think about, and I don’t think I’ve been near any flesh flies within the last week. I hope. And since I don’t really have boils (just pretending for the example, remember?), I am not going to worry too much about myiasis.

Anyway, the best thing about this book, other than helpful self-diagnoses guidance, is the disclaimer on the front of the book. It says, “This is a work of humor. The diseases and the information on them are real, but some facts may have been omitted because they were boring or to make room for gratuitous profanity. This is not to be used as a medical text.” Wow! It’s just like this blog. How great is that?!?!

Is That a Sand Castle in Your Pants or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

My friend P. went on vacation to Miami Beach and sent me the following report:

sunday night we decided to go to Niki Beach, which is a club at the tip of south beach right on the beach.  this was the one that was highly recommended by one of the liver transplant fellows, one of our co-worker's brothers, and deena's sister.  we got in for free with a pass from the hotel concierge.  anyway, the place was full of way too young people. i think the average age range was 17-23, except for a few skeezy old men.  the more disturbing thing was the fact that in the outside area of the club, instead of chairs there were mattresses on the sand, and a few of them on the sides were inside tents, for those people who felt that hooking up in public was too much...  so as none of us felt the need to have sex with a 17 year old on a mattress in the sand, we went home...

Wow, it is so nice of the club to take into consideration the various needs of people’s semi-public romps on the beach.  The mattresses sound gross, though.  Not that I think that hooking up on the beach is a good idea to begin with, but I can understand why it appeals to others.  How much more romantic can it get than to snuggle between a blanket or towel while the water laps gently at your feet and the stars shine above?  Aside from the possibility of voyeurs (which is a big turn on for some) or being arrested for public indecency (Which obviously the club is trying to help people avoid), the beach strikes me as a horrible place to have sex, as it is full of sand.  Think about the last time you were at a beach.  By the time you left, there was sand everywhere.  No matter how hard you tried to get it off before going home, you inevitably continued to find sand on your body and your things (towel, bag, shows, etc.) for days, if not weeks, afterwards.  I am struck with horror to think about all the special crevices and cracks that sand wends its way into during passionate sex on the beach.  The thought of digging sand out of my ass is enough to make me become celibate.

No, That Can't Be Right

And I thought a g-string was uncomfortable when it is in my ass crack?

Hmmm...

Is it wrong to consider buying this Cosabella mesh g-string for $3.99 + $1.00 shipping and handling on eBay from a seller named Seńor Pollo? Even if it is stylishly displayed on what appears to be the bathroom floor? Yeah, I thought so, but just verifying my instincts...

Danger, Will Robinson!

Is it bad that my toilet actually hissed at me tonight after I flushed down a ginormous turd?  Probably.

Lessons from Down Under

Several things that I learned from my experiment with wearing a thong:

1. A lot of women wear thongs every day.  A lot of women also go shopping and try on pants.  That means that it is possible to buy new pants that have had other women’s naked asses in them.  I never thought about this before, but it occurred to me today when I stopped off at Ann Taylor Loft to buy a pair of wool pants.  When I went into the fitting room, I realized that due to my non-covering undergarment, my whole ass was hanging out, making trying pants on really gross.


2. Some pants have labels or security tags sewn into the side.  While wearing normal underwear, I never noticed this before.  Yet when my whole side was exposed in my thong, the fucking tag scratched at the side of my pants all day.  I should really remove the tags in general.


3. A thong is oddly much more comfortable than a g-string, even though the ass string is wider on a thong than on a g-string.  Maybe the thinner string gets wedged in further or maybe the fabric on the expensive thong made a big difference.  It’s a physics mystery to me why it is this way.


4. I could never work out in a thong.  It is tolerable walking around in one and almost not noticeable while sitting at a desk all day.  Running, however, would be a nightmare.  I can’t imagine where all the crotch sweat would go, and it seems like chafing would be inevitable.  Perhaps I’ll try it another time, but tonight I wound up having dinner with a friend and getting home too late to hit the gym.  (She told me a good story about a bathroom in a bar, which I shall share in another post.)


5. Although I had some gassy incidents this morning, the thong didn’t reek too badly.  I can’t figure it out.  Maybe the rhinestone B monogram is a magical fart smell remover.  If so, I should get one rhinestone B monogram on all my undies.

Anyhoo, now that the experiment is over, I feel sort of empty.  I’ll have to keep trying little experiments.  Plus my friend who challenged me promised to take me underwear shopping, so it ain’t over yet.