Can't. Keep. Eyes. Open. But. Thanks!!!

Last night I was hit with one bad mofo case of insomnia. At first I wondered why my eyes would not shut when I tried to go to slepp last night. Then I realized that it was probably a very bad idea when I drank the remaining gallon or so of Pepsi One out of the two liter bottle at 11 pm since Husband was not home to stop me. Since I didn't fall asleep until 6:15 this morning, of course I had a really busy day at work. Then I went to a networking event with a friend (where I shocked myself by actually talking to people and having fun - I usually wind up in a corner by myself at these things). Then I went to dinner.

The point is that I am incredibly fucking tired and will collapse into bed any second, but I wanted to take a few seconds and thank everyone who voted for me in the Share the Love Blog Awards. I totally did not win (or even come in second), but I didn't really expect to make it into the finals in the first place. It means a lot to me that people like CUSS and it makes them laugh.

I know what you are thinking: blah blah blah. Brings a fuckin' tear to my eye. Not to worry: tomorrow I will be back to my usual cantankerous self. Until then, you have my heartfelt thanks!

Other Sites Featuring Unshaved Snatch

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Is that A Super Nova in Your Pants or are You Just Happy to See Me?

I spoke to Steph recently, and she told me that she went with a friend to the local planetarium.  They were watching some presentation (given by her friend’s sister) on the constellations, as people do at a planetarium.  The speaker/sister made the unfortunate mistake of pointing out the “treasure” under Orion’s belt.  Steph and her friend snickered and snickered.  The speaker/presenter glared at them, but did not learn her lesson.  She then mentioned that the treasure under Orion’s belt were “nebula.” More and more snickering.

Steph and I are known for having a sophisticated version of the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy.  (I say sophisticated because we do not walk around snapping bras or giving people wedgies.)  

Last Chance

In keeping with the strict low brow standards required by the Code of Jewish White Trash (definition: a nice Jewish lower middle class family with a quirky sense of humor living in an upper middle class suburb in a small but comfortable house that is falling apart and is located next to an expressway), I posted a picture of my mom in one of her t-shirts from the ‘70s that she still wears today. As I was thinking this morning about the Share the Love blog awards, I realized that TODAY (Feb. 27!) is the last chance to vote for CUSS for Best Humor. This reminded me of my dad’s Jewish White Trash T-shirt from the early ‘80s that had a cartoon of a trashy hick sitting on a bale of hay and said “Last chance before the freeway.” Only in the last few years did I realize that the woman was a prostitute. (I will try and find a picture of this gem and post it.)

Anyway, to paraphrase the t-shirt hooker’s wisdom, this the last chance to vote for CUSS for Best Humor at the Share the Love blog awards before the freeway. Click here to cast your vote. Thanks!

Deja Vu Post

[I'm re-posting this because J. was good enough to go back to the cafe and take some fabulous pictures to illustrate the story.]

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.

Good [in] Bed

Husband and I shopped for a new mattress on President's Day.  It was probably long overdue.  We have had the same futon since we moved in together in the summer of 1997.  Within a year, we broke a slat in the frame while engaging in some rambunctious activity.  Yet the bed still held up well with some tape, so we kept it.

I have some great memories of that futon.  We lived in a 200 square foot apartment, so a queen size futon took up a lot of space.  Back in those days, Steph used to come over almost every night and we’d sit in bed (as there was no where else to sit) and watch TV.  When Not-Yet-Husband came home from his job around 11:00, I’d snuggle between them and watch the news.  Not-Yet-Husband would kick her out precisely at 11:35, when the news ended.

Another time, Husband came home one night and found three female friends in bed with me watching and mocking porn.  His response: “When are you going?  I am tired.”  (Actually, they were sleeping under the kitchen table so that we could leave together the next morning for a trip.)

The futon made an awkward couch since it was queen size.  Whenever we’d have a party in our 200 square foot apartment, we had to fold it into a couch (or there would be absolutely no room).  The back was too high and the cushion sagged in weird places.  Crumbs would get everywhere.  One year a guest randomly told us he was not wearing underwear.  Although he had pants on, I still cringed and hoped he didn’t get crabs on my bed.

Ah, good times, the late ‘90s were.  The bed quieted down after we got married and moved to a real apartment in 2000.  It moved again with us to an even bigger apartment in 2002.  Sure, it is time for a new bed, but I’ll miss our old durable friend a lot.  I get so sentimental about things like this.  Brings a fuckin’ tear to my eye.

Every Turd Has a Silver Lining

The only good thing about having a mysterious digestive ailment is that when I am really sick, I also lose a fair amount of weight.  Yes, I know that it is demented that I count this as a positive side effect.  I don’t recommend it as a method of weight loss in general.  Crapping out turds that appear to be the same length and width as my forearm is uncomfortable, to say the least.  I have gas that could kill an infant.  In the past, I have asked people not to hug me so tightly, as I feared shit might get squeezed out of my ass.

The only other benefit is that if someone accuses me of being full of shit, I can proudly say, “Yes.  Yes, I am!”  Hey, I’ll take whatever good I can find in this otherwise shitty (hardee har har) situation.

Resistance is Futile

Since its inception in October until today, CUSS has counted two victories. CUSS Victory #1 and CUSS Victory #2 occurred early in the Campaign. Both of the victories took place at my gym, and to be honest, CUSS had nothing to do with either. (Conspiracy Against Unshaved Snatch documents the consequences of the second victory. Sigh.) I felt they were encouraging signs of the times, though.

Victories #3 and #4 are pattern breakers, I am happy to report. I was talking to my friend on the phone, and she mentioned that she tried a new place for her regular bikini wax. An hour, burning pelvis, and $60 later, she said she started seriously thinking that I might be on to something. Hurray! To win the Campaign, you need to win the hearts and minds of the people. (My tactic: humorous rants that plant subtle seeds of discontent with the status quo.)

Following victory #3 in rapid order is #4. I was watching TV and overheard the following truism uttered: “I got a wax today. Sorta feels like I slid down a sandpaper banister.” The lines were tossed off by Julia Louis-Dreyfus in an ad for her new TV show, which otherwise looks like drek. Still, I count it as a consciousness-raising incident beamed into the living rooms of other Survivor watchers.

Raise your fist, chuck your razor/wax kit/laser hair sessions, and join the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch!

It Could Be Worse, I Suppose

The last two days have sucked the shit out of my asshole.  (I wonder if that is really why I haven’t crapped for two days – there’s nothing left.  I wish bad days would also suck the gas out of my asshole in that case, as I’ve had some uncomfortable gas pockets.)  Seriously, they’ve been stressful and full of unpleasant situations.  I’m exhausted, and I came home today completely worn down.

Just as we were leaving for the gym, Husband reminded me that 11 years ago today, we went on our first date.  I felt awful since I forgot such an important day, so I started bawling.  Husband noted that he didn’t remember until the end of the day, either, so I felt a smidgen better.  After contemplating it for a bit, I actually began to feel much better because it is nice to have such a great person in my life for 11 years.  In fact, it’s damn right cool.

I’m a wee bit optimistic now.  Perhaps tomorrow will be better.  If not, at least the weekend will be upon me, and Husband and I are taking a short road trip to a fondue birthday party for my friend’s 30th birthday.  That sounds just about perfect: Husband, friends, cheese, and a road trip.

Little Miss Muffet

muff 1 /muf/ n. a fur or other covering usu. in the form of a tube with an opening at each end for the hands to be inserted for warmth. (The Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus: American Edition, 1996.)

muff 1. the female genitals. From the name of a hand-warming muff. In the bawdy verse: “Lost, lost and can’t be found: a lady’s thing with all her ‘round” (Farmer and Henley) [slang, 1600s-pres.] (Slang and Euphemism: 2nd Revised Edition, 1991.)

Muff has been around for a long time. It is a shame that people are rendering such a fine mental picture and amusing slang obsolete, but muff makes no fucking sense for a shaved snatch. Even if an alien landing strip remains after the waxing, it still doesn’t fit the definition of a muff. How sad. I mean if you can’t snicker at a pretentious snob named Muffy because muff no longer has a slang meaning, what is left in life for us riff raff?

The Shit Bucket Test, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Doody Bomb, Part II

My first shit bucket was thrown out by the lab, so I was forced to endure another three days of shit collecting.  My windowless bathroom reeked again of untreated sewage after a rain storm, but I bought some incense.  My bathroom then smelled like raw sewage sitting in the sun for days and incense.  At the end of the three day doody collection period, the gallon plastic jug was again ¾ full of shit.  I put it in a grocery bag, and took it back to my doctor’s office directly, as per my instructions.  The nurse made a face when I handed it over to her, and whisked it away to the back.  I was relieved it was over.

Except it was not over.  A few days later, the nurse called me and told me that the doctor’s office gave me the wrong type of shit bucket.  The lab would only run my test if I used a different container.  (Supposedly, and I am not making this up, the plastic bucket had exploded in the past as it was being spun around during the homogenizing process.)

The new bucket was literally a metal gallon paint can.  I had to pry open the lid with the back of a hammer to use it, and then lightly tap it closed.  Since the second shit bucket run, I had moved to a new apartment.  Husband refused to let me put the shit bucket in our new full size refrigerator, so I kept it in the bathroom the entire time.  Fortunately, this bathroom had a window, and we kept it open as much as possible in the December cold.  Thus the shit was subjected to temperature extremes.  When the window was open, I worried that the doody would freeze.  When the shower steamed up the bathroom, I worried that the shit might get too sweaty.  I had collected shit for nine days in three separate tests of willpower.  The sample had to be good because I could not go into double digit shit days.

Finally, it was over.  I hammered the full bucket shut tight, jumped on the subway (I debated labeling the can “Smelly Brown” and wearing coveralls), and dropped it off at the doctor’s office.  The can was whisked away.  It was sent to a lab.  The doody was homogenized and sampled.  The results: I produced more shit than a normal person would have, and had more than double the normal amount of fat in my shit.  I stopped digesting fat for some unknown reason.  

There's a Hole in the Bucket, or The Art of the Shit Bucket Test

Before I launch into Part II of The Shit Bucket Test tomorrow, I should note that the test did not entail merely crapping into the bucket. No, that would be too easy and far less messy than what it really required. Since the official purpose of the test was to measure the amount of shit that a stressed digestive system would generate as well as how much undigested fat was crapped out, the bucket had to be kept free of urine.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I know that when I take a big shit, my bladder almost always lets loose at the same time. Hence, during the shit bucket test, the key to keeping piss out of the bucket (dear Liza, dear Liza) was to place plastic wrap between the toilet seat and the bowl. Then I crapped onto the plastic wrap. (You’d be surprised at how well plastic wrap clings to the sides of a toilet. I wonder why manufacturers of plastic wrap don’t publicize this use. The commercials would be hilarious.) To avoid peeing on the plastic wrap or poop, I tried as best as I could to piss in a plastic 16 ounce cup while shitting on plastic wrap. Challenging, but doable, I assure you. (Maybe a future Olympic sport?)

After I was done with my bowel eruption, I’d lift the toilet seat and very, very, very carefully transfer the doody from plastic sheet into the bucket. The danger, of course, is spilling shit on the floor, or worse, yourself. Doody transfer is a definite skill, let me assure you. I am quite good at it. Perhaps I should add it to my resume.

The Shit Bucket Test, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Doody Bomb, Part I

I went to London in August 2001 and crapped out a shitbrick so big that I broke the toilet (which was mortifying and made worse by the fact that two Eastern European maids were sent to fix it.  As soon as they saw the turd, they laughed uncontrollaby in that no-I-can’t-believe-it-is-that-big-and-I-have-to-deal-with-it nervous kind of way.)   While that sucked for everyone involved, it was only the beginning of The [Digestive] Troubles.

When I began crapping orange grease and yellowish doody the next summer, I went to a GI.  A previous colonoscopy had shown everything to be more or less normal.  I was tested for parasites.  Negative.  I was tested for Crohn’s.  Negative.  It was time for the shit bucket test.

The shit bucket test is seriously the most repulsive medical test ever.  The plan is to get the subject to eat more fat than usual so that she can produce more doody than thought possible for someone under 5’2”.  The prodigal amounts of poo are then collected in a bucket over the course of three days.  Yes – you read that correctly - three days. Meaning: a bucket of shit sits somewhere in your home over three days while you add more.  Three very, very smelly days.  Sure, you can put the shit bucket in the refrigerator to make it smell slightly less foul, but then you have a bucket of shit in your refrigerator!  (It did not help that the first time I was a shit bucket user  - yes, I took this test more than once - I had a fridge that fit under my counter.  There was only room for the shit bucket.  Of course, maybe that is for the best…)  The doody is then delivered to a lab, which mixes the poop together at a high speed to “homogenize” the specimen. A sample is then taken out and the amount of undigested fat in the crap sample is measured.

For test run #1, I kindly waited until Husband was out of town.  (He’s squeamish about shit buckets and the like in the fridge.)  My windowless bathroom smelled like an exploded sewer by the end of the third day, what with all that shit emanating from me.  The bucket was a plastic jug with a screw on lid.  It looked a lot like those supersize mayonnaise containers that people buy at Sam’s Club although no one should ever eat that much mayo under any circumstances.  The gallon jug was about ¾ full at the end of my collection period.  I put it in a plastic bag that said “I ♥ NY,” and walked it over to the nearest Quest Diagnostics lab.  Guess what?  They no longer accepted that type of bucket.  I schlepped it onto the subway (I did wonder what would happen if someone snatched the bag from me – it still makes me laugh and laugh to think about the person face as he discovers what the loot is)  and dropped it off at another lab, only to later discover that they tossed it.  

It's Like Miss America, but Better Because I Can Eat and Don't Have to Shave

Wow! CUSS is a finalist for Best Humor in the Share the Love Blog Awards 2006, hosted by One Woman’s World. Huge thanks to everyone who voted for the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants. I am very excited and proud!

If you can take a few more minutes and vote for CUSS again in the final round, I would appreciate it. The voting happens at Share the Love Blog Awards 2006. Polls close on Monday, February 27.

Let’s go all the way baby!

Hey Lower Leg Fattie! Yeah, I Mean Me!

A few years ago, I went to buy a new pair of boots. I was looking for some kick ass boots that reach slightly below the knee and hopefully had some cool random buckles. Much my unhappiness, I discovered that my calves seemed to be too fucking fat to fit into the shaft of any boots. I mean, any boots. What the fuck? I was shafted! I have some serious body issues in terms of obsessing about being fat, but I have never, ever considered my fucking calves fat! (They are not fat, either. I wondered if my leg hair was causing the problem, but that is totally ridiculous.)

Who the fuck are boots made for, I wondered. I started studying women’s calves. I noticed that some women must never use their legs because they seem to have no muscle attached to their fibias at all. When these skeletons wear high boots, there are big gaping spaces between the leg and the shaft. It seems that boots are made for those deprived of nourishment and exercise. A few months ago, Entertainment Weekly had a small blurb on shoe repair shops that celebs take their boots to have the shaft narrowed. Again, this is a sign that there is something extremely wrong with beauty standards in the US. I can’t fit my fucking normal size leg into a boot, and these women need the same boots narrowed to fit tightly? Unbefuckinglievable.

I finally saw my dream boots at the John Fluevog store. (See left - beautiful, no?) I was nearly crying when I couldn’t zip up the shaft over my calf. The salesman came over to me and said kindly that most women have the same problem, but that the leather will stretch over time and then fit OK. I asked him why, if most women could not zip the boots, did they not cut the shaft a bit wider in the first place? He had no idea. I don’t either. Fuckers, but I bought them anyway.

How 'bout a Pelvic Exam with that Brazilian?

My friend went to the gynecologist recently and was horrified to discover that they began offering “salon services” such as chemical peels, laser hair removal, and acne treatment. The gyne explained that the practice could no longer meet overhead costs because insurance reimbursements were so low and liability insurance premiums were so high. (For a CUSS solution to this complex policy problem, see Suzanne's Simple Solutions to Complex Policy Problems.) My friend was slightly mollified, but still disgusted that women’s health care providers would resort to practices that aren’t exactly good for women’s health. (Yeah, shocking, I know.)

I think that there’s some good synergy going on in offering Brazilian and bikini hair removal at the gynecologist’s office. Sadly, it seems that more women routinely spread it for the removal of their pubes than for a pap smear. Is it really worse to have a laser shot into the ol’ cooch and ass than it is to have a speculum inserted? Offering pap smears with Brazilians would actually be brilliant. The laser wielder already has a good view of the cervix. Just get her to quickly stick a swab up there and presto! – good health care happens! Another interesting benefit of a bikini plucking in a gyne’s office is immediate treatment if something unpleasant is revealed during the waxing. Did the laserist notice crabs? Were genital warts exposed after the pubes were burned off? Again, presto! - health care happens! Amazing, isn’t it?

And hey, what’s another $100 for the lab results when you are already dropping $300 for a Brazilian, right? (That’s the astronomical sum it will cost for one Brazilian laser procedure in my friend’s gyne’s office. Don’t even get me started about how some women are willing to pay that much for crotch hair removal but not basic health care.) Or maybe you can do a buy-a-hair-removal, get-a-pelvic-exam-for-free type of deal. Very symbiotic, I tell ya.

Last Day to Vote

Thanks to Husband and D. for nominating the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) for a Share the Love Blog Award for Best Humor! (This fabulous competition is hosted by the great mind behind One Woman's World.) If you agree with their fine and distinguished taste, please vote for CUSS at It's Time to Cast Your Vote!

Theo in Disguise

Theo In Disguise
(Based entirely on Judy in Disguise by John Fred and His Playboy Band)

Theo in disguise, well that's what you are
Lemonade pie with a brand new car
Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight
Theo in disguise with glasses
Keep a-wearing your bracelets and your new rara
Cross your heart - yeh - with your living bra
Chimney sweep sparrow with guise
Theo in disguise with glasses
Come to me tonight, come to me tonight
Taking everything in sight
Except for the strings on my kite
Theo in disguise, hey that's what you are
Lemonade pies hey got your brand new car
Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight
Theo in disguise with glasses
Come to me tonight, come to me tonight
Taking everything in sight
Except for the strings on my kite
Theo in disguise, well what you aiming for
A circus of horrors, yeah, well that's what you are
You made me a life of ashesI guess I'll just take your glasses

[Incidentally, the glasses say "Instant Party... just add Head!"]

Oh Happy Day

I was super excited and pleased yesterday to buy a new scary bear hat!  I googled the craftspeople who made my prior hat and discovered that they have a stand at a flea market on weekends on the corner of Spring and Wooster in Soho.  When I got there, they only had two left – one in a furry light blue material, and one in a gray nubby fleece.  While I loved my first scary bear hat, I do think this one is a little bit better due to the thick nubby fleece.  Dr. P suggested that I have the Giant Stuffed Penis model it for CUSS since he’s been inactive lately.  I thought that was brilliant, and GSP seemed pleased to be back in action, so to speak.

Yesterday was also great because my second oldest friend, who I met at Hebrew school in Skokie, IL when I was in 6th grade, came to visit me.  I always have such a good time when I see her.  She came in for a crazy Modern Orthodox bat mitzvah in Long Island, but used the opportunity to also see me and Husband in the City.  Sadly, she’s leaving this afternoon because she has a cute baby at home that she misses.  However, I am glad that we had a full 24 hours, and I look forward to seeing her again (and her cute baby and wonderful partner) when I go home in May.  

"Made" into an Automaton

Husband and I woke up early this morning and headed over to the gym to get a jump on the day.  One of the TVs in the gym was set to MTV, which was airing a rerun of Made.  Made is an interesting show in which high school-age teens tell MTV about a personal goal.  MTV hires a coach and sets them up with various experts to help them achieve whatever it is they set out to do.  It’s usually highly entertaining, filled with trials and tribulations, victories and setbacks, blah blah blah.

This morning’s episode was about a girl (Steph) in Arizona who wanted to be Miss Teen Arizona.  Her obstacles were multiple: 1. she had an interesting personality; 2. she was short; 3. she wasn’t “feminine;” 4. she had bad teeth; and 5. she was “curvy.”  Steph had a reputation at her school as a freak because she wore a lot of black and chains, liked “Lord of the Rings,” and was a “band dork.”  In other words, she was totally cool.  Of course, to win Miss Teen Arizona, she had to lose as much of that as possible.

Her Barbie coach did her best to stamp out any traces of individuality in Steph, but fortunately did not succeed entirely.  She did help Steph become more open to “normal” kids and to have a friendlier attitude in general, so that is good.  But of course there were the obligatory makeup, waxing, and fashion sessions that led Steph to look like any vacuous anonymous chick out there.  The saddest part is that the new “fashionable” Steph looks awful parading around in mini skirts and high heels.  If the coach insisted that Steph not wear her goth clothes, could she at least have helped her pick clothes that flatter her figure?  What a fucking awful coach!

The end result was predictably that Steph did not win the pageant (because she looks like me, people! Which is to say she is short, looks like she eats on a regular basis, and has not had cosmetic dental work!), but was happy because she felt people could now see that she was beautiful and feminine.  GAG.  PUKE.  VOMIT.  At least she was not a total automaton at the end and still valued the quirky aspects of her personality.

Cruising into a Potential Nightmare

In slightly less than one month, I will be leaving on a cruise to the Caribbean. This came to be because my in-laws are celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary, and decided that they could take the “kids” (their two sons and their significant others) on a cruise or they could throw themselves a big party. They opted for the cruise. We’ll be leaving NYC on Feb. 16 for a 10 day journey.

At first, I was pretty psyched, I gotta admit. Then I started to think about all the things that scare me about cruises, and now I am not so thrilled about this truly generous gift. The main problem is that cruise ships never register under any country that has laws that actually protect people. I have a psychotic fear that I will kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery. It certainly has happened [to others] before, and the people in charge of cruises are usually in on it. My friend told me about some 17 girl who was snatched off a ship while she was with her parents and brother! Basically, a private investigator hired by Dr. Phil (usually someone I detest) has been tracking sightings of this poor girl in brothels all over the Caribbean.

OK, I acknowledge that there are some big differences between me and the typical kidnapping victim. I’m not even close to 17 year old any more, I do not have long blond hair and blue eyes, I’m not 5’7” or taller, or and I am not by any stretch of the imagination lithe. I’m a 30 year old hag who is under 5’2” with dark short hair and brown eyes with massive dark circles under them, and I look 5 months pregnant at any given time. Not exactly kidnapping material, I grant that. I considered painting wrinkles on my face and walking around in a tiny bikini with my gut and hairy cooch hanging out, but then I worried that there are fetish brothels that would want old, fat, and hairy Jewish women. So that doesn’t seem like a solution, either. Sigh.

No Pussy for Me, Thanks

On January 25, 2006 – less than a mere month ago – I made a minor mistake. I wrote that if there is one word I hate, it is panties. While it is true that the word panties creeps me out, last night I remembered that I hate the word pussy much, much more than panties.

Slang and Euphemism, 2nd Revised Edition defines “pussy” as: 1. the female genitals. [slang and colloquial, 1800s – pres.] 2. an effeminate male. For synonyms see FRIBBLE. [US slang, early 1900s – pres.] 3. women considered sexually. For synonyms see TAIL [US slang, mid-1900s – pres.] 4. copulation. [US slang, mid-1900s]

The dictionary goes on to list other pussy-related terms, including pussy-bumping (lesbianism), pussy butterfly (IUD), pussyfart ( also cunt-fart), and pussy posse (vice squad), none of which make me like the word any better. (I only include these things because I find them funny, especially pussyfart. (I also wonder why pussy fart is not hyphenated, but cunt-fart is, according to the slang dictionary. Just curious.)

Pussy initially sounds friendly and pleasant. Everyone loves kitties – they are soft and cuddly, and unlike beavers, don’t tend to chop things up with their teeth, although they will claw the fuck out of stuff sometimes (which some people find hot). On the other hand, the word pussy always seemed too close to the word pus (as in thick yellowish oozing, dripping wounds) to be sexy. It is certainly true that vaginas can get extremely oozy and drippy. Every month at ovulation, the mucus plug in the cervix that blocks sperm and germs from entering the uterus discharges itself. Ovulation-calendar.com describes it as thus: “At ovulation, the quantity of mucus will increase greatly and the appearance will resemble ‘egg whites,’ often semitransparent. The texture will become increasingly slippery and 'stretchable'.” It’s a soupy moistness that hangs around for a few days and messes up underwear. (A good reason to choose cotton undies – cotton is more absorbent than nylon, silk, spandex, or heaven forbid, going commando.)

Ovulation isn’t the only time it gets goopy down there. Anyone who’s ever had sex without a condom or who has used spermicide knows that all sorts of fluids will be seeping out over the course of the next 36 hours or so. The feeling of old jizz making an appearance on your upper thighs is one of the many delights I try to avoid. All this soppiness is not just gross, but can lead to a truly nasty urinary tract infection if not properly managed. (Again, cotton underwear helps!)

Anyway, the point is that the word pussy completely makes me think about all these things and grosses me out. As a result, I really hate the word pussy.
[republished at 12:25 pm with minor technical edits]

Mmmmmm....

Good news: I ate one of the avocados that my co-worker gave me, and it was probably the most delicious avocado I have ever had!  Man, I love avocados!  The only problem with avocados is that they, like most yummy foods, are loaded with fat.  I try to console myself by noting that at least it is the healthy kind of fat, but you know what?  I couldn’t really button my pants yesterday morning (had to lie down on the bed to get it closed), and my ginormous gut doesn’t give a shit if the fat is healthy or not.  Still, I love avocados and this one was amazing!

Thanks co-worker and co-worker’s mom for such a great treat! (And thanks to the California Avocado Commission for the picture of the said fruit and the fun fact that avocados were used as aphrodisiacs by the Aztecs.)

Mind-Boggling!

I cannot believe that I forgot to mention the craziest room I saw at the Masonic Hall on Monday! I chalk this oversight up to my increasing age and senility, but there really is no excuse. Hands down, the strangest room at the Masonic Hall is the Grand Lodge Room. My tour guide, who was approximately 150 years old by my estimate, told me that the Grand Lodge Room is an exact replica of the ballroom on The Titanic, and was built to in memorial to “all the victims who drowned.” (I noticed that the brochure about the Masonic Hall does not mention this, though, so I am a bit suspicious.) He insisted that if I dance with him, it would be just like dancing on The Titanic (except without the death and destruction and all that, of course). The Masons have a picture of it on their website, which I downloaded, so you be the judge: Titanic ballroom or not Titanic ballroom:

I never thought I would say this, but damn I love Mondays!

The Chicago Way: Vote Early, and Vote Often!

Thanks to Husband and D. for nominating the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) for a Share the Love Blog Award for Best Humor! (This fabulous competition is hosted by the great mind behind One Woman's World.) If you agree with their fine and distinguished taste, please vote for CUSS at It's Time to Cast Your Vote!

Thanks!
[republished 2/17/06 at 12:29 pm with revised link to voting]

Goodness Gracious!

I clipped this letter to the editor from USA Today (Feb. 8, 2006):

Christians also ‘attacked’

I am outraged that the U.S. government would dare to decry the so-called attack against Muslims represented by the cartoon caricatures of the prophet Mohammed.

For years, Christians in the USA and our Lord Jesus Christ have been attacked in movies and television programming.

Barbara Wilson
Baltimore

Good point - if any religious group is oppressed in the US, it is clearly Christians! Thanks for the insight.

Thank Goodness I Am Not a Boy!

Since today is my sister’s birthday, I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to have a brother. That led to reflection on what life would be like if I were a boy instead of a girl.

While I truly believe that men have much easier lives than women, I am very glad that I am not male. First, I do not think I would like dragging around a penis and balls. They seem very clumsy hanging off a crotch. Not that it is easy carting around boobs (especially before I had my surgery, when they were 36DD+), but it seems like a good bra mostly takes care of the issue, and it is simple to strap the girls down onto your chest. Plus it is unfortunate if you get whacked in the titties, but much, much, much more painful to get your dick clobbered.

Also, if I were a guy, I’d probably have much less to bitch about. No period, no complaints there. No pressure to have kids and stay at home. Much less discrimination, particularly when it comes to how you look. Clothes and shoes are all practical for the most part. No need to wear make up. No or little worry about sexual assault. For all these reasons, I would definitely rather have a son than a daughter if I became insane and had kids. It is fucking hard to be a girl. OK, I understand that boys get pressured to be good at sports and ask girls out and shit like that, but being male overall seems to be a better deal. Hence less complaining, and so I am glad to be female.

Finally, if I had been a boy, I would have had the most retarded name ever, thus ensuring that I’d be mocked mercilessly from the start. (Yes, I was mocked as a girl, but only after I proved to be a dork with hairy arms in 3rd grade. As a boy, I believe it would’ve begun before anyone even met me.) My parents would have named me Steven Ira. Seriously, how fucking awful is that?!?!?! My sister would have also been poorly named: David Howard. As girls, we got good first names (Suzanne and Dana), Dana wound up with a decent middle name (Heather), and I got a stupid middle name (Ilana – that is ill-ANNA, thank you very much) which sounds like major white trash with Suzanne and if pronounced like ILL-ahna is at least a little better.

Yes, it is much, much better to be a girl, at least in the name department.

Happy Birthday, Dana!

Today is my sister's 26th birthday! The last few months have been on the unkind side (her mother-in-law died and then her cat got really sick), so I hope that this year is the best she's ever had. She deserves it - she's an awesome sister and a very caring person in general. Since I can't be there to celebrate with her (she lives next door to the middle of nowhere), I'm giving her this blog shout out and picture of the birthday "treat" that I received in the Dominicam Republic on my birthday:

I also sent her a CD and some chocolate that I bought her in London. Here's hoping for a great day with yummy cake to a great sister! (If anyone wants to leave her birthday greetings in the comments, I'll make sure that she gets them.)

See? I Can Be Cheerful, I Swear!

The truth is that I don’t hate Valentine’s Day nearly as much as I pretendto.  Mostly I hate it as much as I hate any contrived “holiday” designed toforce people to spend money on dumb gifts or feel guilty.  I also hate itthe commercial emphasis on needing to be with that special someone on VD often causes lonely people feel worse about their situations.

You know what else I hate?  I hate fucking idiot twats who don’t understand how the world works, and that there are many types of people in it, not just the super rich and the super poor.  I also hate bitches who wear stiletto heels after a blizzard and then seem surprised when they slip in 8 inches of slush.  Finally, I hate ads that start out promising by having a giant headline that says, “You’ve got better things to do than spend time shaving!” and then conclude by noting that you should spend $750-$1,000 on laser hair removal when the obvious conclusion to that statement is, “So tell the world to fuck off and don’t do it!”

(OK, I am pleased that my co-worker gave me fresh avocados that her mom sent her from her tree in California and that I got an awesome card from Husband in which he noted that he appreciates my oddity, so all in all I am actually in a good mood.)  

My Favorite Giants

This picture is amazing because it has my three favorite giants in the world:
1. Tycho, my giant pet rabbit
2. Steph, my giant best friend (about 6 feet tall)
3. Giant Stuffed Penis, self-explanatory




My friend sent me this picture of a super ginormous rabbit (named Herman, just like my dad!) featured on BBC last week. It is hands down is my favorite picture of a ridiculous giant rabbit. It is so monstrous it makes Tycho look like a pipsqueak! I can only imagine the giant turds that this beast produces. It must use a bathtub for its litterbox.

Beware!

Today is one of my least favorite "holidays," Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day (aka VD) is a highly transferable disease that leads people to lose their heads, spend crazy amounts of money on cards, chocolates, and dinner. All these crazy notions about love conquering all and other shit then causes folks forget to use protection when they consummate the deal later, leading to the spread of VD (aka venereal disease) and unplanned pregnancy. Bah.

Seriously, be careful out there. VD is like Dick Cheney on a hunting trip: you never know when it can shoot you in the face.

Ain’t I romantic?

Monday with the Masons

Mondays are my days off from my do-gooder job to investigate the weird, ugly, small, large, and mysterious places that are overlooked in New York City.   This morning, I set out with a purpose: I would learn the ancient secrets of the Masons!  Might my mission be accomplished with a visit to the Masonic Hall and the Chancellor Robert R Livingston Masonic Library and Museum of Grand Lodge?

As I trudged through the slushy streets of Manhattan, I worried a bit that my outing could not possibly live up to my expectations.  However, as soon as I was in the Masonic Hall with its elaborately decorated lobby, I knew I would not be disappointed.  Even better, as I stepped on the elevator to the library, I noticed that there are free tours of the building daily!  Oh, yes!  This trip was shaping up quite nicely.

The library and museum has a delightful collection of fucking weird artifacts, beginning in the hallway.  I immediately gravitated to the display case with ginormous scary swords.  I learned that in Masonry, swords are symbols of intellect, “cutting through veils of superstition and rumor with the fine edge of reason.”  Well, the Masons certainly know a lot about rumor and superstition, I smugly thought.  I was sad to note, though, that swords are generally not used in the “Standard Work” of the Grand Lodge of New York State, although a Mason known as the Tiler (who guards the Lodge door) does carry one as a symbol of his title.  And probably to scare the shit out of anyone who tries to sneak in and steal their ritual secrets!

The hallway also displayed other random crap, such as pitchers, carved walking sticks, pipes, and a mirror, all from the 1800-1900s and decorated with Mason symbols.  Most notable were two wooden cases, one containing a gavel with a handwritten note explaining that the gavel stone was made from Solomon’s quarry in Jerusalem and that the handle is “shithin wood from the wilderness of Judea.”  The other box had held a pouch and two bottles, as well as a handwritten note from the US Consul in Jerusalem, Palestine dated Jan. 19, 1887.  The note certified that “the wine and oil… were made in Jerusalem, that the wheat was raised here, and that the leather bottles as are such [illegible] here, and were made in this country.  The wine is known as Jerusalem wine, and is seven years old.”  Later, I learned that Masons organize themselves around principles of character and morality using the framework of the legend of the construction of Solomon’s Temple.  Interesting.

I went inside the library, and was cheerfully greeted by the library director.  He showed me around and explained some other objects to me.  He repeatedly explained that the Masons have no secrets, except of course, the process of making a man a Mason through the conferral of degrees.  He assured me that they were not a cult or Satanic, not that I thought they were.  The little museum and library is chock to the brim full everything from “bric a brac” (library director’s words) like ashtrays and figurines and surreal paintings called “tracing boards” that are used to help teach conferees about the Mason symbols, to “jewels” (badges worn by Masons to signify their titles) to stained glass windows from a former Lodge that closed and signed pictures of famous Masons, like Buzz Aldrin.  (“He’s the first Mason to walk on the moon,” the director cheerfully noted.)  Taking a close look at everything took the better part of two hours, and while I was highly entertained and learned a lot, I did not learn the secrets of the Masons at the library and museum.

Still I had some hope.  A quick trip up to the executive offices of the Grand Lodge revealed to sphinx statues guarding the entry way.  Several display cases indicated which leaders throughout American history have been Masons (example: George Washington and Ben Franklin were Masons) and who were not Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee, although their fathers were). In addition, there was a photo gallery of recipients of the Grand Lodge Award of Distinction.  I was fascinated tot see that Michael A. Richards (aka Kramer on Seinfeld), the inventor of the cartoon dog Marmaduke, Redd Skeleton, John Glenn, Gen. William Bratton, and Gen. Douglas MacArthur shared the award over the years.

Finally, it was time for the tour.  A gentleman approximately 150 years of age inserted his hearing aid and took me through several of the Lodge rooms at Masonic Hall.  As we visited the elaborately decorated and mysterious rooms, he explained to me multiple times that it was OK to touch things and I should ask him any questions, as they had no secrets and were not a cult.  Contrary to what I learned in the library, my friendly tour guide also told me in his thick Eastern European accent that he had been a Mason for over 35 years, and was lucky to be in the US because the Masons here believe in equality.  That’s why we are lucky that Masons wrote the Constitution, he concluded.

Each room had a platform at one end with a niche displaying the Masonic “G” behind a giant chair, an alter of some sort in the middle of the room, benches on each side, an organ at the other end, and to the right of the organ, framing the door, were two tall columns with globes on top.  Lodges are independently run and each one has its own theme.  I visited: the Colonial Room (notable for having chairs instead of benches and silver chandeliers); the French Ionic Room (notable for its portraits of George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette, as well as French coats of arms painted on the walls); the Empire Room (with gold leaf walls); the Gothic Room (modeled after the Saint-Chapelle in Paris with stained glass windows); and the Chapter Room (done in an ancient Egyptian motif and the only room with curtains that divide the room into sections for the “Royal Arch Degrees”).  I had to leave before I could enter every Lodge, but it is definitely worth a trip back!  Perhaps the Masons’ secrets will be revealed to me on my next journey.

Bill Cosby Never Hawked Frozen Treats Like This

At dinner on Saturday night, Husband, Dr. P, SM, and I were speculating about the various odd people who have fallen out of our lives.  Husband brought up two of our crazy friends who lived in a suite with a third woman.  Husband was friends with one person, and Dr. P was friends with the other person who lived in the suite.  Both women hated each other, but they were able to agree on one thing: their third roommate was completely disgusting.  

At some point, the third girl decided to make jizzcicles.  She bought a plastic popsicle mold with slots for six, and then systematically had six different guys fill a popsicle slot with his jizz.  She put a stick in each one.  She kept this in the freezer.  No one knew why.  No one used the freezer after that, either.

Positive Associations

Meeting the Gynas in person last week was great not only because I got to meet the Gynas in person, but also because I learned something important: Gynas is with a soft “g,” like gyroscope, not a hard “g” like gynecologist as I had thought. While I loved The Gynas as a band name when I mispronounced it, I admit that it is even better when it is like (va)Gynas. (Seriously, I should have known better!) Ha ha ha! Funny, funny stuff….

Anyway, saying gyna over and over again reminds me of my favorite Chicago improve show/musical – Co-ed Prison Sluts. (My mental connection: one of the characters refers to a woman as a vag – soft g.) It is the funniest show ever. Shit, I must have seen it 20 times while I was in high school and college. I only like musicals when they are extremely fucked up, and Co-ed Prison Sluts more than satisfied. Sadly, it is no longer playing for a variety of reasons, but I always have hope that it will gloriously reopen so I can revel in the filth one more time.

The best character was Slick the Child Molester. Yes, I know that is wrong. Probably, in fact, Slick is as hilarious as he is because it is so fucking wrong. (The Aristocrats operates on the same principle – you laugh harder because you are so fucking disgusted at yourself for laughing in the first place.) Slick’s song about molesting children features a section with scat. Scat! I am not kidding. Pure comedic genius.

Other great characters are Dame, the crazy actress who castrated her co-stars in various Shakespeare productions; “Hamster Man,” a guy with hamsters and some mysterious patriotic background; and Skeeter the kid who was supposed to be sent to juvy hall after his mom turned him in as a peeping tom when she found him in the bushes spying on teenagers making out. (Paperwork got screwed up, though, and he wound up in adult prison). Skeeter has a great song about how reading in prison can take your mind off getting “bonered up the ass” as well as other joys. Plus, there is Henry the Serial Killer and his showstopper about killing people (and eating them too). In the end, they band together to kill the Evil Clown.

Fuck, I miss this show.

You are Not Having an Acid Flashback

When people come to visit us, one of the first things they notice is the large dog cage behind our couch. “Oh, do you have a dog?” we are frequently asked. That’s when Tycho Bunnae hops into view, and people are like, “What the fuck is that?” Tycho, for those of you who have not had the pleasure of meeting him, is our giant white rabbit. By giant rabbit, I mean that he is almost 13 lbs. He’s just about the average size for his breed (New Zealand White).

Husband and I bought our apartment about three years ago. We wanted to get a cat, but Husband and I are both allergic to kitties. I wouldn’t mind a dog, like a cute Corgi. I love those little critters, but Husband hates dogs and said I would come home and find it stuffed if I got one. (Husband says if he were mayor, he’d ban dogs and little children from Manhattan because they are too messy. He’s also contemplated what would happen if he fed poisoned Kibble to dogs that are not on leashes in areas they are legally required to be...) Plus, we are not really home enough to be fair to a dog, so I wouldn’t get one anyway.

Still, I wanted a furry pet. I did some research and learned that it is possible to litter box train rabbits, and presented the idea to Husband. He said no, but then I told him that rabbits kill bugs in the wild and we wouldn’t have to worry about the typical NYC "bug" problem if we got a bunny. In addition, I told him he could name the rabbit. He then agreed, although it scares me a bit that he believed that crap about bugs, as I totally made it up. (Later I learned that bugs are averse to the smell of litter, so getting Tycho probably did help.)

Husband has always insisted that he would name his son Tycho Brahe (alt. spelling: Brahae) after the infamous Czech astronomer. Mr. Brahe’s measurements of the stars are so accurate that they hold up to this day. That is because Brahe beat his assistants senseless if they came up with different findings, so they were fairly rigorous in their scientific methodology. Brahe also was a man about the town, and he lost the tip of his nose one night in a sword fight. He had a gold tip made to replace it. Of course, Tycho Brahe may best be known for how he died. Brahe attended a feast hosted by the King of Prussia. At the time, it was not acceptable to leave the table until the King was finished. Unfortunately, this particular king was a fat motherfucker who liked to eat for hours on end, and poor Brahe had to piss. He had to piss really badly. In fact, he had to piss so badly that his bladder eventually exploded, killing him. He is buried in Prague, where he is memorialized in a local saying, which basically says that you should go to the bathroom when you get the urge because you don’t want to end up like Tycho Brahe.

Sadly, Tycho Bunnae has learned this lesson too well, as he likes to pretend that he does not know how to use his litter box and poop on the floor. For this reason (and worse, his love of peeing on the floor in select places), he no longer can roam the apartment freely, but must stay in his little penned in area, where he can make a mess on the gross rug and while it is annoying to clean all the time, it’s not destructive. Anyway, Tycho is not a hallucination. He loves raisins, bananas, and anything sweet (all very bad for him, of course) and being pet. Thus, he is a nice addition to our household, which concludes my completely random story about my ginormous pet rabbit.

Scramento-Chicago Suburbs Memory Lane

My hotel room in Sacramento faces an expressway. (Maybe 80? Not sure, but it is very busy at all times of the day and night.) As I was drifting off to sleep last night, listening to the sounds of traffic at 11:30 pm, it reminded me of my beloved Jewish white trash childhood home.

When my mom was pregnant with me, my parents went house hunting. They wanted to live in a great school district, but limited family resources did not exactly leave them with a lot of options. Eventually, they found a suitable 3 bedroom bi-level in a nice suburb of Chicago. The catch was that it faced the Edens Expressway, which is quite the busy road. So as I was growing up, I was used to having the background noise of traffic. All the noise meant that if you wanted to watch TV in the living room, you either had to sit inches in front of it or blast the volume. If the volume was blasting, the noise carried up to the bedrooms and people couldn’t sleep. Oy vey! When I slept over at friends’ houses, it was hard for me to fall asleep because it was usually too quiet.

Anyway, thinking about all that reminded me that I have a great picture from my 30th birthday celebration at my parents house in Dec. Our Jewish white trashiness is out in full force. My mom was extremely proud of the decorations she put out – a plastic tablecloth sprinkled with confetti in the shape of “30s” and insisted on taking a picture of it. The photo nicely captures our light blue walls, dark brown carpeting, and off center chandelier as well as my mom’s favorite sweat pants. I’m not pointing all this out in disgust or in a denigrating way. I am proud of my roots! I just think they are funny.

Have a Nice Flight

I thought that I hated nothing more than shitting in public bathrooms.  I was wrong.  I hate having diarrhea in public bathrooms much more than I hate taking a regular ol’ dump in public.  I’m not taking about some loose stool, either.  No, I mean when you sit down and wonder how you are pissing out your ass and then realize that it is not piss emanating in a stream from your body.  That is pretty much the worst kind of shit you can be forced to take in public, although at least there is no grunting involved.

Actually, I guess I would have hated piss-shitting my pants at the airport even more than I did in the bathroom, so I am lucky that things worked out as they did.  I knew that I had been eating poorly during my trip out here and that I would pay for it, I just figured my digestive tract would wait until I arrived home before it wreaked its smelly vengeance on me.  While I was riding BART to the airport, the rumblings began.  “No, please, not now,” I patted my stomach and begged.  It listened for a little bit, but as soon as I arrived at the airport I had to make a beeline for the can.  Not good.  After Mt. Vesuvius finished erupting, I used about a roll of toilet paper to clean my sad ass, gathering up my belongings, washed my hands, and went to check in.  I still felt a bit fragile, though, and hoped I’d make it through security before any other troubles exploded.

Fortunately, I was able to get through the metal detector without it noticing the lethal payload in my gut.  A quick walk to the bathroom later, the mini bombs were dropped over the target bowl.  I thought I should hang around a bit and make sure that business was truly done.  Despite the unpleasant circumstances, it felt nice to sit down.  Shitting up a storm can really make you tired, I tell you.

A woman with the ugliest shoes I’d ever seen (pink and lime green - like a psychedelic watermelon - with a little belt buckle and zippers on the side and slightly curled up toes entered the stall next to me.  I decided it was time to move on.  I cleaned up, washed up, spoke to Husband on the phone for a few, and bought some Gatorade.

Hopefully, the flight will not be turbulent…

Yeah, Right

Does anyone believe that the Bush administration “foiled” a terrorist plot on the tallest building in LA?  I don’t believe a word of it.  Bushies couldn’t figure out how to “foil” leftovers before putting them in the fridge, resulting in some stinking bad policies.  No one could be more adept at incompetence.  Fuckers.

Yes, Virgina, There Is a Santa Claus

Every time I give up on people and contemplate moving into a cave (despite my dislike of damp cold), something great happens to remind me that there still are really cool people out there. I just had dinner with GynaGirl and Count Mockula.

As Gonzo (?) said in the Muppet Movie, “There’s not a word yet for old friends who just met.” I don’t think I could sum things up any better!

Blow Me!

When I arrived in California on Saturday, I was just getting over a cold. However, my head is still full of nasal spunk. It is driving me crazy. I figure if I have to blow something, someone should at least get pleasure from it. (Bah dum cha.)

Actually, I can’t imagine that my sinus cavities are large enough to hold this much nose jizz. I suspect that my brain is actually shrinking to make more room for mucus. It is the only way I can possibly have so much snot in my fairly small sized head.

That Shit is Funny!

The Scene: Room at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco

Husband: It smells like gas in here.
Me (reaching into backpack): That’s because I farted. I have a bad stomach ache, but I need to select a magazine before I go into the bathroom. I wouldn’t want to have streamers of diarrhea shooting out of me without some entertainment.
Husband: That’s disgusting.
Me: Mwa ha ha ha!

For the record, I selected Entertainment Weekly and found it did the job well.

Later, same room, Husband reading in bed with me stretched out next to him typing on laptop:

Husband: What are you writing about?
Me: Streamers of diarrhea. Ha ha ha ha!
Husband: Get off the bed!

Generally, I find doody stories to be hilarious. I like making doody jokes*, even when they are not really “jokes” per se, but more like disgusting comments about feces. A few days ago, however, I was reading a real-life doody story on The Life and Times of a Twenty-Something. (Yeah, those days are long gone for my aged ass. Sigh...) Long story short, my blog friend David seemed taken aback and slightly disgusted (although also amused) when some random chick graphically described to him her need to crap immediately. (Seems that she spent so long talking about crapping instead of getting up and going to the bathroom that she literally shit herself.) This made me wonder whether my ongoing fascination with bathroom humor is either pathetic, horribly crude, or both. Not that it stops me from continuing to find doody jokes to be gut busting (hee hee), but it does make me wonder a bit.

*Incidentally, the best doody joke in the history of doody jokes was told my George Carlin in The Aristocrats. I was laughing so hard that I nearly inhaled the Skittle I was eating and began choking.

Sacramento, City of Excitement!

This afternoon, I headed over to Sacramento with three colleagues.  On the way, we had a rousing discussion about the evilness of thongs.  When someone started tailgating us, my colleague noted that he was “like a thong – riding up my ass!”

Before we checked into our hotel, we took a quick detour to the Sierra Valley Sacramento Medical History Museum.  It was a charming little museum with lots of interesting medical tools (including a jar of live leeches supplied by Leeches USA and a jar of live maggots!) and old medical furniture.  It also had an underlying smell of formaldehyde.  I think the smell made us light headed because under normal circumstances, I would never touch important historical artifacts and I am fairly sure that my friend would not encourage me to jump on an ancient gynecological exam table to pose for a picture…  (She’ll email a copy when the film is developed.)

Anyway, an hour later, we were all hard at work again.  Eventually we headed out to dinner to a restaurant on a barge called The Virgin Sturgeon.  The front of the menu recounts “The Saga of the Virgin Sturgeon.”  It seems that the first Virgin Sturgeon barge was very popular with Gov. Jerry Brown and his crew in the late ‘70s, but sank in the early ‘80s.  The second Virgin Sturgeon barge caught fire and burned to the bank.  We had the pleasure of dining at the third Virgin Sturgeon.  A group of young people celebrated the third Virgin by getting very drunk on the deck outside until one enraged guy started swinging a chair at another and nearly fell down the stairs.  Eventually the group broke up and we finished our tasty (and cheap) meal.

When we got to our car, there was a group of three people standing around the pickup truck parked next to us.  “Any of you know the guy sleeping in the back of my truck?” a burly man asked us as he smoked.  It was none other than our chair swinger.  We suggested he call the cops.  The other onlookers suggested that he try talking to Bob the Manager inside.  They got in their car, we got in ours, and the guy headed inside to deal with the situation, mumbling how lucky it was that he noticed the sleeping idiot before he drove away.  (Plot of Murderball, anyone?)  As we pulled out, drunk guy woke up and looked very, very confused.  We laughed and laughed.

So a good day in all.  I am most excited because I will be meeting up with the delightful GynaGirl and Count Mockula tomorrow (Thursday) for a night of tame troublemaking.  Hurray Sacramento!

Like a Virgin, Part IV - It All Comes to a Head

Off to college I went. I met people. I horrified my roommates who couldn’t believe that I had engaged in oral sex and yet not had vaginal intercourse. I met more people. I went home for winter break and was still a virgin. Again, not for lack of trying - either my flirting skills were in serious need of work or I was just barking up the wrong trees, although it was probably a combination of both. I was a fatty in a sea of hot NYU undergrads. Not too many guys are on the prowl for fat poon if they can get it elsewhere. I think one anti-choice student would have had sex with me, but I had a very strict policy against fucking anyone who would try and force me to have a baby in the event of a contraception failure. Plus he was a gross sycophant who also would’ve fucked any willing woman. (Refer to My Worst Date Ever if you want a hint as to who this is.) I still wasn’t that desperate.

Magic happened upon my return. I was minding my own business at a political club meeting one day when someone said something extremely witty. I looked up. There he was – a cute redhead. Why had I not noticed him before? It was so obvious. He was incredibly smart, super funny, and had that sweet dorkiness to him that I always fall for. I set my sights on dating him and making him the first person I slept with.

The funny thing about this plan was how well it worked. On one hand, you’d never think it would. He was a business student who dreamed of immense wealth. I was a socialist democrat who wore Doc Martens with a hammer and sickle insignia on each and couldn’t wait to redistribute wealth from people like him. Yet we were extremely well suited for each other. (TMI – Too Much Information - Warning for the Following Sentence) Within three weeks of dating, we were fucking like mad. It was fun. I didn’t worry about him mocking my fat ass to his friends in the locker room. (He never went into locker rooms.) I graduated and we moved in together. Three years after that, we got married.

And that’s why the plan worked too well: I married the only guy I’d slept with. What kind of crap ass liberal has sex with only one person in her entire life?!? Here’s the cheesy part: I wouldn’t have it any other way. As my friend recently said, I’m a one man cunt.

And thus ends the virgin saga.

Like a Virgin, Part III - Desperation Hits

Junior year passed by in a blur.  I dated two guys (not at the same time!), but they were even more naïve than I was, sweetly dorky (just how I like ‘em), and oddly enough, less inclined to have sex than I was.  I was fine with that.  I was still in a shitty mood for most of the year anyway from my prior heartbreak, and I really didn’t need any other problems.

Something happened in my senior year.  All of my reservations were cast aside, and years of repression came spilling out.  It was like, “somebody – anyone! – do me now!  Please?!?”  Unfortunately, I was also chubby, zitty, and wore no makeup.  In addition, being very moody, angry white trash Jewish girl in a school full of wispy WASP beauties didn’t help the situation.  I was mistakenly under the impression that teenage boys (or any guy, really) would take it wherever they could get it, but no one seemed to want to dance the horizontal tango with me.  Maybe I was no good at advertising my desperation.  Maybe guys in my community just didn’t fuck fat.  Maybe my slightly deserved unstable reputation scared guys away.  At any rate, not one was biting.  (OK, this is not entirely true, but it wasn’t until many years later when I looked back on the situation with a wise old eye that I realized there were some poor saps too polite/shy to act on their desire.)

Like a Virgin, Part II - The Angry Feminist Awakening

By my sophomore year in high school, I mellowed a bit.  I decided that I shouldn’t be so judgmental, and that if other people wanted to have premarital sex, it wasn’t my business, as long as they were safe about it.  I had my first boyfriend at that point, and he, like many teenage boys, was desperate to finally get laid.  He explained that it would be terrible to be a virgin when he went to college.  I said nope.  (Thinking back on it, I have no idea why he thought that would be a persuasive argument to use.  What did I care if people in college made fun of him because he didn’t have sex before the ripe old age of 16?  I mean, I loved him and all, but it was a pretty pathetic appeal.)  He tried the love angle (“It’s OK to have sex as long as you love someone, and we’re in love, so we should have sex”), but I held my convictions and legs together firmly.  Sure, I had no problem blowing him (my idea, thank you), but I was not going to fuck anyone until my wedding night.

Eventually he dumped my semi-chaste ass, and I became a militant feminist partially as a result (although I was heading in that direction anyway).  The funny thing about becoming a militant feminist is that it had the exact opposite effect on my thinking about sex than one might expect.  You’d (especially if you were Rush Limbaugh) think that someone who hated sexism would swear off sex with guys forever and “become” a lesbian.  Yet once I knew how marriage enslaved women and historically made them the property of their husbands (as opposed to their fathers), I knew that I’d never get married.  This created a dilemma: did I really plan to never have sex with a guy?  Hells no!  Even though I hated men, I was still attracted to them.  Thus extramarital sex was OK, and clearly necessary in life.  But not just yet.  I was only 16 years old, and still not ready, although I did start a rocking condom collection for fun.

Like a Virgin, Part I - The Family Influence

As I noted in Things Are Not Always As They Seem, I was very conservative in my attitude towards sex back when I was a young lass. I wasn’t conservative about anything else, mind you: I ranted and raved about any restrictions on the right to an abortion; seethed over classicism, racism, and sexism; and fervently opposed school prayer or any other government endorsements of religion. Yet I was 100% against pre-marital sex. Not just for me, either. I truly believed that nobody should indulge in extramarital relations because it was wrong. A very odd sentiment indeed considering that I pretty much hated religion as an oppressor of the people. Despite my mom's salacious t-shirt statement, I’m sure that I absorbed this message from the family matriarchs, although I can only pinpoint specific statements that were made when I was in college or older. For example, when I went to NYU, my mother was shocked – shocked!! – to discover that men and women lived on the same floor and that members of the opposite sex were permitted to stay overnight in one another’s rooms.

More horrifying, I’d stay with my boyfriend in his dorm room over the weekend. My mother kept saying that it was very nice of his roommate, who went home every weekend, to let me use his bed while he was gone. I repeatedly told her that I did not sleep in his roommate’s bed, but she refused to believe me. When my boyfriend had a single room, my mom was convinced that I slept on the floor on a little fold out mat. (I actually did eventually begin sleeping on the floor on a mat, but only because we were too fat to comfortably sleep in a twin bed.)

After graduation when I moved in with my boyfriend, my grandmother told anyone who would listen that her girls were virgins when they got married. Not to be outdone, my bubbe referred to me as a whore when I danced “inappropriately” at an anniversary party. So you can see how an impressionable young mind would think that sex outside of marriage was just plain wrong, even if I can’t remember ever being told so directly. It was a very sad state of affairs.

The Tip Didn't Come in Cash...

I went out for dinner tonight with Husband and a friend from New York who happens to be in SF right now.  At some point during the delightful evening, I excused myself to use the bathroom, where I learned an important lesson: when the little sign on the bathroom door says you must push the button on the handle in to lock the door, it means it.  Sadly, I didn’t notice the sign and only turned the button.  As I was in my usual squatting position peeing, my waiter opened the door.

“Aaaarrrgggghhh!”  I yelled in surprise.  What I should have done next was remain in squat as he shut the door quickly.  Unfortunately, what I did was move toward the door in a blind panic, half hunched over, probably giving him a nice view of the ol’ beaver.  Ooops.

A Husband's Wisdom

"He's like a dingleberry - you gotta cut that shit loose."

-Husband, giving relationship advice to a friend

Report from the Left Coast

Greetings from San Francisco! So far I have had a lovely weekend out here. Husband had me upgraded to business class for the flight out, so that was good, although the service was not as attentive as it was on my way to London. I’m not complaining, just observing. I had a delicious (seriously) salad with marinated chicken breast, goat cheese, and strawberries for lunch. For dessert, they ran out of the cheese and fruit plate (fuckers!), so I had the same chocolate ice cream with blackberry sauce and “white chocolate crème brulee squares” that taste exactly like cheesecake. The movie was Walk the Line, which I realized is probably not best seen censored on a plane. Oh well. The performances were good.

We arrived, checked into the Palace Hotel (yes, Husband is traveling for business!), and then hopped on BART to get to the Pirate Store. It was OK, but slightly disappointing because it was super tiny. They sell glass eyes starting at $9, so it was still pretty cool. I was hoping that Husband bought one for me for Valentine’s Day, but I don’t think he snuck in a purchase before we left.

The rest of the weekend was spent hanging out with friends and in my case, working a bit, which sucked but at least it was with good people, so it didn’t suck too badly. The weather is fantastic. We went to the gym as well. I always like going to the gym in SF because women here are almost always au naturel and prance about the locker room as if they were preening peacocks. Not that I want to see other women’s unshaved snatches, but I way prefer it to my gym at home where the unshaved generally hide while the landing strips and the 12-year-old naked crotches prance. (Although that is changing as well, which is why I believe they are tearing my gym down in Oct. – Conspiracy Against Unshaved Snatch.)

Anyway, that’s how things have been here thus far. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I packed my suitcase at 10:30 at night on Friday, but I stupidly threw in my Cosabella Talco thing with the rhinestone B. I figure I will wear it today and get it over with. Hopefully I will not be picking it out of my ass as I present to a group this morning...

I probably won’t be able to post as often as usual while I am out here given my work schedule, but I will do my best.

The Bunnysitter

While we are in Northern California, our unemployed friend the Big O is staying at our apartment to take care of our giant pet rabbit Tycho Bunnae. The bunny-sitting arrangement is one of those few mutually beneficial things that can happen: the Big O is getting kicked out of the studio apartment he has been staying at by his roommate who is sick of having him live on her couch, and we need someone to stay at our place to feed Tycho, clean his litter, and generally keep him company. So it is good.

The Big O is a character. He has been looking for a job for about a year now, but has never worked before (despite being 25 years old), so is finding it a bit challenging to find a job. (Actually, he once had an internship from 9 am - 1 pm, but found the work so exhausting that he had to nap every day when he got home.) Needless to say, the Big O has a lot of time on his hands.

One day, Big O was watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. On the show, a masseuse came to Larry David’s house, and at the end of the massage she asked him of he would like a “happy ending.” David was not sure what a “happy ending” was, so he initially agreed. When she grabbed his dick and he figured out it was a hand job, he had her stop. He told his friends what happened and they all yelled at him for not finishing the “happy ending.”

Big O. was impressed. He had never heard of a “happy ending” before, and he decided that it sounded good to him. He got on craigslist.org and began looking for a masseuse. A few days later, he went to his appointment for a “sensual massage,” thinking that obviously a “sensual” massage would end with a “happy ending.” The masseuse told him to get completely undressed and then she also got naked (so there would be no clothes to interfere with the vibes), turned the lights off, and lit candles and incense. She massaged Big O. all over. All over, that is, except where he really wanted the massage. When she told him he was finished and could get dressed, he pointed out that he obviously was not finished, and asked where his “happy ending” was.

The masseuse was understandably completely offended. She told Big O. that this was about reaching a spiritual high, not some whorehouse. Big O. was furious that he spent $75 on a massage that did not come with a “happy ending.” He got dressed and stormed out, neglecting to tip the poor masseuse.

What completely amuses me about this story is that Big O. saw something on TV and decided that he should try it also. OK, actually the whole situation is hilarious. Who the hell does that? I guess that’s what endears Big O. to me so much. He just finds himself in ridiculous situations in which I cannot imagine anyone else winding up. Good stuff.

And People Wonder Why I am a Humanist Misanthrope?

The ever vigilant D. sent me an email earlier today about a new blog that she found. It’s called Is Anyone at Cosmo Getting Laid?. The idea behind the blog is genius: Who the fuck writes the inane and stupid advice columns and articles about sex at Cosmo, and what the fuck is wrong with them? It is something that I have long wondered myself.

Yet... Is Anyone at Cosmo Getting Laid? is a perfect example of things that turned me humanist misanthrope. When I started reading it, I was excited to find something that I was sure would be cool and hilarious. By the time I finished reading it, I was flabbergasted at how I could have anything in common with such a misogynist fuckface, who to be fair, is still hilarious at times.

That is what being a humanist misanthrope is all about: having high hopes for people and then being disappointed as said hopes are smashed on the rocks, pulverized, and made into finite dust. Sigh. On the other hand, The 50 Most Loathsome People in America, 2005 is exactly the type of hilarious commentary that I seek. So all hope is not lost - read it and weep (with tears of laughter and also real tears for the state of the world).

My Playboy Pictorial (Seriously)

When I was a high school senior, I posed for a Playboy photographer. Granted, the photographer was the boyfriend of the policy director of NARAL-IL, and he was taking pictures of me and other nubile young women for a fundraising calendar that we were putting together. Of course, despite the small amount of censorship evident at left, we were all dressed, although I now suspect the calendar would have sold much, much better if we were unclad.

At the time of this picture, I was involved in the NARAL Teen Advisory Panel. We were working hard to prevent harmful parental notification laws from being enacted in Illinois. I am happy to say that our efforts we rewarded at the time, although the battle continues some 12 years later with a court injunction enjoining the implementation of a terrible notification law. (Incidentally, the Alan Guttmacher Institute found that 60% of teens in states without parental consent laws tell one or both parents about their intent to abort an unplanned pregnancy.)

Anyway, I love this picture because despite the fact that I was mostly likely the only virgin in the group, I grabbed the biggest handful of condoms for the shot. (Sorry, I cut the others out since I am not sure where to find most of them to ask their permission to post their picture, but trust me – I was holding the most condoms.) My pigtails also rocked on, although the bangs could have used some serious help. Ah, the innocence of youth posing for Playboy photographers and thinking they can actually make the world a better place. Those were the days, I tell ya.

Yes, Officer - That Pervert is My Mother

My mom has a great sense of humor. Exhibit 1: While I was growing up, she had one of those classic ‘70s t-shirts with a message about sex. As you can see above, it says in sparkly silver, red, white and blue: “Sex is a misdemeanor - de more I miss, de-meaner I get.” As a seven year old, I didn’t pay much attention to the message, although I did like all the glitter. She wore it all the time, and when at some point I realized what it meant, and I was both horrified and amused. Since we are Jewish white trash, she never gets rid of her clothes, she still wears that t-shirt today, which I love.

Yes, that is my mom, and she is awesome.

Things are Not Always as They Seem, or Meet the OMC!

I know that we are already a month into 2006, but I feel compelled to admit that I made a terrible discovery 2005: I have more in common with the assholes on the religious right than I do with normal liberals. Seriously, I am the biggest goodie-two-shoes ever. (OK, that title belongs to my mom, but I’m not close behind. The apple definitely does not fall from the tree in our case.) People frequently think that I must have had some wild youth, since I swear a lot and say any old inappropriate thing that comes to mind. I even had a (poorly written) sex column in college in 1995. But, no – I am actually very boring, just like some candy ass from the religious right. For example:

• I have never tried, nor do I intend to try, any drugs of any sort. Not even pot.

• I never smoked regular cigarettes.

• I’ve never been drunk (and in fact hate alcohol – nasty shit with a lot of calories).

• I’ve only had sex with one person in my entire life, and I am married to him.

I think the last one brings on more dead silence than any of my other boring, religious right traits. I was talking to two friends earlier this summer about another friend of ours who is a freelance writer. She was interviewing people for an article on women who have had STDs. I casually noted/confessed that I was the worst possible interviewee for that article, as I have only had sex with one guy and that guy has only had sex with me.

My friends literally stared at me for a full minute. I tried to justify my utter nerdiness by pointing out that I started dating this guy when I was 19 and we’ve been together for 10.5 years now, so there wasn’t really any opportunity for flings with other people. My friend said, “Wow, you’re a late bloomer.” (And I hadn’t even mentioned to them that I didn’t even believe that pre-marital sex was OK until I was a senior in high school, but more on that another time.) Damn, that is embarrassing, right? However, she made me feel better when she nodded sagely and added that I’m “just a one man cunt.” I like being the OMC. It makes me feel less like a nutjob from the conservative corner. (No conservative would ever proudly refer to herself as a “one man cunt,” despite the fact that a conservative is much more likely to actually be a cunt than I am.)Sometimes I wonder if my growth as an interesting liberal person was stunted since I never had any typical rights of passage. On the other hand, I guess it led me to start a blog about unshaved snatch and women’s sexuality, roommates and plushies, underwear trends and comfort, digestive issues and bathroom cleanliness, and other random commentary as I contemplate the world as an outsider, so I maybe the situation is not as dire as I worry.

Has Anyone Seen My Hat?

While my overall trip to London was fantastic, it was slightly marred by the loss of my beloved Scary Bear Hat. I am actually not surprised that I managed to lose it even though the damn thing was tied around my neck at the airport; the prior day I lost my mittens, and while I was doing some field work earlier that day, I nearly lost my hat twice. Still, it was quite upsetting to discover when I got off the plane at Heathrow that I had not, in fact, put the Scary Bear Hat in my backpack for safe keeping as I had thought I had done.

This was not my first Scary Bear Hat. My first Scary Bear Hat was given to me as a gift by Steph. She procured it from Delia’s, that fine purveyor of tween clothes. The “Sherpa Bear Hat,” as Delia’s called it, fell apart within a year or two and was replaced by the new Scary Bear Hat that I bought at the Holiday Craft Fair in Union Square a few years ago. The new Scary Bear Hat even fit my head a little bit better. It was perfect in every way. I especially liked how people were confused by it:
Stranger: My, what a cute mouse hat!
Me: It is not a cute mouse hat. It is a Scary Bear Hat!!! Grrrr grrrrr!
Stranger: Uh, yeah. OK. Very scary. (Weirdo!)
Me: Grrrrrrr…..

I do hope to find a replacement for it soon. I was particularly intrigued by a musical raccoon hat that I saw some woman wearing in London, but when I asked her where she got it, I was told that she bought it in Germany years ago. (It even played a digital tune!)

If anyone happens to know where Scary Bear Hats or Rabid Singing Raccoon Hats are sold, I would be most grateful to learn.