Eat This, MoFo

At one of Steph’s jobs that have nothing to do with the master’s degree she is working on, one of her co-workers went out for a mini cupcake run. When she returned, she brought back lots of mini cupcakes and a copy of Dr. Phil’s new weight loss book. “Is it wrong that I bought cupcakes to eat while reading this?” she asked Steph rhetorically.

Not long later, she insisted that Steph read a line in the book. It said something along the lines of “you have to get real about fat or stay real fat.” She and her co-worker had a hearty laugh over that and ate another mini cupcake. Steph commented through her mouthful, “Yeah, right on, you self-righteous bald headed prick.” (He’s not balding; he’s beyond balding, she told me later.)

Man, I wish I could have been there to witness that. I wonder if cupcake crumbs sprayed all over the book...

Reading Fun and Not Fun

Generally, I am a very fast reader, but when it comes to a good book, it can take me forever. It takes time to absorb all the details, savor the language, chuckle multiple times at the jokes, and most important, make sure that it doesn’t end too quickly because when it is over, there’s only going back again. Hence my plane reading to and from BlogHer ‘06 varied accordingly.

It took me hours to finish reading Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell Sarah Vowell. Chocked full of amazing and random historical facts about elections, presidents, America, travel, and tea pots, I loitered on each page. I laughed out loud at points. It is exactly my very favorite type of geeky history book. It also helped that months before, I saw Sarah read from this book at a Border’s Bookstore in Columbus Circle mall (a mall in which she appropriately mocks), and having her voice in my head added to my immense delight. By the time I got home, I was in a good mood because of the book and how much I enjoyed it. Seriously, if Sarah ever needs an apprentice or intern or assistant or fellow traveler who likes weird historical things, please find me. Please!

The other book I read on my flight, Lake Effect by Rich Cohen, was a quickie. This is his memoir, from which his front notes say may not be completely accurate, about growing up in the neighborhood in which I grew up. (And taking lots of drugs and getting drunk, which makes for extremely boring reading.) I deduced from the book that Rich Cohen is about eight years older than I am, so when he was 17 or 18, I was 9 or 10, which is old enough to remember things fairly clearly. I may be Jewish white trash, but I resent his false description of my part of town as being full of “low slung garages,” as if it were some industrial wasteland rather than a repetitive set of ranch and bi-level houses. (Sure, “low slung garages” sound much trashier than “suburban tract housing full of Jewish and Asian people who were redlined out of the nicer parts of town because of racism or could not afford homes in the nuveau riche section that Jews/Asians were allowed to live in since no WASP traditions would be sullied there.”) At any rate, Cohen’s new book (which I read a month ago), Sweet and Low is fantastic in the way that Assassination Vacation is, and contains lots of interesting details and asides that I adored.

I’m just saying.

Smells Like I'm Home

I’m back in the infernal city I call home. The plane landed around midnight EST. To encourage people to disembark speedily, I let out a big stinky fart at 12:10. It was mostly ineffective, although the plane’s lights went out for about 15 seconds not long after my blast. I better be damn careful, as the pilot mentioned the temperature while we were taxiing to the gate, and it was 88 degrees. (Let me remind you, this was at midnight!) If my farts are going to cause power outages on planes, I better try not to gas it up this week. I can’t bear not having air conditioning because I accidentally blew out the power grid. (As for global warming, I assume my methane output has only a miniscule, if any, effect.)

Sunday Blues

It is Sunday, and I am on the plane on my way back from the BlogHer ’06 conference. I had a lovely brunch earlier today in San Francisco with Husband, a friend of his from high school, a friend of mine from high school, and Count Mockula. After brunch, we stood around on the sidewalk eating It’s Its, which are amazing ice cream sandwiches that another friend told me that I had to try the next time I was in San Francisco. The great thing about them is that, unlike practically any other ice cream sandwiches, the sandwich “breads” are oatmeal cookies, not chocolate chip, and the whole sandwich is covered in chocolate. Mockula demonstrated a very good It’s It eating technique, which involves eating off the side of chocolate first, then mushing the cookies together so that the ice cream splurts out (in this case, mint – one of my faves), then licking the excess ice cream. This leaves you with a better cookie-to-ice-cream ratio. Mockula is brilliant.

By now, however, I am in my usual Sunday evening funk. I hate Sunday evenings. The weekend is over and all that lies ahead is a week of crap. It is not just dreading the upcoming week that makes Sunday evenings so wretched. Nope, Sunday evenings are when I can’t help but ruminate over all the things that I fucked up over the course of the week or last month or year that have led me to be displeased with various aspects of my life. This is not anything new; it has been this way for as long as I remember. Bah.

Damn, BlogHer is Over!

These two days at BlogHer '06 have whizzed by me. It was great to be a part of it, and I am looking forward to next year already. Here's my quick take on this year:


Great Things

I met lots of cool women whose blogs I read, like Suebob of Red Stapler, Minnie, and Badger Mama.

I met lots of cool women whose blogs I am going to start reading ASAP, like Lizard Kingdom (also blogging at a new blog, Heroine Content about female action stars).

Met some famous sexperts, like Susie Bright, and up-and-coming sexperts, like Logan Levkoff.
Less-than-Great Things

I met Minnie, but I didn't see her beyond our initial "hey, I love your blog!" intro. I want more time to talk to her because she often writes things that I so relate to.

I missed meeting Queen of Spain. Pooh! I was looking forward to meeting her.

I forgot the blog address of a super awesome woman that I met earlier this evening. I knew I should have written it down, but I had no pen or paper. I should have asked to borrow... (The title was something like "Missed Ghosts" and it sounded great.) I stink.

The hotel had shitty wifi. I was not able to blog so much from there. Motherfuckers!

All in all, I learned a lot, met some rockin beeyotches, and have some future tasks cut out for me. No shaved snatch required.

I'm in Awe

This is like the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. It is taking all my willpower not to squeal and jump up and down. I am at a session about sex blogging at the BlogHer conference, and one of the panelists is none other than Susie Bright!!! Back in my fresh salad days (as opposed to my current wilting salad days), when I wrote my crappy sex column for NYU’s even crappier college newspaper, Susie Bright became one of my idols. Unlike me, she wrote about everything and anything, without shame and without judgment. I read her stuff and quoted it a lot. This is just super cool. People are enraptured.

Wow. She just used the word cunt. My granny will be so proud! Yay! She gave props to women who write about abortion!

Another panelist, Logan Levkoff, who is a sexologist and does amazing sex ed work with young people online, just said that someone called her a cunt on her blog because she said that “abstinence only works when it is used 100% of the time.” (I’m psyched to hang out with her when I get back to NYC.) Damn, that is a great quote. And damn, other people are stupid fucks!

(Sorry that this was not posted in real time, but I could not get a fucking internet connection all day!!!)

Making the Rounds

I am amused by two more little blurbs in the "news:"

In a Pittsburgh Tribune Review article on BlogHer, the author noted that "Suzanne Reisman's blog bemoans feminine stereotypes in the mainstream media."

A few months ago I spoke to someone from Self Magazine about one of my learned healthy eating habits in an article called, "30 Foods that Fight Fat." My, uh, brilliant commentary on dried fruit:

"I started snacking on it seven years ago and lost 40 pounds. I'd have it in the afternoon instead of candy," says Suzanne Reisman, 30, of New York City.

What a month for insightful remarks...

Fixing Broken Shit

I am half way to figuring out why my stupid RSS feed does not work. This is good. I am also sitting with some awesome bloggers. Check them out at:
Princess Bookworm
Slolane and Built by Mom
Avocado 8

(However, I remain intimidated!)

I also met Suebob, author of the wonderous Red Stapler, who is taking pictures of people with her red stapler and is great, and Minnie, who is wearing the cutest dress ever and gave me one of her hilarious blog stickers that I have coverted since she previewed them on her blog. Swoon!

Mother of God!

OK, so I am completely, utterly, and totally overwhelmed by the BlogHer '06 conference. First, it is amazing to be in a room witht hundreds of female bloggers, some of them famous, some infamous, and all dedicated to their blogs. Second, I am unorganized, which does not help. I forgot to make little business cards before I left for Cali, so I spent yesterday afternoon unproductively running around and trying to do something about that. Since I am a doddering fool, I didn't commit to anything, so this morning I downloaded a template for Microsoft Word (fuck you Microsoft for changing your software so that business card templates are not included!), then printed out 10 pages on regular paper since I stupidly did not buy card stock yesterday, and then cut them all out unevenly. How professional! Actually, that sort of captures the spirit of CUSS, doesn't it?

In my desperate rush to get some breakfast once I arrived, I lost my name tag twice already. My goodie bag is overflowing with neat-o free shit, and so I can't find the schedule of sessions. I forgot when this ends tonight. OK, deep breath. It will all work out in the end...

A huge thanks to Husband for tolerating my panicked insanity last night and tonight.

I'm psyched to meet Suebob from Red Stapler and Minnie from Minnie, and yesterday evening I also met some rocking blogging ladies. Now, if I can get over my sense of overwhelmedness...

Love Triangle

I just arrived in San Jose for the BlogHer conference. First, Husband and I drove to San Francisco to have lunch with two awesome friends of mine from work. (I was sad that a third one already had plans.) They picked a fab mediterranean place. Then we drove down to San Jose, and damn,I am tired from travel. So, in the interest of posting something fun to read, please welcome today's guest blogger, Husband! In this edition, he explains the geometry of love, which he prepared as advice for another friend in June.

I thought you might appreciate a look at the geometry of love to better appreciate how to determine whether a second date is warranted. Follow along with graph paper:

Relationships encompass three connected elements -- physical, mental and
emotional. These three pieces always add to the same sum. Thus relationships
are best expressed mathematically as a triangle, whose three angles total 180
total degrees. The inception of a relationship can start with any combination
of these three, but often it starts scalene, with one predominant angle. Such
an irregular triangle still has 180 degrees, but it might be comprised of a
strong physical attraction (160 degrees) with a hint of interest in a date's
humor or intelligence (15 degrees) and no emotional connection (5 degrees). Or
such a relationship can form with someone you already know, with whom you have
already bonded over a crisis (emotional > 60 degrees) or a colleague with
similar interests and hobbies (mental > 60 degrees).

If you find that someone has a characteristic across one of these variables that
is repulsive then there is a good change that the angle between you two is less
than zero. Such an angle enters a world of non-Euclidean relationship geometry,
and thus your relationship is, mathematically speaking, irrational. However,
provided that each angle is at least greater than zero, the possibility of
romance is rational. Relationships tend to form into something more akin to an
Isosceles Triangle, where two of the angles match each other, with the other
dragging behind or continuing to overwhelm the other two. Over time. a
successful long-term relationship will form an equilateral triangle, wherein all
angles are equal. Such a triangle is best able to withstand pressure from any
side, since it equally distributes the force across its entire structure.

One reasons that such publications as "Cosmopolitan" do not offer relationship
advice based on sound mathematical principles is that the theorems discussed
above are so simple that they negate the need to purchase further peer-reviewed
journals on the science of relationships. Hopefully, you can apply this to your
own life. Please note that the discussion above purely refers to relationships
as considered between two people. Once bisectorality is considered, the math
gets more complicated.

This concludes our first CUSS guest blogger. Thanks to Husband for his guest blogging.

Some Amusing Pictures from Ocean City and Even More Amusing Commentary

Before I run off to BlogHer, here are some pictures from my jaunt to Ocean City:
This cat seems to have come with the house that Husband rented. He was always hanging around the porch and side yard. Unfortunately, he was also sickly. The first night we were there, he had this disturbing blood shot eye. I joked that he was actually a witch in the form of her familiar (or Animagus to Harry Potter fans), and that he was looking to steal our souls. By Friday, when I had a giant red eye myself, I did not find that joke funny any longer. The cat was also not doing well. What if it really was a witch trying to switch bodies with me so that it could escape death? Then I’d be screwed, trapped inside a dying cat body. Husband would have a cat-witch wife. That would suck.
Monday night to celebrate Husband’s birthday we went to play mini golf at Steph’s second favorite mini golf course, which is now her first favorite as her prior first favorite was razed. It was a great course with lots of moving parts. However, as you can see from this soldier who looks as though syphilis rotted his nose off, they could do some touch ups. Incidentally, I performed the worst of the group with a score of 66. Husband scored the second best, but was defeated by 2 strokes by Hat Friend’s (see below) Husband. No matter the rankings, a good time was had by all!
On Tuesday, a group of us trooped over to the nearby town of Margate to see Lucy, the World’s Largest Elephant. I like this picture because it gives a good overview of Lucy’s size and also nicely shows off my friend’s rockin’ sombrero-style hat, yet is far enough to protect her identity. I passed this by one day while I was walking back from the internet café (I think), and could not resist taking a picture. Seriously, if you were Cora Siegfried, would you not be pissed at having the crappiest memorial in the whole world? I sure as fuck would. Yeah, thanks for the concrete triangle painted black with stencil lettering. You shouldn’t have. Really, you shouldn’t have. I’d probably rather not have a memorial at all.

On that note, I’m off to BlogHer, where of course, there will be plenty o’ blogging.

American Taliban Wins Again

Once again, the American Christian Taliban strikes a blow to democracy. I just wish that Americans would already admit that it is not actual freedom that we value here, but rather the freedom of the dominant to force other to live their lives the way those with power see fit. Yesterday, the Senate foolishly passed the “Child Custody Protection Act,” which institutes several vile prohibitions, most of which are not discussed in the media because the media sucks:
1. Any one other than a parent—including a grandparent, aunt, adult sibling, or member of the clergy— does not count as a responsible adult who can accompany a young woman across state lines for an abortion.
2. Any one other than a parent who accompanies a young woman over state lines to help her obtain an abortion will be prosecuting for aiding and abetting a crime. (See you in the slammer, granny.)
3. If a young woman travels from one state to another for an abortion, no matter what the reason (for example, perhaps a young woman lives closer to a clinic in New York than in Connecticut), the clinic must comply with the laws of her home state. Meaning: the law travels with her. Ridiculous. Do state minimum wage laws travel with people when they commute from one state to another? Of course not. It is fucking unconstitutional, you dumb assholes. Where are all the “state’s rights” advocates on this issue? Oh, I see. When your state is imposing its religious laws on mine, then it is OK, but if my state wants to impose our human rights laws on yours, it is the worst constitutional violation possible.

Should young women have a responsible adult help them in a time of trouble? Probably, but the world is more complicated than mandating that person be a parent or worse, both parents. Good luck to those young women who have not seen one of their parents in years due to abandonment. Good luck to those young women raped by a family member. Good luck to those young women in abusive homes. Of course, no one should be forced to bear a child against her will, but as usual, the most vulnerable members of society are put at the greatest risk by these laws. In fact, these are the people we should be encouraging not to have children because – guess what? – those kids will also be in danger. Bring on the back alley abortions, and good luck!

One thing I never understood is why bearing and raising a child is considered a suitable punishment for women who have sex. First, anti-women's self-determination forces insist that a child is "blessing from God" with a 'right to life." At the same time, I hear things from the religious right like, “You play, you pay,” or “You have to take responsibility,” (to me, being responsible be to not have a kid that you are not emotionally, mentally, or financially ready for, but I guess I am an idiot) which sounds very much like focusing on the punishment aspects. If you give the kid up for adoption, this rhetoric also seems to imply that you are copping out and not paying your dues for your transgression. (Note: this never seems to apply to men.) I guess God's "blessings" are actually punishments I want to avoid.

Fuck that. Having a child is a privilege, not a punishment. It sickens me that people would consider forcing someone to raise a child as a punishment. It sickens me that many of these same people who force women who are not ready for a child (or another child) to bear them regardless and then strike down the proper supports (health insurance, child care, food stamps, WIC, decent school funding, etc.) for the child that is supposed to have a “right to life.” The truth comes out in how these people describe women and their subsequent lack of interest in helping the resulting children live: it is not enough for the mother to be punished for having sex, but the child must also suffer for his/her unplanned status. And of course, men seem to have no role in this. Men don't need to be punished for having sex, since we all know they need it and are only exercising their biological destiny.

Imposing one’s religious beliefs and subsequent puritanical punitive systems on everyone does not belong in a democracy. If we are going to criticize fundamentalist Islamic governments for this same exact behavior, we better get our acts together ourselves.

Balls Abound

Last night I went to a Met vs. Cubs game with the Waxer, the Waxer’s Sister, and Husband. I love going to these games because they are usually a win-win situation for me: I consider both the Cubs and the Mets to be my home teams. In the last two years, however, the Cubs have seriously pissed me off with their shitty coaching, management, and play; this year, the Mets are smokin’, so I was a bit surprised to find myself solely rooting for the Mets. Unfortunately, they lost, so that was a bummer. (Almost the non-perfect ending to a crappy day, really.) The company was fantastic, though, and I had a great time.

At the end of the game, we expected to be smooshed on the subway as 40,000 or so people streamed out of Shea Stadium. Imagine our delight when we not only secured seats, but no one was standing in the middle area. (Unlike my commute to Shea, when a woman with a ginormous ass was standing behind me and for some reason stood about a foot away from the pole she clung to, which meant that she was rubbing up against my butt. Fucking annoying.) This meant that I had a clear view of the people sitting across from me, who happened to be two 10 year old boys. (Husband thought they were 12, but I estimate only 10.) One boy was hiding two quarters in and under various body parts, including his balls. I was mortified. What the fuck was this kid trying to do, get me arrested? As I was sitting directly across from him, my gaze unwillingly was drawn to his quick motions as he jerked his shorts away from his body and stuffed the coins under his black underwear. The other kid laughed. I swear that the kid next stuck a quarter in each of his ears (which Husband was disturbingly impressed by), and then pulled out the waxy bastards and shoved them under his ass, then back on his balls. His dad just sat there next to him, not noticing a thing.

One day, some innocent and trusting soul will have those quarters next. Beware!!!

Thanks for Your Help

The Memoir Collective contest winners were announced this morning, and alas and alack, I was not amongst them. If you want to see the winners, they are posted at The Memoirists Collective.

Thanks to all of you who took the time to vote for little old me. I'm glad you like my writing, I'll continue to try to be entertaining/enlightening, and I hope someday it will pay off in some way. I know this shit takes time and while the contest would have given me a potential post, it wasn't a panacea. Still feels shitty though.

My Heroine

As I was paging through July 23 issue of the New York Times Magazine, which has a devastating cover story on foster care, adoption, and parental rights, I came across the most hilarious ad I have seen in ages. This was important because I was super depressed after reading the article and hating the world and feeling extra helpless about my ability to make it a better place, so the comic relief was more welcome than ever. The ad said (lack of punctuation is a direct copy of the ad, not a typo):

It is amazing that an actress like Amanda who spent so much time getting noticed invented a product that is meant to be invisible. She spent 11 years guest starring in such shows as Cheers, Remington Steele, Dallas and Hart to Hart, but as she tiptoed into her 40’s, she realized that her clothes did not look so sleek anymore. Her uncomfortable bra accentuated every bulge. Back bulge is not a woman’s fault – it’s the bra. Amanda poured herself into helping greater womanhood, not the few who may be blessed with a near perfect shape.

This is comic gold. I wish I had written it as part of some satire about a z-list actress who gains weight and finds a new way to be self-important despite the fact that she never was that important to start. Sadly, it is not brilliant satire nor made up by me. There is so much mockable material that it makes me positively gleeful.

My second favorite part is Amanda Kennedy’s dedication to helping the rest of us fat slobs (i.e. – not size 2 or smaller) once she herself gained weight. I also love that she blames having a fat back on the bra. Not that I do not disagree that some bras make the situation worse, but my suggestion is to get a bra that is not too small for you. It didn’t require inventing Sassybax (the miracle product in the ad). My absolute favorite part is that she seems to think that her dedication to eliminating back bulge is some fort of heroic effort.

Oh damn. That shit is funny. You can’t make it up.

You're Invited!

Bah. My internet connection is down (thanks to Brother-in-Law for letting me come over and use his WiFi). Gmail is acting funky. Blogger is barely functioning. I have a sinus infection and am recovering from pink eye. I’m tired. My head hurts. Hiccups are torturing me. I am bummed about various things. At least my throat stopped hurting and it is sunny and not a thousand degrees outside and when I went to the doctor, he showed me pictures that he took of the inside of my nose, including ones looking down my throat. (I always love seeing my innards.) Still, today is sucking royally.

Thanks for coming to my pity party!

The Lessons of Ocean City

One of the benefits of the house Husband rented in Ocean City is that the kitchen has a dishwasher. Most people probably find the presence of a dishwasher unremarkable, even expected, but I have never lived anywhere with one. Thus one of the lessons I learned on my trip is how to use a dishwasher.

I assumed that the point of a dishwasher was to wash the dishes so that I would not need to do so. I was wrong. It seems that you cannot merely put dirty dishes inside the belly of the beast and expect them to be clean when the cycle is finished. Sister kept telling me this, explaining that unless you rinse the crumbs and other stuck bits of food off dishes first, they will not be clean. This did not make sense to me, so I ignored her. Of course, since I am an uninformed dishwasher novice, the dishes were not fully clean at the end of the cycle, so I began following her advice and cleaning things myself before I put them in the machine to be washed. Yet I noticed that by the time I rinsed everything off, had I merely added some soap while rinsing, the dish would be clean and have no need for the dishwasher.

I do not understand the point of dishwashers.

I was also reminded that when wearing button-fly jeans, one cannot wait until the last minute to go to the bathroom. It was like I was five again. I had too much fun and didn’t want to be away from the merriment for even a minute, so I sat around until there was no other option. Then I realized that it takes another precious few seconds to open all those damn buttons. Fortunately, I did not explode on myself, but now I will keep in mind the extra time it takes to get ready when wearing button-fly jeans, one of the few instances of clothes that provide challenges for both men and women.

Dusting is So Hot

Yes, this little item available from Victoria's Secret looks practical for dusting, but probably won't work for me since I don't have my belly pierced. How sad.

OK, fine. I tried to play nicely, but it is just not me. Why don't the folks at VS just show the model blowing some guy or getting fucked from behind (in the behind?)? We are not idiots. We know this apron is not for dusting.

(Thanks to The Explorer for the tip.)

Thus Vacation Ends...

There is truly no place like home. While the Jersey Shore was lots of fun, it is nice to be back in my own hovel. OK, that is not entirely true. I do love the comforts of my own home, but at the same time, being back in to the old routine during the week is going to suck. Sure, the parts of the old routine that involve hanging out with friends and fam works great, but it also works a bit better when you are all on vacation together.

It was time to go home anyway. Friday afternoon my eye started to swell up and pus began oozing out of it. By Friday night, it swelled half shut. Husband also had bloodshot red eyes and eye boogers, so we stopped at the urgent care clinic first thing in the morning. The doctor confirmed our suspicions that we had conjunctivitis, aka “Pink Eye.”

We went back to the house, finished packing everything up, and then dropped the prescription off at the pharmacy. The wait time was an hour. We attempted to get food with The Explorer, but all the diners were overflowing since it was Saturday at peak brunch hours. Also, it seems that tonight is “A Night in Venice” in Ocean City, which entails some sort of beauty pageant and other “festivities,” so it was even more crowded than usual. After waiting 40 minutes for take out, we went back to the drugstore for our eye drops. At least my eye seemed less droopy after I finally got some medicine in it.

The next obstacle was traffic. I am not even sure what caused the back up, although Brother-in-Law left before us and said that an accident had clogged traffic on the Garden State Parkway. By the time we followed his tire tracks 90 minutes later, there were no signs of any accident, but even worse traffic. Madness.

All the traffic made the “rest” stop anything but. Husband was able to use the facilities, but the line for the women’s bathrooms was looping around the building. It was hot, dirty, and I knew that I would pee myself before I got to a toilet, so we took off. (I felt like I had to endure only a fraction of what the Hurricane Katrina victims were forced to live in, and it makes me even sicker to think how our government could fuck up like that.) Husband pulled off a mile later at the next exit and we drove aimlessly for a few minutes in stunning Berkley, NJ. When a VFW came into sight, I knew that relief was at hand. There was some sort of picnic/banquet party taking place, so I figured I could blend in and slip into the bathroom unnoticed.

Part of my plan worked. I was able to use their ill-lighted women’s room, but I don’t think I was unnoticed. I was definitely the only person under the age of 50 with a droopy, oozing red eye. Still, no one said anything, so who cares?

The rest of the ride was uneventful, until we stopped at a gas station in Manhattan and a tow truck nearly backed into us. Seeing the corner of flatbed speeding at my face was a bit terrifying, I admit. Thank god for the Berkley, NJ VFW or the front seat of our rental car would definitely be in less than returnable condition. Then we were home, and so it goes.

For Real, It Is Voting Time!

OK, even if you are my mom or my sister or my friend Rachel and I said I would help you vote, click on the link below to vote for me in the Memoirists Collective contest:

Memoirists Collective Contest Voting Site

The entrants are arranged by date of submission. I submitted mine under the name Suzanne R. on June 27. I did not have a title with my submission, so the memoirists came up with one for me: From Naive to Naturally Beautiful. (Yes, a new title is in order, but the Memoirists only had a one sentence synopsis and 800 words with which to work, so cut them some slack. I'm just happy to be included.)

Memoirists Collective Contest Voting Site

You have until July 24 at midnight PST. (It turns out that you do NOT need a MySpace.com to vote, so don't worry. Just go to the site and vote.) Thus far, I have three votes including my own. I actually am comforted by those other two votes for some odd reason.

Memoirists Collective Contest Voting Site

Thanks!!!

Stupid People in New Jersey

On Tuesday, the revelers split up. One group went to see Pirates of the Caribbean 2 at the boardwalk movie theater for only $6.25 (!) and the other group motored over to Atlantic City for a few hours. Sister and her husband Honoré went to Atlantic City and walked for a bit on the boardwalk there. It was quite a bit different from the wholesome family fun offered in Ocean City. They were solicited by both carnies and prostitutes, each with disturbing pitches. A prostitute offered to let them hook up in her apartment for a fee. A white carnie invited two black teenage girls to try their hand at winning a teddy bear by throwing darts at balloons. When they passed by without taking him up on his offer, he snarled, “Break a rubber, win a free baby!” Actually, now that I think about it, there probably was not too much difference between the piracy and debauchery onscreen and that which occurred at Atlantic City. How sad.

In other pathetic news, there was a minor verbal scuffle at the internet café this morning. I am wearing my “Bush is a Tush” t-shirt (written in a kid’s handwriting with a hilarious drawing of a girl frowning, also done by a kid) that my aunt bought for me in a thrift shop in Chicago. While I was waiting for my order, a gentleman with a handle bar mustache asked me which Bush is a tush. “Actually, both of them are,” I replied, “although I think the t-shirt mostly refers to the current Bush.” The man then told me that I am lucky that Bush is my president because we’d be blown up if Kerry was. I responded by staring at him as if he were an alien life form. His wife got nervous and told him not to get into a political debate. I continued staring at him while I told her that I had no intention of responding, and then my food was ready, so I turned back to the counter. As I walked away, I heard him tell her in an annoyed voice that I provoked him by wearing the shirt.

What upsets me most about the incident is that I forgot to ask him who was president when we were blown up on Sept. 11, 2001. (The Explorer is glad that I did not continue the conversation with him because she said you never know if someone like that will get violent.) I will never, ever understand the mentality of Bush supporters who can somehow ignore the reality that we were fucking attacked and focus on the abstract potential attacks that there is no proof that he averted. I once even got into an argument with someone who does not generally support Bush on this issue. The brainwashing of people is so thorough that it is a bit terrifying.

Vote for Me at The Memoirists Collective Contest

This is the second time within 6 months that I have asked for your vote, but I hope you will take a few seconds to visit The Memoirists Collective. The entries for their memoir contest are at the bottom of their page in the comments section. Mine is buried pages back, as I submitted on June 28. If you still like my story best, vote for me! I'm not sure how it works, but the polls open at midnight tonight.

Muchas gracias!

Want to Know More Shit about Me?

In today's Washington Post, there is a little article about blogging with a quote from yours truly:

They work by day as administrators and blog by night as outspoken individuals.

Most never dream their blogs could become their worst work nightmare, as employers increasingly create policies on personal blogs or fire bloggers for offensive comments.

Nearly 10 percent of the firms in a new American Management Association survey has a personal-blogging policy. Seven percent cover what workers can say online, and 5 percent ban blogging on company time. Two percent have fired a blogger for postings, and 26 percent have let workers go over inappropriate e-mail.

None of this worries Suzanne Reisman, who discusses gender issues on her blog and works as a senior program officer for the nonprofit Low Income Investment Fund in Manhattan. "In my mind, there's a separation between my private life and my work life," Reisman said.

"I don't say anything negative . . . or positive about my organization," she said. She wonders how blogging will affect career prospects but says, "I've got to take some risks and throw some caution to the winds."

Tomorrow: Balancing blog and job.


-- Vickie Elmer

Cool, huh?

Update from OC

Things are jumping in the O.C. (Ocean City, of course.) The Explorer and I discovered a much more pleasant place with WiFi access than the McDonald’s. While the McDonald’s was OK, it was hard to concentrate with all the kids around us having nervous breakdowns about their milkshakes and what not. Plus, it was about 2,000 degrees in there. I felt very bad for anyone who had to work in that heat and racket. On the way back from McD’s on Sunday, we passed by a little café and have been hanging out here since. It is quiet and cute with little sofas and murals. Ronald McDonald and screaming brats – er, children – are nowhere in sight.

Last night before Steph left (sob!) she gave Husband Footloose on DVD. I can’t remember (shocking, I know) if I mentioned that Ocean City was originally founded as a Methodist retreat town (there are still several Methodist centers for church groups visiting the town), but its original laws are indeed similar to the puritanical impulses of Beaumont, the town in Footloose. Several of our guests (and I!) had never seen the movie before, and we all enjoyed watching a young Kevin Bacon shake his extremely adorable heiny. As for the plot, yeah… let’s just say it has not aged very well. Or worse, I have not aged well! Sister and I danced up a storm to the still rocking soundtrack, though. For real. It lightening and poured. It was lovely to have a night in with the group.

On my way back from the internet café this afternoon, a pickup truck passed me while I was walking. As usual, I was not paying too much attention to my surroundings, and I was startled by light honking. No one seems to honk here, so I was curious if there was some sort of traffic debacle ahead. I verified that the roads were open when the honking started again. My head spun around to figure out what or who the fuck this dude was honking at when I realized that it was little old me. The guy had his head hanging out the window looking back at me while he was driving. I felt like I was supposed to be filled with feminist rage at this objectification of my body, but damn, that cracked me up. The whole town is filled with saucy packages (my expression for shapely teenage girls in tight or revealing clothes), and the guy is honking at a 30 year old hag in jeans and a tank top. Granted, they were tight jeans and a very fitted tank top, but nonetheless. Hilarious.

After that weird ego boost, I joined most of the group trooped over at a water park for some non-salty wet fun. Late in the evening, I went back to the internet café. I have been waiting for voting to begin over at The Memoirists Collective and it seems that it is only beginning at midnight. I probably will not have internet access until tomorrow morning, and I have no idea what time the voting ends. If you have a chance and want to vote for my submission (a copy of which I posted at CUSS on June 28), that would be awesome. The competition is tough, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed

Ocean City News: Birthdays, Ginormous Elephants, and Guffaws Galore

What a day Husband’s birthday was! Early in the afternoon, we drove over to the neighboring town of Margate to see Lucy, the World’s Largest Elephant. Lucy is a six-story elephant-shaped building constructed in 1881 by a real estate developer from Atlantic City to lure people to his new planned community. At one point a British family even set up home in Lucy. (Their bathtub is on display today.) Lucy’s 125th birthday celebration will be on Thursday, so we are going back to partake in the festivities, which include special $5 “Stayin’ Alive at 125” t-shirts and free birthday cake.

Later when it cooled down a bit, we hit the beach en masse. I really hater sand, so I originally did not plan to go at all, but I gave into popular sentiment. I am so glad I did. Sister, Honoré, and I laughed and laughed and laughed as we jumped waves with Husband and recited choice racist lines from Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom. (Example: When the evil priest rips out the guy’s still beating heart and says, “Mumshibai!”, or something like that repeatedly.) Crap, I had not had such gut-busting laughs in a long while. Oh, it hurt so good.

Even later, after singing to Husband and while eating the cake and melon basket prepared by Honoré, Steph amused the group with stories about her car, which her parents purchased for her two months before her 16th birthday. Needless to say, it is not in good shape these days. Last week, as she was doing laundry and watching TV at her office late one night, she decided to go home and pick up a different movie. As she tootled along the road, she was pulled over by a cop for driving with only one headlight. Although it had been burnt out for three weeks, she claimed that she had only noticed it that evening when it was too late to take it in for repairs. The po-po responded that it had in fact been out for several weeks. Just as Steph was getting nervous that he had been stalking her or something, he said that other cops had run her plates several times. He wanted to know where she was coming from at that wee hour, and she told us that she felt like telling him it was none of his fucking business, but figured that he would no longer let her off with just a warning, so she wisely kept her trap shut.

Talking about her car reminded me of the time I visited her in North Carolina, and when we pulled into the Caribou Coffee from which she obtains her daily coffee beverage fix, I could not open the door. “How the hell do I get out of this death trap?” I asked. We then sat in the car laughing hysterically while the people in Caribou stared at us through the plate glass store window. Last night, we cracked up just as hard.

Fun times, good laughs. Today we are scheduled to see Pirates of the Caribbean 2. Steph is taking off later that day (so sad!!!), so I’ll follow her around as she shops and then do whatever comes my way.

Ocean City Report: Hot and Wet

At the BBQ dinner last night, The Explorer and the Publicist picked up where their conversation left off the prior night. The Publicist repeated her wisdom that a vibrator can only do so much, and The Explorer opined that vibrators could actually do too much. She pointed out that the nerves are extra sensitive in that area, and can be damaged with too much vibration. Since real penises don’t vibrate, dildos were perfectly capable of doing the job.

The Explorer also told the Publicist about a video that she saw when she was in college during one May, which is National Masturbation Month. The Committee on Masturbation Education (COME) screened a video hosted by Femme Fatale, a former porn star, about the importance of female ejaculation. In the video, Femme, dressed in a lab coat and glasses (the wardrobe choice of educational porn stars everywhere), sat around with a group of women, jerking themselves off and squirting noisily as they came. The Explorer said the poorly edited video is hilarious, but noted that the main advantage of the female orgasm is that it is not messy, so why would anyone go out of her way to change that? She recently purchased the video from Good Vibrations, and will be holding a girls-only screaming – I mean, screening. The Publicist said she was looking forward to attending.

In other news, I further explored the Boardwalk. It really is loaded with the worst food and tourist crap on the planet. I am intrigued by the cemetery-themed mini golf course, though, and hope to try it this week. I also walked a bit more around the downtown area, and it has lots of cute little shops, one called “Toilet Water.” Speaking of water, there is a water fountain in front of the City Hall that is inscribed with the words “Christian Temperance.” I noticed that the water was extra refreshing when I drank from it. Eventually, I hope to get to the Seashell Museum and Shell Garden. It sounds like a horrendously cheesy place. Also, Lucy the Elephant, a six-story elephant shaped building is nearby. There is actually a guided tour in the building and exhibit. Nice! Steph is interested in trekking out to see it as well. Perhaps this is not as exciting as female ejaculation, but fun shall be had!

(Happy 30th birthday to Husband!!!! It's going to be a scorcher - at least 97 degrees in a place that rarely goes above 85. We may celebrate at a water park tonight after entering the belly of the beast - Lucy - this afternoon.)

Two Scary Facts

There are only two places for the public to get WiFi in Ocean City, the place that time forgot. One if McDonald's, and the other is the library. The Explorer and I were unsure if the library was open on Sunday and where it is exactly, and given that it is 4000 degrees out and that this town has no shade, we headed to McDonald's, which is closer and definitely open. While I was here, I decided to get my yogurt parfait. Waiting in line, I saw a sign encouraging people to apply for jobs here (open interviews on Mondays and Thursdays from 2-5). It said:

1. 1 in every 12 working Americans have received training at McDonald's.
2. If you want to move, it is easy to transfer, as McD's has locations on every continent except Antartica.

The nice thing is that they offer discounts on child care. I should ask about how that works, as I am always curious about child care policy. Still, the fact that 1 in 12 working Americans has trained at McD's is overwhelming.

Ocean City Forecast: Hazy, with a 100% Chance of Nuttiness

There is nothing like arriving home from a red eye, getting two hours of sleep, and then learning that the plans for your mini vacation at the Jersey Shore are completely fucked up. The plan was for Husband to rent a car and Brother-in-Law (BiL) to also drive down, both with cars loaded with food and supplies. BiL, Future Sister-in-Law (FSiL), and I would stop off at Newark Airport and pick up my sister and brother, freshly arriving from Iowa. Good plans.

Of course, Husband and BiL overpacked the cars and there was not enough space to pick up Sister and Sister’s Husband, who I later learned is the incarnation of Honoré de Balzac and thus I will refer to him as Honoré, but more on that later. Anyway, much yelling was going on and Husband and BiL accused each other of bringing unnecessary things. Finally, despite my sleepless haze, I came up with a rare brilliant idea. I suggested that BiL drop me off at the Airport on his way down to the Shore, and I would wait for Sister and Honoré and then we would rent a car and drive down ourselves, returning the car the following day in Atlantic City, which is near our Shore house.

This worked very well, and we all arrived at different times, but safely at the Shore, where I had an interesting discussion with The Explorer and another friend about celibacy and vibrators, while Sister stared at us with her eyes opening bigger and bigger as more was revealed in talk. BiL BBQ’d for dinner, and finally Steph arrived at 10:45 with sheets and pillow cases, which Husband asked her to pick up on her way because he thought they were included with the rental, only to get here and to find 10 beds with blankets and nothing else.

Steph is a Jersesy Shore pro, having vacationed here every year with her parents until the ripe old age of 25. She led Sister, Honoré, and I to one of her three favorite pizza places on the Boardwalk. As we hustled along, she pointed out the best shooting gallery, the second best mini golf course, the best frozen custard, and other sites of note. When we arrived at Mack & Manco’s, it was hopping. Steph said the “only place” to sit was the counter, but as there were not enough seats available, she settled for a booth.

The waiter hustled over to us and took our orders. Honoré was delighted to learn that they would custom create a slice with ‘shrooms, sausage, and olives. When the waiter left, Sister said, “How embarrassing!” None of us knew what she was talking about, so she explained that the waiter had a big booger hanging out of his nose. Our food and birch beers arrived not long later, and after chewing the slices and the fat, we walked back to the house.

On the walk back, we discussed boobs. Steph mentioned that her friend found a fake boob on the floor of the club that she was at last night, and waved it around, wondering if anyone would claim her lost tit. Sister mentioned my story about flashing my bra at the old lady bra shop when I was home, and Steph said that was nothing; I used to flash her more than my bra all the time. Sister said that sometimes Honoré flashed his balls to people when he was drunk, and once someone took a picture of them. It seems that he had a massive hernia a few years ago, and after it was repaired, his balls remained stretched out for eternity, thus he has a huge sac. (He once even peed on it.) Steph made some crack about Balzac, and thus the nickname was born.

Anyway, Husband refers to Ocean City as the “town that time passed over,” and he is totally right. (Last night on the Boardwalk, Honoré noted that this place is the whitest on earth, and this is coming from someone who lives in Iowa). It is super weird, like being time warped into 1963. I will have some fabulous pictures of random things I have seen to post when I get home.

Another Serious Post about Israel, Albeit with a Jab at Buffalo

Back to Israel again because it is weighing so heavily on my mind right now... Were people living in the land when it was made Israel by the UN in 1948? Absolutely. Was war declared immediately against the new state, and Israel won? Yes, it did. Were subsequent wars won to rid the land of “occupiers?” Yes, and Israel won each time. I’m sorry, but there is no going back.

What galls me is the hypocrisy of Americans who insist that Israel is an “occupation” of Palestine and must be dismantled. I would like to know when you plan to give your house back to the Native American group who lived in your community before various groups of Europeans occupied – oops, I mean colonized the US. We are no different than Israel. Were people already living in the US when Jamestown was set up and when the Mayflower arrived? Of course. Were subsequent wars fought to get rid of them? Yes, and the Native Americans unfortunately lost. Is it fair? Fuck no, but I don’t see a huge movement here championing the “right of return.”

In fact, the US is probably a more egregious occupier than Israel is. We’ve violated gazillions of treaties with various ethnic groups and even ignored Supreme Court decisions about forcibly removing people from their homes and “relocating” them to reservations. Even after we’ve granted Native Americans land for their own “states,” we’d take it back as soon as it was convenient. Example: Thar’s gold in them hills in the Dakotas? Well, shit, who knew? No need to waste precious metals on the Injuns and all. We’ll just barge right in and mine away. Fuck the legal documents and all.

Another case is Buffalo and large swaths of upstate New York. Guess who technically owns all of that land? Yep, a group of Native Americans. (It’s a booby prize, to be sure, but it’s still their’s fair and square.) Where do all the Americans who want Israel to go away stand on this “occupation?” Why are we not protesting that Buffalo should be returned to the people who have a signed treaty saying it is theirs? Maybe the Oneidas, the rightful owners, the people who were there first, should start sending in suicide bombers. It seems that those who oppose Israel find any means to rid Palestine of its occupiers to be legitimate. Why shouldn’t the Native Americans get to use the same tactics to get rid of us?

I am not saying that every Israeli policy is OK because that is absolutely not the case. I am, however, saying that Israelis are no more an occupying force than your average American. If you are American and you want Israel dismantled and returned to Palestine, then you better be willing to put your own home and life in the same place when the Native Americans make their claims.

Something Important to Me (A Serious Post)

My online friend Erin at Queen of Spain recently implored other bloggers to write about something that is important to them. I'm sitting in the airport in LA watching TV and all that is on are stories about the situation in Israel. I am scared. I don't know what will happen. I know that Israel is not perfect, and I do not agree with many of their policies, but I have been there twice now and I find most Israelis to be interested in sharing the land; they will support a two state solution. I think about my family. My dad was born in the Ural mountains in Russia in 1946 to two Holocaust survivors. They went to Warsaw not long after my dad was born to look for my grandfather's family. There was no one left. Not one sister (of six), not one niece or nephew, not one brother-in-law (although recently I found that one did live and I made contact with his family in Israel and Paris; they are wonderful). Not one friend. I think about what I would do if I lost every single person I ever loved. It is utterly overwhelming to me. (I have been thinking about writing about my family for a long time now, thanks to the encouragement of Eddie. Both Erin and Eddie are right, and I will do so in more depth this week.)

My grandparents and my dad lived in displaced persons' camps for five years. They thought they would go to Israel. No one else wanted them; no one wanted more Jews.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Jews really did cease to exist. Who would be scapegoated in our place?

There are Good People in the World

I trucked my ass out to California for a mere two days to attend a team retreat. The evil bitch who "facilitated" the sessions called me outside on our break this morning to chastise me about "dominating" the conversation "with issues that no one wants to hear about." My initial reaction was to leave for a bit and sit on a curb nearby while sobbing to Husband on my cell phone. My second response was, What the fuck is her problem? If you are supposed to facilitate a discussion, there are significantly better ways to deal with a overeager participator than to wait until after the session is over and rhetorically slap her hand. Perhaps saying something along the lines of "thanks for all our thoughts, but time is running short and we need to move on" or "Why don't we table these issues for the afternoon session?" Then again, this is the same cunt who emailed the team and explained in her email how to respond to it. (She suggested that we hit "reply to" and then after we fill in the information she requested, hit "send." See June 30 for a discussion on that little episode.) I should not have been surprised.

After all that, I was pretty damn tired. Yet I still faced a short flight to LA from San Francisco and then an overnight flight home. (Thankfully, Husband was able to use his frequent flyer benefits to upgrade me to business class.) On the flight to LA, I sat next to a very nice woman who chatted with me about a variety of issues facing the world. She knew that I had a red eye to NYC from LA, and when we arrived in LA two hours later, she invited me to join her at the Admirals' Club, where she thought I'd be more comfortable waiting. She herself had only a few minutes between flights, but once she got me in, I can stay as long as I like. I am very touched by her thoughtfulness. Not everyone is an incompetent shithead, which is a nice way to begin the weekend.

And speaking of beginning the weekend, I am off to the Jersey Shore for a week once I get back. Husband decided to model his 30th birthday celebration after Malcom Forbes. When Malcom turned 80, he rented an island off Morocco and flew about a thousand of his dearest friends out there on private jets for a week long fete. Not quite being of these means yet, Husband rented a house in Ocean City that can accommodate 16 people comfortable and invited all our pals. I am looking forward to a week of mini golf and frozen custard on the boardwalk. The only downside is a lack of internet access. The house has two kitchens and two barbecues, but is not wired. The only place officially offering wifi is, uh, McDonald's. I guess I'll be eating a lot of fruit and yogurt parfaits this week...

It Ain't No Rose Garden Either Way

Upon further reflection, one thing said during the Great Crotch Debate of May 2006 strikes me as the opposite of what I would expect in real life: the charge that women with bush have smelly snatch. When I cut my hair short, I noticed that I actually am more sweaty and disgusting when I work out than when I had longer hair. I decided (and other women with short hair, like Count Mockula, have backed me up on this) that my hair used to absorb a lot of my sweat, thus leaving me drier. In those terms, women with more head hair probably smell more because they have nasty hair versus those of us whose sweat is freer to evaporate. Or something.

This hair as an odor absorber theory logically also applies to poon. I mentioned it to a trusted colleague who regularly undergoes the torture of Brazilian waxes. She said that she personally believed that waxing makes cootie aroma stronger for exactly that reason: the hair did not absorb the smells. My source even swore that right after she got waxed, she could smell herself through her clothes, and she even showers twice a day. Let me say right now that I do not shower more than once a day (or every other day if I don’t hit the gym) and I pretty much have never been able to sniff the scents of my own crotch through my clothes.

As I have insisted again and again, the beaver’s fur serves a purpose. There’s nothing like an unbiased case study to demonstrate the benefits of unshaved snatch!

The Great Down Under Land Use Debate

While nowhere near as explosive as the Great Blow-Job Debate of June 2006 (read more about it at One Good Thing and I Blame the Patriarchy; a nice summary of the arguments can be found at Broadsheet if you don’t have time to read over 250 comments and responses) the Great Crotch Debate of May 2006 is nearer and dearer to my heart.* And also funnier.

The debate was opened by a controversial (and highly amusing) post by Red Stapler:

I keep finding posts that mention bikini - or as I prefer to call it - crotch - waxing. It is normally something I prefer not to think about. But it is something that women just mention in passing now "Oh, yeah, got my crotch waxed."

…How did this become acceptable? How did a large portion of the American public start to think it was necessary for women to undergo this torture to be sexually attractive?

And it IS torture. Come on. If we found out that prisoners were having hot wax poured on their privates and having their pubic hair ripped out by the roots, the response would be "Call Amnesty International! Call the UN! It must be stopped!"

Women themselves are asking for it. But why? What bizarre women-hating qualities of our culture are playing themselves out in this practice? Is there anything, anything, comparably painful that men do to make themselves attractive to women?

This inspired 30 comments (including a rah-rah one from yours truly) and a rousing (and equally witty) defense by Queen of Spain and Her Royal Family:

I can't fathom not shaving. Or waxing. Or at the very least...trimming...Talk about smelly... Sure there are those times in life (like when you are 8 months pregnant, horribly ill, have broken hands, or 7 children) where going "jungle" is allowed... Other than those rare occasions, do everyone a favor and at least trim. Seriously. I can smell your last period...

And here is a little secret, in case you weren't in the "know." Bald or very close shave down there-helps you orgasm faster. Easy access, baby.

…Those of us who do keep ourselves trimmed, runwayed, bald, etc. are not just doing it for our men. Or women. Or significant other…We like it... No really. We LIKE IT... I'm not saying I like it like I like chocolate or anything. I'm just saying I like it clean and neat like I like my toes pedicured during sandal season. Or I like a good exfoliant. Or I like highlights (on my head there gutter-brain).

This inspired 41 comments (including a rather persnickety one from me).

While Sister Wolf at Godammit, I’m Mad! was not directly engaged in the Great Crotch Debate of May 2006, she did add to the controversy in June with this priceless commentary:

Men love our bodies, but they must first overcome their fear and loathing of our V area, which in the adult woman is covered with hair. Eeow, get rid of that hair, it’s too scary! If we wax it off for you, though, it will look like a child’s V area, which is harmless. Not only that, a waxed V area is naked in a sad, vulnerable kind of way, like a sheared lamb…Finally, there is female armpit hair, the scariest sight you can impose upon any man in the Western hemisphere. If you’re a woman with unshaven armpits, you are a woman with THREE PUSSIES, and few men are up to that challenge.

If her clever theory, which I am calling the Bermuda Triangle of Unshaved Women, does not become a part of Women’s Studies 101, there is no justice in the world.

At any rate, Arse Poetica recently brought politics into the hairy debate, quoting a Salon.com article about a recent auction at the Safari Club in which Tom DeLay served as the auctioneer and:

…pitched a sheared beaver pelt vest by asking, "Who wants a beaver?" Then he declared: "Everybody likes beaver, even women." On a roll, DeLay then said -- depending on whom you ask -- that "the best thing" about the vest is that it's either "a sheared beaver" or "a shaved beaver."

Her conclusion:

The Repugs give nary a thought to those outside their circle, do they? They just roll along, crass and crude, bigoted, piggish, braying about this and that, and no one calls them on it. Let a Democrat say this. Oh, please! Dobson, Falwell, Robertson, and that other one, what's-his-name, Tony-something, the shiny one, will fall over each other to proclaim their offense on behalf of the children, bemoan the obvious hating of Murka, apple pie, and mom that it implies, and self-righteously shudder w/ disgust at the sick, sick depravity of it all. Mm hmm.
Having said that, I'd want to kick any Dumbocrats ass who said this, too. That's not my point. My point is this: Shut the hell up, assholes. We've had enough braying and bloviating for this lifetime. Keep your lame, gimp-along titillation to yourselves. And P.S., your entendres are too feeble even to qualify as doubles. Feh.

Sure, the comments on Red Stapler, The Queen of Spain, and Godammit may be hilarious to some and cringe-inducing to others, but shaved beaver jokes are never, ever funny when made by slimy politicians. They are just creepy.

In conclusion, here’s a twisted, but entirely true, cautionary tale about shaved and unshaved snatch. John Ruskin, an English writer and art critic at the height of the Victorian era, was shocked into abstinence by the sight of his wife’s pubic hair on their wedding night. After five years, his wife had their marriage annulled on grounds of non-consummation. Fifteen years later Ruskin became friendly with Lewis Carroll at Oxford. According to wikipedia.com, “after the parting of Carroll and Alice Liddell, she and her sisters pursued a similar relationship with Ruskin, as detailed in Ruskin's autobiography Praeterita.” At the same time, Ruskin fell deeply in love a girl only nine years old. She rejected him when she turned 18. At the end of the day, Ruskin became a frequent masturbator, kept a diary of his sex dreams, and nearly went mad from his self-imposed sexual repression. He died a virgin.

This post also appears at BlogHer.

Wait Until Next Week

Reader’s choice voting was supposed to start today for the memoir contest at The Memoirists Collective. Unfortunately, some people either did not hear about the contest in a timely fashion, or they are morons who cannot prepare things on a deadline. (Something the publishers might want to consider, no?)

I know that the Collective’s goal is to foster relationships between writers and that I am not writing this in the spirit of supporting others, but I really hate people who can’t get shit done in time. It’s called being prepared, people! Get with the fucking picture! This always browned me off in college in particular. Professors always hand out syllables at the beginning of the semester telling people at what point papers are due. Hence, I would prepare the paper and be ready to hand it in as required. And yet there were inevitably several students who whine and bitch and moan about not having enough time to do the paper (as if I didn’t have other shit to do, too) and then the lame ass professors would grant people an extension instead of failing them as they deserved.

I hate people because they tend to disappoint so frequently.

Ballsy Parkers

Sunday evening, Husband and I went to a 40th birthday party in Prospect Park, which is the Central Park of Brooklyn. (It was even designed by the same person, Frederick law Olmstead, who incidentally, also designed the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, an event of which I am slightly obsessed.) The birthday boy’s wife had reserved a pavilion in the park, so come rain or shine, the party could go on uninterrupted. It was a gorgeous day in a beautiful place, which could have made for a perfect party.

The only set back for a party of this type is the other people in the park who are not invited to the party. Damn, people have fucking balls. Husband and I stood with our mouths agape as several random people wandered in and asked for food. I am not talking about homeless people, either. I am talking about a woman who had been playing with her kids nearby, then noticed the balloons and went up to the birthday boy and asked if she could take “some pastries,” meaning the cake that had not yet been cut. When our friend explained that she could take some after the guests had been served, she stomped off, pissed at his “rudeness.”

Not five minutes later, another woman wandered in. She started to ask for cake, and when our friend again began to say “no, not yet,” she went ballistic, calling him a fucking asshole and fucking this and that. As she stormed out of the pavilion, she was yelling at other guests that when she had her daughter’s birthday party there earlier this year, she gave strangers the leftovers and she didn’t understand how we were so selfish. Of course, that is exactly what our friend had been about to offer if she had bothered to listen to what he was saying.

The point of this story goes to my little blurby about being a humanist misanthrope. Months ago, when some nut job was leaving nasty, but very mockable, comments on CUSS, she wondered how one could simultaneous like and loathe people. This is a perfect example.

Eulogy for a Beloved Cell Phone

Until this morning, I belonged to a special group of semi-Luddites who were proud owners and users of Motorola StarTac telephones. Surely you remember this brilliant piece of technology? According to the Integrated Electronics Engineering Center, it was the smallest cell phone available as of 1996. Still don’t remember? Thanks to about.com, here’s a visual reminder. Isn’t it beautiful? Sigh.

What I love best about my StarTac, which my husband bought for me in 1999 (or possibly 1998), is that it is a phone. It made calls, it remembered phone numbers and took messages for me, and it tracked some incoming and outgoing calls. My StarTac also had ample room for Power Puff Girl stickers. Of course, the most important feature is that it was reliable. These things are all I need from a phone. This phone makes me swoon.

All love affairs are doomed to a sad conclusion, and thus my love for my StarTac phone has met a tragic end. It did not die, but was wrenched away from my loving hands and ears by a cruel enemy determined to crush all that is good in the world. Thanks to the Bush administration’s love of spying on American citizens, I was forced into getting a new “improved” phone. The FCC passed a rule that no new service could be given to phones without GPS capability “in the event of a 911 call.” (As if that is the only time the government would want to track me. Whatever.) Alas, my trusty, loyal 1999 StarTac does not perform this magic trick.

When I went to get a better calling plan, the nice people at Verizon explained to me that it would not be possible to keep my beloved if I made any changes to my existing plan because of this tyrannical rule. I decided that I would keep my old phone and just suffer with my crappy plan. The people at Verizon told me that sometime in 2007, the FCC is forcing them to drop all customers who are not trackable – er, I mean, helpable in an emergency. So I bit the bullet and laid my friend to rest. My new phone can take pictures and give me directions if I get lost on my way somewhere. I can text message, which I loathe. (Note: do not text message me if you want me to reply to you.) It probably also plays music. It has a speaker phone. Big fucking deal. I want my StarTac.

Brings a fuckin’ tear to my eye, to think of it lying mute on my nightstand. Rest well, my little black folded, friend. You deserve it.

Free the Cheeks and the Circulation Will Follow

As demonstrated time and time again by Theo (skim through December for more pictures/proof if you must), most of underwear has elastic bands around the legs. Unfortunately, my ass and thighs grew exponentially over the past month or so. Who knew that eating tons and tons of crap due to stress would result in an increase in assage and thick thighs?

The consequence of my chipmunk (ass) cheeks and thunder thighs is that the leg bands on my drawers are cutting off my circulation. Even grosser (and thus more importantly), it is creating assne. I created a few escape valves by strategically cutting into the leg band stitching. Yes, this is what it has come to folks, but it works and is cheaper than buying all new skivvies.

Always Look a Gift Card in the Mouth

The living room and dining room at my parents’ house form an L shape. One afternoon, as I was sitting on the lovely rust-colored sectional sofa that my parents bought in the late ‘70s (not long after which my friend Stacie convinced me that jumping on it would be fun, and thus the springs in the fold-our bed were immediately busted) when they planned to redo the living room in “earth tones,” my dad was sitting at the end of the dining room table looking over the gifts he received at his 60th birthday party.

“Come here,” he beckoned me, “I want to give you something.”

“I’m sitting a foot away from you. What is it?” I replied sullenly.

“It’s a $30 gift certificate to Border’s,” he said.

“Dad!” I was touched, but a bit mortified. “Don’t give me your gifts! I appreciate it, but you should use it for yourself! Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

“Take it! I don’t read,” he insisted.

“They sell DVDs. You can get something to watch.”

“Take it!” He walked toward me on the dark brown carpet that seamlessly covered both rooms. “Plus your mom has a $10 gift certificate to Borders, too. She only gets books from the library.”

“Take them,” my mom shouted from the kitchen, which sat in the center of the L, separated by a wall.

I thanked them profusely and promised to put them to good use. However, it turns out that my dad really doesn’t read and neither do I.

When I returned to New York, I went to Borders to buy the book my book club selected (Sybil, the book about the woman with multiple personalities), and while I was there, I also picked up Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell (about a summer she spent driving to sites related to the four successful presidential assassinations in the US – a hilarious idea), Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer (about fundamentalist Mormons who kill a family member and insist that God told them to do so), and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt (another true crime book, although with charmingly quirky people in it, not religious zealots.) These books were a buy-two-get-one-free deal, so all four books would be covered by my $40 gift cards. Good stuff.

I brought them to the cheerful gay cashier who rang me up and entered me in the bonus points system. The total came to $40.03. Perfect! I gave him the two gift cards.

“Uh, this one is for Barnes & Noble, not us,” he said kindly.

“Huh? What? My dad said it was for Borders,” I mumbled stupidly. I picked up the card and squinted at it. Indeed it said Barnes & Noble. Ooops.

CUSS: 500 Posts and Why I am Attending BlogHer '06

When I started writing at the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants 500 posts ago (Why the world needs pubic hair), I didn’t know shit about html. Obviously, I still barely know shit, as I have yet to figure out how to fix my lack of site feed success and a whole host of other things that I want to be able to do. It got to the point where I considered buying a book about blogging using Blogger. That is pretty fucking pathetic.

For this reason and more, I am super excited to go to BlogHer ‘06, the best damn women bloggers’ conference around. There is a button on the sidebar of CUSS that promotes BlogHer ‘06. It does not work if you click on it because, no matter how many times the nice BlogHer editors explained what I needed to do to make it link back to the BlogHer ‘06 site, I did not do it right. So first, I am going to try and learn some actual technical skills, such as how to make buttons work. This will be very exciting.

Second, and probably more important, I am going to actually meet some of the best bloggers in person. Bloggers who seriously crack me up. Bloggers who make me think a bit harder about the state of the world. Generally, I hate conferences because I have unreliable social skills. In the right situation, I am super friendly and chatty and will have a grand ol’ time with the crowd. In the not right situation, the social skills malfunction and I wind up standing in a corner by myself feeling stupid.

When I registered for BlogHer ‘06, I was more than a wee bit nervous that I would fly all the way out to San Jose and wind up in a corner by myself. While I could save money and do this at home, I hoped for the best, and figured that I’d at least get about 8,000 air miles out of it, so why not? The conference is in about 3 weeks, and I think it will be great. Come join us if you can.

The Curious Incident of the Underwear in the Evening

Picture it: New York City, 2006. On a perfect evening filled with sunshine and cool breezes, a not-so-young woman leaves work after a long day of strategizing public policy and griping. When she finally arrives at her homey, messy apartment, she wants nothing more than to take a nap. But duty calls (I said doodie – ha ha ha), and she gives a big orange carrot to her hungry 12.5 lb. rabbit, then races about to gather paperwork to meet The Explorer and the Co-Coordinator and get a new cellvphone for the volunteer organization they oversee. She wants to change from her cute multi-patterned knee-length skirt that she bought in Israel (and the navy boxers with penguins on them to prevent chub rub on her flabby thighs) into a pair of jeans. That is when it all falls apart.

You see, the not-so-young woman put on a pair of granny underpants that morning that were perfect with her skirt. Yet these same ginormous underwear are too big for jeans. They hang out over the top, which actually was a problem with all her undies when she first started wearing low rise jeans until she modernized her underwear a bit and stopped wearing pairs she had when she weighed 40 additional pounds. But I digress… In this situation, the not-so-young woman was wearing a new fancy pair of granny pants that she had purchased to avoid a divided gutline on skirts with higher waists and dresses. She did not know what to do and after putting on pair after pair and casting them aside, she hysterically reclothed herself in the skirt (and boxers) she wore to work, and headed out the door, forgetting the important paperwork for the meeting in her rush.

When she explained that she left the paperwork on her dining room table instead of putting it in her backpack because she was having a nervous breakdown due to her underwear, the Co-Coordinator and the Explorer stared at her as if she was on crack. “Um,” they suggested, “Why didn’t you just change your underwear?”

The not-so-young woman sighed. “Because I hadn’t worn this pair enough. It was not the proper time to change my underwear.” She answered as if it were a logical and normal conclusion that her friends should have reached.

“How many pairs of underwear do you have?” they asked, squinting at her quizzically. They had the correct impression that she had tons of underwear and should not hoard them for fear of running low.

They were correct, but the not-so-young woman explained that she did not like to unnecessarily generate extra laundry and thus had a rule that underwear should be worn for a full day or unless they were rendered too sweaty by activity, such as going to they gym.

The Explorer and the Co-Coordinator laughed and laughed and hugged the young woman and told her she was hilarious. Later, Dr. P arrived and had the same reaction to the story. It was suggested by all that it was blog-worthy, and she agreed. Two days later, she adopted the Sophia Petrillo narration devise and amused herself to no end while retelling the saga.

The "Stomach Butt" Blues

Lucky Brand jeans tend to fit curvy women like myself in a very flattering manner. As Steph noted some time ago, the jeans have a front panel practically made of Kevlar, and the lower gut jut is more or less eliminated as a result. However, I find their prices totally unreasonable (I think their cheapest pairs are $76! Gut jut reduction comes at a price.) Fortunately, the Lucky Brand store is currently having their biannual 50% off sale, plus an additional 25% off the sale price. Since there were potential bargains to be had, I decided to poke my head in the store on Saturday morning and see what deals I might unroot.

I tried on a couple of pairs of jeans. One was way too tight, resulting in the dreaded “stomach butt.” “Stomach butt” is my term for the unfortunate reaction that my body has to jeans that are too tight. Basically, as the jeans smoosh my gut together, a “crack” appears as the result of the two folds of fat meeting in the front. It looks like a butt. Charming, isn’t it? Sorry, no pictures available….

Vote Democratic to Save Furry Beavers

Yet another reason to hate Republicans. As always, they stand for everything that is evil and against all that is good, including the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch:

Serving as a celebrity auctioneer for the Safari Club, DeLay pitched a sheared beaver pelt vest by asking, "Who wants a beaver?" Then he declared: "Everybody likes beaver, even women." On a roll, DeLay then said -- depending on whom you ask -- that "the best thing" about the vest is that it's either "a sheared beaver" or "a shaved beaver."

Looking out at North Carolina Sen. Richard Burr, DeLay said, "Sen. Burr, they don’t have beaver like this down in North Carolina."

DeLay's daughter said her father was simply selling the item that needed to be sold. He "could have made a joke about a shaved zebra, but that’s not what the item was," she said. "It was what it was."

(Thanks to Arse Poetica, who found this tasty morsel on Salon.com)

When Bad Things Happen to Good Feet

My feet were the victims of two bad shoe choices made over a few weeks ago. Incident #1 occurred when I wore the pair of Privo comfort shoes below: Like many new pairs of shoes, they needed to be broken in to be fully wearable. However, I wore them for the first time when I went on what I considered a short walk across the park to meet Dr. P and Husband for dinner. By the time I got there 45 minutes later, the backs of my heels were gushing bloody messes. Fortunately, Dr. P was able to dress my wounds by expertly applying bandages after I purchased a box at a convenience store near the restaurant. Unfortunately, the restaurant ran out of my favorite dish by the time we sat down.

After enough time elapsed that the holes in my heels healed sufficiently, Incident #2 happened. I wore a pair of Franco Sarto loafers (below) to a conference.I wore these shoes gazillions of times over the eons (5 years) that I owned them, and they never bothered me, even when I wore only toe socks with them and not stockings. They must have been possessed by evil spirits three weeks ago because they ate a huge swath of skin off the side of my foot. Oh, it made the stigmata in my heels feel like a picnic in the park.

The point of all this is that I had an argument with Husband about how to best heal the all wounds on my foot. Husband insisted that I must liberally apply Neosporin (which he believes cures everything from holes in one’s body to sore throats) and cover it with a bandage. My plan was to dry everything out in the fresh air while I slept. He explained that I’d get an infection under my scenario because, “Bacteria says, ‘Knock, knock, knock,’ and the Band-Aid says, ‘Go the fuck away.’ The Neosporin gives the Band-Aid confidence; otherwise it would not talk smack to the bacteria.” As convincing as that argument was, I let it air out. Finally, after buying a pair of flip flops and a pair of awesome pink backless shoes that I got for 1/2 off because any other shoes hurt too much to wear, the injuries healed. I could wear regular shoes again.

Yesterday morning, I tried wearing the Privos again. It started out well, but by the time I arrived at the subway, the rubbing was bad. (I did think ahead, though, and brought the pink shoes with me just in case.) As I was cursing the waste of money these things turned out to be, I noticed a woman enter the station through the turnstyle. She was wearing super high, super thin heels that ended in a little point. I marveled at her ability to walk in them. Then she fell down the stairs, catching herself just before she tumbled completely head over high heels. Twice. Embarrassed, she explained to the (mostly male) onlookers that her shoes had just been resoled and she was not used to walking on them. No one looked convinced.

A similar heart attack-inducing incident took place while I was out with Future Sister-in-Law (FSIL) last month. The extra long pointy toe of her shoes got caught in the hem of her extra long pants, causing her to fall down the stairs while I looked on helplessly. As the idiotic trend for super long pants continues, these incidents can happen to anyone. However, there is no need for women to tempt the gods of tripping any further by wearing such ridiculous high heeled and/or pointy-toed shoes.

The morals of these stories are: a) Husband cracks me up and I adore him, and b) I do not understand how women can constantly endanger themselves by wearing pointy-toed high heels that squeeze their feet constantly and cause them to fall down stairs. It is silly to go out of your way to buy uncomfortable footwear when you can have a perfectly miserable experience in something sensible!

Mental Help Sought

This evening I received a friend request from Tammy the Tampon on MySpace. What disturbs me about this event is not that Tammy the Tampon felt that I would be a suitable friend, but that when I read the email, I actually hesitated and thought to myself, “Hmmmm… I better find out just what kind of tampon this Tammy is before I accept its offer of friendship. Is it a used tampon? Does it have an applicator? What volume can it consume?”

I need more sleep.

Blink and You'd Have Missed the Flash

On Monday, my sister showed me a bridesmaid’s dress that she will wear to a wedding in August. The top was a halter top, and it was cut very low on the sides, exposing my sister’s bra. She thought a new bra would help, and I suggested that we go to the infamous Schartz Intimate Apparel, which has what is possibly the worst website in the history of websites. Schwartz’s is a family business that has been outfitting the boobs of the Chicago suburbs for ages. Generally, my sister loathes going there. She insists that the saleslady, who are typically in their 50s and 60s, purposely feel her up. However, this was a special situation and she agreed that it was her best bet for finding something that would look decent with the top.

When we arrived, I decided that I should buy some new bras as well. I was somehow convinced to buy a ridiculously tight $64 Chantelle bra. I admit that I was dazzled by the bra’s flexibility. The straps could be worn regular bra style, halter strap style, or criss-crossed. While I never seem to need these alternate bra strap styles, I decided that I would save money by buying this magical contraption now, and thus if the need ever arose, I would not have to run out and buy yet another bra. I also bought a less fancy model that was on sale.

The logic of my decision wore off after we left the store, especially when my ribs began hurting when I wore it for a few hours the next day. On Wednesday, I went back to Schwartz’s with my mom to return it. The saleswoman asked me if there was anything I would like to exchange it for, and I decided that I wanted another bra like the one I was wearing, which was the one that I bought on sale on Monday. While standing by the check out counter, I lifted up my shirt. “This one is great. Do you have any more?” I asked. My mom was mortified. “I can’t believe you just lifted your shirt up in the middle of the store!!!” The saleswoman was totally unfazed, though, as were the other patrons. “That style is still on sale. I’ll get you one in beige,” she said and hustled off, and a female customer noted, “We’re all women here – it’s nothing new.”

There was real camaraderie in that moment.

Overheard in My Parents' Basement

My mom, granny, and I were using the computer in my parents' basement. My granny was buying a pair of house slippers from nordstrom.com, so they peered over my shoulder as I went through the shopping process. As we were checking out, the toilet in the bathroom down the short hallway flushed and my bubbe emeerged moments later.

"That took three seconds," Granny commented, staring at the monitor.

"That's because she does not wash her hands," my mom explained.

"I know," Granny replied, still focusing on the computer screen.

Overheard in My Parents' Living Room

My mom was leaning on the partition next to the front door in the foyer.

"Are you doing your kugels*?" my grandmother asked from across the living room.

"Yes, I am doing my kegels," my mom calmly replied.

My bubbe leaned conspiratorially towards my granny and me on the couch. In a hushed voice, she said, "You know, there are many kinds of kugels. There are potato kugels, raisin kugels..."

*For those of you unfamiliar with Eastern European Jewish cuisine, a kugel is a casserole, typically made out of noodles, aka noodle pudding. It is delicious.

More Family Fun, July 4th/Birthday/Anniversary Edition

Today began with a colorful bang when at 1 am I woke up and threw up the fried feast I ingested at the Taste of Chicago. (I shared: saganaki, beer-battered artichoke hearts, a sweet potato biscuit, a piece of turtle candy, seedless watermelon, Eli's frozen chocolate chip cheesecake crunch dipper, pierogies, beignets, blue raspberry Italian ice, garlic-mozzarella cheese bread, boneless rib snadwich, pad Thai noodles, Spumoni ice cream, and hummus and a grape leaf. Husband and I remembered the days when we each kicked off the taste with a piece frozen cheesecake and ended it with a piece of frozen cheesecake...) By 10:30, we were at my aunt's house for brunch to celebrate my granny's birthday for the first time today. (My sister and brother-in-law were leaving and thus missing dinner, which will be at the ever classy Olive Garden, which my granny chose.)

After my aunt served red velvet cake birthday cake, which my mom could not understand ("Did you add food coloring? Why is it red?" she asked repeatedly until my aunt finally yelled that it was Betty Crocker and came that way), it was time for the card exchange. Not only were birthday cards given to Granny, but also anniversary cards to Husband and I, anniversary cards to Sister and Brother-in-Law (3 years on July 7), and birthday cards to Husband (30 years old on July 17). Granny went first. As she struggled to open the envelope of my mom's card, she began mumbling about why anyone would want to seal an envelope.

"You should just tuck it in," she muttered.

"What, are we talking about drag queens?" Husband querried.

Next Granny opened my aunt's card to her. "Ooooh, this is beatiful!" she exclaimed. Then she flipped the card over. "How much was it?"

"It's not a Hallmark card," my aunt helpfully noted.

Justin received a birthday card from my aunt, uncle, and cousin that said on the outside, "Birthdays are like boogers." On the inside, "The more you have, the harder it is to breathe." This prompted my sister to tilt her head back and insist that the sinus surgery she had in April enable people to look up her nose and into her brain. My mom said it was too dark in the dining room and she'd have to look again when we got outside.

More cards were opened. "Show us yours," my aunt requested. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine," my mom replied.

Yes, I am looking forward to dinner.

Happy 4th of July, But Only to Those Americans Who Actually Understand What Freedom Means

Don’t you just love the Republicans? In their eyes, it is not an insult to democracy or the American way to have the chairperson of Diebold, the largest manufacturer of electronic voting machines at the time of 2004 presidential elections, send letters to Republicans promising to deliver the election to them? OK, I concede that election fraud actually has a long and proud tradition in this country, but still. These people fucking piss on voters’ faces and then have the gall to try to ban flag burning as “unpatriotic.” (And don’t even get me started on that stupid, fucking whore Hilary Clinton…)

Here’s my message to these “patriots:” suck my big fat dick. Yes, that is a traditional American activity, isn’t it?

On a less hostile note, have a great 4th of July! And happy birthday to my granny! If she ain’t an American original, I don’t know what is!

"C" is for Cursing

Yesterday Husband and I went to Chicago. We had an early morning flight, and to celebrate our anniversary, we wore our wedding clothes. Since the big day six years ago, husband lost about 40 lbs and I lost about 10. When Husband removed his tux jacket, he looked like he was wearing clown pants. You could stuff kilos of drugs down those things, and yet no one from the TSA said a word. Yes, I feel very safe flying. We learned that people at airports at 6 am on holiday weekends are very, very hostile and angry. Almost no one even looked at us as we wandered to our gate in a wedding gown, veil, and tux.

When my parents picked us up, they gave us some warnings about things that changed at their house since we had last been there in December. For example, if you want to flush the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, it is essential to be sure that there is no one sitting on the toilet in the doenstairs bathroom, or else they will be douched by a shit/piss geyser. My dad insisted the plumbing is fine, and he just needs to plunge the upstairs toilet. The obvious next quetion is why did this not happen before they had guests, but whatever. That is how it goes with Jewish white trash. Better not to ask. They also have an old computer with a dial up connection to AOL that is so slow that Blogger can't load. Needless to say, I won't be online very frequently in the next few days. (I'm impinging on the generosity of a friend to write this up.)

At night, we went to a belated 60th birthday party for my dad. During dessert, my mom asked if anyone wanted the frosting flowers from her piece of cake by shouting, "Anyone want my flowers?" Of course, sister and I cracked up. In a mocking voice, my sister asked if her teddy bears and butter biscuit were also up for grabs. "Teddy bears" and butter biscuits" is my grandmother's special slang for "breasts" and "vaginas." My grandmother was mortified that Dana would say such vile things in public, as if anyone else had a clue as to what she was talking about. My mom turned to my grandma and baited her, saying, "Don't act all innocent. You go around saying the c-word."

"C word? You mean cunt?" Granny got a gleam in her eye. "Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt," she chanted softly for several minutes. This caused my cousin to excitedly raise her fist in victory. "It's like Thanksgiving 2005 all over again!"

And thus a good time was had by all.