My friend’s sister walked into her office wearing a beaver coat last winter. One of her co-workers saw it and went nuts. He kept waving PETA literature in her face and telling her what a monster she is to kill innocent animals to wear their fur. My friend’s sister tells the guy that he’s a hypocrite because he is wearing leather and also eats hamburgers all the time. Slaughter houses aren’t exactly hotels, you know. The guy defends himself by saying that at least he uses the whole cow. My friend’s sister doesn’t miss a beat. “And how do you know I don’t eat beaver?” she says and walks away.
Later, she tells her family the story over dinner. Her grandmother was very proud of her for standing up to the office ideological bully. “That’s right! You tell the world that you eat beaver!” she beams.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Quick Little Compare and Contrast Quiz
Both models to the left are wearing low rise bikinis from Victoria's Secret. (Theo is representing me with my hairy legs and stuffed look, although he has a much flatter stomach than I do, so some imagination is needed.) Questions:
1. Which model looks sexier?
2. Which model looks more like a regular woman?
3. Why would anyone assume that by buying these underwear, they will look as sexy as the model with the purple shirt?
4. Shouldn't a topless model in only a scarf and underwear look sexier?
Answers:
1. The model with the purple sweater.
2. Theo the Teddy Bear
3. I have no idea, as I understand that I will always look more like a furry fat bear than an airbrushed lingerie model.
4. Yes, but Theo is not airbrushed. He's pretty damn cute, though.
Just Deal with It for the Next 40 Years, OK?
Approximately three weeks before my 12th birthday, I woke up with a stomach ache one morning. Because I disliked many aspects of school and preferred to stay up all hours of the night reading, I frequently woke up with a “stomach ache.” However, this day was different. My sides hurt like hell, and so assuming that a major bought of diarrhea or something was in store for me, I convinced my parents to let me stay home. I went back to bed, hoping it would go away if I out-slept it.
When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?
At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.
“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.
My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.
I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”
“No, I used a tampon.”
“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”
“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.
A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me. I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.) My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”
“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”
My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.
When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?
At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.
“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.
My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.
I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”
“No, I used a tampon.”
“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”
“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.
A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me. I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.) My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”
“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”
My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Virginal My Ass!
I understand that normal brides want to look extra-sexy on their wedding, I really do. However, I do not understand this g-string veil from Victoria’s Secret. Sure, some guys find those sex workers in Thailand who blow smoke rings out of their poons to be exciting, but if you need to crap out a veil to entice your new husband, there are already problems in your marriage. Get an annulment.Or perhaps you are trying to look “modest” or “shy” by wearing a veiled g-string rather than just a g-string. Put on some underwear – an ass veil is just pathetic, if not actually funny.
The best part is – I swear – that this thing plays “Here Comes the Bride.”
These are a Few of My Favorite Undies - St. Eve
My sister and her husband came to visit me and my husband in New York over Memorial Day weekend, and we took them to Century 21 departement store, which is a fun store in lower Manhattan that sells designer (and not-so-designer) stuff at discounts. My sister bought a pair of jeans for $16, which she was pleased with. I bought these underwear that say "I Love Justin" on the ass for $2.99. Basically, I saw them and another pair that I swore said "I Love Anton" as we browsed in the lingerie department. I was surprised and delighted that they had undies that said "I Love Justin," even if I thought Justin and Anton were sort of random names to have. No wonder why they wound up at a discount store, I told my sister. She looked at me oddly and said that the underwear referred to Justin Timberlake. Then I realized that the other undies actually said Ashton, not Anton, which made a lot more sense. Anyway, they are great undies as they provide very full ass coverage. (Note how Theo's entire body basically fits in them.) I wish they were all cotton, but 95% will do. I try not to wear them to the gym, though.The following three pairs of St. Eve underwear I got in the children's department of the Kohl's outlet store in Gurnee Mills Mall in Gurnee, IL. They were a fairly good deal, like 3 for $10.
It's hard to see, but these underwear have three little mice on them. The back says, "lil' troublemaker." The dot over the i is actually a small heart. I think they are hilarious. However, as a children's XL, I admit they are a little lower than I'd like and provide not very good ass coverage. I guess the 12 year olds who normally would wear such cheeky undies don't actually have such large cheeks....
These are cute undies that sort of look like boy's briefs. They have little butterflies on them and say "flutter by..." I'm not sure what that means. Maybe it is a polite message to go the fuck away if you are looking at a 12 year old girl in her underwear. Since I am, in fact, not 12, these underwear are super small on me. I look really horrifying, so I think anyone who sees me in these will be glad to flutter by before their retinas detach. The mice undies are a different cut and thus fit better.
These undies have little hearts on them and a weirdly pleasing color combo of yellow and pink. They are also those cute fake briefs that fit me horribly. Theo looks very nice in them, though.Thanks again to Theo for his skillful modeling services. He has one more upcoming photo shoot, and then he will retire. Future modeling of underwear (including any ridiculous g-strings or thongs that I buy as part of my experiment) will be done by another plush friend-turned-model.
The 3rd Thing I Discovered About Airplane Bathrooms that I Forgot to Mention
I forgot to mention that I also noticed that airplane bathrooms, regardless of what "class" they serve on the plane, have the type of lighting and mirror positioning that allowed me to discover, unhappily, hairs in new places on my chin. Quite upsetting. I am convinced that my chin hair growth is directly tied to my husband's use of Rogaine. Since he frequently neglected to mention that he had it slathered on his head, I would come up to him to cuddle, and subsequently wind up with Rogaine on my chin. He denies that it would do this, but if Rogaine is supposed to stimulate growth in areas where there are hair follicles, then I don't see why it wouldn't turn a minor problem into a much bigger one on my chin. (Think about the implications for other areas! Ha ha ha...) My only consolation is that many of my friends seem to be battling chin hairs, so I'm obviously not a complete freak.
My Return Smells So Sweet
OK, I have once again returned from a whirlwind weekend of travel, which denied me internet access since Thursday, but also led to some important insights into airplane bathrooms (again). I went to Chicago again this weekend, but this time as a long-planned trip to pre-celebrate my 30th birthday. Since I was presenting at a conference in DC on Friday, I had to fly to Chicago from there. My husband flew to Chicago from New York. Since I was not traveling with my husband, I flew in coach. When I used the bathroom on the plane, it stank.
However, on the return flight to Chicago yesterday, my husband used his stockpile of upgrades and we were able to fly in first class. When I used the bathroom, it had a pleasant scented air, and I discovered a small air freshener attached to the door. This made me realize two things:
1. People flying in first class or business class do not have to contend with smelly bathrooms, so with this issue out of the way, it seems more possible to become a member of the mile high club. Perhaps wealthy people or frequent travelers are also more flexible, which would further increase the odds of a bathroom sexual encounter on a plane, although the bathroom is stationed directly across from the prep area used by flight attendants for meals, so I wonder if (hope?) they would stop two people from entering such a tiny room at the same time, especially given that the bathroom was right behind the cockpit.
2. A small air freshener costs less than $1. Why the fuck can’t the major airlines put one in the coach bathrooms? Fucking cheap bastards. ATA must be the airline with the most common decency.
However, on the return flight to Chicago yesterday, my husband used his stockpile of upgrades and we were able to fly in first class. When I used the bathroom, it had a pleasant scented air, and I discovered a small air freshener attached to the door. This made me realize two things:
1. People flying in first class or business class do not have to contend with smelly bathrooms, so with this issue out of the way, it seems more possible to become a member of the mile high club. Perhaps wealthy people or frequent travelers are also more flexible, which would further increase the odds of a bathroom sexual encounter on a plane, although the bathroom is stationed directly across from the prep area used by flight attendants for meals, so I wonder if (hope?) they would stop two people from entering such a tiny room at the same time, especially given that the bathroom was right behind the cockpit.
2. A small air freshener costs less than $1. Why the fuck can’t the major airlines put one in the coach bathrooms? Fucking cheap bastards. ATA must be the airline with the most common decency.
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