Celebrating, Suzanne-Style

In an effort to dilute my nervousness about game 6 of the National League Conference Series, I decided that I should watch it surrounded by other people in a bar. Thus I set out for a place near Dr. H’s apartment, so that she could join me for game watching and then get home quickly so that she could sleep and be a chipper, refreshed person in the morning, ready to cure all sorts of female medical ailments.

Upon arrival at the bar with another friend, I decided to purchase beverages that might slake our thirst. My friend wanted a seltzer with lime, and I knew that the Elixir of Life (aka Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi) would be a perfect way for me to drown my worries. I sauntered up to the bar, and casually ordered. The bartender and I joked about how I was hitting the juice hard tonight, and he might have to cut me off if I wanted more.

Later, Dr. H approached the bar and coolly asked “what’s on tap?,” a question she has always wanted to ask. (Yes, we really live it up!) As soon as she heard cider was one of the options, she chose it. The bartender said that he didn’t want to offend her, but he would need to see some ID. She proudly whipped it out and said she was flattered to oblige. When she relayed the story to us, I bemoaned how my youthful looks had disappeared, and bitterly noted that the bartender sure as hell didn’t ask me for ID when I ordered not one, but two drinks.

“Um, Suzanne? You ordered a seltzer and Diet Coke. There was no reason to ID you!” our practical (and also young-looking) companion reminded me.

Right.

First Anniversary of CUSS!

It is hard for me to believe, but today is the first anniversary of the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants! I am thinking that a celebration is in order. Perhaps a Cookie Puss shall be consumed in honor of the occasion…

In all seriousness, blogging has been a fantastic experience for me. Sure, when I was a newbie, I made some mistakes with nettiquette, which I regret a bit. (Although I still believe that people who make inane statements in The New York Post are fair game, ripe for mockery.) Despite my little slip up (and even almost due to it), I made wonderful new friends (see links on the sidebar to meet a few of them), explored new ideas with people I would not otherwise know, and entertained at least myself if no one else. It’s been fun. Reflecting on the past year brings a fuckin’ tear to my eye. Actually, no joke - I am choking up thinking about it, mostly because of the awesome people CUSS has brought into my life.

Before I go completely cheese-tastic, I want to take a few minute to repost the mini rant that kicked off the Campaign on Oct. 19, 2005:

Why the world needs pubic hair

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

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

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

Let's face it: female genitals got the nicknames pussy and beaver because they are furry. And who wants a hairless cat? No one. Having a hairless cat doesn't even help if you are allergic to cats since the problem is with the dander, not fur. Feline pussies with fur are nice to stroke. Hairless cats are freaky. The same goes for human pussies and beavers, my friends.
posted by Suzanne @ 10:20 PM 0 comments links to this post

Thus it began. Thanks for joining me, and I can’t wait to see what happens and who I meet in my second year of blogging! Now excuse me while I wipe away the fuckin' tear forming in the corner of my insomniac eye...)

The Big News

My usual modus operandi is, “No good deed goes unpunished,” which I learned from a mentor when I interned in Illinois state government over summer break in college and usually is perfect for any situation. Thus when I cleaned out the refrigerator yesterday (which Husband had been pestering me to do since this summer), while he gallivants around Europe, eating at four star Michelin restaurants with clients and kicking it back in luxury hotels after his meetings, I expected a reward along the lines of the Mets playing like shit and fucking up game 5 of the play-offs. I was not disappointed. (They better get their asses in gear tonight and win, or the whole thing is over and I will be one pissed off bitch. On the other hand, I can console myself by watching CSI on Thursday, which I missed due to baseball for the past two weeks and forgot to record.)

However, I was extremely surprised (and delighted and excited and overjoyed and psyched…) when I received an email yesterday afternoon from a local commuter newspaper editor letting me know that they would like to run an article I submitted to them two weeks ago. The article was about why I didn’t change my name when I got married, and I’ll post a link to their website when it appears. I just signed the contract today (my first paid freelance gig outside of the always wonderful BlogHer), and I also needed to send in a full color picture of me, which inspired my panicky survey. (Thanks for everyone’s feedback!)

Ultimately, I went with the cute youthful picture because I was insanely flattered by Happy and Blue 2’s suggestion that commuters would fantasize about little old me on the subway. This makes me laugh and laugh. Although when I bring it to the scenario’s logical conclusion of subway masturbators, it is not very funny at all. Just creepy.

At any rate, assuming that I will need pictures for future writings (and hopefully not because I continue to do a ton of household cleaning), I will eventually get some sort of professional head shot. (Not the kind that involves subway masturbators, either.) So exciting!!!

Quick, but Vital, Survey

Let's say that you were me and that you were lucky enough to have an article appear in a local newspaper. The editor asks you to send her a full color picture of yourself. Which would you choose?

A) Here I look respectable and have a very nice smile. My eyes appear even. I have nothing stuck in my teeth. This is good. However, I look a bit on the chubby side, which is OK, but I'm not sure that I want New York commuters thinking I weigh 10 lbs more than I do. (I know, very vain.)

B)Here I look young, but extremely cute and not chubby. My teeth look great. On the other hand, I look really fucking young and my eyes are a bit on the Deliverance side of unmatching. I don't want people thinking that I am a youthful idiot, which might drive away other opportunities.

I suspect the answer is A, as the consequences of people believing that I am chubsters are stupid and non-existant, whereas the consequences of being thought of as a dreamy eyed youth are far more serious. Still, I'm open to your thoughts. I want to send this in today, so please vote early and vote often. Thanks!

Life Could Not Be Any More Exciting than This if I Were Gainfully Employed

Practically every day is an opportunity to learn something new, and today is no exception. I learned three important things this afternoon while attempting to clean the refrigerator, which is something that Husband has been nagging me to do since I stopped working full time:

1. There are more removable parts from a refrigerator than would seem possible, and they all need to be wiped down.

2. Do not cook lunch in the microwave right before you begin cleaning the fridge because it will sit there for a very long time before you eat it because you discovered that you need to pull out about 45,000 shelves and trays to clean them individually, and it takes forever.

3. Dust busters can clean crumbs very effectively. (If for some odd reason, you are on a game show or reality show, and they allow you to bring only one household apparatus that cleans, bring a dust buster. Mark my words, you will win the game and the $1,000,000 prize or whatever they are giving away.)

4. DO NOT START FROM THE BOTTOM AND WORK YOUR WAY UP. You’d think this would be obvious, and I apologize if you already know this. But just in case you are as clueless about refrigerator cleaning and also lacking in logic as I am, I think it is worth mentioning that as you clean higher shelves, crap sometimes falls down onto the sparkling clean surface below, forcing you to clean it again.

Here you may be wondering why on earth I did not know these things until this afternoon. The answer is because I was a spoiled child. Not materialistically spoiled, but my parents never made me do any house cleaning, which was very nice of them. At any rate, I am very pleased with the results of my sweat-formulating scrubbing and dust busting. You can practically eat right out of the fridge, it’s so clean…

Vagina Cakes

In preparation for the 1st anniversary of CUSS on Thursday, I searched the internet for some pictures of “vagina cakes.” Damn, people have some nasty imaginations, as well as limited talent producing baked genitals.

According to Urban Dictionary, a site reference many times at CUSS over the last year, “vagina cakes” is actually slang for “the female of the species one would prefer to have sex with, a pretty face, hot but a bit on the chunky side.” I had no idea. See, you learn something new (and sometimes disturbing) every day!

At Kopp’s Bakery, aka The Erotic Bakery, which specializes in “erotic” cakes, this was my favorite cake:The subtitle: “A vagina cake with a pink center for the tasty pussy you want.” Don’t you love the drops of jizz squirting out of it? I could laugh for days at this, although I’m not sure that I’d actually eat it. (FYI, the yummy snatch concept is also available with pubic hair, but no jizz.) Don’t forget the marzipan ladies with hairy cooches “to lick.” Sample item: They do ship worldwide, you know. Slightly more, uh, tastefully done vagina cakes can be ordered at The Erotic Bakery

Needless to say, CUSS friends and family will not be celebrating its first anniversary with any of these products. We will mock them mercilessly, though.

My Frist Time

It’s funny, but I was absent for my first time. I turned 18 in December 1993, a year too late to legally get in on the action. By the time my next chance to put out came around, I was already away at college.

Thus my first voting experience was by absentee ballot. I received a long rectangular ballot on a thin Styrofoam block in the mail. The instructions said to use a sharp object to punch a hole for the candidates for whom I chose to vote. The Styrofoam backing ensured that you punched out the entire chad. (If you don’t bust through the Styrofoam, you didn’t push it in enough.) I sent my form back to Cook County, proud to have taken part in a coming-of-age ritual that people practiced early and often, and with more reliability than the rhythm method.

Now I vote in New York City, a location boasting some of the oldest voting machines in the country with all sorts of levers and pulleys to manipulate to ensure that your vote is recorded. We are way out of compliance with federal laws on updating voting machines to ensure that voting is as easy as the town whore. Sure, with electronic voting machines these days, you have no idea who the machine claims that you really voted for, as many of the companies produced faulty coding on accident or on purpose (Diebold promised a Republican victory in 2004), and you usually can’t print a receipt for the ballot box. But if you don’t vote, you have the right to bitch about how fucked up things are in this country.

Even if you think your vote doesn’t count (and sadly, you are kind of correct), it is important to get out there on election day. Voting is like foreplay. Change won’t come if people don’t try and press the right buttons.