A Hair Raising Experience

During a walking tour of haunted Ocean City, my cell phone rang. It was the creepiest part of the tour, as the guide was telling us about how the poltergeist on the second floor of the blinding yellow building we stood in front of was so evil that a psychic refused to enter the building, but I noticed that it was Future Sister in Law, who never calls me, so I got nervous. What if Brother-in-Law never made it home after he left the beach house this afternoon? I decided to take the call.

"Hi!" FSIL said chipperly. "I was just wondering if you planned to do your own hair for our wedding or if you wanted it done at the salon I checked out this weekend."

This was truly a scarier question than the unanswered one about the milk bucket full of random women's hair that the current owner of the haunted building discovered behind a bricked over back part of the structure when he knocked it down to expand his antique store.

"Um, that depends," I replied. "When you say 'do your hair,' I assume that means more than comb it? Because that's about all I can handle."

"Well, some of the girls with longer hair will get it blown out or put into updo's," was FSIL's non-response response. I think she didn't want to offend me by suggesting that the thought of me doing my own hair was a terrifying prospect, as I'd be the fugly bridesmaid who ruined all the pictures.

"Yeah, even though I have no hair to style, just make an appointment for me," I said.

By then, all the hairs were standing up on my arms. I'd almost rather brave the evil spirits haunting the scariest building in Ocean City than trust a New Jersey hair stylist to make me look normal. (Remember Bon Jovi? He's from New Jersey. His songs may be bitchin', but the dude embodies bad Jersey hair.) Almost.

A Hair Raising Experience

During a walking tour of haunted Ocean City, my cell phone rang. It was the creepiest part of the tour, as the guide was telling us about how the poltergeist on the second floor of the blinding yellow building we stood in front of was so evil that a psychic refused to enter the building, but I noticed that it was Future Sister in Law, who never calls me, so I got nervous. What if Brother-in-Law never made it home after he left the beach house this afternoon? I decided to take the call.

"Hi!" FSIL said chipperly. "I was just wondering if you planned to do your own hair for our wedding or if you wanted it done at the salon I checked out this weekend."

This was truly a scarier question than the unanswered one about the milk bucket full of random women's hair that the current owner of the haunted building discovered behind a bricked over back part of the structure when he knocked it down to expand his antique store.

"Um, that depends," I replied. "When you say 'do your hair,' I assume that means more than comb it? Because that's about all I can handle."

"Well, some of the girls with longer hair will get it blown out or put into updo's," was FSIL's non-response response. I think she didn't want to offend me by suggesting that the thought of me doing my own hair was a terrifying prospect, as I'd be the fugly bridesmaid who ruined all the pictures.

"Yeah, even though I have no hair to style, just make an appointment for me," I said.

By then, all the hairs were standing up on my arms. I'd almost rather brave the evil spirits haunting the scariest building in Ocean City than trust a New Jersey hair stylist to make me look normal. (Remember Bon Jovi? He's from New Jersey. His songs may be bitchin', but the dude embodies bad Jersey hair.) Almost.

More Beaver Suckling

From now on, I pledge to say, "This suckles beavers," rather than,"This sucks," when things are not going well. When I was in college and people pissed me off, I used to scream out, "Suck my big fat clit!" This always brought out some reaction, often laughter, and the situation was diffused. Shock and amuse - that's my motto.

Yesterday, Sara/Farf gave me a tank top that says, "My Bush could do a better job." I wear it with pride as I set off for the Jersey Shore this morning. (Yes, I know I just got back from Chicago.) If anyone gives me gump about it (last year some douche bag told me that I should "thank Bush for making this country safer" when he saw me wearing my "Bush is a Tush" t-shirt that is now too small on me), I plan to tell them to, "Suckle my big fat beaver." In preparation for the beach, I did manage to shave my pits and lower legs. Board shorts that reach my knees take care of the rest, so the bikini line is untouched. Yay.

Speaking of beavers, Husband, Rebecca, and I watched Alex Elliot on our DVR. Our jaws dropped wider and wider as we watched Mike and Juliet, who are seriously the dumbest TV show hosts on the planet. Worse, Juliet is completely inarticulate. The show suckles beavers, although once again, let me iterate how awesome Alex was on TV.

Leaving the Group Think Tank

I am unabashedly liberal. Even though most people don't know (or even like) a good portion of their fellow members of humanity, I believe that we have some obligations toward one another. I think I should pay a higher rate of taxes because I reap a higher share of benefits from our capitalist system. If you want to follow your religion, I am (mostly) OK with that, assuming that it doesn't literally hurt others (ie - female genital mutilation) and you don't try to convert me or force me to live by your religious beliefs. I am into the idea that people can think for themselves and that we can disagree and still be friendly.

Thus it was with much annoyance that I can across a blog today whose author said we got along just fine until she read that I generally support Israel. Radical Earthling then accused me of being a dumb fuck (but more nicely). (I concede that the article in question was not the clearest or most coherent 400 words I ever set to pen.) I'm cool with disagreeing and having a discussion about it.

What bothers me is that because she (he?) doesn't agree with my stance on Israel's right to exist, nothing else I write or think is acceptable. Why do people have to tow the exact same line on everything? My friend Sara (aka A Musing Farf) gets a lot of shit about this, too, especially about her "credibility" as a feminist. Farf and I don't see eye to eye on all (or even maybe most?) issues, but that's one of the reasons I like her: she challenges me to think. She has reasons for her beliefs and I like to hear them. Half of my favorite bloggers are waxed snatch lovers; I like hearing why. (And their reasons totally softened my outlook on it, even if I still personally shrink away from the practice.) If I hadn't egotistically googled myself, I might not have seen Radical Earthling's post, and I think she made some great points. (Maybe Radical Earthling could have left me a comment on that post indicating why she thinks I am wrong.) I respect thinkers, and I mock the crap out of idiots. I want to leave a comment on her post explaining some of my stances, but it won't take non-WordPress user feedback, so I'm shit out of luck.

Without dialogue, we might as well all just sit around watching beavers suckle beavers. Ladies and gentlemen, Suzanne has left the group think tank. Let's meet in the scary dark alley and talk crazy shit about what we disagree on.

Formula Feeding and Beaver Suckling

Thanks to my friend Alex Elliot, I had quite an adventure this morning. Alex was flown to New York to appear on today's episode of The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet (the link should bring you to her clip). I tagged along for moral support. Alex was awesome, especially for a first television appearance! She had total command of the stage. I puffed my chest (with pride, not milk) as I watched her from the sideline.

Before the show, however, Mike came out to chat with the guests. Mike is the most impressive douche bag I ever met. He yammered and yowled about how it is unnatural for humans to drink the milk of other animals. I shit you not that he actually said:

Zebras suckle zebras; beavers suckle beavers, and humans should suckle humans

I could not suppress my evilest grin at that beavers comment. There's quite a lot of beaver suckling in porn, I thought.

Mike went on obliviously about how insane it is that his mom gave him a big glass of cow's milk when he was a kid. Then he said:

Why don't we just drink breast milk for our whole lives?

Um, I don't know. Maybe because that would mean that women would never have fucking lives as they become milk machines? Or that our birth rate would drop precipitously since breastfeeding women tend to be less fertile? (Although moms of "Irish twins" can attest that this is not always an effective means of birth control...)

I spent a good portion of the rest of the morning trying to figure out if Mike was seriously that stupid or just trying to stoke a reaction, with no conclusive decision. I'll laugh and laugh about "beavers suckling beavers" for the rest of my life, tough.

This Just In!

My friend Alex Elliot, author of the awesome blog Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting, was invited to appear on the Fox morning news show, The Mike and Juliette Show. She wrote a fantastic piece yesterday about a ridiculous NYC ban on giving out formula to new moms in hospital gift bags. Read it.

I am excited to sit in the audience and give her a big thumbs up as she talks. I think it is no one's business to question why a woman uses formula. Do I follow other women around and ask them why they dress their preschool girls like mini whores? Um, I do. Bad example. I am a little nervous for Alex because the level of vitriol directed at mothers who do not breastfeed can be overwhelming, so I'm giving her a big shout out in advance.

Alex is a great mom and a brave woman taking a stand that is often unpopular, but absolutely just. I admire her greatly and am proud to be her friend. (Not to mention godmother to her kids, but I figure that her choice of a crazy ranting loon with mustard all over herself is not going to raise her esteem in the eyes of those judgmental freaks.) Thanks Alex, for being you!

Mustard's Last Stand

Mustard's Last Stand is (was?) a hot dog joint outside the gates of Northwestern's football stadium that was once called one thing and is now another, much to the consternation of the family that donated jillions of dollars years ago to build it and assumed that it would always be named after them. Except that it needed to be renovated and another family donated jillions of dollars and got the stadium renamed after themselves, so the lesson learned here is that if you ever donate oodles of money to memorialize yourself at a university, make sure you stipulate that a condition of the donation is that whatever building you are underwriting is named after you as long as it substantially stands.

Sorry, I digress. My point is not about donor relations. It is about mustard's last stand. While I was in the airport waiting for my flight back to New York, I bought a turkey sandwich. Instead of putting mustard on the sandwich, the sandwich maker threw three packets in the Styrofoam container along with a juicy pickle. I settled in at a counter in the middle of the food court to chow down.

When I tried to open the first packet of mustard, it resisted my assault on its sovereignty. After a few attempts, I should have moved onto to another packet, but I was determined to show the mustard who was boss. Eventually I succeeded in tearing a tiny hole in the corner.

Eyeing it with triumph, I silently messaged it. "Ha mustard! Prepare to be spread!"

"Fuck you!" it yelled back to my head. "Just try me."

It's not like I didn't know this was a Pyrrhic victory, as the tiny hole just waited to explode in a mustard geyser under the pressure of my finger tips. Still, I pushed on. Mustard spewed out in gusts. Some went on to the Styrofoam, a small glop hit the pickle, and two sprays of bright yellow splattered on my shirt. No mustard would up on the bread. I continued my front until a stray stream of mustard nearly hit an innocent victim as he walked by the counter area.

"Good-bye, imperialist swine!" the mustard packet gloated as I cast it aside and went for a new one, which I conquered immediately.

The pilfered mustard treasure from my second battle improved the sandwich dramatically, but I bore the marks of defeat as I boarded my flight smeared with mustard. Just as one must be careful when forking over cash to build a football stadium in your name, it is no less important to understand what you get into when you begin a war with a determined mustard.