Des and the Real Girl

Last Sunday, I had brunch with my friend Sara and she mentioned that she wanted to see the film Lars and the Real Girl, which is about a mentally disabled young man who gets a blow up sex doll, names it Bianca, and introduces it to people as his girlfriend. It's a movie that is very supportive of mentally ill people and also stars Ryan Gosling, who rocks, but I decided that I can't sit through more than 30 minutes of such precious concepts.

However, I could spend hours observing people at my neighborhood sex shop as they shop for blow up dolls and other sex play items. Yesterday Des was on the hunt for some black fishnet stockings. First we stopped into a "normal" store, Ricky's. (Ricky's is a local chain that used to be a pharmacy and sell sundries and beauty products. A few years ago, they realized that there is no money to be made in selling medications, so they took out the drugs and sundries, kept the beauty products, and put in a sex toys section. Plus they sell all kinds of doodads like slippers, funny t-shirts, and tights.) Ricky's didn't have fishnets that Des liked, so I suggested that we go to the local sex shop, which I knew had a variety of fishnets because I noticed a red pair in the doorway one day as I passed by and went in to check them out. Des agreed, and our hilarious adventure began.

The stockings section at the store is right in front near the door. As we were browsing the various fishnets, a woman about our age reluctantly stepped into the store. As she took off her hat, I was pretty sure that she wished that the ground would swallow her. The two guys at the counter asked if they could help her. She must've whispered what she was looking for, as I didn't hear her response. On the other hand, it was impossible not to hear the guy as he boomed out, "Of COURSE we have this! Follow me!" and led her to the back of the store where the porn videos are.

In the meantime, Des and I commented on gross giant dildos with blue veins painted on them, crotchless leather and mesh panties, and a mesh tank top for men which we thought would likely not be sexy on an actual man. I eyed the fake vaginas, which always fascinate me in their pinkness. We went to the counter so Des could pay for her tights and a cute pair of fingerless lace gloves a la Madonna's "Like a Virgin" era. As the cashier ran Des's credit card, I heard the other customer approach the register behind me.

"So what did you pick?" the non-cashier employee asked her.

I didn't turn around to see, so I can only assume she held her item up to show him. "Why did you pick that one? He showed you much better stuff?" the employee pressed.

"They're all the same," the woman mumbled. I swear I could feel the heat radiate off her blushing face, although I did not turn to look at her. I didn't want to add to her embarrassment. It most of my willpower to not start laughing.

"NO!" the employee said loudly in disgust. "All pornos are not the same! The other one he showed you is much better quality! Better pictures, better sound, better everything..."

Now I was biting my lip at the ridiculousness of the situation. Des finished paying, the cashier put her items in a plain black bag, and we left. In that time, I decided that I should just hang out at the sex shop all day some time and record the absurd conversations that I suspect go on multiple times.

Who's Fat?

(Cue the Wierd Al music.)

When I was in 5th grade, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal came to my school (Marie Murphy Jr. High, a regular public school for upper-middle class, upper class and Jewish White trash kids from the community, not a Catholic school although everyone thinks it is based on the name) and interviewed a batch of us girls about weight. I was so tubby that jeans would not fit me; I wore pink or purple sweatpants all the time. My mom, however, was super thin (always has been) and often after washing her jeans found that she could only zip them while lying down and using pliers. I mentioned this to the reporter. It appeared in the article as, "One girl's mother even uses pliers to zip up her jeans."

My mom read that and beamed. "Look Suzanne, someone else's mother needs pliers to close her jeans!"

I looked her square in the eye and replied, "Uh mom? That's you."

(End song. Thanks to Opiate for the Masses for inspiring this memory and sharing session.)

Halloween Correspondence: The Terror of My Family

The following email exchange took place this week between my mom and my friend Steph. What you will read below are slightly abbreviated versions of the actual text. I did not make any of this up, although I did change the names to protect the guilty. You have been warned.

Mom: Suzanne's Dad dressed up like an accountant. The scary question is, what was your costume? Actually, the scariest costume of all was Granny's. She wore her diaphanous, almost transparent, worn-out house dress sans underwear, got mad at me when I reacted with horror, and said, "Like the kids really took the time to look!!!"

Steph: If Granny is busy flashing the neighborhood kids, she sounds like she's almost back to normal - well, what passes for normal in your family anyway:) That's hilarious that she insists on wearing that ancient housedress. I thought you were going to tell me that she was dressed as a spirit and that was why she was going for the diaphanous look. I must compliment you on your use of that nice big word. You may want to pass it on to your daughter as she studies for the GRE's.

Go out and buy Granny a pair of Lollipops, would ya? We can't have her mooning the neighborhood:)

(OK, I also inserted the Lollipops link.) I'm probably gonna get a tongue lashing for sharing this, but it was too fucking funny not to do so.

Me, Too!

This picture sums up exactly how I feel about many things, including:

• Giuliani himself


• Anyone endorsed by Pat Robertson


• Snatch waxing


• The way the Mets season ended


• The Bush administration


• Most of the statements made by my Bubbe


• The majority of the human race

Who knew that Giuliani could encapsulate and portray so many of my feelings?

Shaking It Out

Once or twice a month (or more, depending on my anxiety level, so generally more), I have hyper-realistic dreams about failing school or being involved with people who I have known since my elementary school days. Two night ago, I dreamed that I kept missing the bus because I left my backpack at Target, where I stopped to look at some clothes before school. This was significantly less intense than my usual school-anxiety dreams, which tend to center around me not going to a specific class (German, Spanish, or more recently, math) for the entire semester and then panicking as finals approach because I am so far behind that I don't even remember where the fucking classroom is. I can't explain how I ever let it get so far, and I generally wake up in a sweaty state of dread which takes me the better portion of the day to overcome.

The other intense dreams that occur when I go to bed feeling apprehensive about something involves people I haven't seen in years. Last night I dreamed that I was involved to varying degrees with three guys, two of whom I was buddies with in elementary school and one of whom I was friendly with my freshman year of high school. (The last time I saw the guys from my days of early childhood was at my high school class reunion in 2004. I haven't seen my pal from high school since senior year, and we weren't really friends at that point any longer.) Whenever I have these dreams with people from the past, I am almost consumed in the day time by the urge to find them online and try and strike up a conversation with them. I spend hours finding them, and then am smart enough (for once) to not do anything about it. The funny thing is that at least one of these guys is a regular in my subconscious anxiety dump.

I guess I am trying to go back to more secure times in my life, even if they get weirdly updated to being adults. (The subconscious is truly one fucked up bitch.) I am all bothered these days because I want so badly to be accepted into a particular MFA program, and terrified that my trite stories will be laughed at by the graduate admissions committee. If anyone is willing to read 30 pages of stories from my youth and today (involving getting - and losing - boobs and my period), I would welcome your feedback.

testing

This Does Not Add Up

Several hours after I beam about getting 50% of the math questions right on a GRE diagnostic test, I attend a meeting at which I agree to teach two classes on budgeting to child care directors. (I will also be teaching a class on budgeting/finance through the city university system this spring.) I realize that comparing 2xy to (2x)y is not the same mathematical process as is used in constructing an operating budget, but this still cracks me up.