Now Heaven Knows, Anything Goes (At the V&A, Part II)

The picture above is of a man’s linen stocking dated circa 1660-1670 on display at the V&A Museum in London. According to the placard, “Plain hose was worn under silk hose to create a smooth line over hairy legs.” OK, that is fucking brilliant. No need to shave one’s legs! Just wear an extra pair of hose! I suspect that an extra layer of hose would also keep women warmer in the winter by allowing us to retain our body hair and to wear an extra layer to trap body heat. Plus, I’m guessing that two pairs of hose work even better than one in terms of holding in one’s gut. (Please note: the "two layers is better than one" concept does NOT work for condoms, as the latex rubs against each other and causes breakage.) For smooth and sexy legs, though, you gotta admit that the idea is very, very clever.

Like the State of the Union Address, Uncontrolled Bush Can Hurt

It occurred to me a few minutes ago that there might, in fact, be a very good reason for trimmed and maintained snatch. Let’s suppose there was a woman who scorned the removal of crotch hair on woman. Let’s also suppose for a moment that the same woman got her period and used a tampon. Hypothetically, this woman could go to yank the tampon string to get it out, and since there are pubes hanging all over the place and she is not careful, she could also accidentally grab a tuft o’ hairs and pull them all out with said tampon. Ouch.

I’m not saying this happened to anyone I know. I’m just saying it could, and I could see how such fear could lead women to keep the bush pruned.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive, London Edition

While I did not take pictures at Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens on Saturday night, I was able to download a picture from the fan site Glitterboots. It is also possible to download music from the show. I warn you that the theme song, "Glitter Boots Saved My Life," does not leave your head easily.
I think this picture captured the insanity of the show quite nicely, although the audience in this picture seems to be more complacent than the one I was part of.

Attending the Theatre

What is London without the theatre? Husband had done some research before we left, and unfortunately our favorite ridiculous musical ever, Return to the Return to the Forbidden Planet, which we saw in some London suburb in August 2001, was not playing. (RTTRTTFP, I shit you not, is based on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, featuring the same dialogue but updated to the future and set on a spaceship. The soundtrack is 1960s Motown and Girl Group hits and all the actors, including the guy who plays the robot on roller skates, rotate playing all of the instruments and singing. At the end, the audience began batting around giant inflated beach balls.) Worse, it is re-opening in March, so we were just missing it. Husband was disappointed, but found an acceptable substitute: Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens.

Synopsis: “At Saucy Jack’s Cabaret Bar in the dark reaches of the Planet Frottage 3, the evil shadow of the ‘Slingback Killer’ looms. Cabaret artists are being picked of one by one – the heel of a sequined slingback stiletto plunged into their youthful chests. Will the Space Vixens arrive in time to halt the blood-lust and save the day by the power of disco? There’s only one way to find out…” Time Out called it, “A wild and wacky night of plasticry razzmatazz!” (I’m not entirely sure if that is a compliment or an insult, but it is quoted on their ads.)

With characters like Willhelm von Whackoff, Sammy Sacks, Chesty Prospects, Jubilee Climax (played by pop diva Faye Tozer, formerly of Steps – no, I have never heard of that group, but they supposedly had 18 #1 hits and 4 multi-platinum albums in Europe), and Bunny Lingus, how could we go wrong with Saucy Jack? It was almost sold out when we got our tickets before the show. To be honest, I was hopeful, but not expecting much. Then we learned that not only was Saucy Jack a disco musical, but it was also a magic show! How exciting is that!?!?

So the first act did not feature very much magic, and quite frankly, was rather disappointing despite the high level of interaction with/humiliation of audience members. The second act was much improved, and by then the groupies in the audience were completely wasted and heckling Saucy Jack, who highly enjoyed mocking them. Also, the theme sone, “Glitter Boots Saved My Life,” somehow managed to become even catchier the second and third times it was sung. Plus there was much more magic and male stripping, so I would say that it ended on a positive note.

If you are heading to London any time soon, I’m not sure that I could fairly recommend dropping £30 per ticket (like $47!!!!) on it, but Husband and I agreed that Saucy Jack and the Space Vixens was a gazillion times better than We Will Rock You, the painful Queen musical that husband insisted we see in London while we were in London in Sept. 2004. At the least, it is definitely worth writing home about.

Gourmet London Eats

Sunday in London, Husband and I met up with friends and spent a day walking around. Eventually we met up with other friends for tea. I love afternoon tea in England, especially because of all the yummy tea cakes and scones. Scones really do taste better with clotted cream and strawberry jam smeared all over them. Just saying clotted cream actually sickens me a bit, as I picture clogged arteries and sink pipes with big globs of crud blocking them. (It’s undoubtedly the word clotted that does it for me.) My friend’s husband, who is from New Zealand, warned me that if I ever saw clotted cream in the grocery store, I should not look at the nutritional information. Ever. Seriously, though. That shit is good.

Another delightfully unhealthy item I consumed was Cadbury Mini Creme Eggs. I do so love Cadbury Creme Eggs and was thus pleased to notice that packs of mini creme eggs were sold in the candy machines at every Underground station. (That they even have candy machines on every Underground platform is also amazing.) I bought three packs over the course of my trip so that I could bring home this 8th wonder of the world to share with my New York friends.

Not everything that is good to eat over there is unhealthy, though. London has the best fucking yogurt ever. I was able to enjoy Zingy Rhubarb, Peach & Maracuay (although I have no idea what maracuay is, it is damn tasty), and some sort of Cranberry & other fruit that I can't remember. I love yogurt, so all the variety - and low fat to boot - is super exciting.

Finally, we bought sandwiches and other items from the convenience store in the Knightsbridge Underground stationfor dinner. Is it sad that I have enjoyed my £1 sandwiches as much as the other (more expensive) things?

Check Him Out! (At the V&A, Part I)

Saturday, Husband and I checked into our fancy hotel.  (I love when he travels for business.)  We then ran off to meet Husband’s friend for lunch and to take in the Victoria and Albert (V&A) Museum.  For those of you unfamiliar with the V&A, it is a fabulous museum filled with completely random crap.  Not crap in the sense that it is like a museum that I would curate in my apartment, but crap in the sense that it is stuffed to the gills with strange odds and ends.  I saw three things of particular note to CUSS, two of which I took pictures of and will each be posted separately.

Item 1 for discussion is the reproduction of Michelangelo’s David.  This fine statue was copied in plaster and in a large room of other famous sculptures, statues, and architectural pieces that were also reproduced in plaster.  All were done in Victorian times.  In general, I found this completely hysterical, but in some sense, I suppose it made sense, as your average Brit was not going to travel to all of these places in 1875 to see the originals, so this brought the work to the people.  Sort of clever, really.  It was just a bit odd having everything in the same two rooms with no rhyme or reason on display.

Anyway, back to David.  As I walked past David, I could not help but observe that he had an extremely large tuft of pubic hair carved above his dick.  (I also thought it looked like he was circumcised, but I thought that didn’t really make sense for Renaissance times to have a circumcised statue – despite the character’s Jewish faith – as non-Jews did not get circumcised back then, and it is not like sculptors based their work on historically accuracy.  I mean, Michelangelo also carved Moses with horns, which was also reproduced in plaster and on display at the V&A.)  It occurred to me that I had never seen pubes on a statue before, especially not on female nude statues.  

How annoying is that?  To begin with, there are very few nude male statues.  Then, to add insult to injury, the one famous nude male statue fucking gets to have pubic hair, just like a normal human male.  Female statues get their marble pubic hair shaved off by the chisel.  Even in art, grown ladies can’t win.  This tempts me to get a permanent marker and scribble pubes on any naked lady statues I see.  That would be great fun and hilarious.  Who’s with me?

Flying High

Good evening from London!  We stopped back at our hotel room for a bit so that Husband can do some work in preparation for his meeting tomorrow morning (the whole reason he came to London in the first place), so I thought I might write up a bit about the trip so far.

As I previously noted, Husband planned to fly business class while I sat in coach, which was fine by me.  However, he was able to use one of his VIP System Wide Upgrades for me when we arrived at JFK on Friday evening, so I wound up sitting next to him in business class.  I have never flown business class internationally (he has been able to upgrade me domestically a few times), and let me tell you, it is fucking amazing!

To begin, I was given a fucking menu with which to order my dinner.  It started with a dish of warm nuts (ha ha) and then we got salad and “Grilled Citrus Scallops served with a marinated Cucumber salad” appetizer.  (I considered avoiding the scallops as it seemed like a good way to get food poisoning, business class or not, but I couldn’t resist.)  The salad came with an adorable tiny glass bottle of balsamic vinaigrette, which I was dismayed to discover after I ate it that it had 9 grams of fat.  Oh well.  Normal people began their wine consumption with the appetizer course, but I had a diet Sierra Mist.  Warm bread was also doled out.  The wheat roll was super tasty.

For dinner I could choose:

Beef Fillet: Fillet of Beef featured with a Red Wine Onion Sauce, accompanied by roasted Butternut Squash, Haricots Verts, and Mushroom Risotto

Barbeque Chicken: Breast of Chicken flavored by a Barbeque Marinade served with mild Jalapeño Mashed Potatoes and Creamed Corn

Fillet of Cod: Fillet of Cod enhanced by a Corn and Butter Sauce, offered with Haricots Verts, Mushrooms, and Chive Mashed Potatoes

Pasta Duo: Cheese Ravioli and Cheese Tortellini complemented by a Pesto Alfredo Sauce and a Marinara Sauce

Vegetable Plate: Seasonal selection including Cremini Mushrooms, sautéed Asparagus, Cherry Tomatoes and Whipped Potatoes

Quite frankly, the pasta duo sounded best but I really wanted to avoid all that fatty sauce, so I went with the BBQ chicken.  I was quite pleased and not really surprised to discover that the food was just as bad in business class as it is in steerage.  Chicken was rubbery and the mashed potatoes were scary.  Not that I would have eaten them anyway, as I don’t like jalapeño (too hot).

Unlike the main entrée, dessert choices were amazing:

Saga Blue and Jarlsberg Cheese accompanied by seasonal Grapes, Walnuts and selected crackers.

Breyers Chocolate Ice Cream with Blackberry Sauce topped with White Chocolate and Raspberry Brulee Squares

Husband ordered the cheese and I ordered the ice cream and we shared.  I don’t have any idea what the fuck “White Chocolate and Raspberry Brulee Squares” are, but they tasted like mini cheesecake chunks and were yummy.  I love Jarlsberg cheese and moldy blues cheeses, so that was good too.

After dessert, special Bose headphones that block noise were distributed and I curled up in my recliner – I mean, airline seat – with two pillows and drifted off for the remaining three hours before landing.  So it was a pretty fucking awesome flight to get out here.  I was slightly refreshed and up for a full day’s adventure, which I happily got.

Cheers for now!

Random Thought Before Departing for London for a Weekend Jaunt

I suspect that I would be 4% more intriguing if I had a British accent. Not a fake British accent like Madonna, but a real one from growing up there. (To be honest, I’d even settle for a return of my slight Chicago accent, which seems to have faded in the 11 years I’ve been living in New York.) A British accent would rock.

Here's a Jolly Drinking Song for the Weekend

One of the best things about the 1973 Disney animated version of Robin Hood is the song “The Phony King of England” about Prince John’s illegitimate rule.  For a song in an animated musical, it’s pretty political.  (I guess it would be hard to not be political in a movie about a tyrant who taxes the poor and a hero who steals from the rich.)   What utterly delights me is that it is SO applicable to our situation in America today.  Some verses don’t even need to be changed!  Follow along:

The Phony King of England
Oh the world will sing of an English king
A thousand years from now
And not because he passed some laws
Or had that lofty brow
While bonny good King Richard leads
The great crusade he’s on
We’ll all have to slave away
For that good-for-nothin’ John
[Substitute: US Pres for English king; liberals for King Richard (OK it’s not perfect, but good enough); Bush for John]

Incredible as he is inept
Whenever the history books are kept
They’ll call him the phony king of England
A pox on the phony king of England
[Substitute: President of the US for king of England, otherwise totally accurate!]

He sits alone on a giant throne
Pretendin’ he’s the king
A little tyke who’s rather like
A puppet on a string
And he throws an angry tantrum
If he cannot have his way
And then he calls for Mum while he’s suckin’ his thumb
You see, he doesn’t want to play
[No substitutions needed!]

Too late to be known as John the First
He’s sure to be known as John the worst
A pox on the phony king of England
[Substitute: Bush for John (too perfect, isn’t it?!?!)]

While he taxes us to pieces
And he robs us of our bread
King Richard’s crown keeps slippin’ down
Upon that pointed head
Ah! But while there is a merry man
In Robin’s wily pack
We’ll find a way to make him pay
And steal our money back
[Substitute: Democracy for King Richard; I wish like fuck he had something to substitute for Robin’s wily pack, but unfortunately no one tries succeeds against the Bush tyranny]

The minute before he knows we’re there
Ol’ Rob will snatch his underwear
The breezy and uneasy king of England
The snivellin’ grovellin’
Measly weasely
Blabberin’ jabberin’
Gibberin’ plunderin’
Wheelin’ dealin’
Prince John, that Phony King of England
Yeah!
[Substitute: sadly, there’s no one who gets the better of the Bushies, so nothing to change there; George Bush for Prince John; President of the US for King of England]

It’s good stuff, I tell you.

Ooh-de-lally!

A few weekends ago, I convinced Husband to join me in watching the best Robin Hood movie ever. That would be the 1973 Disney animated version of the story. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I loved the Kevin Costner version from the ‘90s as much as anyone else. (I freakin’ saw it three times in the movie theater!!!) I’m sure that the Errol Flynn film from the 1938 was also delightful, although I never saw it and quite frankly never intend to.

There are many reasons that the Disney version kicks the asses of all the other Robin Hood flicks. First, movies with nutty animals getting poked repeatedly in the butts with sharp objects are funny as fuck, especially when said animals are rhinoceroses. Second, it uses the term “ooh-de-lally” frequently. Just saying “ooh-de-lally” cheers me up immensely. Third, it has some wonderful little insults that would be great fun to hurl at people without senses of humor, such as:

• “You eel in snake’s clothing!” (Prince John the lion yelled this at his snake advisor Sir Hiss after one of their dastardly plans went wrong.)


• “Old bushel britches.” (Lady Cluck, Maid Marian’s chicken lady in waiting refers to the Sheriff of Nottingham, a wolf, this way. Big John the bear also uses it for the Sherrif. I have no idea what it means, but I like it.)


• “Scalveneer.” (Another Lady Cluck slur. Not only do I have no idea what it means, but I also am clueless on how to spell it. Maybe it is French?)

There are also two fantastic songs, one featuring the phrase “oo-de-lally,” and one a highly political song that is very applicable today. (More on that later.) I highly recommend a viewing to lift the spirits.

Motherfucker!

Damn, have ever had one of those serious motherfucker days?  I had one of those days today.  It started off OK, but then quickly went downhill in a ball of flames.  I swear, it is so true that no good deed goes unpunished.  Fortunately, I have not had one of those days that suck the root in a while.  I hope I don’t have another one any time soon.  

Well, tomorrow is Friday and I am off to London, so I really shouldn’t complain…

It's Time to Get Things Started

My friend M. (the very same one who introduced me to Flat D Innovations , makers of anti-fart underwear inserts) gave me the complete Season 1 of the Muppet Show on DVD. How awesome is that? The Muppets are just too hilarious. Plus, they were way ahead of the times. Thanks to Shrek, it’s super trendy to have children’s movies that are full of adult inside jokes. The Muppets did that in the ‘70s, dude!

Some time soon I plan to have a Muppet marathon.

Monday, Monday

Near then end of 2005, it occurred to me that while I loved my job as a do-gooder, I also really loved working on my little writing projects. Unfortunately, my ability to actually complete any of said writing projects was extremely hindered by the amount of time I was required to spend do-gooding, and this caused me immense frustration, thus leading to displeasure with my do-gooding work. Not a good situation at all. I decided that I needed a change of some sort so that I could continue to do good, and at the same time, actually accomplish something with one of my writing projects. I needed to drop a day from my real job, and that day needed to be Monday.

I explained my angst to the Boss, noted that Mondays are awful in general, and pointed out that I would still be a productive do-gooder if I could work on Tuesdays-Fridays. The Honchos at the organization agreed. Thus I currently spend my Mondays on exciting research and writing projects that lead me to all sorts of interesting places around NYC.

This past Monday, for example, I was delighted to go to the only medical library in the US that is completely open to the public. I happily studied a current exhibit it has on Medieval surgical procedures for head wounds. The exhibit was full of rare manuscripts, antique surgical tools, and grotesque pictures. Right on! I loved it. I also went to the largest synagogue in the US and viewed its Judaica collection. Interesting stuff, although not quite as good as head wound surgery in 1554.

Yes, if Monday must exist, this is the way to spend it. I hope to have a fun update on where I’ve gone and what I’ve seen every week.

The Dirtiest Word in English?

If there is one word I hate, it is the word panties. According to Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oaths, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphor, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters by Richard A Spears, “panties” is listed as thus:

panties (also panteys) women’s or children’s underpants [colloquial, 1800s-pres.]

What annoys me so much about the word is that once again, women and children share the same category, which in my mind infantilizes women. You never see men and children sharing the same name for something, unless it is something that everyone uses, like sweater or pants.

Also the word is just creepy. It has always bothered me and makes me think of some lecherous older relative. I much prefer underwear, undies, or even, as my friend Steph likes to say, drawers. “Drawers” is defined in Slang and Euphemism as “underpants for males or females. In their earliest form, long hose worn next to the skin. [since the mid 1500s].” Yes, drawers is a very equal term. I like it.

I'm Hungry - Can You Bend Over a Bit?

Someone fabulous* forwarded these pictures to me, and I almost spit water all over my monitor when I saw them. My spit take was a combination of guffawing and the urge to puke from all the airbrushing on these pictures. Not only does it make the model look like she's as smooth as a newborn, but she should clearly eat a few of the candies instead of wearing them.

Later that evening while I was at the gym, I saw February’s Esquire, which had a handy gift giving guide to lingerie just in time for Valentine’s Day. Some lingerie “expert” (and what the fuck is that? I wear underwear too – am a lingerie expert?) said that most women wear thongs, and guys should feel good about giving one to their ladies. The expert said to find one with a narrower band in the ass for comfort. How thoughtful. The cover picture had this insanity from Victoria’s Secret, which has a ginormous ass bow (slightly obscured by the textbox over it):I was shocked – shocked! – that the candy undies were not included. I guess they are not nearly as classy as the giant bow thong featured as a good gift. (It is kind of cute, but how does one sit while wearing this? I just don’t understand. What happened to worrying about your lady’s comfort?) Another perfect Valentine's Day gift overlooked by Esquire:

The candy pasties totally are hilarious. Crap, I’m tempted to run over to Condomania and drop $9.95 on them myself. I have no idea what I would do with candy pasties, but they are just too good to pass up, you know?

*(Many thanks – I hope to send you something from this fine collection for your Wak Candy Museum, which sounds great.)

(Crappy) Picture of the Naked People Bench in Berlin

On Jan. 20, I wrote about a naked people bench that I saw in the former East Berlin (For a Good Time, Sit Here )*. I said that I would try and post a picture that I had. I scanned it in tonight:

Of course the picture is not as clear in reality as it is in my head, but if you squint at it a bit, I believe you can just make out a very high, very round wooden bench boob on the woman part on the right side of the picture, and a very long wood (ha ha) bench penis on in the bottom left corner on the guy part of the bench. (Plus the tip of my awesome ginormous Triple Fat Goose down coat is just visible! Man, that was a great coat.)

Note that the picture was from 1997, long before your average schnook could afford a digital camera. (If they even had them back then.) That is my excuse for the poor quality of the picture. At any rate, that artist had a great sense of humor, and I hope I could convey enough to get a sense of how cool Berlin was when I was there in December 1997.

*Thanks to my bro-in-law for teaching me that bit of HTML magic!!!

London Calling

Huzzah! I am going to London on Friday! While we definitely won’t see the Queen or even the Queen musical (We Will Rock You – Husband insisted on getting tickets for it last time I was there with him, which was Labor Day Weekend in 2004, although I warned him that it would be awful. It was probably the worst musical I have ever seen. In fact, it was so painfully bad that it was not even good in the so-bad-it-is-good-way. Husband wanted to leave 15 minutes into the show, but I insisted we had to stay for the entire production since he ignored my warnings and spent good money on it.), I know that we will have a fantastic time.

I love London. It is probably my favorite place to visit. Hopefully, the weather will hold out and we can walk around a bit. I bought City Walks: London, which is a deck of 50 cards, each with a little map on the front of a neighborhood route and description on the back of what you should look for as you walk. I would also love to visit Sir John Soane’s Museum, which has all sorts of weird stuff, including a 1300 BC sarcophagus in the basement. Also, we’ll go to the London Eye and have tea with various friends who live on the other side of the Pond.

I am so lucky that Husband is traveling there for business and that I can afford to buy a ticket to come along, even if he is flying business class and I will be in coach by myself. (To be fair, he is Executive Platinum status and put me on the upgrade list. And even if he didn’t, it is his business trip and he should not have to go a lower class just because I am coming. He might not let me come on future jaunts if he had to do that….) Flying business class also nets more frequent flyer miles, thus we will be just that much closer to a free trip to Australia in business class, so I’m not really complaining. I just find it funny that we’ll board and then say good-bye as I head toward the back of the plane with the other peons, where I completely belong.

Yay! I’m going to London! I shall bring my laptop and if time permits, I’ll file dispatches to CUSS.

You Know You're Jewish White Trash When...

Back in the late ‘80s, when I was in junior high, I became sick of being a member of the only middle class family in the US that did not have a microwave.  I decided to take matters into my own hands and remedy the situation.  My sister agreed that a microwave would be a good thing to have, and we scraped up our feeble savings to surprise our mom with a microwave for Mother’s Day.  (Don’t you love gifts that the whole family can enjoy?  Once, at my mom’s request, we bought her several new trash cans as a Mother’s Day gift, but I digress.)  

Of course, as we lived in the suburbs and did not drive due to our youthful states, we did not have access to many stores.  We walked to whatever shops we could, but quickly acknowledged that we needed help and brought our dad in on the plan.  Once my dad was contributing towards the gift, our budget also changed considerably.  We were able to purchase a decent, middle of the line microwave perfect for our quirky middle of the line family.  That microwave is still proudly in use today, at least 16 years after it was purchased.

The old age of the microwave freaks my mom out, as she worries that it could be leaking dangerous, well, microwaves and radiation and whatnot when she nukes anything.  My logical solution is to get a new microwave and not risk it.  Prices have certainly dropped significantly on the technology that was new-fangled at least 20 years ago.  My mother, however, sees no reason not to use it until it is determined to be unsafe.  How pray tell, might one find that out, short of discovering that my parents are glowing green?  It seems that my mom read in some town newsletter that it is possible to have an inspector of some sort visit your home out a few times a year and test the radiation from your microwave for free.  I’m sure that the town is offering this service because they assumed that no one in their right mind would use it, as normal people who can afford it would rather just buy a new microwave for $60.  Obviously, they were wrong, and while I was talking to my mom recently about the inspector’s most recent visit to my parents’ house, she told me how much she enjoyed using such a valuable free service.  (Fortunately, the microwave is OK.)

Perhaps this Mother’s Day, I should just buy my mom a new microwave.

Wash My Mouth Out with Soap

Everyone likes soaps, shampoos, and lotions that smell yummy. I know that, otherwise The Body Shop, Bath & Body Works, Lush, Sabon, L'Occitane and a million other boutique soap shops would not exist. (OK, there was one super tiny fancy soap shop, Soap in the City, around the corner from my apartment that went out of business, so maybe not everyone loves special overpriced soap, or maybe they only like buying it from boutique chains. I swear that new chain soap stores appear every other day in Manhattan.) However, when even I like these things, I think it is fair to say that almost everyone likes them since I do not like most “girly” products. I never actually buy boutique soap, though, because I am too cheap. Why spend that kind of money on soap when I can get regular stuff (like Dial) for less then a third of the cost? (That is why I think fancy smelly soaps make good gifts – they are semi-affordable luxury items that people can make good use of.)

The other reason that I don’t buy yummy smelling soap is precisely because it smells yummy. I just have the weirdest temptation to start eating whatever I am using, be it body gel, bar soap, or shampoo. (I never use lotion unless I absolutely must because my skin is so dry that it is cracking off my body, so I am safe when it comes to yummy smelling lotions. I hate lotion.) Intellectually, I know that if I do eat the soap or shampoo, it will obviously not taste good. Yet the urge will not go away. Does anyone else have this problem?

You Go, Boy!

I didn’t watch the Golden Globe Awards last Monday. Usually I like awards shows and get into the whole can-you-believe-what-overpaid-undernourished-Ingenue-X-is-wearing? spirit of the event. However, I had seen a small preview of Joan and Melissa Rivers a few days before and I decided that someone who looks as alien as Ms. Rivers (and yet used to be so cool – what the fuck happened?) really should not be encouraged to add to the anti-woman atmosphere.

Yesterday I learned that I missed Isaac Mizrahi’s CUSS-like interrogations at the Golden Globes of overpaid-undernourished-Ingenue-Xes when he asked multiple starlets whether they were wearing any underwear and what type it was. As I watched the recap on VHI’s Best Week Ever while sweating my balls off on the stair climber, I was delighted to hear that tons of 90 lbs. stars said that they wear wearing “support” undies. No thongs, no g-strings. Aha! So they worry about hiding their guts, too! How exciting. Now, if only they would let themselves hang free a bit, the rest of us can follow suit…

The other big question popped by Mr. Mizrahi was to Eva Langoria (Desperate Housewives). He asked her what style her pubic hair was, which mortified her. Ha ha ha! I laughed cruelly and nearly fell of the stair climber machine as punishment for my meanness. People reap what they sow – if women would stop making designs in their crotch hair, people wouldn’t feel entitled to ask about it.

Busiest Dick Ever? President Bush Fucks Millions of Women Every Day

For a guy who proudly claims to be monogamous and faithful to his wife, President George Bush sure seems to fuck (over) a lot of other women both in the US and abroad. In the US, he and his cronies are doing everything they can to ensure that women have worthless sex educations, limited birth control options, and almost no access to abortion. Abroad, the situation is even worse. By blocking $125 million of funding since 2002 to the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), our “compassionate conservative” friends endanger the lives of millions of women and children by preventing them from receiving proper reproductive health care.

Want to tell Bush to go fuck himself instead of non-consenting women? Show him that Americans support sexual health here and around the world. To help women in the US pay for abortions, give to the National Network of Abortion Funds at http://www.nnaf.org/. For women who desperately need medical attention around the world, give to 34 million Friends of UNFPA, a program started in 2002 when Bush held the first $34 million in US funds back. Check them out at http://www.34millionfriends.org/.

Together, we can show our national leadership what compassion looks like.

Pro-Choice is the REAL Pro-Life

Nearly two years ago, on April 25, 2004, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law, Husband, and I boarded a bus near Lincoln Center at 6 am and began the short journey to Washington, DC to participate in the March for Women’s Lives. My cousin, who was 16 years old at the time, got into a car outside of Chicago, IL with four other teenagers and drove to DC to march as well. My aunt and uncle let her miss several days of school so that she could go. We were joined by people from every age group, every ethnic group, and every state in the country. It was the largest demonstration in Washington, DC ever. It was estimated that between 850,000 and 1.1 million attended. It was amazing.

Of course, there were counter-protestors with their propaganda and outright lies about abortion. At most, there were 200 hundred anti-women extremists who stood in little clumps along the march route and yell at us. We were called murders and perpetrators of genocide. We knew that they were wrong, and that by supporting access to legal and safe abortion, we actually save millions of lives of women (and often their families) each year.

Yet… every article about the March for Women’s Lives - a historic event, the biggest march in Washington ever - gave equal time to the anti-woman side as they did to the pro-woman’s lives side. That a march with a million people is given equal press as the protesters with less than 200 people encapsulates perfectly why the pro-women’s lives side is consistently losing these days. People hear the anti propaganda so often that they accept it as truth.

It is time to say no and demand to be treated fairly. It is time to remind people that being pro-choice is pro-life; that to be pro-choice is to save the lives of women. Say it to everyone you know, to everyone you meet, until our message is heard:

Pro-choice is the real pro-life.

"i'm not sorry"

I have a small button my backpack that says, “i’m not sorry.” My friend gave it to me last June at the annual conference of the National Network of Abortion Funds. I sport it with pride, and although I get a lot of quizzical looks, few people actually bother to ask me what it means.

My dentist is on of those few people. As was wrapping up my exam last week (I got an A+ - yay flossing and brushing regularly!), he noticed the button. “Interesting button,” he said. “What are you not sorry about?”

“Technically,” I explained to him, “this button means that I am not sorry that I had an abortion. However, I’ve never had an abortion, although I definitely would if I found myself pregnant, and I would absolutely not be sorry. But I wear this button in solidarity with those who had abortions and are not sorry that they have their own lives. I’m not sorry that about is legal, although I am very sorry that it is not affordable and accessible to every woman who needs one.”

My dentist laughed. “Well, that is certainly not what I expected you to say, but good for you! I wish everyone felt the same way.”


FACT: 89% of counties in the US do not have an abortion provider.

FACT: 6,000 women were forced to leave their homes and families in 2004 to travel to New York City to exercise their right to basic health care because their was no one in their hometowns who provided abortions.

FACT: The average cost of a hotel room in New York City is $300 per night and 85% of hotel rooms are booked over 200 days of the year, forcing low income women who travel to New York for an abortion to sleep on the street because they cannot afford a safe room.

Today is the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, but while abortion is technically legal in all 50 states, thousands of women cannot exercise their right to an abortion because of unfair restrictions and/or a lack of providers.

If you would like to help a low income come forced to travel to NYC for a second trimester abortion, email the Haven Coalition at havencoalition@yahoo.com.

My Bed in College was a Busy Place

While I was in college, I developed a habit of sleeping with an insane amount of stuff on my bed. This was because I had the top bunk of an extremely high bunk bed that for reasons unknown to me had no ladder. The only way to get into my bed was to climb up the side of the metal frame. One side of the bunk was partly blocked by my desk, which was not good to climb on because I didn’t want to accidentally break my word processor. (Ah, the good old days!) The other side of the bunk was next to the window, which was scary because if I fell while climbing up, I’d go right through the window and plunge seven stories onto Fifth Avenue.

I didn’t make it any easier to get up when I dug up my My Little Pony tent bed (like the one at left, but decorated with My Little Pony) from home one vacation and brought it back to my dorm. When the tent sheet was on, I had to climb up the side of the bed and instead of flopping right onto the mattress, I had to swing forward and around to get into the fucking tent. (That thing rocked, though. I wonder what I did with it.)

Coming down from the bunk was also literally a pain. The bed was at least six feet high. I usually jumped down and landing was hard on the ankles, especially since I lived large and on the chubby side in those days. It was still better than climbing down by that fucking window, though. After one or two close calls, I had to completely abandon that method.

Since getting into and out of bed was such a production, any time I needed something, it was a major effort to get it. For example, if I got in bed to do some homework but forgot, say, a pencil, I had to go through the whole rigamorole of jumping down and climbing up. As a result, I kept as many supplies in my bed as I could. My bed had pens and pencils, paper, books, Kleenex, pajamas, extra socks, sweaters, Theo (teddy bear), etc. in it. The room had a built-in bookcase that ran up the wall and above the bed, which was convenient for text book storage at the bed level and also my alarm clock, which of course required an extension cord to plug in.

The only thing I didn’t keep up there was food and water. No water because I seem to have wandered through the first 22 years of my life in a state of perpetual dehydration, so it didn’t occur to me at the time to have a water bottle handy. I didn’t keep food up there because it was too gross to have crumbs and shit in the bed, and I wasn’t a total slob. I say total slob as opposed to slob because I didn’t change my sheets all that often. Can you imagine the farce involved when a five foot tall person attempts to put a sheet on a bed that is six feet up in the air? It was ridiculous. I could’ve broken my neck! Unfortunately, I then developed the bad habit of not changing the sheets too often as well as sleeping with lots of crap in the bed. Needless to say, Husband is not pleased.

No Social Ill is Too Big or Too Small to Be Solved by Marriage!

As long as I’m on the Bush shitlist, I might as well point out that their plan to cure poverty and all social ills in the US by promoting marriage is fucking retarded. The idea behind it is that since a large proportion of single mothers live below the federal poverty line, if they just marry the first guy that comes along, all will be well. Instant wealth and stability in the household for the kiddies! Maybe in some cases marriage helps, but there is much proof that marrying any person with a dick actually makes the situation worse.

Exhibit 1: Recently a seven year old girl was tied to a chair and beaten to death by her stepfather. He justified his cruelty by explaining that the girl brought these beatings on herself by misbehaving, such as the time she cut her sister’s hair. He says he felt he needed to use all his strength to beat her so that she would learn a lesson. The fatal beating was precipitated after the girl ate a yogurt without asking and jammed the family printer. The stepfather had just lost his job, so money was tight and he really felt that his stepdaughter needed to understand that she couldn’t waste money by eating any time she wanted or by breaking things. Exhibit 1 illustrates that children are obviously not all better off when a single mother marries, and that marriage does not mean a family will not have money problems.

Exhibit 2: A very large percentage of the working poor are married couples with children. Usually both parents are in the workforce. So clearly, marriage does not mean that families do not struggle to pay for housing, food, health care, child care, and other life necessities. Exhibit 2 shows that there are more effective ways to spend public funds to reduce poverty.

Exhibit 3: A good number of “eligible” bachelors in many low income communities are in jail or have records, often for petty crimes. How the fuck is marrying someone who will have a hard time getting a decent paying job going to help lift families out of poverty? Exhibit 3 is proof that other policies would prevent the marriage as a panacea plan from working even if it wasn’t based on fucking stupid in the first place.

Perhaps a better way to solve poverty might be to offer health insurance, rent assistance, child care subsidies, and other social supports to working people with children instead of offering free marriage counseling. I know; I am such a crazy socialist liberal pinko commie porno feminist for thinking that way, but I just can’t ignore the evidence as conveniently as our “compassionate conservative” leaders can.

For a Good Time, Sit Here

The big dick statue in the Time Warner Center in Columbus Circle in Manhattan reminded me of the greatest bench on which I ever had the pleasure of resting my ass. It was at an U-bahn station in a section of what was formerly East Berlin. The benches at the station were all artsy but one bench stood out, literally by a head. The special bench was carved to look like a man and woman sitting on a bench. Tired commuters waiting for the train could sit in their laps, as long as they didn’t mind leaning their backs on a set of conical tits on the woman side of the bench or having a long, fat penis poke their butts and legs on the man side of the bench. It was nothing you’d see in the States, that’s for sure. It was really fucking cool. (I’ll try to find my picture and scan it in.) I loved it.

Does It Take One to Know One? I Hope Not, For My Sake

The nice thing about completely crazy people who ride the New York City subway is that they say aloud the things I am thinking but do not actually say since I am not completely crazy.  This occurred to me on last night’s commute home when a mentally disturbed, but harmless, woman got on the train one stop after I did and sat down across from me.  She immediately began ranting about Bloomingdale’s and how it was evil and “shoves it to you.”  I totally agree with the sentiment.  I fucking hate that store.  Every time I go there I am ignored by the sales people and if I ask for help, I am treated rudely.  I assume it is because I am an average slob who definitely looks like I don’t belong there and won’t spend a lot of money on stupid designed crap (true), but my husband is a very respectable-looking guy who does look like he would spend a lot of money on nice things there, and for some reason, he also is treated like crap by staff there, so go figure.  Once I was there and buying a $98 pair of Liz Claiborne pants, a $60 blue merino wool cardigan (which I subsequently lost at the dry cleaners because I am a dumb fuck and didn’t give it to them separately from the matching shell, so they only checked it in as one piece and that is exactly what I got back, which sucked because it was an awesome sweater), and a matching merino wool shell, which I think was $45.  I only got all this shit because I had a gift certificate for $250 which someone gave us for a wedding gift, but people at Bloomingdale’s are assholes and refused to sell us any electronics that we actually wanted, so my husband said I should use it on myself.  (He’s the best!)  Anyhoo, the woman who checked me out was so super nice and friendly, I became suspicious that she was not really an employee.  Turns out she was new and hadn’t finished her training on how to become a haughty motherfucker yet.

Back to the crazy woman on the subway last night… As she was bellowing about Bloomingdale’s, the guy sitting next to me started laughing at her.  She stopped for a second to eye him over.  He was sitting the way that annoying men do where they have their legs spread out all over the place and take up more than one seat.  “What?” the crazy-but-wise woman said.  “Are your balls so big that they take up seats for five people?”  Ka-ching!  That is so one of my pet peeves, and she so nailed him!  I always want to call people out on it but since I am not crazy, I keep my mouth shut in fear of an unpleasant response involving a fist.  I was surprised that the guy turned bright red and actually sat up a bit.  Turns out that there really wasn’t enough room for another person next to him, though, so he began slouching and spreading again.  Still, I found the public shaming was quite effective.  The woman did too and noted that it wasn’t his fault that the “seats are made in Japan, and Japanese people’s asses are smaller than ours, but they think we are asses.”  Interesting point, I thought.

While I was hoping that she would not try and strike up a conversation with me as she watched me write down everything she was saying, I did have a newfound respect for completely crazy people on the subway.

Fishing with President Bush, Chief Commander of Fucking Assholes

Damn, talk about timing!  Just last night I wrote about ways in which people have found CUSS through search engines.  One of the things that surprised me when I investigated their searches is how few porn sites came up when someone typed in unshaved snatch without using quotes.  Even sand in her snatch brought up very few porn sites until I entered “sand in her snatch.”

Well, never ones to let people live their lives, our dear friends at the Bush administration delivered a subpoena to Google earlier today demanding that Google turn over all their search records.  Basically our fearless “defenders” of liberty (if you happen to be rich, and also male, they’ll defend your liberties no matter what how corrupt you are) who launched a war in Iraq to stop their production of weapons of mass destruction “spread democracy” (like it’s margarine or something) have decided that they want to see who is looking at porn.  They are trying to force Google to turn over the IP (internet protocol) address of every person who has done a search that led porn sites to appear.  I know that Bushies claim that they trust families to raise their kids and that government should not interfere in family matters, and blah, blah ,blah.  I guess they don’t trust your family because the pathetic reason Uncle George and his cabal of rightwing lunatics provide for this invasion of privacy and people’s right to access information is to root out porn sites that use deceptive words to lure kids to their pages.  You know, like they so effectively rooted out Osama bin Laden by invading Iraq, a country that had nothing to do with Osama bin Laden.  Whatever.  

Sadly, I fear that anyone who looked up campaign for unshaved snatch with no quotes around the phrase will wind up in the clutches of our “freedom-loving” President.   Sorry about that.  I never meant for anyone to get investigated for reading some (hopefully) amusing commentary on social mores that I try and challenge.  And why do I also have a sneaking suspicion that searches on “birth control” or “abortion” will wind up in this fishing expedition for information on what Americans are up to?  I’m just paranoid, I suppose.  I mean, Bush and pals would never illegally spy on people who disagree with him.  Why would he crack down on feminazis, baby killers, and/or masturbators?  Silly little me to think that adults can read what they want in this “free” country.

Sometimes Being a Do-Gooder Pays Off in Weird Ways

I am so excited! I’ll be heading to California for work in early February, and my wonderful co-workers agreed that a quick stop at the Sierra Sacramento Valley Museum of Medical History would be a good way to relax in between presentations. There is almost nothing I love more than medical history museums, particularly when they are in English. (The last one I went to was in Zurich and the explanations were entirely in Swiss German, a language in which I understand essentially nothing. It was still an awesome museum, though. There were lots of gross and disturbing artifacts that didn’t need to be explained for the most part.)

The Sierra Sacramento Valley Museum of Medical History is small (only 1,200 square feet and the website claims it has room to grow) but has an exciting set of 16 display cases “featuring collections in the fields of Surgery, Clinical Diagnosis, Infectious Disease, Pharmacy, Radiology, Chinese Medicine, Obstetrics and Gynecology and Medical Quackery.” Medical quackery! Infectious diseases! Obstetrics and gynecology! These are my absolute favorites. Man, a work trip just can’t get better than this, I tell you. I am so lucky to work with people willing to humor my insane hobbies.

It's All About Artistic Value

Yesterday I was inaccurately accused of having a vagina obsession on this very blog. While it is not untrue that I am obsessed with the cooch, I say it is inaccurate because I am obsessed with all types of things considered taboo about the human body, not just snatch. So when I met some people for dinner last night at an overpriced restaurant in the most useless and ridiculous upscale mall in America (that would be the Time Warner Center mall complex on Columbus Circle), I was quite taken with two ginormous statues – a nude man and a nude woman – in the lobby near the middle bank of escalators. I’m pretty used to naked female statues, as they seem to be everywhere; no big deal. It’s the naked dude that caught my eye. The sculptor didn’t gloss over the details – the giant statue had an appropriately big dick and sack. I wasn’t the only one, either. A young girl, maybe four years old, stood in awe, pointing at his crotch. It seems a lot of people have enjoyed Statue Guy's company, as his penis was shiny from being rubbed. Unless it was shiny because he came alive after the mall closed, like in the movie Mannequin, and took care of business himself. (Hey, male statues have needs too!)

They Still Haven't Found What They're Looking For...

I’ve been tallying up the ways that people wind up at CUSS & Other Rants.  The most common search terms that brought up CUSS on a search engine (like Google, MSN, or Yahoo – no one seems to use AltaVista these days, does it even exist any more?) are “unshaved,” “anal,” or “snatch.”  “Anal” strikes me as a curious search word because it is wide open in so many ways.  Does the searcher mean “anal” as in anal retentive or “anal” as in show me some ass?  (Probably the latter, but who knows?)

I found a lot of derivations of “unshaved” as well.  There’s the person who was looking for “unshaved bikini line” and the one who sought “unshaved legs women.”  (FYI - CUSS was the first site that popped up for unshaved bikini line – we’re #1!  We’re #1!)  Someone was researching “prevalence pube shaving.”  I thought most of the sites identified by the search engines would be porn, and was surprised to find that was not true.  Man, the porn industry is losing ground!  Kind of sad, isn’t it?  The internet industry, like the VCR industry, was built on porn.  Oh well.  Times change and there isn’t too much I can do about it.  Gotta move on and all that shit…

My very, very favorite searches that brought people to CUSS are “sand in her snatch” and “say tushie.”  Both just crack me up.  The person looking for sand in her snatch did not use quotations and thus wound up with pages of random sites that contained the words sand and/or snatch.  Other contenders for best search terms: “merkin crotch wig,” “public beach sex,” “fake vaginas,” and finally (and probably most randomly) “heath ledger” + “receding hairline.”  

I hope that these people enjoyed their time at CUSS and that they eventually found what they needed, whether it was learning a new term, winning a bet, or jerking off in a sock.

Shocking Discovery: Pregnant Women Have Pubic Hair!

I was talking to my friend who is pregnant for the second time. One of the moms in her expecting mother’s support group was telling my friend that she was upset because she usually waxes her own bikini line. As her pregnancy progresses, she is having a harder and harder time reaching down there to wax, and realizes that soon she won’t be able to do so at all. My friend was a little puzzled. “So who cares?” my friend asked her. “Even if you want to go swimming, your stomach will cover the bikini line and no one can see if there are pubes sticking out or not anyway. I swim all the time at the Y and I don't bother shaving.” The other woman was horrified. “No, the problem is that I can’t imagine going to the doctor without waxing the area first.”

OK, OB-GYNs, of all people, should know that women have pubic hair. They should be very used to seeing women, especially pregnant woman, with giant bushes. If you are pregnant and your OB-GYN is surprised to see that you have pubic hair, you should immediately find a new doctor who understands human physiology.

At any rate, pubic hair growth should be the last concern a woman has about body changes that happen during pregnancy. There's discomfort from weight gain and the increasing likelihood of pissing yourself unintentionally, as the baby may be pressing against the bladder. “Morning sickness” is a misnomer - many women are puking all day, not just in the morning. During birth, all kinds of messy fluids will pour out of your vagina. That area between the vagina and anus may get cut open or ripped to make way for the baby’s head. In a c-section, the uterus is temporarily removed from the body. Forget the unregulated growth of pubic hair - these are the things that disturb me when I think about pregnancy.

Is the "War on Ugliness" Like the War on Terror?

From The Village Voice (“The Mane Attraction” by Rachel Aviv)

…George Michael, the self-described "Tzar of long hair." He was waging a "war on ugliness," lecturing women (the kind who "like lacy underwear") all over the world on how to embrace their femininity. His system for beauty was strict: no bangs, layers, rubber bands, blow drying, or washing more than once a week.

Wow, thanks for the helpful insight on how to be more feminine and less ugly, Mr. Hair Satan. Not usre who appointed you the arbiter of what is attractive, but thank goodness you took the mission seriously. Nothing is more important than a crusade to make all women look and act the same. Variety is an enemy that must be vanquished.

It's Nice to Know that People Care

Earlier today, I received the following insightful comment from “Anonymous:”

On another note, I read your description of yourself: a do-gooder whom loathes people. Sounds like you may benefit from some medication. I'm not being ugly, either. I have a bipolar father whom has benefited greatly from Prozac. You really need to lift that dark cloud that's enveloped you.

At first, I thought it was really funny. Then I became very excited because it dawned on me that only one person could write something like this, and that person is none other than Sen. Bill Frist (R-TN), MD!

Sen. Frist is not only the United States Senate Majority Leader, but he is also a respected heart and lung surgeon. You may recall a tiny incident last year when he made a speech on the Senate floor and said that, based on his review of a video, Terri Schiavo was not in a persistive vegetative state. He made this diagnosis after he "spent an hour or so looking at” the tape the prior night in his DC office.

Clearly, Sen. Frist spent a few minutes on my blog and decided that I must be bipolar because I am a misanthropic humanist. Goodness! You’d think he might want an expert in psychiatry to at least talk to me a bit before coming up with a doosey like that! In fact, a professional (or even average person on the street) might note that it is perfectly human to have conflicting emotions about things. Someone who really has a father who is bipolar (unlike Sen. Frist) might also note that bipolar disorder is a disease marked by periods of extreme mania and depression, not little internal conflicts about life. A person who really had a parent with bipolar disease would also know that Prozac is not really an ideal treatment for many bipolar individuals, as it is intended to treat only depression, and may cause a rapid swing into a manic state. My guess is that a person with a parent with bipolar disorder would not take it so lightly, as the effects of the illness are often devastating.

Anyway, I am glad that an important public figure like Sen. Bill Frist would take a few minutes out of his busy schedule of things he can do to destroy everything that is good about the US to try and help me. If only everyone had someone in their life who cared so much, the world would be a better place today. Brings a fuckin' tear to my eye, I tell ya.

Show Me Your Balls First

Thanks to the ever-vigilant blog reading of my friend D., I was pointed to a link from gawker.com to an interview in the UK Sun with Mimi Fowler, BFF of “Belle in the Big Apple” (aka Brooke Parkhurst). Mimi has a degree from Cambridge but works as a stripper in NYC although she came here to be a writer. Now, I admit that when it comes to stripping, I have very mixed feelings. On one hand, I find it extremely sad that an intelligent woman can only earn money in NYC by stripping, not by being smart. On the other hand, if women truly like their stripping jobs, then it’s not my business to tell them what to do. I'm not sure this article supports the concept, though. Some excerpts from the article and commentary from moi:

WITH a first-class degree from Cambridge University, pretty Mimi has the world at her feet when it comes to careers.

But rather than relying on her brains, her long slender legs and curves are proving the key to her fortune — as she spends her nights stripping at a New York lap-dancing club.

She says: “When people see me on stage, they just see the stripper — the girl in the G-string.

“Nobody cares that I have a first from Cambridge, and nobody wants you to be smart.

Does this sound empowering to you? It doesn’t sound empowering to me. In fact, it sounds like someone else is completely in control and able to project their fantasies unto Mimi and make her into who they want her to be, not who she wants to be. Maybe I am just confused, though. I mean, what do I know? I’m crazy enough to like relying on my brains, wanting to be seen as smart, and shit like that. Damn.

Mimi began her lap-dancing at a small New York venue but soon landed a job at Scores — Manhattan’s premier lap-dancing venue.

Despite its glitzy image, she says she still has to fight off advances by clients.

She concedes: “There is a dark, sleazy side to it. Guys whisper horrible things, they try and touch you. But you have to be strong and push them off.

I enjoy the power dancing gives me over men. I was never the kind of girl to go topless on a beach but stripping was like second nature.

“Men who come in often want to rescue us — like we are tragic women trapped in a job we hate.

Mimi explains: “It is classy — the biggest club — and all the celebrities and big spenders are there.

Perhaps I am don’t understand what it means to have power over others. I thought it meant that you control the situation, not others. What is powerful about being strong in order to fight guys off or having them believe that you hate your job (when you love it) and need them to rescue you? Nope, pardon my stupid little feminist head, but this doesn’t seem empowering to me at all. And man, that place sounds totally classy! If celebrities and big spenders are there, how can it not be? Nothing says “classy” like a guy coming in his pants as he stares at a woman’s tits while she gyrates on his lap for money. Silly me.

“I was never one of the hot girls at Cambridge. I had short hair and people thought I was quirky. But when you get on stage it’s great because of the attention you get.

“I’d never really felt sexy or like a real woman before.

"Now I’ve learned how to put on make-up, dance in heels, flirt and really work a man."

“They gave me a job, but told me that I had to sort myself out, to lose weight and look more feminine.”

Once again, pardon my foolishness. How was I supposed to know that in order to be a “real woman,” I couldn’t have short hair or go without make up? Crap, I don’t even really know how to walk in heels, let alone dance in them! Nor do I know how to really work a man for cash, whether I’m fully clothed or just at dinner. (Another one of Mimi’s fine characteristics is that she is a “dinner whore.”) Since Mimi was told to lose weight and look “more feminine” (whatever that means - maybe shaving her snatch?) so that she'd be considered acceptable to appear naked in front of paying men, I guess she has total power and control!!!

I am sooooo pathetic! If I wear comfy shows, have no idea how to put on make-up, prefer my hair short, gain weight or look less feminine (?), no one is going to fire me. Curse my powerless situation!

She adds: “No one thinks they are going to become a stripper. It’s usually just someone you know, or chance, that leads you there.

“But it’s the money and the feeling of power that keeps you there.”

Seriously, given how awesome stripping sounds, I don’t understand why my high school college counselor led me so astray. I guess it’s not too late, though, now that Mimi has enlightened me. Thank goodness society has its priorities straight and I could earn more money and power by helping guys have orgasms in public by swinging my titties in his face than I can by helping low income families! I am so excited for my new career! Oh – wait. I’m currently wearing wool socks, wool pants, a wool sweater, a suit jacket (unfortunately not wool), a wool sweater over my suit jacket, and a pair of gloves at work and I’m still freezing. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to gain power and wealth in a stripping career. I’d be too cold. Or maybe I could use it to my advantage - erect nipples would help me be more powerful as I danced my ass off to warm up. I’d just have to require men to warm their hands before shoving money in my underwear. Now that’s power!

How Sweet is the"Honeymoon Suite?" Not Very.

Setting aside the issue of clean linens at hotels, there is something very creepy (or unintentionally amusing, sometimes it’s hard to tell which) about rooms specifically designed for sex. I saw the whirlpool suites at Sybaris while I was in college, which amused me with their beds surrounded by mirrors. This past summer I actually got to experience the cheesy thrill of staying in a “sex room” for the first time.

My husband and I went to Tel Aviv for my friend H’s wedding in August. We arrived at the hotel at 4 am, and were told that there was only one room available. We were exhausted and gladly checked in. I knew something was off, though, when we got upstairs and opened the door to the room. I swore I heard a bad porn soundtrack playing in my head as I turned on the lights. The room looked suspiciously like it was the set of a cheesy soft core movie. There was a round bed with a mirror over it. The mirror had lights that were controlled by a dimmer, although not all the light bulbs worked. Tucked into the corner of the room was a chaise lounge surrounded by mirrors with some outdated track lighting dangling over it.

Nothing about the room made me uncontrollably horny. (It probably didn’t help that several of the lights on the mirror were burned out.) The whole situation did, however, inspire me to lie down on the round bed and take pictures of myself and others making funny faces into the ceiling mirror. It also me made want show it to everyone I knew, which I did.

While I wasn’t laughing uncontrollably, I learned a few things from sleeping in a round bed for 11 nights. First, if you and your partner are both near-sighted, you are not going to see anything in a ceiling mirror once you take your glasses off or contacts out (which would have been a downer had I actually cared to watch.) Second, it is hard to keep regular rectangular sheets on round beds, even when you are doing nothing so much as sitting on the bed reading a book. It seems that sheets are not available cut in round shapes. Another issue presented by a round bed is head support. You may wake up with your head dangling off the bed at odd angles, since normal beds don’t drop off suddenly and balloon out in other areas. Finally, I warn you that it can be startling and downright scary to see something moving on the ceiling when you wake up until you realize that it is not a ginormous bug, but in fact, your own reflection. Whew!

Beware the Dinner Hag

It seems like I’m not the only one obsessing in a seething manner about the whole “dinner whore” article from last Thursday’s New York Post, as a few others out there in the blogosphere have commented on it.  I was rereading the whole thing and came across a picture of Brooke Parkhurst and her dinner whore friend Mimi Fowler (an overeducated stripper from Cambridge – what a cliché!) and decided that all that dinner whoring must take a toll on a person.  Brooke and Mimi are each 4 years younger than I am but look like they could be my significantly older sisters from a parent’s previous marriage.  Feigning interest in someone for free caviar is just so sad and repulsive.

Of course, a middle aged man attempting to wine and dine a woman his daughter’s age is even more pathetic.  (Yes, I know that I live in a “narrow prison of a mind” according to some anonymous soul who didn’t like my previous thoughts on the topic, but tough titty.  It’s comfortable in there.)  I’m not letting them get away with their nasty habits and solely blaming the women for their behavior.  It takes two to eat caviar for two.

But Can Their Products Cure Social Awkwardness?

This is Brian J. Conant, President of Flat-D Innovations, (left) and Frank J. Conant, "Flatulence Guru," (above). I "met" them one day when my friend M. sent me an email with the subject "For your blog" and a link to www.flatd.com in the body of the email. (This was very good timing, as I was seriously despairing about evil women who screw the rest of us over by being total cuntfaces, and just then one of my delightful friends pops up and reminds me that there are some super cool, awesome, rockin ladies with excellent senses of humor out there. )

Anyway, here is what you will find if you follow the link to Flat-D's women only products:

At Flat-D Innovations, we specialize in producing products that neutralize embarrasing [sic] feminine crotch odors. Through research, prototypes and live testing (with real customers) we're pleased to introduce a new line of women’s products: The “FEM-D”, “Thong-D” and "Overpad Plus."

Our “FEM-D” was developed for women that have had flatulence and vaginal odor issues.


The “Thong-D” was developed for women who wear thong underwear and have flatulence issues.

Our “Overpad-D" and“Overpad-Plus”pads were developed for women that have their menstrual cycle (and/or incontinence) and are concerned about the odors associated with it. All three of these products were developed specifically for women.These products will give you confidence and eliminate the embarrassment caused by these types of odors.

Our products do not cure the odor but can definitely provide you with relief from the symptom.

Read our complete white paper on female odor control problems. Female Hygiene

Every time I read this, I laugh hysterically. What is not gut busting hilarious about people earnestly trying to sell women underwear that cure “crotch odors?” I really wish that I was smart enough to have written this first. The nice thing about Flat-D (that's short for flatulence deodorizer) is that is is doctor recommened (I swear the website makes this claim) and understands that men and canines can be smelly too!

If you have any questions after reading all about farts on the Flat-D website, you can email their medical expert ("Due to medical liability concerns only flatulence related questions will be answered by the doctor."), read an essay (Flatulence is part of life! By Frank Morosky, Flatulence Guru), or join their flatulence yahoo group. Great stuff.

Seriously, People are Fucked Up

Steph suggested that I begin a new blog called “Twat in the Big Apple.” It will be about a talentless hack who moves to New York to become a “writer.” Craziness ensues: she carouses the clubs and gets written up in Gawker.com; she quits her job at an arch-conservative network out to destroy any gains in women’s rights and self-determination because she decides that the don’t respect women; she gets a book deal and signs up for writing classes; she’s written up in the New York Post as a proud former “dinner whore” who used pervy rich men old enough to be her father so that she could get over 200 meals in fancy restaurants (worth over $30,000!); and she falls in love with a chef, which she finds ironic, although she is a woman who clearly loves good food.

Oh, wait. This blog already exists. Drats. Now my hopes for a book deal are dashed…

What’s truly sad is that the real-life blogger with such madcap adventures seems to no longer allow people to comment on her blog. (Could she not keep up with removing the nasty comments and emailing each person and calling him/her “an ignorant bitch” as I was so lucky have happen a few weeks ago?) Really, I can’t believe that there was a backlash to such a delightful specimen of the female human race. People are so mean.

Supply Side Economics

I have a problem when it comes to overthinking an issue. Last night, I started to worry what would happen if women really stood up and said “we’re not taking this beauty bullshit any more – we look fine the way we are!” and stopped going to nail and waxing salons, buying makeup, getting ridiculous plastic surgery, etc. On one hand, I hope it would mean that women would have better self-esteem and use the time we formerly spent primping on doing things that actually make the world a better place. Yet on the other hand, how many jobs would be lost? I don’t care about the cosmetic companies’ CEOs and other execs (they are evil, unattainable dream peddlers for the most part – is a choice between two lipsticks real choice for women? I think not), the advertisers (see CEOs and other execs), or the models (at this point, aren’t most big campaigns structured around famous actresses/movie stars? They have plenty of other income). The chemists who invent the stuff will also find other, hopefully more socially valuable jobs. The fucking hack plastic surgeons might actually have to practice medicine that actually saves lives, instead of wasting resources on unnecessary surgical procedures. How crazy would that be? No, it’s the factory workers (if makeup is even manufactured in the US – I have no idea), the nail painters, the waxers, and other “little people,” frequently immigrants who will be hurt the most. That sucks. It’s fucked up that a good thing could cause so many other problems.

Do You Starch Your Sheets, By Any Chance?

I admit that I have written some fairly disgusting things. I can’t help it; my brain just seems to work that way. It must be genetic, and here is the proof. I was talking to my bubbe a few years ago. She asked me what my plans were for the evening and I told her that I was sleeping over at a friend’s house. She became all bent out of shape over it, and told me that I should never sleep over at a friend’s house because there might be discharge on the sheets.

Hello? That is totally demented! How the fuck does that logic come to be? Was she sleeping over at her friend’s house back in Russia when she was a girl? If so, does she not understand that I am friends with people who have at least a modicum of sanitary standards. Yeesh. I mean, I definitely worry when I am staying at a hotel that there might be jizz on the sheets, but that is because I don’t know the people who run the joint. For fuck’s sake, there are my friends. If they give me discharge-y sheets it is probably my fault for being friends with someone who doesn’t wear underwear to bed or do laundry.

And Behind Curtain 1...

I was just chatting it up on IM with my friend J. back in the DR.  She has some other friends visiting her this weekend, so I told her that I was jealous and asked her where they were staying.  She told me the hotel’s name, and all the sudden I was transported back to Dec. 25, 2005...  

We had been wandering around the Colonial Zone and stopped in this funky (funky in the sense that it looked the same as it did in 1950) café for coffee and, in my case, a papaya batida (a delicious fresh fruit shake).  The back of the café had a ginormous metal door that resembled a bank vault, but one with a zillion padlocks and chains on it rather than a normal vault door.

My husband mentioned that he had to go to the bathroom, but J. didn’t think that they had a public bathroom.  I also had to go, so I suggested that we use the bathroom at the touristy hotel nearby.  (This is the same hotel that J.’s friends are staying at this weekend, which is what triggered my memory.)  Just as we were about to leave to implement the plan, J. decided she might as well ask if there was a bathroom.  The guy at the counter told her that as long as the ginormous metal door was unlocked, bathrooms were accessible.  My husband went off to find the men’s room.  When he came back in one piece, I went to use the women’s room.

However, as I was heading back, Julie told me to wait.  The counter guy was giving her the key.  She came with me and that was when we discovered that the door was padlocked shut.  We found that a bit scary and weird.  J. opened the lock and that’s when we discovered the dungeon.  It was one room with barely any light, a toilet, sink, and pink shower curtain, which separated the toilet from the sink and door.  I guess since there was no way to lock the door when using the bathroom, the idea was that you could hide behind the shower curtain if someone barged in.  J. and I decided to take turns waiting outside and guarding the door while the other person did her business.  I can’t imagine how disturbing it would have been to be there alone and have someone re-padlock the door while I was in there.  I could totally imagine the Gimp from Pulp Fiction hanging around there.  We peed quickly, and then we got the fuck out of there.

The batida was really good, though.

Think Slasher Movies are Gross?

Why is the female reproductive system so damn shitty? Almost every time I get my period, I get some seriously nasty diarrhea. It’s like my ass is jealous that my crotch has crap pouring out of it and wants in on some of the liquid action. I am definitely not the only one who suffers from this unfortunate malady. Several of my friends have mentioned the vag-blood/ass-runs connection. Another friend of mine told me that one of the first signs of pregnancy is diarrhea. She’s been pregnant twice, and it happened each time. Most of the women in her mom group had the same thing happen. So getting pregnant is not a solution to stop the runs. And you’ll probably get a lot of diarrhea from raising a kid, so there’s no way around the problem.

Happy Friday the 13th!

Dinner Whore or Media Whore: Probably Both, but A Whore Any Way You Look At It

I know I promised mere hours ago to not blog in the wee hours of the morning while I was falling asleep, but sometimes I find out something random that is totally infuriating that makes me violate my good word. What on earth could be making me so irate that I must break a promise and rant at 2:30 AM? It's my usual foes: cuntface whores and the New York Post. It's like the marriage of the lowest common denominators of insipidness and evil. Normally I wouldn't excerpt a NY Post article, but my little buddy Belle in the Big Apple is so over the top in it that I wouldn't want anyone to miss out. I am disgusted to present (with commentary provided by me, sort of like Mystery Science Theater 3000):

MEET THE DINNER WHORES By MANDY STADTMILLER

January 12, 2006 -- THEY'RE gorgeous. That's the first thing you notice.

How could a man resist taking these ladies to dinner, even if he suspects they might be staying in the relationship - or simply, at the restaurant - more for the pricey martinis than the possibility of marital or bedded bliss?

[Seriously! Men, like all people, love being used! How can they resist? I better keep my husband away!]

Meet today's modern - sorry, Ms. Steinem - "dinner whore."

Immortalized by frequent discussions on Craigslist, and most scientifically defined by urbandictionary.com, the frank term doesn't scare some of today's modern female daters.
"The concept of dating has changed," says 26-year-old blond bombshell Brooke Parkhurst, who estimates over the course of her 200-plus dinner-whore encounters she has run up combined tabs of $30,000 in New York and beyond. "Women used to feel like something had to be given in exchange, whereas now I'm perfectly confident that my company is enough."

[I really doubt that.]

But get to know the ladies, and see if you don't want to buy them a little dinner, too. Take Parkhurst, who says her D.W. days are long behind her now that she is dating a man who is fabulous in - where else? - the kitchen.

"It's kind of ironic," she says with a giggle. "A reformed dinner whore dating a chef."

[What is ironic about a person who loves food dating a chef? It sounds logical to me. Irony is when a chef dates someone who has no tastebuds or when a person with no teeth falls in love with a chef who hates making soup. And now that I know one of the ladies a bit, I think I'll just give more food to the homeless, who are far more deserving of a free meal.]
---------------------------------------------
If you want to read the rest of the article, go to belleinthebigapple.blogspot.com. There's a link to the Post article and also a link to Belle with her chef making gooey buns - I mean eyes - at each other. And they said feminism is dead...

Snachtoos Rock! (Not that I'm Getting One Any Time Soon)

Seriously, it is OK with me if grown women shave their crotches bare as long as they get freakin’ awesome snatch tattoos like this one. “No meat on Friday?” with a giant fish? Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

(Yes, some readers may be experiencing deja vu with this post. I seem to have put it up earlier without actually including the picture. I'm sure it makes much more sense this way. Quite frankly, unintentionally posting drafts is a very good reason why I should not work on my blog while I am falling asleep on at 1:30 am on a work night. I hope I didn't spoil the amusement/shock factor with my carelessness. I promise to be more alert when engaging in late night blogging in the future!)

My "Sin City" Sin

My little “Queen Kong” rant is not the first time I wrote about annoying sexist shit in “innovative” movies. I got some serious hate mail this past summer when Entertainment Weekly published a little letter I wrote regarding Sin City. I wrote:

I found your article on Sin City to be depressing. What is it about male-comic book writers? No matter how creative they are, no matter how far their imaginations can go in developing complex alternative worlds and building on wild ideas, they seem to be utterly unable to conceive of women characters as anything other than leather-clad prostitutes, strippers, or Madonnas whose pure love redeems their men. Frank Miller seems like a really interesting man. I eagerly await the revolutionary day he comes up with something outside of these tired (and, by now, boring) stereotypes.

OK, so I admit that I should not have clumped all male comic-book writers in with my complaint, as it made me sound like one of those male-hating feminist bitches, when I am actually a people-hating feminist bitch. That was definitely a mistake, and people let me know it. I agree that not all male comic-book writers suck, as many are wonderful storytellers and visionaries. (I’m thinking Neil Gaiman and Daniel Clowes, por exemple.) However, I stand by my bitching about female characters in Sin City, which I admittedly have not read nor seen. I do know that the movie seemed to require that none of the female characters wear clothes of a covering sort, including the character who works in a prison. I could deal with that if the men characters all wore revealing get ups as well, but that seems to be a ridiculous notion. Men? Without clothes!?! Never! And could it’ve killed him to not fall into the Madonna/whore dichotomy, a lame false situation if there ever was one.

Anyway, my favorite hate mail was from someone who turned out to be a freshman in college who was featured on some HGTV show for his Spiderman collection. Sadly, I no longer have that masterpiece to share (believe me, you would’ve loved it), but when I read it to one of my co-workers, he was slightly afraid that this guy might actually hurt me since I dared to insult his hero. (Somehow, I think that Frank Miller has heard it all before and that he could give a fuck what I think, which is fine by me.)

The most fun way to respond to someone who sent you a nasty email calling you a shit-eating asshole (I am paraphrasing here) is to respond with two words: “That’s nice.” Man, that sends the Rush Limbaugh set into a tizzy! Something to keep in mind for the future.

Last of the Holiday Roundup

These are the two super cool gifts that I received from my husband for Hanukkah:

When normal 29 year old husbands give their wives sleepwear as a gift, they tend to buy sexy nightgowns or slinky camisole pajamas. My husband is definitely not normal, as evidenced by these rocking fleece footie pajamas that he bought me. I decided that these pjs can be sort of like a sleek cat suit, one that happens to be made of fleece and is bubblegum pink with bright yellow duckies on it. Sexy, right? (I tried to show in the picture that adult size fleece footie pajamas can be sexy by flashing a bit of cleavage. I hope it worked.) I think they are awesome other than the fact that I might sweat to death in them. In NYC, landlords tend to overheat buildings during the winter so they don’t have to deal with old people bitching to them about being cold. (My grandmother should move here.) That means that unless it is subzero outside with a raging wind for several days in a row, it is about 4000 degrees in my apartment. A fleece body suit is a bit too warm in such conditions. Still, I like to tromp around in them when I can.

The second gift my husband gave me for Hanukkah that was just too good to not share is the book “The Hypochondriac’s Pocket Guide to Horrible Diseases You Probably Already Have.” This book is perfect for me because I always worry about potential ailments. For example, say I am tromping around in my fleece bubblegum pink cat suit with bright yello duckies on it, and I find that I have become insufferably hot although it is cold in the room. My first conclusion would be that I came down with a sudden fever. Logical, right? Or one time I found a scratchy dot on my stomach and just knew that I had shingles. This pocket guide allows me to look up symptoms and match them to an exotic disease that I may have contracted within the past five minutes.

Let’s test it out: say I have nasty boils. I look up boils in the index and find two potential diseases: mycobacteriosis and myiasis. Mycobacteriosis, also known as fish-handlers disease and swimming-pool granuloma, occurs when “your pet fish infect you with their mycobacteria.” Other symptoms are: inflammation, joint pain, lumps, rash, lesions, ulcers, malaise, nausea, and/or vomiting. There is a ton more info on the diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment, as well as prevention. However, I realize that I only have one other symptom – malaise – but that probably results from my general dissatisfaction with our society. I also don’t have fish, handle fish, nor swim in pools. So I must be safe. Cool.

Myiasis, on the other hand, is a disease “in which maggots crawl around beneath your skin.” Besides boils, symptoms include: pain, swelling, sores, fever, itching, and/or moving sensation beneath the skin. (This sounds seriously unpleasant. I think I’d rather have mycobacteriosis if I have to have one or the other.) The disease is contracted when a flesh fly lays eggs on skin, an open wound, or in a body cavity. (It is more important than ever to wear underwear that fully covers all holes!!!) It is just too nasty to think about, and I don’t think I’ve been near any flesh flies within the last week. I hope. And since I don’t really have boils (just pretending for the example, remember?), I am not going to worry too much about myiasis.

Anyway, the best thing about this book, other than helpful self-diagnoses guidance, is the disclaimer on the front of the book. It says, “This is a work of humor. The diseases and the information on them are real, but some facts may have been omitted because they were boring or to make room for gratuitous profanity. This is not to be used as a medical text.” Wow! It’s just like this blog. How great is that?!?!

Is That a Sand Castle in Your Pants or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

My friend P. went on vacation to Miami Beach and sent me the following report:

sunday night we decided to go to Niki Beach, which is a club at the tip of south beach right on the beach.  this was the one that was highly recommended by one of the liver transplant fellows, one of our co-worker's brothers, and deena's sister.  we got in for free with a pass from the hotel concierge.  anyway, the place was full of way too young people. i think the average age range was 17-23, except for a few skeezy old men.  the more disturbing thing was the fact that in the outside area of the club, instead of chairs there were mattresses on the sand, and a few of them on the sides were inside tents, for those people who felt that hooking up in public was too much...  so as none of us felt the need to have sex with a 17 year old on a mattress in the sand, we went home...

Wow, it is so nice of the club to take into consideration the various needs of people’s semi-public romps on the beach.  The mattresses sound gross, though.  Not that I think that hooking up on the beach is a good idea to begin with, but I can understand why it appeals to others.  How much more romantic can it get than to snuggle between a blanket or towel while the water laps gently at your feet and the stars shine above?  Aside from the possibility of voyeurs (which is a big turn on for some) or being arrested for public indecency (Which obviously the club is trying to help people avoid), the beach strikes me as a horrible place to have sex, as it is full of sand.  Think about the last time you were at a beach.  By the time you left, there was sand everywhere.  No matter how hard you tried to get it off before going home, you inevitably continued to find sand on your body and your things (towel, bag, shows, etc.) for days, if not weeks, afterwards.  I am struck with horror to think about all the special crevices and cracks that sand wends its way into during passionate sex on the beach.  The thought of digging sand out of my ass is enough to make me become celibate.

No, That Can't Be Right

And I thought a g-string was uncomfortable when it is in my ass crack?

Hmmm...

Is it wrong to consider buying this Cosabella mesh g-string for $3.99 + $1.00 shipping and handling on eBay from a seller named Seńor Pollo? Even if it is stylishly displayed on what appears to be the bathroom floor? Yeah, I thought so, but just verifying my instincts...

Danger, Will Robinson!

Is it bad that my toilet actually hissed at me tonight after I flushed down a ginormous turd?  Probably.

Lessons from Down Under

Several things that I learned from my experiment with wearing a thong:

1. A lot of women wear thongs every day.  A lot of women also go shopping and try on pants.  That means that it is possible to buy new pants that have had other women’s naked asses in them.  I never thought about this before, but it occurred to me today when I stopped off at Ann Taylor Loft to buy a pair of wool pants.  When I went into the fitting room, I realized that due to my non-covering undergarment, my whole ass was hanging out, making trying pants on really gross.


2. Some pants have labels or security tags sewn into the side.  While wearing normal underwear, I never noticed this before.  Yet when my whole side was exposed in my thong, the fucking tag scratched at the side of my pants all day.  I should really remove the tags in general.


3. A thong is oddly much more comfortable than a g-string, even though the ass string is wider on a thong than on a g-string.  Maybe the thinner string gets wedged in further or maybe the fabric on the expensive thong made a big difference.  It’s a physics mystery to me why it is this way.


4. I could never work out in a thong.  It is tolerable walking around in one and almost not noticeable while sitting at a desk all day.  Running, however, would be a nightmare.  I can’t imagine where all the crotch sweat would go, and it seems like chafing would be inevitable.  Perhaps I’ll try it another time, but tonight I wound up having dinner with a friend and getting home too late to hit the gym.  (She told me a good story about a bathroom in a bar, which I shall share in another post.)


5. Although I had some gassy incidents this morning, the thong didn’t reek too badly.  I can’t figure it out.  Maybe the rhinestone B monogram is a magical fart smell remover.  If so, I should get one rhinestone B monogram on all my undies.

Anyhoo, now that the experiment is over, I feel sort of empty.  I’ll have to keep trying little experiments.  Plus my friend who challenged me promised to take me underwear shopping, so it ain’t over yet.

Three O'Clock and All's... Okay

Surprisingly, the thong is tolerable so far. Granted, my day has mostly consisted sitting at my desk working on various tasks:
-talking to a potential client on the phone;
-eating yogurt that tasted suspicious;
-emailing various people;
-eating fake meat turkey salad;
-having an IM conversation with a friend about a disturbing Hasidic practice (letting the mohel suck the circumcision wound clean - how fucking wrong is that) that made the news;
-eating a banana; and
-doing financial analysis on a potential client.

Perhaps if I was walking around, it would be more irritating. I shall wear it to the gym this evening and see how that goes. At any rate, it can't be any worse that that evil g-string I wore a few weeks ago.

However, my co-worker just verified that you can, in fact, see a panty line on my side. So I either need a looser thong (I should not have washed this one in warm water and dried it, according to the Cosabella Rosetta Underwear tag) or nothing makes a difference when it comes to fat bulging out over my undies.

Score thus far:
Calvin Klein Choices g-string - Completely evil
Cosabello Talco low-rise thong - tolerably evil

Sisqo is Wrong

This morning was time to face the truth: I had put off the thong trial day long enough.  I had to be a woman and strap that baby on.  Now that I have worn it a whole 2.5 hours, I admit that the thong has its advantages.  For one, I wore a pair of pants that usually shows panty lines, and the pants do look a bit better with a thong.  (Although it does not look 100% better because they are not low rise pants, and the thong, like most of my undies, is low rise.  That means I get a gut line where my fat bulges over the top of my underwear, whether I am wearing a thong or regular briefs.)  For a second opinion, I’ll pull my female co-worker aside when she gets in and ask her if she thinks that I look OK or if it is obvious that I am wearing a thong.

Surprisingly, my ass does not look as horrible as I thought it would or as it did in the g-string.  I can only surmise that the style of the thong, with it’s v-dip and low cut, actually somehow serves to make my butt look smaller.  Not sure how the physics of that works, but it’s a good thing.  It does nothing for the cellulite or assne though, so looking too closely is not a good idea.

On the other hand, the disadvantages of a thong are multiple, although not as bad as I thought they would be and not nearly as bad as the g-string was.  The first problem is the biggest: I can’t stand the string in my ass.  Like a really nasty booger that won’t come out when you blow hard, but you know it is there and it’s annoying you, I have a constant urge to pick it out.  (I know that Steph posted something a few weeks ago about how to properly get a thong wedgie out and it involved pushing it out through a complicated multi-step process, but I still feel like picking it out.)  In addition, when get the sensation that it’s time to drop the kids off at the pool, I don’t want a string tickling my asshole and making it worse.  Nope – keep the lifeline far away, please.

Second, while the back is OK, from the front I look like an obese cow.  (Not just a cow, I am saying, but an overweight cow.)  I really, really require something with more fabric to hold my gut in a bit.  The pooch that is pilling over, under, and out the sides of the thong is not attractive.  When I tried the thong on this weekend for a 5 second test, my husband matter-of-factly said that I should hope that I didn’t get hit by a car while wearing the thong.  (You know – like when your mom said not to wear holey undies “just in case” something happened and you were rushed to the emergency room?  Similar concept, although I am sure that he also does not want me to get hit by a car even when I am wearing underwear that doesn’t accentuate the guttage I’ve got going on.)

Finally, I don’t have a nice landing strip in front.  That’s good since I don’t want to encourage a mini alien invasion by proving a landing strip (see one of my earliest posts on my theory linking waxed snatch and alien invasions from October), but bad because as a result I not only look like a balloon being squeezing by a rubber band, but I look like a hairy balloon being squeezed by a rubber band.  A high cut thong really requires some lawn trimming.  Yipes.

In conclusion, it’s been a mixed start, but we’ll see what happens over the course of the day.

My friend D. forwarded me the following information regarding some beliefs of the Sikh religion:

The hairs on all parts of our body is an extension of our sensitive field, an antenna.

And speaking of hair: The hairs conduct electricity and wherever they are on the body, they balance the electromagnetic charge at that part of the body. (eye brows, armpits, sexual area, chest, head, etc) When the hair is uncut it stablizes the body's electromagnetic field. Also imagine that if your hair is like a coil of electricity, that by coiling it all together at the top of the head -it will draw more electricity/energy towards it like a big electromagnet. This has the effect of pulling up the energy residing at the base of the spine (lower chakras) to the higher centers. If the hair is altered on any part of the body it will have an effect on the electromagnetic field and the physical body as well.

• Yogis know that when the hair on the legs is cut it can result in back problems.
• The pituitary gland and the growth of the eyebrows are related. When the eyebrows are "plucked" or altered it affects the pituitary Arc Line balance.
• Allowing chin hair (beards) to grow helps balance the moon center at the chin and is said to stabilize the emotions.
• Shaving interferes with the water in the body and causes swelling.

See? It is holy and healthy to have unshaved snatch, even if I don't exactly agree with the reasons. (And no, I am not mocking the religion. Just to be clear.)

I'll Take Some Calcium Supplements and Anal Beads, Please

A few months ago, my friend Steph told me that drugstore.com started selling dildos and other sex toys. Recently my husband told me that he had $53 and change in his flexible spending account that we had to spend by the end of January. He was going to blow the whole wad on an order from drugstore.com and asked me if I wanted anything except Sudafed 12 Hour.

I don’t peruse the drugstore.com website frequently, but decided to browse for other items that might qualify for flexible spending account reimbursement. I was easily distracted, however, by the sex toys section of drugstore.com. They sell some scandalous shit on that site, I tell you. Not as scandalous as the Buddha and Jesus dildos, but for a family pharma site, I was surprised at the variety. Would you believe that they sell fake vaginas? That they have an anal sex category? (Granted, there is only one item in that category – a silicone butt plug, but still I was impressed at their forthrightness.) The funniest thing they sell are vibrating underpants. One style even has a remote control! I wondered if my husband could buy a sex chair with his FSA funds. I didn’t think so, but you never know.

The Most Sacrilege Money Can Buy

A brilliant artist friend of mine in Chicago sent me this around Xmas:

If you are lucky enough to be receiving this email, it means I think you can take a healthy dose of Christmastime blasphemy. So, without further ado, I present you with the Blowfish catalogue's (a sex toy/supply catalogue) description of the Jackhammer Jesus:

"Jesus fucking Christ. Literally. This extremely blasphemous dildo features a fairly realistic dickhead at the tip, and a crucifix complete with a figure of our crucified Lord at the base. A very hefty dildo with lots of ridges and bulges, it's perfect for playing debauched priest, naughty nun, or re-enacting The Exorcist. The Blowfishies are all convinced that we're going straight to hell for carrying this toy..."

OK, I also admit that when I first looked at this online, I was highly confused. How the fuck is a cross going to feel good in anyone’s snatch or ass, I wondered. Then I realized that I was looking at the handle. Sometimes I am an idiot.

Blowfish is an equal opportunity offender, so they also sell Buddha, Devil, and Grim Reaper dildos. I wish they had the Lubavitcher Rebbe so I can wander around Brooklyn offending my bearded and bewigged brothers and sisters in religion.

Underwear Recap

I thought a quick recap on the thong/g-string situation would be helpful since I haven’t blogged about undies in a little while.

November 2005: I posted several little rants about the stupidity of thongs and g-strings as opposed to underwear that actually cover your ass. My point was twofold. I felt that thongs and g-strings tended to encourage women to get various uncomfortable snatch waxes or shaves so that they wouldn’t have pubic hair hanging out from the snatch pouch of a g-string or thong since it would defeat the point of looking sexy. I also thought that g-strings and things would be very uncomfortable to wear given that a) there’s a string constantly in the wearer’s ass crack, b) there’s no butt coverage, which could lead to chafing against jeans or other rough fabric, and c) there’s no ass cheek support, leaving the wearer’s butt to excessive jiggle every time the thong/g-sting wearer moves rapidly. I posted many pictures of ridiculous g-strings and thongs sold by Victoria’s Secret and mocked the crap out of them. As I had never at that point subjected myself to a thong or g-string, this was mocking and ranting from the perspective of what I perceived as opposed to experienced.

At the end of the month, my friend S.D., who is everything I am not (tall, stylish, well-kempt, etc.), emailed me and said she thought I should give thongs and g-strings a try. She loved these types of underwear and felt that my rants were unfounded and that once I experienced the joy of a string riding my ass all day (I am paraphrasing here; the exact text can be found in a Nov. 30 post), I would be converted forever. At the very least, she noted, I would have something good to write about if I wore a g-string and thong for a day each. I am not one to turn down a challenge, so I agreed to try some. She told me that I could not just go out and buy the cheapest stuff I saw (she knows me too well), but that I’d need actual quality undergarments.

December 2005: I began my search for quality thongs or g-strings that cost me less than $5. I realized that it would also be important to model my current underwear and explain why I bought them. However, posting pictures of myself in my underwear with my pubic hair hanging out seemed to not be a good idea for a variety of reasons, and my loyal teddy bear of 17 years stepped in and saved my ass (literally) by volunteering to serve as a model. Theo endured many photo sessions and rivaled Victoria’s Secret models, despite his furriness. When it came to modeling g-strings and thongs, though, Theo put his paw down and declined to continue as a CUSS and SWoUR model. After an apartment-wide audition, the Giant Stuffed Penis became CUSS’s Next Top Model.

As the Giant Stuffed Penis prepped for its big modeling debut, I realized that Theo’s modeling sessions had not accurately portrayed the pubic sprawl many human women experience. I went to Michael’s craft store in Long Island and bought some curly doll hair, figuring it would make a perfect pubic wig (a merkin).

I also obtained my first thong on eBay, a M/L sized Cosabella Talco low-rise red thong with a rhinestone B monogram for $2.99 plus shipping and handling. While I eagerly awaited the arrival of my thong in the mail, I went on a shopping excursion with two friends to Jersey Gardens, an outlet mall near Newark Airport in New Jersey. I was able to secure a Calvin Klein Choices g-string at the Calvin Klein underwear outlet store for $2.99. The Giant Stuffed Penis modeled it and then I wore it for a very uncomfortable day in which the horror of the g-string seemed to cause the metal button on my Old Navy corduroy pants to explode in disgust. In order to prevent my pants from falling down and exposing my ass in all its cellulite- and assne-ridden glory to my co-workers, I used two binder clips to keep my pants tightly fastened. At the end of the day, the string on the g-string stank horribly. I speculated that I may have bought the wrong size g-string (the crotch part extended into my ass, which was very irritating) and thought I might seek out another pair for a trial run.

Finally, my Cosabella thong arrived. The Giant Stuffed Penis did some of its best modeling work to date. I then went on vacation. When I came back, I washed the thong, but it fell out of my laundry basket in the elevator, causing me immense embarrassment when another resident emerged holding it in her fingers as one might hold the tail of a mouse and declared to the building staff that “someone lost these.” I reclaimed them, but had to wash them again before I could wear them, as god only knows who had stepped on them or worse while they rode the elevator up and down (much like I think they will ride my ass).

January 2006, first week: My husband did laundry that included the thong, so I am ready to wear them this week. Early indications are not good, as I tried them on last night and my husband made a face and told me that they “do not compliment” my figure. Of course, it might be the serious fat and hair hanging out all over the place causing me to look fucking horrendous. They also didn’t feel very good in my ass for the few minutes I had them on, but again, I shall give the thong a chance and wear it a full day on Monday or Tuesday.

Stay tuned for new adventures in my underwear!

The Conspiracy Against Unshaved Snatch

I figured out why my gym will be torn down come October (which, incidentally, I only found out on accident – no official word from the gym to its members at all).  It seems to be a punishment for the significant decrease in members using the gym’s spa for bikini and Brazilian waxes.  The chain already has one location with shaggy, unkempt women members and can’t spoil its reputation as trendy by letting another one become full of women who resemble mature adults.  The horror!  The horror!

I unraveled this diabolical plot against unshaved snatch this afternoon while in the locker room.  I had completed a 40 minute run and was sweating my balls off, which I discovered a few months ago is the perfect time to get all the earwax out of my ears.  (I guess being hot and sweaty melts it down a bit.)  So I was standing around using some generic Q-Tips that are available for free (!) in the locker room when I noticed several women getting dressed.  These women had some seriously untamed bush.  I wanted to congratulate them on their unshaved snatches, but realized that could jeopardize my membership, and thus celebrated quietly in my head instead.  (I also observed a woman getting ready for her workout by putting on stretch pants while wearing no underwear.  Fuck that is gross.)

Anyway, it became obvious to me that the solution devised by the company that recently bought my gym chain is to stop the hairy insanity by tearing down the gym and building luxury condos.  When the gym reopens in the new building, the people who used to work out there will all belong to the JCC gym across the street (where hairy folks belong, I guess) and the new members will all be super rich fuckfaces who would never dream of not going nearly or completely bare in their nether regions.  It’s about as evil a plot as anything Dick Cheney or Donald Rumsfeld (who went to my high school, by the way – isn’t that disturbing that one institution can produce a person of pure evil and also a crazy liberal like me?) can think up.  Is there nothing that can be done to stop it?

The (Possible) Trojan Horse I Received from My Folks

Another gift I requested this year was a new clock radio. While I loved many things about my old one, the time setting mechanism was annoying. My old clock only let you set the time forward, meaning if I held the button for too long on accident and overshot my desired time, I could only continue going forward until I eventually came back to the time I wanted. I asked for one that had plus and minus buttons that would let me go forward and backward.

My husband did some online research and found a clock that met my request. (Pictured to the right.) When my parents asked him what they could get me for my birthday and Hanukkah, he suggested the clock to them. I received it in the mail when I got back from the DR.

The interesting thing about this clock is that it is something that Marshall might have invented for one of Sydney’s missions on Alias back when the show was still good. It has a special mechanism attached to it that allows it to receive signals from outer space (i.e. – satellites) that automatically sets the time. If there is a blackout, the second the power goes back on, the clock will contact outer space headquarters, find out what time it is, and reset itself. That’s pretty fucking cool, right? I think so.

When I found out that my clock had contacts outside my apartment, I was also a bit worried that it could be a spy clock. Not like in Alias, although it does strike me as exactly the type of thing they would plant in a room so that Dixon could monitor Sydney’s movements on a mission and warn her of danger. What if George Bush used my clock to spy on my anti-Bush activities? It’s not like his administration is above doing stuff like that. They won’t spend money on body army for soldiers in Iraq, but they would totally spend money to use outer space headquarters to spy on people through their clocks. Worse, they could always manipulate the satellite to send my clock the false time so that I am late to my anti-Bush activities, which really consist of bitching about their Evilness these days. It would screw me anyway, as I would be late to my do-gooder job, which is against their principles and they keep trying to de-fund anyway, and might make me not get tot the gym or social plans in a timely fashion. (In fact, I’m going to be late to the gym now since I am sitting here writing about my spy clock when I should be getting dressed.) Very destructive stuff. I’ll have to be very vigilant, or maybe I’m just looking a gift clock in the satellite.

Holidays are About Sharing

Although my cervix did not get the hula hoop (aka NuvaRing) it saw on TV and wanted, a lá The Chipmunks song, Hanukkah and the holidays were good to me overall. I thought I’d share some of the cooler gifts that I received. They’d probably make really good gifts for the freaks in your life, too.

Sexy stuff from my friend Nancy
This is my vagina coin purse and the funny box it came in that says “Eat Out More Often.” I like the fact that it is very furry and has a sparkly clit.

Nancy also got me Choochy Rash Free Body Shave Cream. Is that not the best name ever for shaving crap? My in-laws are taking my husband, brother-in-law, his girlfriend, and I on a cruise in March, so this will come in handy. (Since I won’t have shaved since I came back from the DR, I’ll need to reinstitute Operation Smooth Legs and Pits, which requires me to shave the long silky hair off with a razor, let it grow into stubble, and then epilate it all off so that I don’t have to think about it again while I am traveling. OSL&P was very effective for the DR trip, I am happy to report.) Anyway, Coochy is a very versatile product, it seems. It also may be used as conditioner! I had it with me while I was in the DR, and one day J. randomly asked me if I had any leave in conditioner. I didn’t have anything but Coochy – which is supposed to be rinsed out – but J. used it anyway and seemed happy with the results. Coochy’s last characteristic is both good and bad. It is Pear Berry scent. This is good because it smells nice, but bad because I am always tempted to eat body products that smell like foods. So far I have been able to resist, but it is still dangerous!

A crafty something from my friend Steph
I mentioned this book, Very Naughty Origami by Nick Robison, on my blog once before. I hope to make some awesome shit once I get some origami paper. High on my to do list is the origami penis (Schwanstucker). According to the book, you can “hold by the balls and gently squeeze in and out for a realistic action.” Also a priority to create is “A Glimpse of Paradise,” which is a skirt that flutters in the wind and allows you to see up it. (The book helpfully notes that “a shot of the female pubic region is known as a ‘beaver’ shot, whereas a legs-open equivalent is known as a ‘split beaver’ shot.”)

Cuddliness from my in-laws
Ah, the swinging ‘60s. When I think of James Bond movies from the ‘60s, for some reason I picture Sean Connery getting it on with some ho bag on a bear skin rug in front of a fireplace. Romantic, no? You can imagine my excitement when I got an F.A.O Schwartz catalog in the mail and saw that I can have my very own fake bear skin rug! I put it on my Hanukkah/birthday gift list right away, and was delighted when Maurice arrived. Even my hostile giant pet rabbit (he’s about 13 lbs) loves Maurice. I’ve caught him licking Maurice’s nose. How adorable!

And there's even more to share! I’ll show the gifts my husband gave me in a separate post. Yes, I am a very lucky hag.

My Hero

Here is my husband emerging triumphant after taking a crap in the most disgusting outhouse I have ever seen or smelled. Since there was no air flow, the fucking thing was about 1000 degrees, and he sweat through his shirt while in there trying not to pass out. He is both shell-shocked by and proud of what he did, chin shiny with sweat. Husband claims he came out of the outhouse 5 lbs. lighter; 3 lbs shed from his crap and 2 lbs from perspiration. How can I not love such an amazing man?!?

PS - Since I blocked out his face, doesn't he also sort of look panicked? Like, "Hey! I can't see! There's a big black box over my face!" It's weird how his expression fits the situation.

My Secret Fetishes

As I have stated before, I am not a plushie, despite my prolific use of stuffed animals to as underwear models. I’m not a furry, either. (A furry is a person who dresses up in an animal costume and then has sex with other people dressed in animal costumes.) I find that disturbing. No, instead, I freely admit to having an unnatural interest in bruises and scars.

Bruises and scars don’t actually turn me on, but I do find them totally fascinating. I have the most interest in my own scars and bruises. Perhaps that makes me bizarrely narcissistic or self-involved, but it is true. All of this came to mind earlier yesterday evening when I slammed my elbow into my closet door on accident. It hurt like fuck, and as tears sprung to my eyes and I shouted, “Shit shit shit,” over and over again, the little voice in the back of my head reminded me that I should get a very nice bruise out of it at least.

What’s cool about bruises is that they magically turn different colors. You just never know what to expect. One day it’s reddish, then purple, then bluish, then faded yellow, then brown. Fun, right? Unless someone is beating you, bruises are interesting. (Disclaimer so that I am not misunderstood: I do not condone violence against others.)

Scars, on the other hand, rock on in the way that wrinkles do: if you have a scar, you’ve had a life experience that you survived. Scars should be worn as a badge of pride: something happened to me and I overcame it. I won! When I had my breast reduction surgery, I was warned that there could be scars where the incisions were made. No problem, I thought – I deserve them! Someone chopped my tits up, I damn well better have something to show for it (other than, of course, smaller breasts). I was told to put vitamin E oil on any area that could scar. Now, I was raised to be a good girl and to do what authority figures told me to do, and so I went out and bought vitamin E oil. I put some on the first time, and then it hit: what the fuck was I thinking? I wanted scars and here I was sabotaging myself so that I would heal nicely and be a good model he could photograph and show other women. NO! I would not be a part of such a diabolical plan! I put the vitamin E oil away forever. (Even though that shit is expensive - despite my best effort to find the cheapest kind possible, it was still over $5 – I held true to myself and never used it again.)

For a few months, much to the horror of my husband, I was proud to show off my scars. “Wanna see my scars?” I’d ask unsuspecting friends and acquaintances. Before my husband could leap in front of me, I’d left up my shirt and the bottom of my bra to show off my scars. (For the record, I did not show off my boobs. I am not that kind of exhibitionist!) Sadly, though, my innate excellent healing ability kicked in. Even though I used that stupid vitamin E oil only once, the damn things healed over like a normal person’s dream. Every time I get a medical check up, the doctor marvels over my healing. What a waste!

Another SWoUR Covert Action

I decided that no matter how a model Giant Stuffed Penis is – and let’s face it, he would so kick Heidi Klum’s ass in a lingerie modeling contest – he just didn’t quite illustrate how much ass hangs out of my Dominican underwear. The front of the underwear is cut exactly the same as the back, meaning it is way to thick to be a thong, but not enough to be briefs.

It was high time I stepped up to the plate and did some modeling of my own for SWoUR (Sensible Women’s Underwear Rules). Looking at this picture, it is pretty clear that these synthetic underwear asking “do you suck or lick” written inexplicably next to a baby bottle needed some human to fill them out.

In fact, I had so much fun modeling the undies with the merkin that I am contemplating wondering around the City when the weather gets warmer modeling them. I’ll also don the thong and g-string and whatever other underwear I pick up between now and the spring. I think it will make my point, in a fun way, how fucking stupid most women’s underwear is. While I was totally embarrassed when someone in my building found my Cosabella thong in the building elevator after it fell out of my laundry basket and loudly told the doorman that "someone lost this" as she headed outside with her dog, this is a different situation. I was mortified because the doorman and this woman seemed to think that I'd seriously wear underwear like that. However, if I wear them over my jeans, it is clear that I am either an utter lunatic or mocking bad underwear styles.

This will be great. I can’t wait.

Queen Kong and Friends

I am fucking sick and tired of King Kong, particularly of the glowing reviews Naomi Watts has received for believably playing a woman who falls in love with the scary ginormous gorilla that kidnapped her at some point.  Worse, if I hear one more fucking comment about “beauty taming the beast,” I swear to god that I will stick my finger down my throat and puke directly onto said speaker.  (Unfortunately, I tend to read this comment more than hear it spoken by live people I am engaged in conversation with, so the threat is not only empty, but sure to make a big smelly mess out of whatever magazine in which I happen to be reading said comment.)  I can’t even describe how much that shit creeps me out.

You know what I think would make a rockin’ movie?  A female ginormous gorilla kidnaps some hot guy (like, say, Jake Gyllenhaal or Matt Damon) and he falls in love with her, although even that does not tame the savage rage that the gorilla feels towards the fucked up sexist, racist, and classist society that she lives in, and she convinces the hottie to move with her to a deserted island where they can start their own damn country and live free from the obnoxious constraints of “civilization” as we know it.  Now that would be some entertaining shit!

On the other hand, I’d even settle for a movie where a hot guy (like, say, Matt Damon or Jake Gyllenhaal) falls for an ugly woman.  Not the type of ugly woman that is usually in movies who is only ugly until she takes her glasses off, combs her hair a bit, and throws on some makeup.  No, I mean an ugly woman who is truly fugly.  Or even just a regular old, size 12 wearing woman who maybe has a bit of a mustache that she doesn’t bleach or wax.  His fratboy-hottie friends (like, say, Ben Affleck) are all shitheads about it, but the guy decides that he should ignore them and get some new friends who understand that fugly or normal woman can make awesome girlfriends/wives just by being themselves.

Who’s with me here?

Headed on Down to the Love Shack

As we headed out of Santo Domingo on our road trip, J. pointed out an interesting site: cabañas de amor. Since many Dominicans live with their families until they get married, they must sneak out and find a private place to get their swerves on. Cabañas de amor are rented for four hours at a time, allowing for some time to fall into an exhausted nap after a couple hours o’ fucking. As we drove past the glowing neon sign, I thought that this concept sounded familiar. Then I remembered Sybaris.

Anyone from the Chicago area will know that Sybaris is our very own Midwestern cabaña de amor. Sybaris was located nearby, would often advertise their pool suites for a “romantic experience.” Each room had its own pool and round bed! As I kid, I thought that place looked like a rockin’ place to have a birthday pool and slumber party. I’m sure the people in the cabin next door would have loved that. Nothing says hot, sleazy pool sex like a roomful of screaming kids next door.

One summer day when I was home from college, my friend N. and I were on our way somewhere when we drove by the place. I mentioned that I had always been curious to see what it was like, and N. admitted that she was curious as well. We decided to see if we could get a tour, and devised a clever cover story that our parents were celebrating their anniversary soon and we were thinking of giving them a gift certificate to get away and be alone together. The woman in the office at Sybaris’ main cabin thought that we were very considerate daughters. She showed us a video that explained that each room was in a little cabin set apart from the others. The smallest ones had only a hot tub and bed, but the larger ones also had a small pool. I swear that the biggest one also had a water slide, but this was a long time ago and my memory is not what it once was now that I am 30.

The saleslady obliged our request to see a room. She showed us the hot tub, the pool, and the bed with a light under it surrounded by mirrors (including the ceiling). She explained that all this would help our parents reconnect to their wedding night. (Honestly, if I was really scouting the place for my parents, I think I would have gagged at that comment. No one likes to think about their parents getting it on, much less in some kinky hotel.) As we walked by the pool, I was finally able to ask the question that had dogged me for years: how, and how often, did they clean the water? Did they drain the hot tub and pool after each guest and refill it with new water? No, no, the women reassured me. The pools and hot tubs were highly chlorinated to kill bacteria. They did some sort of additional cleaning about once a week.

This disturbed me a bit, so I then asked her about floating jizz, which was what I was specifically worried about, not bacteria. I mean, if people are having sex in a pool or hot tub, what were the odds that bodily emissions would not get into the water? The saleswoman seemed quite perturbed by my questions, and shuttled us out rather rapidly. I knew then that I would never be able to go to a place like that. Sure, sex in a hot tub and on a waterslide sounded fun in my dad’s hidden stash of Penthouse, but I could never shed my worries that I’d just be sitting in a vat of water with someone else’s chlorinated spunk in it.

I don’t think I could deal with a cabaña de amor, either. I’m not some sort of obsessive compulsive germophobe, but I freak out at regular hotels when the sheets aren’t pristine. The fact that people go to cabañas de amor solely for the purpose of having sex would make me extremely suspicious of the sheets. Thank goodness I wasn’t getting it on until college so that I didn’t have to deal with shit like this! There are definite benefits to waiting a bit, and not having to go to fuck shacks or fuck shacks with pools is one of them.

Como se dice "nice underpants" en espanol? (How Do You Say " Nice Underpants" in Spanish?)

I am pleased to report that I picked up what is one of the most ridiculous pairs of underwear ever made in Santo Domingo for 60 pesos (slightly under $2.00 US). I’d say that they were the most ridiculous pair ever, but that honor goes to another pair of underwear sold in the same shop for 1500 pesos (came with a matching bra) that were essentially a crotchless g-string with a furry circle surrounding the crotchless opening that exposes shaved snatch. I asked my friend J. why on earth a person would shave her snatch and then buy a pair of underwear that is essentially replacing natural pubic hair with what looked like stuffed animal fur. J. was also amazed and amused by this demented creation, and translated my question for the shopgirl and we all laughed and laughed.

Anyway, the reason that the underwear I did buy is the second most ridiculous pair of underwear ever is because they straddle the line between a thong and regular briefs. This means that the backside is cut way too much to provide any ass coverage, but not nearly narrowly enough that it will sit in your ass crack in any possible comfortable way. The underwear are essentially a guaranteed wedgie. Many women have remarked to me that boy short style underwear are the most likely to give wedgies to anyone who wears them. Oh ho. Just wait until they pull these babies on!









Also, the underwear have possibly the lewdest saying printed on the crotch that I have ever seen on underwear, which I admit is what caught my eye when I passed by the store where they were displayed on the door. They say “Tu chupas o mamas?” I obviously had no idea what that meant, so I asked J., who thought it over for a few minutes before disgustedly telling me that it roughly translated to “Do you suck or lick?” Fuck, that is funny. And what a steal at under $2.00!!! (The drawing of a baby bottle next to the phrase is a tad disturbing though.) I slightly regret not buying the boy cut undies that said “Mas duras” (“harder” or “longer” according to J., although I can’t remember if it was harder, longer, or both.)

I can guarantee that I will never, ever wear these underwear. Not only are they a guaranteed wedgie, but they also are made of some sort of extremely stretchy, non-cotton materials. Prime material, in fact, for a nasty yeast infection to brew up in a humid environment created by unabsorbed crotch sweat. Certainly at worst the underwear will lead the wearer to most unpleasant crotch rot. That said, I knew I could not pass them by and not own them to share with CUSS and SWoUR. The Giant Stuffed Penis sure looks good in ‘em, and that is the most use these undies will see unless someone steals them from me.

We Interrupt "Suzanne's DR Vacation Posts" to Bring You This Important Announcement

Have you seen the commercials for the new form of birth control, NuvaRing? Women supposedly wearing NuvaRing, a plastic ring you insert next to your cervix and take out change once a month, flitter about with glowing blue hoops around their waist. My cervix requested a hula hoop for Hannukah, kind of like one of the Chipmunks wanted one in the original “Chipmunk Song.” (Christmas, Christmas time is here… Want a train that loops the loop/I just want a hula hoop.) Unlike the Chpimunks (or so I hope), my cervix got dick. (Man, that cracks me up. I think that's the best double entendre I've thrown out thus far.)

Anyway, it seems to me that the women are stigmatized by the blue hoop. In the past, we had the scarlet letter; today, you can tell who the whores are by their hula hoops. Can’t someone come up with a non-insulting way to advertise birth control? I’ll buy the first product that does not have: 1. flowers; 2. butterflies; 3. red circles (oooh – periods! How symbolic!); 4. blue hula hoops. How about an ad that tells it like it is:

Woman 1: Having sex while worrying about getting knocked up sucks.
Woman 2: Totally! How can anyone enjoy herself if she’s praying that the shithead she’s fucking doesn’t pull out in time – again! Men suck!
Woman 1: Seriously! Women suck too, though. Can you believe that there are female pharmacists who won’t dispense the pill because it is against their own religious beliefs?!?
Woman 2: Stupid bitches. Anyway, my favorite pill is “I 'm Not Your Baby’s Momma.” It’s new. You should ask your doctor about it. And if some fuckface behind the pharmacy counter won’t dispense it, you should sue their asses off.
Woman 1: Thanks for the recommendation! I’m definitely going to try it. Great sex, here I come.
Women together: Ha ha ha!

Now that is much more like it.

A Natural Resource?

As we walked around Santo Domingo, J. and I began talking about how typical Dominican women dress in the capital. Fashion in Santo Domingo is about exaggerated femininity and sexiness. They tend to wear high heels, very tight pants, and sexy lingerie.

I observed the foolishness of wearing stiletto heels to the airport as many women on my flight struggled unnecessarily to deal with their luggage as they tottered to and fro. Once I was in Santo Domingo, I noted that their shoes didn’t seem any more practical for a stroll in the city. And as I was sweating my balls off in the heat, I found it even more insane to wear skin tight pants and synthetic fabric underwear (even though I stupidly packed a pair myself - believe me, I paid for it!), which is all that seemed to be sold in lingerie shops in town.

J. and I wondered whether there was a higher rate of yeast infections in Santo Domingo than in other parts of the world. It makes some sense: Heat + humidity + tight pants + non-breathable fabric = prime conditions for a yeast infection. You could probably bake some really good bread in someone’s pants at that point. A loaf of crotch bread doesn’t sound any more appetizing than just plain old yeasty poon rot, though.

Yuck

I am not sure what on earth possessed me to pack my Body by Victoria non-cotton undies (seen below on Theo) for my trip to the DR, but I did. Even in December, the DR is hot and humid, of course. I swear the day I wore these undies, my crotch developed into a swamp with a pool of sweat hanging around at all times. This was not pleasant at all, and I was reminded to follow my own advice about cotton underwear.

My 30th Birthday: Damn, Those Bulls Have Cojones

Our new friends dropped us back off at our car in Parque Nacional Sierra de Bahoruco around 2:40 pm. We learned that they were going on to Bahía de las Águilas (Bay of the Eagles), an extremely remote beach known for its pristine beauty. The only way to get there is to have a truck, Jeep, or SUV, or to hire a fisherman from the nearest town (las Cuervas) to take you there, which is a 20 minute trip each way. J. asked them if we could follow them out there until our car could not go any further and then jump back in the pickup and ride with them and the cactus. They said they’d be glad to have us join them, and we were off. (I had to pee again, but decided I’d better hold it for a while rather than hold the group back.)

We followed the pickup truck out of the Parque, through the Mars terrain, past the evil Alcoa trucks with giant piles of red earth that flew all over the place and blocked our vision as the trucks sped unsafely down the road. We were just at the turn off to the beach when our pickup truck friends screeched to a halt. It seems that something was wrong with the fuel tank, so they needed to go to the nearest gas station before heading into rough terrain. Seeing as the “nearest” gas station was about 50 km away, we bid them adieu and decided to drive to the fishing village and see if we could pay for a boat ride to Bahía de las Águilas.

Getting to Las Cuervas entailed driving about 10 km per hour because the road sucked, so by the time we got there, it was too late to get out to the beach and back. We decided to poke around the tiny town for a few minutes before heading back to Santo Domingo, which was at least a 5 hour ride from where we were. Las Cuervas was the only sandy beach I went in the DR, and I found a remote corner behind some bushes and finally relieved myself. (In fact, we all “changed the water” as J.’s boyfriend so cleverly phrased it.) This time, I avoided peeing on my own ankles, so I was very pleased. We studied the beautiful cliff that framed the town, and headed out.

We were not on the main highway long when we reencountered the cattle we passed earlier in the day. This time, their herders were nowhere in sight. We sat in the car and waited for the cows to part, sort of like Moses and the Red Sea, so we could pass safely. A few seconds went by with the cows milling about, showing no signs of moving out of the way, when two bulls burst out of the brush on the side, horns locked in fierce battle. We backed up a bit. The bulls unlocked horns, ran at each other, and butted heads. We backed up a bit more. The bulls made lots of angry snorting noises. We backed up even more. While the two bulls were engaged in battle, a third bull analyzed the situation and decided they wouldn’t notice if he mated with the cow I assume they were fighting over. The bull mounted the cow. The cow made angry snorting noises and tried to run away. We backed up more. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction approached the scene. We wondered what the hell he was going to do. The bulls stopped fighting and walked away. The cows parted and the motorcycle drove through. Carpe diem and all that shit, we took seized the opportunity and cruised. Soon, the cows were receding and we were on our way.

The day ended uneventfully, with dinner at a cute little roadside restaurant in a nameless tiny town. While we were waiting for our meal (the cooks went to shop for the ingredients at the general store down the road), a traveling livestock salesman drove up with calves and baby goats trussed up in the back of his pickup truck. He tried to sell a calf to the restaurant proprietors. The animals bleated balefully. J. got upset. The restaurant owners refused and the salesman was on his way. The cook came back, we had dinner, and then drove off into the dark, only stopping once for a bathroom break and ice cream cake before arriving in Santo Domingo and ending the best 30th birthday a girl could have.

My 30th Birthday: Things Get Prickly

After a short stroll around Paraíso and the beautiful rocky beach, my husband, J., J.’s boyfriend, and a friend of a friend who lived in town headed for breakfast. We had mangu, a traditional Dominican breakfast made from mashed boiled plantains, fried onions, and fried eggs. It was seriously tasty stuff. We then packed up our rented Honda Civic and set out for Sierra de Barahuocco (not sure if I spelled that right) National Park.

On the way to the Park, we passed a large cattle drive taking place on the highway. We had to wait a few minutes for the road to clear up before we could go on, and then we finally arrived at the turn off point for the park. From there, it was another 35 km to go. The terrain was very interesting, full of red earth and strange formations left by the mining done by my least favorite Republican and anti-choice donor, the Aluminum Company of America (Alcoa). Fuckers. We seriously felt like we might have turned off and wound up in Mars.

Eventually, though, we got to the park entrance. A ranger approached the car, we paid our entry fee of 50 pesos ($1.50 USD) per person, and asked him how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, a scenic look out point at the top of a mountain. The ranger said that he just started working there and had no idea how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, which we found strange since that’s pretty much the only tourist destination in the park and my friend told me that Dominicans don’t really camp, so if anyone came into the park it was to see the view and leave, thus any ranger should know how to get there. Anyway, he went tto get the other ranger, who showed up a few minutes later in his bathrobe, looking pissy at the interruption. He did tell us how to get to Hoyo de Pelempito, though.

We set off. Not long after we left the ranger station, the dirt road began developing ruts and other challenges for the Honda Civic. We had to park along the side of the road and get hiking, which was fine by us. Before the hike began, it was time for a bathroom break. Unlike Lago Enriquillo, where we used the nastiest outhouse in history the day before, we just peed by the side of the road. The men had an easy time of it. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, J. is very experienced at peeing in natural settings, and had no problems. As a city slicker with a vagina, I was not so fortunate. I tromped a bit deep into the woods, pulled down my pants and undies, and squatted. I’m an experienced squatter (I never sit on public toilets!), but it somehow did not occur to me that the position I squatted in would lead me to pee directly on my own right ankle. Ooops. Lesson learned, I repositioned, finished, and took my soggy leg back to the others, who laughed at me. I wondered if urine would at least keep the bugs away.

We began our hike. The forest was beautiful and the air was nice and cool. There were tons of butterflies. We hiked more. We were careful of the pits in the uneven road. We hiked more. I wondered if there were bears in the forest. We hiked more. I hoped we somehow didn’t get lost (which really would have been impossible as there was only one road and we were still on it). We hiked more. We all started wondering where the fuck Hoyo de Pelempito was and if we would get there and back before dark. It occurred to us that no one had any idea where we were. Going to Hoyo de Pelempito had been a last minute idea J. had. We decided we’d hike for 10 more minutes and if we didn’t get there, we’d just turn around.

Five minutes later, a rusty pickup truck tore down the road. The driver stopped, and J. asked him and his wife if they knew how far it was to Hoyo de Pelempito. The driver starting to answer in Spanish, looked at the gringos (my husband and me), and then said, “Hop in the back, that’s where we’re headed. Oh, and be careful of the cactus.” Yes, several pieces of cactus lay in the bed of the truck. We piled in, and as the truck bounced up and down the rutted road, throwing us around like rag dolls, I hoped that the cactus did not wind up under someone’s ass. It was delicately balanced between my husband’s legs. (Is that a cactus in your pants, or are you just happy to see me? Ha ha!) In the meantime, I was having the time of my life.

Long story short, we got to Hoyo de Pelempito, hiked down a short path to the edge, and were rewarded with a stunning view of a 250 meter deep crater with pine trees surrounded by other mountains. Our driver, originally from the DR, and his Philippina wife were actually from Woodside, Queens. They were hilarious New Yorker types. As we gazed in awe at the view, our driver’s wife said in accented English, “It’s a big hole. I can’t believe you dragged me here. You see it, now let’s go.” My husband and I found this hilarious. When it was time to go, we piled back into the back of the pickup truck with our friend the cactus. Our new friends dropped us back off at our car, and we were ready for our next adventure.

What an awesome 30th birthday so far: I got a birthday treat of a roll with a tampon as a substitute for a cake and candle, a shower with ants, a tasty breakfast, a very intimate view of a cattle drive, and a wild ride with friends and a cactus in a pickup truck on a crazy mountain road. Seriously, I was loving it.

My 30th Birthday: The Day Begins with A Special Treat

There are basically two ways a Chicorker (a Chicagoan-New Yorker) with a decent income can celebrate her 30th birthday. Option 1 is to have some sort of day of luxury, surrounded by friends, food, and drink. Many female New Yorkers take option 1, gather their posses, and check in for a day of pampering and girl talk at a spa. This makes a normal 30 year old feel relaxed, cared for, and glamorous. Birthday girl and posse then head out for a night on the town, hitting trendy restaurants and the coolest bars and clubs. The next day is spent recovering and hopefully remembering a night of crazy fun.

Obviously, I am not an Option 1 kind of gal, which leads me to Option 2. Option 2 also entails crazy fun, but with emphasis on the crazy. In selecting option 2, I decided to use my frequent flyer miles and go visit my oldest friend (since 4th grade – that’s almost 21 years of friendship by now, not counting the year J. decided that she would not speak to me for a variety of reasons) in the Dominican Republic, a developing country in the Caribbean where things are cheap. Since the emphasis in option 2 is on crazy, it does not mean that the birthday girl and her spouse and friends go to an all-inclusive resort, take advantage of the weather, and lie around on a white sand beach. That would be more like option 1, with an emphasis on luxurious fun. Option 2 is to fly into Santo Domingo, have Christmas Eve dinner with J. and her family, wander around the Colonial Zone on Christmas Day sweating through everything I am wearing, and then rent a car on the 26th for a two day expedition into the impoverished but beautiful countryside with J., my incredibly adaptable husband, and J.’s unbelievably patient, non-English speaking boyfriend.

My birthday fell on the second day of our journey, Dec. 27. I woke up in a clean hotel in the tiny picturesque town of Paraíso with no water. While my husband and I waited for the water to go on, J. and her boyfriend burst into my room singing a local happy birthday song (not Feliz Cumpleaños) and bearing the best imitation of cake and a candle they could scrounge up: a roll with a tampon stuck in it. (Fortunately, they did not light the tampon.) I was delighted. Really, who wouldn’t be? That was creativity at its finest.

Then the water came on, everyone got to take a cold shower in the tub where there was no shower head, just a pipe coming out of the wall, and with lots of ants, who seem to live in the bathtub. I was 30 and the adventure was just beginning.

It's Getting Hot in Herre

A few weeks ago, I went into work, and discovered that the heat was blasting. Usually in the winter, our office mates counter the blasting heat by blasting the air conditioning. (That’s energy efficiency for you.) That particular day, however, I learned that the air conditioning was broken and so it was sweltering in the cubicles. My co-workers coped by taking off their sweaters and wearing their t-shirts or shells. I was wearing a turtleneck cotton sweater with, alas, nothing under it. While I was warm, it actually wasn’t too intolerable. Usually I’m freezing at work since the air condition is blasting even on days when it is 10 degrees out, so I almost found the change to be pleasant.

I was sitting at my desk working up a mild sweat (both literally and figuratively) when my three co-workers gathered at my cubicle, smirking. “Suzanne,” one of them said, “we know this sounds like sexual harassment, but we swear it is not meant to be. We think you should take your shirt off like the rest of us. You need to fit in.” Seriously, I adore my co-workers. Hands down they are the best thing about my job at this point. So I told them that I’d be glad to, but once I took my shirt off, I feared that they would charge me with sexual harassment. Or their eyes might fall out in horror. Or worse, both. We spent the rest of the day making snide little remarks about topless employees. It was great.

This little incident came to mind today as I was reflecting on the wonderful burlesque show I saw last night, hosted by Scottie the Blue Bunny. Anyway, as is the case with burlesque, all non-Blue Bunny performers wore pasties. I realized that if I had been wearing some pasties under my shirt that day at work, I could have given my co-workers a real eyeful if I had taken up their suggestion. I can only imagine how hilariously wrong it would be to parade around the office in pasties. I’m not sure why this cracks me up so much, but it does.

The Year is Already Shitty and It's Only 4 Hours and 15 Minutes Old

I was very pleased by how nicely my mysterious digestive ailment behaved while I was in Republica Dominicana without consistent access to toilets that flush.  I cannot fully convey how nasty it would have been if I had to leave one of my “chocolate mousse” (where the bowl is filled with a brown frothy substance that vaguely resembles the delicious dessert known as chocolate mouse but fortunately smells nothing like it so that there is absolutely no temptation to eat it) dumps or “shit log the size of my arm” (I actually broke a toilet in a nice London hotel with this type of crap in 2001) bowel movements in a toilet for several hours until the water came on and I could flush it.  I am truly grateful for that, as I am sure that my husband and anyone else I stayed with is as well.

However, it seems that my gut had been saving up to give me a new year’s gift of shit.  I think I just crapped out everything that I have eaten in the last week.  Plus, earlier tonight I tormented two of my friends who initially sat behind me at the burlesque show with wretched gas.  Some annoying other people tried to squeeze next to me on the floor and I hoped that my gas that smelled like a small animal had crawled up my ass, died, and was rotting would drive them away.  (It didn’t – they moved because Scottie the Blue Bunny forced them to.  He also rearranged the seating, which wound up being great since I no longer gassed directly on my friends’ feet.)

I’m fucking tired and want to go to sleep.  But the shit keeps coming.  If it keeps up this way, it’s going to be an exceptionally smelly year and I’ll need a lot of toilet paper.

Happy New Year!

I rang in the new year with a few great friends, Scottie the Blue Bunny, and a bunch of talented burlesque entertainers. The place was crowded and we were sitting right up by the stage. I was actually sitting on the floor at the beginning, which was probably a much closer and more unique view than people usually get. One of the performers was wearing a very high cut thong, and as I stared at her just-starting-to-get-stubbly snatch area (not on purpose, but I was at a weird angle looking up from my seat on the floor), I thought how unpleasantly itchy that was going to become later in the day. I am very glad that I do not need to spend the first day of 2006 scratching my itchy crotch as my pubic hair grows back.

Another performer who seemed to like not really wearing anything and flashed her cooch a lot as she twirled a jillion sparkly hula hoops at once (which was seriously fucking awesome – now that is talent, I kid you not) impressed me because she didn’t really seem to shave her snatch. It was a small victory for CUSS, and I cherished it going into the new year.

The best performer, though, did shave her bikini line, but she did not shave her legs. I thought that was cool. In her final number, she seriously rocked a merkin and mustache when she came out as the rocker who sang lead for Quiet Riot’s “Come Feel the Noize.” She was hilarious and had fun and I adored her. Pinky Star, you are my new role model!

A final thought: I loved all these women for coming out, doing their things, and having fun. Not all of them were super slim, either. I thought it was great that they could come out with bellies and thighs and butts and be self-confident and sexy. However, they all looked like shit in thongs and g-strings, confirming my belief that no one can possibly look good with a string in her ass.

Here's to a year that's itch-free in the crotch area and full of full-bottomed cotton underwear!