Perusing My First Copy of My First Book at My Apartment

While I was out and about yesterday, a preview copy of my book arrived! Although it was well after 11 pm, I ripped open the package and (pretended) to read while Husband took pictures. Weirdly, it feels less real now than ever, but still super exciting.

(Also, I love the funny details of my cluttered apartment that appear in the background. For example, the wood piece on the wall with junk hanging off it (a rabbit bead necklace my mother-in-law got me in New Orleans; tassels from my graduation from NYU; scissors that someone gave me in 3rd grade; a cross-stitch I made of a tabby cat that I changed the color scheme for so that it would be psychedelic; a bookmark; and a hamsa - a Jewish object to ward off the evil eye - my Israeli relative made) is something I made in 6th grade. The pictures on the entertainment center are of me and Husband at our wedding (bottom); my sister's husband, Dr. P, Husband, and me at a picnic in Central Park (second from bottom); Dr. P and I at an Oktoberfest party (second from top); and my sister and I at her wedding, and Husband and I cutting the cake at our reception. A menorah I got from my Bubbe and Grandpa is in front of those pictures, and the tabernacle cover opens to reveal the ten commandments. I always loved that menorah when I was growing up.)

FYI - My book signing time at the BlogHer Conference has changed. It is still on Friday, July 18, but now will take place from 12:15 - 12:45.

Barbie Lives!

Until yesterday, I never personally laid eyes on boobs that I absolutely, 100%, no doubt at all knew were fake. My innocence was shattered, though, in the locker room of a downtown branch of my gym. As I approached my locker, I noticed a topless woman stretching against the her locker. Without warning, she whipped around and I was confronted with two perfectly molded, symmetrical, round lumps soddered on to a lithe body. Anyone who ever saw a topless Barbie knows exactly what I mean, except that this woman had enormous erect knobs attached to the center of her flesh-covered half-spheres rather than smooth plastic.

I'm sort of proud of myself because I managed not to gasp. I was just so taken aback by the sight of her tits. And I feel bad being judgmental about it, but I really wanted to ask her why she did that to herself. It's her body and she needs to be happy with it, so it's not my business, yet I honestly could not help thinking that she looked totally fucking ridiculous. No matter how small her previous chest size might have been (and I include the possibility that she may have had a mastectomy), I suspect that she was gorgeous before her surgery. Now she just appeared so artificial and fake that it made me weirdly sad.

Now that I've met Barbie (this woman was also blond, with a pleasant face and trim figure), I have a slightly increased appreciation of my flab, and even my chin hairs (not that it stopped me from plucking away last night; maybe if I could grow a Van Dyke or something interesting versus sporadic bristles, I'd leave it alone). Perfection is way overrated.

Springtime is For Shearing Sheep and Women

I posted an essay about shaving my legs and arm pits over at BlogHer today. It's one of the best essays I think I've written in a while. (It's weird how the MFA application process sapped my writing inspiration and abilities for a few months.) Synopsis: When I was young and idealistic, I didn't shave my legs or arm pits as a political statement and way to rebel again patriarchal beauty standards. Now that I am old and cynical, I don't shave my legs or arm pits because I am lazy, but this makes me embarrassed in public, so now I am stuck with the razor during the revealing months of spring and summer. Good times.

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

"I'm thinking of having my book party at New York City Fire Museum," I told my mom on the phone tonight.

"Really? Will there be one of those calendar firemen there?" she inquired.

"The space does come with a retired firefighter to show people around."

"Can we ask him if we can slide the fire pole?" she asked innocently.

"Why don't you ask him in a sleazy way?" I laughed. "I'm sure he'd love that."

My mom laughed so hard she could barely talk. "No, I'll have Grandma ask that in a sleazy way."

Since we both know that she would do that, we nearly laughed ourselves into asthma attacks.

I'm Alive!

Just in case anyone was worried since I didn't post since I mentioned that my stomach might explode, it didn't. I was just running around like an idiot today, trying to finish articles, grade budgets (one thing I actually finished), take pictures for the book, edit the pictures and ftp them to the publisher, and eat Indian sweets. The last part was not taxing.

As my brother-in-law spruced up the book photos on his computer this evening, I learned that New York State's governor, Eliot Spitzer, who ran on a big reform platform and was formerly the State Attorney General who busted all the corrupt folks on Wall Street, was caught in a federal prostitution sting. It seems that he had a high-priced hooker sent down from NY while he was in DC one night, which is against a 1910 law that prohibits transporting a person across state lines for "immoral" purposes.* There's all kinds of media circus going on around this.

My friend wanted to know why he just couldn't settle for a DC call girl like the other politicians. A former colleague who works in New Jersey sent me an email asking me what was wrong with my governor. "My governor may pay for sex," I replied, "but yours is trying to buy a new Florida primary for his friend Hillary Clinton." I'm not really sure which is worse.

*Honestly, this law scares the crap out of me because I now fear it will be used against people who leave on state to go to another to obtain an abortion, but that's another story.

Success Begins with a Good Foundation (Garment)

Broken ribs due to a too tight bra are not on my to do list, so I took the bad bras that I bought last week back to the store yesterday for an exchange. It seems that bras are supposed to be very tight to be supportive, and according to the saleslady who assisted me, the reason that my boobs start to pop out under my bra when I raise my arms is because the band is too loose, and thus I am not getting enough support. Still, I pointed out, at least I could move. She said she'd find me something that was supportive, but not a straight-jacket, and set off to check the stock.

Now, I was a bit mortified when she returned with an orthopedic bra. It looked like a cross between an ace bandage (which is sort of how I pictured my first bra would be when my mom dragged me bra shopping twenty or so years ago) and some sort of bullet proof vest. To make matters worse, it closes in the front, so when I put it on, it was like shimmying into a vest or jacket, and it hung around my shoulder sort of like how gun holsters do until I finally snapped it shut. Fortunately, it doesn't look so haggish when it is finally in place:

Keep in mind that this model is way more buxum than I, but it still looks nice on me. Anyway, even if it made me look like a 90 year old woman, I wouldn't care. This is the most comfortable bra I have ever worn. It rocks the house. At $62, it is expensive, but worth every penny. Spanx, the people who made gut-sucker-in pantyhose and girdles, are somehow responsible for this delightful tit support.

Job Hunting and Celeb Spotting

People depress me. It just boggles my mind how much other people love telling me that they are not judgmental, it's just that we all should live our lives according to their values and beliefs. Right.

I'm not having a great day over in dark, rainy, gray, and cold New York City. My quest for semi-meaningful part-time employment that is not child care policy is not yielding many results. My drop dead date is late March before I crawl back to the child care policy field and beg for a job. I feel like if I do that, though, I'll never break free from the industry.

Anyway, on my way home from a temp agency "screening," I walked past Bryant Park. Being the clueless woman I am, I had no idea that it was fashion week. (Somehow, it always seems like there is some fashion event going on in Bryant Park, though.) A bunch of photographers and reporters were bunched up outside the big tent in which the shows go on (damn, fashion truly is a circus, now that I think about it...), so I paused to see what the deal was. Tyra Banks emerged through the crowd. I must say she looked stunning.

Merely spotting a celeb of Tyra's wattage was not enough to brighten my day, unfortunately. If the Weinermobile would show up near my apartment again, that would be appreciated. Who isn't cheered up by the sight of an orange and yellow hot dog vehicle parked across the street?

Lingo

Here at CUSS, we strive to bring you the hard hitting investigative reporting. Whether exploring the dyfunctional relationship American promotes with working women or understanding douche scents, it's all the news that's fit to print, at least by my standards, anyway. Oddly enough, my standards for news items don't seem to interest a very large audience. Of course, this is because most people aren't very smart or interesting, but that is another story that I often explore under the labels "Asshole idiots" and "What is wrong with people?"

Anyway, the point is that I feel lucky to have found a select group of people with whom I can have good discussions. So imagine my surprise when I read Stephen King's column in last week's Entertainment Weekly and he randomly referred to a blogger who called King a "douchenozzle." The use of the word douchenozzle in a popular national magazine excited and inspired me, as back in October, I deemed it my new favorite insult (sort of - I liked douche pipe, but same thing). I promptly then forgot that it was my new favorite insult, but happily the delightful Count Mockula and this mystery blogger are keeping the term alive. I pledge to follow their shining examples and call asshole idiots douchenozzles rather than the routine douche bag.

Now if I can just remember to also say, "beavers suckle beavers" instead of "fucking shit" or "gee whiz," I will be on my way to implementing a new lingo for myself. Take that, William Safire (retired On Language columnist and conservative douchenozzle)!

Sigh of Relief from the Irritated Vagina

OK, this really has nothing to do with an irritated vagina, but I loved Working Girl's use of that phrase in her comment on my previous post and want to use it as often as I use the expression "beavers suckle beavers." Or more often, actually, as I never remember to throw my beaver suckling line out when it matters.

Anyway, this post is neither about irritated vaginas or suckling beavers or the cause and effect one might have on the other. It's about the relief I feel now that my MFA application is officially complete and ready for review. Am I mad that it took them weeks to inform me that my transcript was missing, leaving me to scramble at the last second? Fuck yeah! Does it infuriate me that it took an additional 72 hours for the admissions office to process the transcripts that I hand delivered as a result? You better fucking believe it! However, it is complete, and now I can relax and wait and see what happens. If I don't get in, that will suck, but at least I can take comfort in being considered in the first place. Not getting in because the admissions office never processed my transcript and thus my application was never reviewed would be frustrating beyond belief.

Plus, it is Friday. While I enjoyed my work project this week, I am really ready for it to end. Every day I stare for hours at financial statements and loan reports, crunching and recrunching the numbers. I can barely see straight at the end of the day. Even harder? Stopping myself from swearing out loud, which requires constant vigilance on my behalf. (I suspect that is why I am exhausted by mid-afternoon. Swearing is rejuvenating and entertaining as an effective stress-relief mechanism, so holding it in when I want to tell someone that the motherfuckers are driving me crazy with their constantly changing accounting methods is doubly harmful.) Pocketing that paycheck is going to feel mighty fine. It would be awesome to use some of he proceeds to hire someone to clean my bathtub for me so I can take a nice, hot non-vagina-drying bubble bath. I can dream, can't I?

Like a Booty Call, but More Professionally Satisfying

At 10:30 AM yesterday, I was sitting around in my pajamas applying for part-time jobs of various stripes. My friend Maria hooked me up with a good lead on a potentially interesting position, and amid all the ads for "women who look good in latex," I actually found something of value for grant writing. Expecting a quiet morning at home until I had to run several infuriating errands before attending an orientation for new faculty for my February teaching gig, I jumped when my cell phone rang.

It was someone who I used to work with who left and joined a consulting group. Through another lead from someone with whom I used to work (see the pattern here - it's all about connections), I sent a resume to another partner there last week regarding a part-time job. My former colleague wasn't calling about that, though. (I think they decided I was unqualified for that, which is true, so I'm not too busted up about it.)

"I've got an evaluation project for a new loan fund that needs to be done by this Friday. Are you free this week?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I replied, sort of nervously, as I wasn't sure I was qualified for this either.

"Great!" He breathed a sigh of relief. "Can you be here before 12:30?"

I looked down at my sea green pajama bottoms with a print of little Eskimos and igloos scattered about. "Sure. Give me an hour."

Hustling about, I finished the application I was working on and put on more suitable attire. Within 20 minutes, I was on the subway and I strolled into the office at 11:20. There I found a very cushy project and very attractive hourly wage awaiting me. I familiarized myself with the work, then took off to run uptown, then downtown, then further downtown, then uptown again. So, except for when I do a "phone screening" interview for another job today at 3 pm (yes, also through connections), I am happy to say that I am gainfully employed this week, with potential other project work to come my way in the future. Way better than a booty call!

In with the New

Surprise, surprise! The upgrades on my laptop are still not complete, and poor Husband doesn't understand what went wrong. It seems that the laptop is actually slower as a result of his "fixes." I feel bad for him, though. He tries so hard, and he looked so defeated last night.

Since this means I can't access my 8th grade portraits, I'll put up a picture of my new haircut:

Wait. That's not me. That's Ursa, the villain from Superman II. My bad. Our hair styles are so similar that it's easy to see why I was confused. See for yourself:

I mean, really, had she also posed in front of the shower curtain in my bathroom and I wore freaky shirts with the sleeves slit open and put my little sideburn-thingy flat against my face like the stylist told me too, we'd be practically indistinguishable from one another!

All joking aside, I like this new cut. It's kinda sleek, no?

It's On! It's On!

The infamous Plushie/Furrie episode of CSI! I've been talking about this episode ever since I first saw it years ago. I'm so excited! And now I will say something I never thought I'd say: Thanks SpikeTV for giving me what I want!

The Flying Machine

I was so excited that I hiked up Diamond Head that I completely forgot to mention the flying machine that Husband booked us to ride on Friday. This is the machine and the husband-wife team who took us up (picture from their website, Paradise Air Hawaii):



Seriously, if that is not something drawn up by Leonardo da Vinci in this Codex book thing, I don't know what is. It was raining a bit, and the air was sort of choppy, so I felt a little green around the gills. Had I barfed in my helmet, I suspected the air flow would have pushed it into my eyes, so I concentrated very hard on not puking, which made my ride a bit less fun. Husband LOVED it, though, which makes me happy. I feel like my injury has ruined the trip a bit (which he denies), so I am very glad that he really enjoyed this activity. Our pilots (Denise and Tom) are aerial stunt people and generally super friendly and awesome, so I recommend checking them out if you go to O'ahu and want to go in a flying machine. Denise offered to let me steer for a while, but I'm not even that keen on driving a car and I was trying not to vomit into my own face, so I politely declined. Husband took the reigns on his flying machine and thought the experience was utterly fantastic.

That's Not the Stocking Stuffer I Had in Mind, But Thanks Anyway

Nothing says, "Happy birthday, Jesus!" like these fine items available from the British "toy" purveyor Ann Summers:





Someone must have been a really bad boy to be punished with something like this. I hope there's not a lump of coal in there, too, as I imagine that would be uncomfortable. Or could it get more uncomfortable?

Damn, I love those wacky Brits. Oh, this is such jolly fun to laugh at. Ho ho ho.

(For real feminist gift ideas, check out my list at BlogHer and add your suggestions!)

Last Chance Before December

When I was a wee lass growing up on the "wrong" side of the Edens Expressway in Wilmette, IL, my dad had a t-shirt that puzzled me. It had a picture of a cartoon women who (according to my partly unreliable memory) was scantily clad and had big titties sitting on a bale of hay with a piece of hay in her teeth. Above her, it read, "Last chance before the freeway." My dad also had a t-shirt with McDonald's golden arch logo that parodied the fast food purveyor. It read, "Marijuana: Over 5 Billion Stoned."

Of course, these memories have nothing to do with NaBloPoMo, a scheme to encourage people to blog at least once every day in November, but as today is Nov. 30 and thus the last day of NaBloPoMo, it's people's last chance to create posts and backdate them if they didn't make the daily postings. In my case, pretty much post at least once every day, every month anyway. However, as I decided to enjoy myself in London over Thanksgiving weekend and not pay the outrageous internet connection fee at my hotel, November happens to be the one month I didn't post every day. Some may say I lose, but I say I win. Dude, I got to go to London!!!

I tried to offer a prize for those who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, but the organizer never responded to either of my emails. I guess it's OK for others to offer their blog merchandise, but not offensive little old me. However, if you are a CUSS reader who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, email me (my email is on the right side of the blog), and you can have any short sleeve t-shirt or mug from the CUSS store. If more than one person is a NaBloPoMo champ, I'll do some sort of random drawing at the end of next week. Just because the official NaBloPoMo people rejected me doesn't mean I shouldn't try and make good on my offer. Holiday spirit and all that shit.

Back to growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this last day of November brings the news that former member of the House of Representatives Henry Hyde from Illinois died. Rep. Hyde did everything he could to ensure that low income women had few options for terminating pregnancies by blocking federal Medicaid funds from paying for the procedure. On the other hand, at least he was slightly less hypocritical than his anti-family, pro-forced-childbirth colleagues, as Hyde supported the federal Child Care and Development Block Grant. This important money helped low income parents pay for safe places for their kids to stay while they worked or went to school. I won't call it even, but at least he tried to help families even as he coerced them into living by his religious beliefs.

Priests Are So Sexy

Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) searched high and low for an appropriate souvenir for me while they were on their honeymoon in Italy. Their original idea was to purchase a fancy Venetian glass figurine of a beaver for me. After learning the Italian word for beaver (castoro), they asked at many shops, and many shop keepers laughed. They learned that castoro can also mean "goatee," which is fascinating, but not helpful to their quest. No one made glass beavers. (Incidentally, they did get a cute glass pussy for Mother in Law...)

Since no glass beavers were to be secured, they bought me the next best thing:



Your eyes do not deceive you. This is the cover photo from a sexy priest calendar.

"We thought this was a Steph-worthy gift," BiL said proudly as he handed me the calendar. SiL beamed.

My jaw hit the ground. Other than stammering, "Damn! This is the most perverse gift I've ever received," over and over again, I was speechless. Well done, BiL and SiL. Well done.

Has Anybody Seen My Bra?

While dressing this afternoon, I realized that the bra I wanted to wear under my Red Stapler t-shirt was not in my undies drawer. As I dug through piles of cheap cotton underwear, other bras, and ratty slips, it occurred to me that I haven't seen the particular bra in some time. Was it lost in the laundry? Did I leave it somewhere when I went on a trip? When the hell was the last time I wore that thing?

Since I doubt putting a picture on the back of a milk carton (Have you seen me? 34 B beige bra with little bows on it. Missing since sometime in 2007. If found, contact the Center for Misplaced and Runaway Lingerie) will lead to my bra's discovery, I am going to have to replace it. Unfortunately, it seems that the price has increased dramatically since I bought it two years ago. Harumph.

Des and the Real Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arghhhh! *Slurp* (Part II)

As we chuckled over Husband's hilarious email about a possible air pirate eating soup in the Admirals Club lounge at Heathrow airport yesterday, Husband pointed out that "Arghhhh! *Slurp*" is also the sound that a pirate makes when giving a blow job.

Clearly, when we met as college freshman, Husband had to be somewhat demented or he would not have wanted to date me. At the same time, I wonder (at times with pride) how much I have dragged him down into the gutter with me. Regardless of my influence, the man makes me laugh.

Arghhhh! *Slurp*

Actual email I received from Husband a few minutes ago, who today is returning from a business trip in Europe:

In the Admirals Club a guy with an eye patch was eating soup. I hate to occularly profile, but I have a feeling he was an air pirate. If I return home without me gold, you'll know why.

Damn, I missed him this week.

And a Good Time Was Had by All...

Yesterday was Brother-in-Law's wedding, which is why I've been MIA online this weekend. Here I am in my bridesmaid costume:



Have no fear: Sister and Mom asked me what the hell I was thinking with the earrings, so I took them off and wore my regular little studs. The maid of honor did my make-up for me, using the crap that I bought a few months ago when I was interviewed for a documentary about abortion. Is it not amazing? I love that it subtlety brightens my crabby sourpuss. (And although Husband and I are pictured together elsewhere on the internet, I cropped him out of this picture. He looked very handsome in his best man tux, though.)

Anyway, my whole family (minus poor Granny, who was not able to come at the last minute due to health issues - wah! it would have been ever more fun with her) came out and we had a blast at the wedding. Sister and Sister's Husband went back to Iowa today. My mom, dad, and bubbe are in my living room as I type this. More tomorrow after they leave.

When (B-List) Celebrities Care

Yesterday I attended a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development in the Bronx. My involvement in the project came from my former job, when I gave the community developers a small grant to cover some of the costs of planning a child care center to build into the ground floor. The overall $14.5 million budget led to the creation of affordable apartments for 63 families and 120 child care slots for children living in the building and the community at large.*

My former former employer financed a good portion of the construction costs, so it was very nice to catch up with people at the ribbon cutting. Near the end of the endless blathering during the ceremony, another familiar face moseyed into the building. Although I am generally clueless, I recognized Ed Norton immediately. He's the grandson of the founder of my former former employer, and when he was a struggling Off-Off-Off Broadway actor in New York, Ed worked on community development. I've seen him at other events (once, years ago, with Salma Hayek in tow), and he is just as handsome in person as he is in the movies. He's also taller than I thought he'd be.

Turns out that Norton found out that this particular community developer wanted to start doing green buildings, and sustainable design is a pet cause of Norton's. He became personally involved in helping raise money to cover the incrementally higher costs of a green roof and solar panels to reduce energy costs and emissions. Norton was not on the agenda to speak, but as soon as he sauntered into the community room in a crisp white button down shirt and jeans, he was called up to the podium to speak. I almost lost it at that point because I had already (barely) tolerated the first half of the program which involved six politicians talking about how awesome they were and the final speakers were the financial folks who keep it short and sweet, and I was itching to see the fucking child care center already. Norton half-bloviated, half-inspired.

Regardless, I was impressed that he trekked up to a slightly inconvenient location in the Bronx to support this important work. There was no media or paparazzi on his ass, no entourage surrounding him, just a guy who felt strongly that poor people deserve affordable, healthy, and safe places to live. It was cool.


*I cannot for the life of me understand why all the luxury condo developers don't bother including child care centers in their projects. The shortage of quality early childhood program space is increasingly acute for the super wealthy as more families with young children opt to stay in the city and live in these condos to raise their infants, toddlers, and pre-schoolers. My friend Logan told me that 600 children tried to enroll in the 30 slots that were available in her son's preschool in Tribeca. There's no excuse - condo developers are just lame and exceptionally stupid.

Have I Seen You Before?

Did you see Borat? (Answer yes for this to work.) Remember the scene when Borat meets up with the feminists in an art gallery to discuss women in America? I admit that I thought that scene was fairly amusing, and in subsequent interviews after the movie came out, I thought that the only person who took the sham in stride was the feminist artist.

Tonight I got to meet her. Seriously! Unsuspecting my encounter with a "star," I went to a fundraiser for Bitch magazine, which is an independent nonprofit media organization. When I arrived at the gallery hosting the event, the owner and the magazine ladies were discussing Borat. I didn't think anything of it until the artist turned to me and said, "I was in it." And then it all came together in my little mind. She's pretty damn cool in person, too.

Let's Talk about Sex, Baby: An Interview with Logan Levkoff, Sexuality Expert

Let me say this upfront: when I found this spring that my friend Logan Levkoff was writing a book about how to talk to your kids about sex, I nearly burst with anticipation. Logan is like the super cool older sister that everyone wishes that they had in their life. She grew up in Long Island (not far from Husband, actually), became a sex columnist in college (although unlike me, she was successful), and went to NYU's prestigious PhD program in human sexuality. Thus when the chance to offer CUSS as a site for Logan's virtual book tour arose, I nearly fell over myself. Her book, Third Base Ain't What It Used to Be, not only tackles the really tough questions and topics about sex and sexuality, but it also totally cracked me up when Logan described her own experiences with puberty and sex. (This woman so needs to write a memoir next.) Here, Logan tolerates a few of my lame-ass questions:

Suzanne: The book is sort of ironic because your main point is extremely "conservative" - the best place for kids to learn about sex is from their parents. How does this idea work with the need for comprehensive sex ed in schools?

Logan: Technically, there is no reason why parents can't be the best sexuality educators (if they step up to the plate and start being realistic about the importance of sexuality and the contradictory sex messages in our culture). I suppose what makes this the antithesis of "conservative" is that by no means do parents have to be the only educators. I am a staunch advocate of comprehensive sexuality education and think that it can be a tremendous supplement to at-home education. Of course, if parents aren't doing any sex-ed at home, what a child gets at school becomes their only education. While I believe that parents should give both values and facts - often times parents just give the value-part - comprehensive sex ed can give the factual element. Hopefully, after reading this book, there will be so much high quality sex ed going on that our children are in the best shape possible.

S: You say that parents need to be honest about controversial topics like abortion and masturbation, but also stick to their values. How can parents whose values conflict with the facts find a way to properly convey information to their kids?

L: I believe that its okay for parents to teach their kids about their values, but that doesn't mean a child will share those same beliefs. And though values are important, I do stress in the book that parents MUST give facts, too. For example, a parent can say that he/she doesn't believe in masturbation (though that to me is always counterintuitive - it is a safer, very healthy sexual activity), but he/she cannot tell their child that bad things will happen to the body if they do.

S: In your experience working with young adults, how do gender roles influence how teenagers use their sexuality?

L: My goodness...where to begin? Gender roles (or more importantly, what is expected from a particular gender) has a tremendous impact on how teen behave sexuality. Sadly, the double standard still exists (though I spend all my life trying to change that) and both boys and girls suffer. Girls are taught that they can't own their sexuality and their innate desires (for fear that they will be branded a "slut") and boys are convinced that there is something wrong with them if they are not sex-crazed players devoid of emotional attachment. The fact is, sexuality is important to both genders. In many cases, when teens buy into this, they use drugs or alcohol to justify the feelings that they have - or don't demand protection because they fear that speaking up isn't something they are "supposed" to do. Also, girls are still "servicing" boys orally - this on its own isn't a problem - but the fact that there is very little reciprocation and a disgust of their own bodies is! We need to stress that expressing sexuality is different for every individual - there is no blanket expression that works for an entire gender; we do a disservice to our children and teens when we don't give them that information.

S: On page 49, you wrote, "Most children are desperate to 'avoid' puberty..." Have truer words ever been written? (Sorry I know that is really not a question, but as someone still trying to recover from puberty, the line particularly resonated with me.)

L: I too remember the angst of being an early developer - which also meant that I "stopped" developing earlier than everyone else too. Many of my students are consumed by the anxiety surrounding puberty - even though it's the most natural thing. Parents can ease this by talking about their own experiences (both fathers and mothers should be talking - not just one gender with the same gender child) and explaining that though this is a confusing time, it's pretty amazing what the body can do.

S: What is the most important message you want to give parents (and other concerned adults, like aunts, godparents, educators, and "role models") about helping kids develop into healthy, sexually responsible individuals?

L: Stress to your kids that sexuality is an important, pleasurable part of their lives - it is not separate from their overall health; it is a part of it. Kids who know this (and feel empowered to ask questions, challenge media messaging, and respect all people regardless of their gender, race, religion, and sexual orientation) won't act irresponsibily. They will make deliberate, educated decisions about how they choose to express their sexuality and when they choose to become sexually active.

Last, our culture currently makes sex and sexuality something dirty, gratuitous and exploitative. If we teach our children to challenge this (and encourage them to do so), we may start seeing more healthy and positive representations of sexuality and gender!

S: As an aside, I also want to say that the reason I thought this book worked so well is that you bring in your personal and professional experience, making an uncomfortable topic into something that I related to and even laughed along with. It's very accessible. Anyone who has kids or who, like me, is not a parent but a committed godparent and future aunt, really should read this book. It's just great.

Logan's book, "Third Base Ain't What It Used to Be" is on sale now.

Third Base and the Return of "Beaver Suckling" Man

Back in August, my friend Alex appeared on The Mike and Juliet Show to talk about why some women don't breastfeed. I accompanied her to the show for moral support, and while waiting in the back room, was witness to an inane (insane?) analogy made by Mike about "beavers suckling beavers," which of course made me snicker and smirk. Alex kicked ass on the show, I got a new running joke about beaver suckling, and I thought that would be the end of it with Mike.

Oh contraire! This morning, my friend Logan Levkoff, author of the awesome book (I'm reading a review copy), Third Base Ain't What it Used to Be, a guide to help parents talk to their kids about sex, was on The Mike and Juliet Show. Juliet, as usual, was a moron. However, Mike really surprised me in how open he was to talking about sex and in supporting the idea that parents should talk to their kids early in life about the topic. No beaver suckling incidents today! Logan, of course, was awesome.

Speaking of third base, why oh why can the Mets not advance beyond that place on the field and score some literal runs? We know it is just a game, but Husband and I are seriously vexed by the likelihood that the Mets are not going to make it into the postseason. I guess that'll just leave me more time to watch other shit on TV. Sigh.

Obsession of the Month: September 2007

As a person who must occupy every nook and cranny of her Swiss cheese brain with something, I find myself obsessing over things.* Sometimes they are useful (like, say, a desire to learn Hindi, April's failed Obsession of the Month) and other times they are ridiculous. September 2007's Obsession of the Month falls into the realm of the latter.

Two nights ago, as Husband and I watched the Mets seize victory from the hapless Reds, I began wondering about the personal lives of third baseman David Wright and catcher Paul Lo Duca. Lo Duca is about the only controversial Met; he was involved in an acrimonious divorce last year from his Playboy model wife when he was caught having an affair with a 19 year old. Also, he was involved in some gambling debts. Otherwise, the team is squeaky clean, lead by Wright, who Husband insists only drinks milk, never alcohol. My "research" (a quick Google) proved otherwise, as photos of Wright bartending while partying with Lo Duca were plentiful, albeit from last year.

Now I want to know who on the team is married, who is in a relationship, and who is single. Where do the Mets hang out? Why I am not there?** How can I remedy the situation?

*Incidentally, every Obsession of the Month is doomed to fail. It is just a way to waste time.

**Hating bars and being a homebody might play a large part in the answer to this question.

"Everybody's taking dick up the ass except me."

My friend Dianne, who is a muralist, is staying with me this week while she paints two kids' rooms in Tribeca.* Dianne reads D Listed. They had this completely fucking insane rant embedded on their site (warning: it is totally offensively gut bustingly funny in its stupidity):



"Maybe she's just pissed that she can't get a date?" Dianne suggested about 3/4 of the way through the madness.

Vagina Power!

*As a reminder, I met Dianne when we became roommates as snarky NYU undergrads. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we only spent a semester together (maybe that is good or else she may not still talk to me), but we had a great time and got into zesty trouble because people like us should not be allowed to live together. One afternoon, we decided that we should give some sexist guys a taste of their own medicine and decorate the outside of our door with little pictures of men that we cut out from Playgirl and gay porn mags. The thing was, our door directly faced the elevator, so every time the door opened, people got an eyeful. Not that pictures of men holding enormous flaccid cocks while watering flowers are erotic. No, they are hilarious, except to the people who complained that they were offended. Eventually, Steve the Imbecile RA summoned us to his door and demanded that we remove the pictures. I was well aware of why this was a reasonable request, but I hated his ass and told him that I didn't understand what the problem was.

"People are offended by the photos," he said.

"So if anyone complains that they are offended by something, the images have to be removed?" I asked innocently.

"Yes," he said. He was pleased that this was going to be easy.

"Well, the images on your door offend me," I said, gesturing at his photocopied Star Wars pictures. "I think you need to take them down."

"How can this offend you?" He was stunned.

"Well, they are holding light sabers, which depict violence, and I am very sensitive to violence." (If I had been thinking, I could also have pointed out throbbing light sabers are very phallic, and if I can't have big dicks on my door, neither could he.)

"I am not taking them down!"

"Then I am not taking my pictures down. Why do my complaints not merit the same response as other peoples'?"

The conversation went back and forth for a few minutes, with him increasingly frustrated because he knew I was fucking with him but had no idea what to do about it. Eventually, Dianne and I drew little fig leaves and stuck them over the wieners, just as Michaelangelo's naked figures in the Sistine Chapel were censored by the Vatican for a time, except in our case, people could flip up the paper cover-ups and check out the goods if they so dared. Those were fun days. It's a miracle we were not kicked out of the dorm.

I Married a Lunatic, Part II: Photographic Evidence

For his birthday, Husband asked me for an orange bow tie and Mets suspenders. The suspenders were easy; I found them online at a place called Rainbow Connection (make what you will of the name). The bow tie was a bigger challenge. I found a perfectly hideous one at eBay. It was orange with blue polka dots, incorporating both of the Mets colors nicely, so I went with the buy it now option. A few days later, the fuckers told me that they didn't really have the damn bow tie and refunded me my money.

Unlike the Mets suspenders, no other internet purveyors popped up for orange bow ties. I pounded the pavement. Two days before Husband's birthday, I settled for a goldish orange bow tie and cumberbun combo from Today's Man (or Men's Warehouse, I forget). When I proudly presented him with the gift, Husband loved the suspenders but was not so enthusiastic about the damn bow tie.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well, it's not really orange," he explained. "It's more gold." He looked crushed.

"OK, I'll try again."

A few days later, I happened to be on the Upper East Side for a visit to the Mt. Vernon Hotel Museum for my book about things to see and do in New York City that are off the beaten path. (It rocks, by the way.) On my way home, I stumbled into my arch nemesis department store, Bloomingdale's. I hate Bloomie's because the sales people tend to treat me as though they can barely stand the sight of me in their precious store, but I was desperate for the bow tie, and an orange bow tie strikes me as just the thing that rich fools with no taste would wear to Orange Bowl night at the club or something. I went in, and within minutes, found an orange bow tie with navy stripes. At $35, I almost didn't buy it, but then remembered that this was exactly what Husband wanted, even if I was offended at the price-per-usage ratio. (I mean, how often would he wear the damn thing?)

Anyway, to finally wrap this long story up, he was delighted with the bow tie. However, when we made a spur of the moment decision to attend a Mets game on Saturday night, the fact that he doesn't know how to tie a bow tie ensured that we didn't get there until the 4th inning. He looked very dashing in his outfit, though, and would have been ecstatic had the Mets not decided to put in a belly itcher not a pitcher, and thus lose the game by two.

(Fake mustache compliments of Husband and Photo Shop.) How can I not love him?

Need Paper Panties?

If you are in the market for new cotton underwear that feels like paper, have I got a recommendation for you! Last week, I bought a six pack of variety solid color and heinous patterned Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton hispter underwear. My suspicions should have been raised when I saw that they were only $4.99 plus came with two bonus pairs in white. Instead, I was excited that I was getting such a deal.

After opening the package and feeling the thin rough "fabric" of each pair of undies, I realized that anyone who wears these with a waxed or shaved snatch is in danger of getting a paper cut on her cooter. Ouch. I also discovered that although the packaging clearly read "HIPSTER" when describing the cut, I received eight pairs of super low rise bikini briefs.

According to pictures of Fruit of the Loom Hipster undies sold through various internet purveyors, I am missing about 50% of the underwear. While the raspberry color is lovely, the narrowly cut ass is going to creep into my ample buttocks every time I wear them, thus putting me at risk for ass paper cuts. (I still think poon paper cuts would suck worse, but either is pretty awful.)

I washed them and they softened up a bit, so now they are the consistency of high quality stationary versus printer paper. I am committed to wearing each pair once and then throwing them out. Harumph.

Camping in My Mom's Underwear

My mom ordered new Lollipop underwear in the mail. One package of undies is a size 10 and the other is a size 11. Here's what this means in terms of my mom, who is proudly holding up her new size 11 acquisition.

Forget jogging shorts. These are so big compared to her that a family of four could use it as a tent while she is wearing them.

"But I don't want my circulation cut off," my mom explained when Des and I laughed and laughed at their nonsensicalness for a person of her size. "They are not big."

"Look at the picture!" I said, handing her the digital camera.

"OH! I guess these are a little big. This really gives it a different perspective." The sense of wonder in her voice made us laugh harder, and she joined us. "Well, after I put them in the dryer they'll shrink right up."

Good luck with that.

Trouble

Sister and I pose proudly, falsely advertising in the little study/storage closet in my parents' basement. Sister was rummaging for items she could use in her classroom when she starts teaching 1st grade at the end of the summer.

She asked me not to touch her should, which has ringworm (which I now know is a fungus, thanks to Suebob). Just in case you have never had the chance to ogle ringworm, the kid also has ringworm on her lower, lower back.
Tasty.

Don't Waite for Me

In a morning full of utterly depressing news (anyone shocked that thanks to bungles by the Bush administration, terrorists are stronger than ever? No? I'm not either, but it is still depress