Well, Do They?

It's been months since I played the game where I look at my blog stats go through the list of how people who visited CUSS got here. When I looked at the referrals yesterday afternoon, a nestled among the usual suspects (unshaved, Jewish pussy, kosher pussy, hairy pussy, etc.), there was a real head scratcher.

I turned to Husband. "Hey, listen to this crazy search. Someone came to my blog by googling, 'do orthodox jews put carrots in an entryway.'"

Husband glanced up at me from the newspaper. "Well, do they?"

I suppose the question is better than the direction I originally thought the question was taking, unless "entryway" is a euphemism.

Passing the Steamy, Hot Crotch Test

The streets of New York sizzled under the beating sun this afternoon. Humidity enveloped anyone foolhardy enough to walk around in a blanket of steam-room air. Sweat dripped from brows, armpits, and other bodily areas.

It was in this weather that I decided that I did not want to pay $2.25 to take the bus to my doctor's appointment. "It's only a mile," I reasoned. "I can walk on the shaded side of the street." I allotted plenty of time to saunter over there.

By the time I arrived at my new gynecologist's office (thanks for the referral, Dr. F!), my underwear were soaked through. Since I was 30 minutes early, I hoped that would allow me to dry out in the overly air conditioned office. Better yet, maybe he'd run late. While I waited, I pondered how much I would hate being an OB/GYN on a day like today.

Fortunately, before he performed the exam, the good (and wise) doctor brought me into his office to go over my history. We chatted about the Mets. (They are dead to me this season, by the way.) I told him about my exciting medical history - the PCOS, the undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment, the breast reduction surgery - and he wrote it all down. We discussed about my increased risks for uterine and breast cancer and diabetes. He complimented the friend who referred me to him, and we remarked on how crazy it is that her son is already turning one. Thanks to all the talk, I even had enough time to get cold and put my cardigan on. This was good.

When the time came to do the dirty deed, the doctor did not pass out. He didn't even make a face. At the end, he said that everything looked normal and that he'd see me next year. Whew.

MMM (More Medical Mishaps)

Somehow, both of my little toes developed humps. I think they were initially blisters that turned into calluses, but whatever they are, they hurt like fuck. I need extra wide shoes so that the Hunchtoes of the Upper West Side don't rub against the shoe while I walk. The problem is that even my gym shoes are not wide enough to get me through a full day as a New Yorker, which requires a lot of walking, even though I've been sitting at a desk for hours while doing a consulting job. I'm trying my hiking shoes today. Bah.

After limping to Cosi for internet access, I called my ob/gyn to schedule an appointment for September. (I had to google her phone number.) When I saw her last year, I really liked her. I found her after reading an article she wrote for Glamour magazine about the dangers of Brazilian waxing. It was meant to be.

"Are you an existing patient of Dr. O'Connell's?" the receptionist asked me.

"Yes," I replied.

"Oh, well next week is her last week before she leaves here forever."

"WHAT?!?! May I ask where she is going?" I prayed quickly that I could just follow her to her next doctoring gig.

"Massachusetts."

It took everything I had in me not to scream motherfucker. When I first moved to New York, I retained my gyn in the suburbs of Chicago and made my yearly appointments when I was in town to visit my family. I loved that doctor. Then she moved to Champagne-Urbana, which is about four hours from Chicago, so I sucked it up and found a doc here. I hated her.

My co-worker then referred me to her doctor, who I adored. After two or three years, she completely fell off the planet. (Dr. Pollitz, if you are out there, I miss your care!) I saw my friend Sara's doctor. Sara swore by him, telling me that he always took lots of time to talk to her and answer her questions, but he was super late to my appointment and rushed me through a history while I was sitting on the exam table in a paper gown. I was not impressed.

A few months after that disappointment, I visited my friend Dr. P in Florida, where was doing a fellowship. Dr. P had a subscription to Glamour (good bathroom reading?), and that's when I found the article by Dr. O'Connell, whose byline noted that she worked at Columbia Medical Center in NYC. I decided that this was my future doctor. I waited another few months for my yearly cooter exam time to arrive, and had a very nice appointment with her. Which of course is inevitably why she is leaving.

Now I have painful toes and no snatch examiner to boot. Motherfucker.

My New Beaver Spreader

I forgot to bring my furry little beaver to BlogHer this year. However, my friend and roomie Suebob rendered the stuffed animal moot: she gave me a plastic cheese/butter knife shaped like a beaver. (Right now, I am unable to upload the delightful photo.)

Now I can ask people to take pictures with my beaver spreader!

Writing about Pubic Hair Removal Restores My Good Spirits

I woke up this morning grumpy and unsettled. With all the serious shit that is going on in the world, like the assassination of Dr. George Tiller and the amount of money that banks are spending to lobby against sensible regulation, I feared that I could not do a good job on my BlogHer topic of the day, pubic hair shaving. Oddly enough, once I got going with my old friend, I felt a lot better. If you can't mock the crap out of pubic hair removal, what can you mock?

Plus, this latest BlogHer post is the third that I wrote in the past three weeks that returned me to my humor roots. In the last year, I've become so serious. I started blogging and writing almost four years ago (!) to find a funny outlet for my anger. It's nice to go back to that.

More bad jokes, less frustration!

No Cush for the Bush?

Sometimes a topic so ripe for mockery just falls into my bushy lap. Yesterday, I stopped rocking back and forth, uncurled myself from the fetal position, and wrote one of the best posts I've cranked out in a while on BlogHer about a product known as "The Cuchini." God help me...

As part of the post, I decided to run a contest:

Granted, I would not want everyone and their pervert uncles seeing my cooter silhouette, either. Of course, my solution is not to wear absurdly tight short shorts. This also helps avoid the dreaded "crotch rot." (Man, I can't wait until someone invents an anti-crotch rot product. I challenge readers to come up with a name for that, and I promise $10 to the best one. Seriously! Leave a comment with your anti-crotch rot product name...)

I am really excited about this contest! I'm sure we can develop something really exciting, and then we'll be rich!

The Vagina Visor: Protect Your Inner Vulva Today!

Many thanks to frogger for directing me to Va j-j Visor:
My life was seriously lacking without this valuable piece of plastic, which is designed to "protect all of those tender and sensitive parts that you don't want exposed during various methods of hair removal." Or naked tanning. Or pubic hair dying. Not only is the plastic cup stylish and eco-friendly ("your body's natural muscular tension holds it effortlessly in place.* It is also hypoallergenic, disposable and recyclable."), but it's doctor recommended! Er, sort of:

A well-respected gynecologist in Tacoma, Washington assisted us in the development of the Va j-j Visor. He answered pertinent questions, gave expert input and opinions, and found that the Va j-j Visor offered a great fit and would help in protecting the inner vulva area during its various uses.

I love when the people who help develop a product don't share their names because perhaps they might be a little less "well-respected" as a result.

Anyway, I don't know how I've managed to go on all these years without a special vagina visor, but please, do not use the Va jj Visor to try on bathing suits without underwear, as the website touts as a potential use for this versatile product. Your delicate flower and its potential seeping nectar may be covered, I still don't want your naked ass all over something that I am potentially going to purchase.

Dear fellow humans, why must you vex me so with your creativity?

*"To create a more powerful seal, spread personal lubricant around the upper inside of the Va j-j Visor. Saliva can also be used in what we like to call the 'lick it and stick it' method."

An Unintended Consequence of Brazilian Waxing

Last week, I had dinner with a friend, who told me about a picture that he saw on Facebook.

"You are probably the only person in the world that I can mention this to," he said. "It showed a guy with his face between a naked woman's legs. Her shaved 'landing strip' was positioned on his face so that it hit under his nose, making it look like Hitler's mustache."

"Shit, that is fucked up," I replied articulately.

Later that night, he emailed me the picture. He hadn't mentioned that the guy also arranged his hair in a way that also looked like Hitler.

"That is so incredibly evil. Wow. I am both disgusted and impressed," I wrote back. "I'm impressed that someone could be that offensive."

"It is that rare combination, indeed. Can't believe no one has flagged it as offensive."

I think someone did finally mark it for banishment, as I couldn't find it on Facebook. The whole incident just added another reason for my personal dislike of Brazilian waxing. I can't imagine how distressing it would be to look down and find that my pubes made my partner look like the perpetrator of the largest genocide of the 20th century. Better to see Bluebeard or a Hasidic man.

Unshaved Snatch Underwear

Oh, how I adore Etsy for their homespun products, and Count Mockula for her keen eye for the muff. (Scary that the mannequin has a camel toe, isn't it?)

Actually, the hairiness is a good depiction of my morning. Fortunately, I made it past hump day without melting down. Yay!

And the Password Is...

Husband sent me the following vital information:

I thought you might be interested in this list of the top 500 passwords.
At #5 is "pussy".

http://www.whatsmypass.com/?p=415

"Pussy" seems like an easy password to steal. For those using such a simplistic password, may I suggest "eel-skinner?" I wouldn't want your accounts invaded or anything like that.

Lipstick Jungle

Last week, I entered enemy territory. I traversed the block between Amsterdam and Broadway, then I turned right on the corner of 76th Street, walking less than half a block. I took a deep breath. Then, trying to be brave, I pushed open the glass door. Before I knew it, I was in Sephora.

Some friends at school convinced me to wear lipstick. As I crept down the florescent aisles of Sephora, squinting at the prices in the blinding light, I doubted myself. This shit was expensive. I approached a salesperson with a headset.

"Hi, do you have any lipstick under $15?"

"Sure," she said and smiled. She was probably thinking, cheap bitch. She pointed me to a display case full of Sephora-brand cosmetics, then started to walk away.

"Uh, can someone help me pick out a color? I haven't bought lipstick since 2000." (Which, incidentally, was when I bought two Clinique Chubby Sticks for my wedding. I have plenty left of both and still wear them once in a while.)

She gave me a funny look, and called for reinforcements on the headset. Another black-clad headset wearer approached. She squinted at my face the way I did earlier at their prices, then handed me a brown lipstick on a cotton swab. I wish I could say that I applied this sample with grace, but somehow it wound up all over my teeth. I'm still not sure how that happened. Then I tried two lighter colors.

I walked out $14.01 lighter in the wallet and heavier in the sparkly pinkish lipstick that smells like grape Bubblicious department. I'm surprised at how different I look wearing just a little lipstick. It makes me nervous. If I cave on lipstick, will I suddenly find myself spread on the waxer's table? It's a slippery slope, I tell you. Slippery.

Furry Beaver

I went to the gym yesterday morning. One of the TVs in the room had the Today show on. It was right in my line of vision. The teletype was on and I half-watched without sound while running on a treadmill. A woman brought some animals onto the stage, and Kathie Lee and some giantess reacted to each one as if I were a serial killer on the loose. I rolled my eyes.

Then, it happened. The animal lady's assistant carried an enormous brown beaver out. It was adorable, although understandably terrified of the women poking at it with a stick of celery and kept trying to escape. "Damn, that beaver is large and furry!" I said to myself and cracked up. "I want to touch that soft beaver!"

Unfortunately, I almost fell off the machine at that point, so I missed one of the women's comments, looking up just in time to see Kathie Lee wrinkling her little button nose and the teletype reading, "No, this is just the way beavers smell."

Trust me, my furry beaver was no better after a six mile run. Heh heh.

Wow, 2 Years Later, I Am Still Grossed Out

From November 7, 2006, although I can't believe that I didn't comment on how prepubescent the model looks, not only lacking pubic hair, but also hips:

From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.

Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.

Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.

There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?

Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.

(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)

Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."

Happy Blogiversary, CUSS!

As we walked home from dinner on Friday night, I told Husband that Sunday is the 3rd anniversary of CUSS. "Did you think it would be a fad when I started blogging?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "I mean, how many blogs make it past a few months, or even weeks, before people move on?"

Yet, here we are. Blogging, as cliche as it may sound, changed my life. When I drafted my first blog post, I was a burned out do-gooder on the verge of snapping. Even though I only wrote a few paragraphs every day, I realized how much I enjoyed writing my little stories and rants. I "met" awesome people, some of whom even softened my hard core stance against unshaved snatch. A year later, I pursued a life that incorporated writing.

Although, some of what I wrote on Oct. 19, 2005 makes me cringe, I think in celebration of three years of blogging and personal growth, it is worth republishing. Happy Blogiversary, CUSS!

Why the world needs pubic hair

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

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

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

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

Keeping the Motor Running

Yesterday I brought myself in for a tune up at the cooter garage (i.e. - the gynecologist, not Cooter's Garage from Dukes of Hazard, although if I were a GYN, I would definitely name my practice Cooter Garage). This was the third GYN I saw in three years. My first GYN, who I adored because she used foul language to describe a bad doctor, disappeared at the end of 2006. I tried my friend Sara's doc last year, but wasn't impressed. (She described him as very attentive, but I had to remind him to take my history before the exam. Not cool.) I wasn't sure if I would see him again or try to find another person for my annual exam this year. Finding new doctors is a pain in the ass (or maybe in this case, in the crotch?).

Then, in May, the answer came to me while I visited Dr. P in Florida. One might think that she referred me to some doctor that she knew, but of course, that would be a normal way to select a new doctor. While I usually do not read women's magazines (I even hate the term), Dr. P had an issue of Glamour that I picked up while we were sitting around her apartment. Generally, I do not find the health articles helpful, so I was shocked to read one in which the author, a gynecologist in New York City, warned women about the potential dangers of Brazilian waxing. Plus, her bio at the end of the article indicated that she contributes to a feminist sexuality blog. I knew we would get along.

"This is my new gynecologist!" I announced to Dr. P and Husband, pointing excitedly at the open page.

"OK," Husband mumbled, not looking up from what he was reading.

"Great," Dr. P said from the other room.

The best part is that I was right: I LOVE this woman. (This most excellent gynecologist, by the way, is Dr. Katherine O'Connell at New York-Presbyterian.) She's totally the shit. As long as she doesn't drop off the face of the earth, I'll not worry about my poon care for a long time.

The Fisher Poet's Wisdom

Instead of producing work for my consulting contract, I spent my day thus far: researching Sen. Evan Bayh's voting record on abortion (mostly pro-choice, but voted for that stupid "partial birth abortion ban," which bans a procedure that does not exist and instead endangers the lives of pregnant women who need a late term abortion to save their own lives); answering and generating email; pondering why the fuck I listened to that stupid doctor and agreed to get another MMR vaccine (rather than have my blood drawn and examined for anti-bodies) when I knew damn well that it is a two round deal and one would not suffice and now have to go back and get another one in September unless I can prove that I was vaccinated 32 years ago; exploring how to extract my medical records from previous institutions of learning (NYU said no way; Columbia has a form to fill out and will send my immunization documents to New School - yay!) so that I don't have to get another useless vaccine; attempting to pay my tuition at New School, which is harder than it sounds since they have yet to bill me; and writing a post for BlogHer on whether penises are heat seeking missiles which explains why people think men are unable to not cheat on their partners (answer: no). In addition to this important work, I read some blogs.

On The Cowboy Chronicles, Shonda mentions that fishing is an important part of her hubby's country life. She shared this brilliant bons mots:

To quote one of these angling poets, "I told my son noodling is just like dating. If you stick your hand in a dark hole, it might come out smelling a little fishy."

Once I stopped guffawing, I thought it was a good reminder that no matter how little I want to think about the longevity of charter school facilities, I could be doing far less appetizing tasks. No more dilly-dallying.

My Furry Beaver Gets Around: BlogHer Beaver Shots Now Online!

No less than a 100% rip off of Suebob's popular red stapler series, I decided to bring my furry little beaver to the 2008 BlogHer conference and have her pose with my blogging friends. Brilliant! Except that I forgot my camera. Fortunately, Alex lent me hers, so I wandered around the conference on Friday, asking people to take a beaver shot. Then I forgot to upload the pictures from Alex's camera. Until Thursday night...

Without further ado, I present: My Beaver at BlogHer 08. Feel free to tag yourself if you have a beaver shot. (I figure some people may not want to be identified for web search purposes, so I leave it up to the individual in the photo to tag herself. Please do not tag any beaver shot unless you are in it. It's pretty bad when a prospective employer googles someone and comes up with a link to her beaver shot...)


Someone (Mar, I think) suggested that Bev the Beaver do a tour, which I think would be fun. People who want to be in a picture with my beaver would email me (or leave a comment), I'd generate a list with people's addresses, then send Bev and the list to the first person on the list. That person would take a picture with my beaver and post it, then send Bev to the next person on the list and so forth, until Bev is sent home to me. Anyone interested?

My Dam(n)ed Beaver Project

My friend Suebob from the hilarious and thoughtful blog Red Stapler hit on the greatest networking ice breaker ever. She brought a red stapler along with her to the BlogHer conferences, and takes photos of attendees posing with the cheerful object. Everyone wants to be seen with the red stapler! (It probably helps that Suebob is also an all-around amazing human being.)

When I posted a few days ago about my new beaver, Alex asked if I planned to bring my furry friend to the conference. Put two ideas together, and a plan forms: I would bring her to the conference, and ask people if they want to take a picture with my beaver. Beaver shots! It's brilliant! I couldn't wait to get the photo project underway.

The minor detail is that when I arrived at JFK for my flight yesterday morning, I realized that I forgot my camera. Uh huh. (Pursuing my lips with self-disgust.) Fortunately, Alex is not as mentally impaired as I am, and she offered me the use of her new camera! So, the beaver shot project is on!

Now, who wants to pose with my beaver?

Meet My New Furry Beaver!

(Sorry for the low quality of the picture.)




Last night Husband and I went over to my brother-in-law's place. A new crap shop opened around the corner from him, so we trooped over to check out the "deals." There was a disturbing preponderance of Ikea items being sold for more than their original prices, which struck me as hilarious. (Example: a coffee table that Husband and I bought for $20 at Ikea was marked as $25 at the nameless junk store.) Then I spotted the furry little beaver huddled on an Ikea nightstand, and felt the need to rescue her. She was a bargain at $3.

Not far from where I bought my new beaver is a real beaver spa! For a mere $150, a woman can get a special pelvic exam in which the doctor crams her finger up the river (so to speak), and by squeezing her beaver on the finger, determine how weak her vaginal muscles are. The spa also offers beaver fitness classes and beautification specials.

Yeah. I'll keep my beaver at home. Thanks.

I'll Give You One Crotch For Looking At, Mofo

(Hat tip to Suebob at Red Stapler, who hat tipped Keving Charnas.)

While viewing this ultimately horrid little video, for a moment I was inspired by its hilarious mockery of bikini hair removal. "Perhaps," I thought optimistically, "this could be awesome."

Optimism is for fools. Who knows if the translation is accurate, but still. If the final message of the ad doesn't make me want to gauge people's eyes out, nothing does.

Something Nature Intended to Emerge from a Vagina

Yesterday I had an epiphany about what Activia may believe "better digestion" is, and I wrote about it. However, right before I saw the Activia ad, I saw a great commercial about some new type of digital pregnancy test from Clear Blue Easy. It seems that the stick now reads, "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant," which is very straight forward.

But man, remember when it was impressive to have something that was digital? Now digital items are very common. Clear Blue Easy won me over though, with the following line in the ad, "It's the most sophisticated thing you'll ever pee on."* I don't think I'm pregnant, but that line makes me want to run out and buy their digital test, just so I can pee on something with digital technology. I love it!

Incidentally, whether the Clear Blue Easy digital test truly is the most sophisticated thing I ever pee on, I am relieved that they are selling a product that relates to things that are supposed to emerge from vaginas. Speaking of which, my friend Sara just gave birth to a baby girl! (Perhaps one day in the distant future, little Farf will laugh that this pregnancy test was once the most sophisticated thing a woman might pee on, as the pace of technology speeds ever faster.) Mazel tov to Sara and her family!

*Note: I am 99% certain that the ad actually said this and I was not hallucinating. There is a small chance, however, that I was oxygen deprived from running and thus misunderstood the ad. Or that I was still recovering from my discovery that Activia encourages women to shit through their vaginas. If the ad did not actually say that their product is the most sophisticated thing you will ever pee on, than it should. Because that is a brilliant line.

Feuchtgebiete

Was ist das? Ist ein Buch von Deutschland über unshaved snatch und warum douche ist nict gut! Ich weiss nicht Deutsch so zurück zu Englisch.

It's not every day that I get to put my horrid high school German (a class that is the frequent center of my helpless nightmares about failing, as I was so bad at it and only did OK due to the generosity of my teacher, Frau Klemm) to use on CUSS, but I was inspired by the New York Times cover story on Feuchtgebiete ("Humid areas," according to Babal Fish), an explicit fictional book causing a sensation in Germany because of its raunchy descriptions of the narrator's body and her rejection of "hygiene." Sounds right up my alley, and I'm not making a bad pun here.

According to the article, which is both offensive in how it describes feminism and unintentionally hilarious, the author Charlotte Roche was inspired to write Humid Areas (I just love that title!!!) by the douche aisle:

s. Roche explained, to howls of laughter, how the lemon-scented products called out to her in uncensored terms that she was, as the commercials put it, not so fresh, or at least not fresh enough.

“It’s not feminist in a political sense, but instead feminism of the body, that has to do with anxiety and repression and the fear that you stink, and this for me is clearly feminist, that one builds confidence with your own body,” Ms. Roche, the mother of a young daughter and more serious in person than onstage, said last week in an interview after her reading here.

How much do I love this woman?!?! Plus, the cover of the book is the same grotesque Pepto-Bismal pink as CUSS. So, so cool.The book opens "in a hospital room after an intimate shaving accident." Oh, how I snicker!

Why this merited as a cover story is slightly beyond me, given all the other the things going on the world that probably require more attention (like "Mortgage Defaults Mounting," which is in the business section). Feuchtgebiete will be out in English nächste Jahre.

Beavers are Funny!

(Many thanks to Woman with No Regrets for sending me the link yesterday. Updated: Click here if the picture doesn't show up automatically.)

Actually, it was extra hilarious to get the cartoon when I got home yesterday evening because I had a beaver run-in of sorts on the subway while I was on my way back from work. The train was relatively empty until we pulled into 96th St. (Not too many people are commuting into Manhattan from the Bronx during the evening rush; I love reverse commutes!) When the doors opened, an overwhelmed mother tromped on with her three kids. The youngest one, who was about 5 or 6 years old, sat down next to me on the bench. Almost immediately, she reached out for my backpack and grabbed the little stuffed beaver keychain that I have clipped to the side.

I was quite taken aback at her brazen grab, but she was utterly transfixed by the critter. This is not entirely surprising, as it really is a cute little brown teddy bear that some demented manufacturer turned into a beaver by sewing a beaver tail onto its butt and sticking two mini white buck teeth under the snout, so it is definitely odd looking. Eventually, her mom asked her to stop touching my things, but by then I had turned to the girl and told her that she grabbed my beaver friend.

"How do you know what it is?" she asked me, eyes open wide. Her sister, who was about 10, snickered, although I think just in general and not at the double entendre.

"See his two big teeth and big flat tail?" I asked. She nodded vigorously. "That's how you know it's a beaver. Beavers need big teeth so they can chew through trees and use the wood to build their homes."

"Oh..." she intoned. More giggling from Big Sis.

"Um, honey," the mom said with a bit more urgency, "Can you please leave that woman's bag alone?" She made no move to enforce her request though, so the girl continued holding the beaver in one hand and petting him with her other one.

"Mom," the older girl smirked, "what do you call the houses beavers live in?"

"Dams," Mom replied warily.

"I thought so," daughter giggled.

By then, we pulled into the 72nd Street station, and the young beaver lover, her karate uniform clad eight year old brother, her giggly sister, her mom with no status as an authority figure, me, and the beaver exited the train and went our separate ways. It's always nice when you can educate a young mind about the wonders of beavers.

Belated Earth Day Plea for Bush Conservation

Yesterday Count Mockula sent me a link to a pair of "Stop Deforestation" knickers. Those Brits are so cheeky! (Ha ha.) Unfortunately, at $2 to the £1, these undies would deforest my wallet. (Even without the awful exchange rate, I am way too cheap to buy $25 underwear, even if they are adorable and "crack" me up. Oh, me with the puns - my fake mustache is quaking with laughter...)

Best.Gynegology.Practice.Ever.

Steph is visiting her grad school stomping grounds in Chapel Hill, NC these days, and called me with some urgent news.

"Hey!" she yelled into the phone when I picked it up. "While I was eating at Mama Dipps, I saw the greatest t-shirt."

"Yeah? What's that?" I inquired, turning away from a rerun of Law & Order.

"It said 'Cooter's Garage,'" she chortled.

"Hmmm... next time I need my engine repaired, that sounds like a good place to go," I replied.

And that's when I realized that if I were an OB-GYN (like my friend Dr. H), I would so name my practice Cooter's Garage. Services offered on all models.

Ouch! Now That's Funny! Ouch! Hilarious!

It takes a great storyteller to make me laugh while a method of torture prohibited in the Geneva Conventions (well, not specifically prohibited, but it fits in with the other methods that are, so I think it is covered) is deployed, but Average Jane sent me a link to a story about a Brazilian wax gone horribly, horribly wrong at Money in a Suit, and I laughed my ass off as I read it. (I also crossed my legs and hunched protectively over my crotch, all while giggling.) The Monkey in a Suit is a fine comedy writer.

While I am not knocking women who choose to undergo Brazilian waxes, I still can't help but wonder whether it is worth the pain. Obviously it is to some, otherwise they wouldn't pay people good money to pour hot wax in their cooter, and I've heard from many women who I very much respect who feel better with a shiny waxed snatch, so I sorta get it. But I also really, really hate unnecessary pain, and really, it seems far less painful to just leave the damn hairs there. My friend Mara did once point out that too much pooter puff could possibly get tangled up or accidentally get yanked while grabbing a tampon string to unplug oneself, thus causing unpleasant ouchiness, but I'm willing to take that risk. Trimming seems reasonable, and also does not carry the potential danger of skin being ripped out, burned, or bruised. (I guess there's a small chance one could get cut, but that my advice would be not to trim while drunk, high, or distracted on the phone to lessen that possibility.)

Pubic hairs strike me as peaceful bystanders in a beauty war. (Again, I do not mean to dis women who hate body hair for whatever reason. I get that you don't like it, just like I don't like how moisturizer feel heavy on my face.) They are just minding their own business, listening to their boss (the body), and suddenly, bam! Hot wax is dumped on the unsuspecting village of fuzz. Craziness.

Yogurt Review #1 (Siggi's Icelandic Style Skyr)

For a special treat, I spent a gazillion dollars on siggi's Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt at Whole Foods. I read a little blurb about it in New York Magazine a few weeks ago, and when confronted with the 6 oz container of pomegranate & passion fruit, I decided to give it a whirl. It is as good as Greek yogurt, although I'm not sure better. The flavor was not nearly as sweet as I prefer. Still, it is nice and thick. Since it was a couple of bucks and not exactly nirvana, I probably won't buy it again, but I'm still glad I indulged.

I've never been interested in food blogging per se, but my obsession with yogurt makes me think that I should have a recurring yogurt review section on CUSS. My local grocery store has an amazingly extensive selection of yogurts, so I'll be able to sample and write up many different kinds. I'm partially inspired by The London Review of Breakfasts, which is hilarious and informative (something CUSS strives for but seldom achieves) and Cupcakes Take the Cake.

If there is any doubt in your mind that yogurt reviews belong on a blog about unshaved snatch, I point out that yogurt is an excellent cure for yeast infections, although personally I have never understood how that works. (Do you eat the yogurt, or put it in your crotch? If you put it in your crotch, how do you properly clean it out? That sounds very messy.)

The Proof is in the Pudding

My obsession with viscous dairy products continues. My friend informed me that she tried a sheep milk yogurt this weekend, and as a result, she understood why people like yogurt. I already did my grocery shopping for the week, but next time I am at the store I will indulge in the miracle product she described.

At the store, I gave in to my desire for pudding. However, I accidentally threw tapioca pudding into my basket instead of rice pudding. I like tapioca, and as I ate a little container of it last night, I realized that it had been eons since I last consumed some. I can't remember if all tapioca is essentially vanilla pudding with some tapioca pearls thrown in it, or if the kind I bought is not true tapioca. I vaguely remember the tapioca pudding that my mom bought at the chef's kitchen counter at Jewel or Dominick's as being more tapioca intensive.

On a non-dairy train of thought, lately I've been receiving comments on a post I wrote about the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and their insulting ad campaign comparing fur to female pubic hair (i.e. - its revolting and morally wrong to wear). The ad ran in London, where my friend Mara lives, and when she sent me a picture of it, she noted, "We love the fact that PETA thought to illustrate the fact that the only thing worse than killing poor little animals to appease the fashion gods is having an unshaved snatch. I guess that makes all of your disciples no better than those people who club little baby seals to death, or eat tuna that is not dolphin friendly. . . . ." The two comments I recently received more or less told me that I am an idiot to find the ad offensive because one needs to do shocking things to save the lives of innocent animals, no matter what the human social cost is. I am not a supporter of fur,* but ads and comments like that make me not take the anti-fur cause seriously. It is never OK to use one animal to promote another one. Sorry, Charlie, but the proof is in the pudding that PETA sucks.

*Coincidentally, I did have an eye rolling conversation last night on the phone with my bubbe in which she discussed how cold it was in Chicago and how she could still go out despite the frigid air because of her mink coat. Then she said that her mink coat was usually too warm to wear and so she bought another warm coat on sale for $73 (from $200) so now she could attend her alderman's party for senior citizens no matter how cold it was. Man, you gotta love the lack of logic there.

Personal Pooter Preference*

Yesterday I received an email from a guy who requested some CUSS stickers. (Yes, they are still free, and I would love to send you some, too.) I could not stop laughing when I read his concluding statement: "Spent too many years hoping to see a beaver's pelt to want to see denuded or coiffed like a formal garden or worse." Awesomely hilarious description.

File It Under: Overthinking

Many moons ago, I noticed that CUSS got many hits from people searching the internet for jewish pussy. Ever the curious little monkey, I posted a request for information asking those individuals who came upon CUSS as part of their quest to explain what exactly they believed they would find in their search. I expected no answers, but horny anonymous folks continue to take the time to leave responses to my question. Here's the latest comment:

I can't say why a bunch of folks were directed to this site before you put up this entry, but anywho... For me, it's just something about the look of a Jewish woman. It's not that they all look the same, since they don't... hmm... maybe it attitude?

Also, where Jewish brunettes are concerned, the ones that I know in real life have had hair that's really dark, almost bordering on black, which I find really attractive.

"jewish porn" didn't bring up any good search results, so I figured I'd try "jewish pussy". "brunette pussy" is just too wide an array, "black pussy" doesn't work for obvious reasons, and "black haired pussy" only works moderately well, so I figured "What the hell? It's worth a shot."

It's fascinating how the mind works, isn't it?

Because "Nobody Really Likes Hair in their Private Regions.."

I haven't been fired up to write about unshaved snatch for a while, so thanks to Lee at Independent Business Woman for her tip* that led me to this gem at Chaos Theory:

Now an Australian website, girl.com.au has a big feature about Brazilian waxes - and in case you don’t know what that is, it’s when hot wax is used to rip off every inch of hair from a woman’s private region. Every hair. And the site is read by girls in the age nine to 14 range. On top of that, the site promotes the Brazilian with this phrase: “Nobody really likes hair in their private regions and it has a childlike appeal.”

IT HAS A CHILDLIKE APPEAL?

Obviously, I am as disgusted as Sherry is about this fucked up situation. Even putting the disturbing notion that hairless snatch offers "childlike appeal" aside, the idea that "nobody really likes hair in their private regions" is enough to drive me batshit. Why does no one like it? Oh, maybe because we are told that it is smelly, dirty, slovenly, disgusting, unwomanly, revolting, and offensive? And where's the proof that "Nobody" likes it? Oh, I guess I'm "Nobody" since I prefer pubic hair to having hot wax poured into the crevices of my labia and ass so some non-gynecologist can stick scraps of paper down there to yank every hair out by the root so I can have "childlike appeal" or at best, be less "un-feminine" to men raised on photoshopped pictures of hairless adult women.

I'm not buying into your sick lies. Clearly, since I prefer myself in my natural adult state, I must not be a woman. In that case, all the media whore and "beauty experts" and stylist and fashionistas and trend setters can just suck my big fat hairy dick.

*I had also noticed this at BlogHer, but didn't read it, so many thanks to Lee!

A longer, slightly less obscene version (for example, I don't suggest anyone suck my big fat dick, but I do make a joke about dying alone with 27 cats since no man wants my unshaved snatch) of this post appears at BlogHer.

The First Day and Last Night

The first day of 2008 is also the first day that it has not rained since Husband and I arrived in O'ahu during a sunshower on Dec. 25. (This is not a complaint, as it was still warmer in Hawaii than in New York.) After we abandoned our second attempt to snorkel on our own on this trip (our new fear of sea urchins is powerful), we waded for a little while and then sat around on a beach away from Waikiki and basked in the warm light. Then we put the top down on our heinously colored rental car (evidence below) and drove through a mountain rain forest.

Last night, we shared a wonderful meal with friends and their delightful family and watched fireworks and a cheesy fun movie (Tremors with Kevin Bacon.) Tonight we'll celebrate our last night in Hawaii (and Husband's football pool victory) with a delicious dinner at Roy's.

While I am sad that the trip is over, I am also looking forward to going home. Given the less than perfect weather (see evidence below), sometimes I wondered if we were in Maine or Hawaii.

Again, not that I am complaining. Despite my sea urchin injury, I enjoyed spending so much time with Husband and exploring a warm and interesting new place. Still, I miss Tycho the Giant White Rabbit, who has happily vacationed at his country estate (i.e. - my in-laws' home in the suburbs of NY) for the past three weeks. I long to sleep in my own bed with Theo, my teddy bear friend since I was 12, who remained at my apartment to guard it and because he didn't fit in my suitcase since I only brought a carry-on bag and backpack. Most important, I feel so out of touch with my friends. I can't wait to see everyone.

Since we now are terrified of sea urchins, Husband and I decided to take a boat ride and snorkel tour on our last day in Hawaii. (Yay, winning the football pool!) Hopefully, we will also be able to visit the Iolani Palace, the only royal home in the US. Then its an overnight flight to LA and an early morning flight back home. Before I go, I thought I'd share some fun pictures:


Me as a ukele-playing pineapple at the Dole Plantation, which was by far the most crowded tourist attraction (i.e. - hellhole) we visited in all 15 days. I did learn, however, that pineapples neither grow on trees (as I believed) or vines (as my mom thought), but rather in bushes.

Pineapple in the bush! Heh heh heh. I'm guessing that each pineapple bush does not have its own pot in the actual fields. This was to impress the tourists.

All in all, the trip was a fun way to end 2007 and begin the adventure of 2008.

What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

While on a quest for hiking socks (which should not have been as difficult as it was, but it seems that only children's shoe stores carry hiking socks for women with size six feet - what the fuck, yo?), I passed a sign outside a salon. The sign read:

Free bikini waxing with every eyebrow waxing.

Does anyone else think that seems like it should be the other way around? The world baffles me.

Foreskin and Seven Days Ago

Last week, I attended my first bris. Given my semi-rigid belief that generally people are born with what they need and we should just accept that bodies are hairy and not typically in need of improvement (e.g. - breast or butt implants), it seems like I should be against circumcision. Oh contraire, mon frere. I'm no connoisseur when it comes to penises, but I do prefer them to be foreskin free. The whole smegma thing just grosses me out too much and I don't trust most guys to be clean enough. Yeah, it makes me a big fat fucking hypocrite. Oh well.

Despite my support for circumcision (not that I am against the uncircumcised), I was a little queasy when I thought about attending a bris. Due to my incompetence (I forget that cars need to be cleared of ice before they are safe to drive and one must budget time for the task), I arrived at the bris a wee bit late. As I was taking my boots off in the hallway outside my friend's parents' apartment, I heard the baby begin to wail. "Oh, I guess I missed it," I thought with a mixture of relief and regret. I was wrong - who knows why the baby was screaming his sweet little head off at that point - and eventually witnessed part of the procedure. Oddly enough, the baby barely cried as his foreskin was removed. He was then given a nice rag soaked with liquor to suck on, and drunk, he slept like, well, a baby. It was interesting.

This past weekend, Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) borrowed our PT Cruiser, Fred the Red, to drive to New Jersey for their new nephew's bris. I'm pretty sure that this was the first bris that BiL attended, other than his own, which I am sure was a very different experience. I don't know exactly what happened at this bris, but BiL must've been either overjoyed at his nephew's pact with God or distraught at the penis chopping, because he had an overenthusiastic encounter with a curb that circumcised Fred' wheel well and prevented him from driving straight. (While none of this was funny on Sunday, the little scenario I postulated here is sure slaying me now.)

My point is that I don't think circumcision really hurts anyone (unless its botched, which is always a possibility), and at the same time, I completely understand why a parent would not circumcise a kid. When I wrote on BlogHer a long time ago about a study that showed some very minuscule health benefits from circumcision, some extremists accused me of being a callous genital mutilating monster.* Yeah, yeah, yeah. I also help kill unborn babies. What can I say? I'm just a bad character all around when it comes to the defenseless.

*It strikes me as hilariously ironic that one women yelled at me about the sanctity of preserving genitals as nature intended and months later emailed me about her scheduled Brazilian wax, but I digress.

Stuff It in the Glory Hole, Mate

As I looked up the word gonfalon in "The World Book [Unabridged] Dictionary" circa 1987, my eye fell on the guide word at the top of page 908 - glory hole. I tried to not fall down laughing, as dropping the heavy book on my foot would be rather painful, and felt that I needed to share. According to this foolish dictionary, glory hole means:

1 (in certain sailing ships) a space aft between decks, used as a storeroom. 2 sleeping quarters on a ship, especially those of the stewards and stokers: sailors slept in the glory hole, a long open dormitory... (Atlantic) 3 an opening in a small furnace used to reheat glass when shaping it by hand. 4Dialect. a drawer, closet, or other place, where things are untidily dumped.

For those of you who wound up on CUSS expecting a different type of glory hole, I'm sorry to disappoint. For the rest of us, I hope that you are laughing as hard as I am now as I think about the sailors sleeping in the glory hole or what is untidily dumped in it.

If You Say So

More wisdom from replies to my inquiry as to why people google search "Jewish pussy" even though it looks no different from other pussy:

What's so surprising? Everyone has their preferences. Some search for "black pussy," while others search for "white pussy," or "latina pussy," or one of myriad other possibilities. You're right in that, physically speaking, there isn't anything especially different about Jewish pussy, but Jewish women do tend to be an attractive bunch, In my opinion. Don't make more out of it than needs to be made!

There are two things about this reply that crack me up. The first is that this person acknowledges that Jewish pussy is "physically speaking," not different from other snatch. Although I like that my anonymous horny commenter pays compliments to us Jewish ladies (stereotypically, we are not held in high regard for our appearances), it slays me that people just believe that porn model is Jewish merely because a site says so. Since we all acknowledge that Jewish vulva looks like any other vulva (and comes in a variety of colors - Jews aren't all white), why bother searching for Jewish pussy? I guess porn is about buying into a fantasy anyway.

Someone else, however, has less flattering things to say about the hunt for Jewish pussy:

men only have enough blood in their bodies to have a thought or an erection yet not both. you can figure out your hit rate from that

This makes me laugh for different reasons.

On a semi related note, I read a book this weekend ("Maps for Lost Lovers" - very interesting; reminded me how all religious zealots are equally evil and batty in their misogyny) about a Pakistani Muslim in small town England. At one point, their is a section about pubic hair. According to the book, women must keep their snatch hair clipped very short or shave it all off. I guess if someone searches for Muslim pussy and sees a hairy snatch, he will know that the model is a doubly bad woman. I don't really take this so lightly, but I'm still mulling over the whole forced shaved snatch thing. I never thought my blog "protesting" the popular Western pressure for unshaved snatch would have religious implications.

Koala in the Bush

After I watched Des get the awesome tattoo across her shoulder last month, my desire for a tattoo of my own increased to new levels. Tattoos are so cool! Des and I discussed my interest in a tattoo later that afternoon, and I confessed that I was still reluctant to go under the pen for two reasons: the permanency of tattoos and my irrational fear that I will not be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery although I do not believe in God and think that cemeteries are a waste of land. However, if I ever did get a tattoo, I thought I would want a koala bear, since it is an animal I relate to. (Koalas are sweet and cuddly looking, but in actuality, they are vicious little assholes.)

A few weeks later, Des posted this picture of a koala on my infrequently used MySpace page:

She noted, "Can't you see the evil gleam in his eye?" Seriously, the critter is perfect, and it inspired a suitably ridiculous and excruciatingly painful plan.

One day, I will get my snatch waxed. After it heals a bit, I will get the koala tattooed on my crotch. Then my pubic hair will grow back, hiding Horatio (that's what I named the koala) in the bush. Oh man, just thinking about that makes me laugh. (And wince.*)

*Have no fear, any parental figure who reads this. The odds of me carrying out my brilliant scheme of personal decoration are negligible. But I do like thinking about it.

Halloween Correspondence: The Terror of My Family

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

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

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

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

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

Suzanne, The Busy Beaver*

I forgot to note that the wedding I went to was for one of Husband's co-workers, hence we drove for 5 hours plus with three of his colleagues and sat for another four hours with almost everyone from his office, including the boss man. The boss man is someone I am always nervous around for a variety of reasons. First, he used to have a photo of himself with Karl Rove prominently displayed. Terrifying. Then, I fear that I will say or do something totally inappropriate and make Husband's situation uncomfortable. Remember, I can't even get through a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development without sighing and rolling my eyes. Can you imagine what spending time with someone who admires one of Satan's prime henchman is like for me?

Thus when boss man's very kind wife asked me what I was up to these days and I started talking about my book (for which I have launched an extremely lame temporary blog until I can work with the publisher to get something spiffier and more official), it was a relief. However, that led me to admit that the next travel book I want to do is "Medical History Museums of the United States and the World," which would be absurdly expensive to write given the international travel component and probably find a very limited audience. That audience seems to include boss man, as we wound up avidly discussing medical history for 15 minutes while everyone at the table stared at us. It seems that most people don't like thinking about the horrors of non-modern medicine while they try to eat steak and crab-stuffed shrimp. Ooops.

Anyway, back to beavers. Answers to my long ago posted question (What the fuck do people think they will find when they google "jewish pussy?") continue to trickle in. I found these two responses in my inbox this morning:

It's simple. I am a Jewish man who appreciates Jewish women and want to see Jewish pussy which physicall is no different than any other I suppose except that it is connected to Jewish women. I think it is like any other ethnic, cultural fascination, hence porn site dedicated to Latinas, Blacks, or Indian women. It's the pussy I prefer and I have a hunch it's the same reason for the other hits you've received.

On to the second comment:

I want to see photographs of nice naked Jewish women up close and personal. I like pubic hair and good personal hygiene. My life is empty.

I hate to shatter the illusion, but just because something is labeled "Jewish pussy" doesn't mean the models are actually Jewish. Some probably are, but given the general dearth of Jewish women in the world, I tend to doubt that the vast majority of "Jewish" porn truly features Jews. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's my point: how the fuck do you know what "Jewish" pussy looks like compared to gentile pussy? It's just not possible to tell. (And as I learn more and more about the Jewish Diaspora, it's important to note that not all Jews are white. But I digress.) I did laugh my ass off at that "My life is empty" line. Dude, I write about unshaved snatch and spend time analyzed people's comments about their online Jewish pussy fetishes. What does that say about my life? Oy vey....

Thanks to Des for her comment on the last post for this hilarious title.

Waxes Snatch: Good for Public Health?

Since launching CUSS, I have learned many interesting things about snatch waxing. None of them have convinced me that letting a salon worker pour molten wax into my cooter so that she can rip out my pubic hair is a good idea, although I at least have some understand about why other intelligent women willingly subject themselves to such barbarism. Now, thanks to the delightful Average Jane, I finally discovered an important social benefit to hairless poon and furless cock.

It turns out that in the Netherlands, pubic lice (aka crabs) are in high demand by the Rotterdam Natural History Museum, which cannot find a specimen to include in their collection. A study in Leeds, England, noted that the rate of crab transmission has decreased dramatically even as other STDs have remained stagnant or risen. Why? Supposedly, waxing is killing the critters by denying them a home. Huh.

When Average Jane sent me the link, she noted that this is, "Still not enough reason to wax if you ask me..." and I completely agree. Sure it is reducing a nasty pest, but if this is why one shaves our waxes their pubes, then the logical conclusion would also be to shave our wax your other head to prevent the transmission of head lice. Probably not a very appealing idea to most people.

"A vagina divided against itself cannot stand."

Read Working Girl's awesome post about what I call "side vaginas." I learned about bifurcated vaginas and double uteri when my OB-GYN resident friend Dr. H showed me an awesome color chart with drawings of various doubled female reproductive organs.

On a semi-unrelated note, yesterday I noticed Richard Kind as I was leaving my gym. He was on his cellphone. I did a double take when I spotted him. "Could it really be Richard Kind?" I asked myself. Yes it was.

This post is brought to you by the number 2. (Two vaginas, two celebrities seen in two days, and a double take.)

Beavers Suckling Assholes

It has been a while since I've written about the topic of my blog's title, unshaved snatch. Partly this is because I've been busy with other things, like being frustrated and depressed about some personal issues (happily, mostly cleared up now) and working feverishly to finish the book and a small consulting job. Equally, I haven't seen or read anything in a while that set me off on a foaming-at-the-mouth rabid rant. That peaceful streak ends tonight.

Last week's Time Out New York was sitting on the table, where I'd been ignoring it as I have the previous few issues because I'm only waiting out the end of my subscription on this sub-par publication. This was the sex issue, and based on the naked lady hidden under a folded over flap on the cover ("Oh, look what a daring publication we produce," the pathetic attempt at publicity screamed at me), I knew it contained articles that would annoy me as much as the phrase, "Don't get your panties in a bunch, honey."

The article on snatch waxing started innocently enough. A woman explained why she likes it, and while I don't find her reasons appealing, plenty of women I know and respect agree with her. Then the quote:

A well-coifed, nice-smelling pussy is a thing of beauty, something we brag about to our friends. After the implicit moment of awe and respect you receive from you buddies, we walk about the girls with nasty boxes - how we fucked them anyway, how it was ugly, how it was tragic, how it will never happen again. On the other hand, a girl with a great-tasting, -smelling, -looking box... that girl is a princess. We wank it to her. - Henry, producer

My first reaction is to wonder if this is a joke. Are people really this fucking obnoxious? If so, my next impulse is to be mad at the female writer for not including this guy's last name. An APB should sent out immediately to ensure that this shithead never, ever gets to fuck anything but his own (hairless, nice smelling lotioned) palm again. Except that I know that there are plenty of women are dumb bitches who would fuck a guy like this anyway although he clearly has not one iota of respect for those who do, which is why I hate both men and women. And I find it hard to believe that he has any time to get pussy, what with all the discussing the status of a good cooter with his pals and then wanking it off in her memory. (Is it a circle jerk?) Seems like that would keep one busy.

Further infuriating me is this fine quote:

Nothing is more disappointing than meeting a beautiful, well put-together girl, wining and dining her, then finally getting her pants off only to discover that she is horrendously unkempt and smelly. - Tom, TV writer

Yes, because obviously anyone with pubic hair is a smelly slob who doesn't shower. Men should know this better than anyone. According to the accompanying poll, 27% of men let their pubes grow wild. Did it not occur to them that women may not like having their hairy balls in their face, especially since the logical conclusion is that hairy=smelly? (And how funny that only 7% of men "like it best" when ladies let it grow wild.) I suppose the phrasing of the question as "like it best" may be misleading. A few more guys probably tolerate us women who have better things to do with our time and money than constantly attend to our crotch hairstyles. Shit, I can barely find the time to get my head hair cut these days, let alone worry about what my pootie looks like...

Now that I have ranted and wished that people like these choke on the hot wax and douche bags that they seem to want women to use, I feel much better. Smile. Next: stay tuned for a hard-hitting investigative report on douche....

Smile if You Hate Bush*

For a few reasons, it's been a long time since I last wore my violet t-shirt that has a child-like drawing of a girl frowning and next to her, in a first grader's handwriting - complete with backwards "a" - says "Bush is a tush." Mostly I hadn't worn it because I gained some weight and was afraid to even put it on because I didn't want to find out that it didn't fit. Since I recently decided that I should be less concerned with whether I look "fat" or not, I broke the t-shirt out yesterday and went on my merry way to Brooklyn. (For the record, it fit fine anyway.)

I don't remember the last time I wore the shirt in NYC, but I'm fairly sure that I had limited reaction to it. (Unlike when I wore it in Ocean City, NJ, two summer ago and a man in a coffee shop blew up at me. "You should consider yourself lucky to have Bush as your president," he spewed in my face as I stared at him like he clearly just got here for Uranus, which is obviously explained his stupid asshole behavior. It's amazing how many people I run into from that testy planet.) My sartorial choice yesterday, though, demonstrated how much times have changed.

As I walked around, I noticed an unusual number of people smiling at me. At first I thought they were mocking me for wearing a Mets hat when the Mets are imploding, but then I realized it was appreciation for the shirt. (Or maybe my boobs, but I'm pretty sure it was the shirt's message.) I stopped into the legendary Peter Luger's steakhouse for lunch (the $8.95 1/2 pound burger is amazing), and several waiters came up to me to say things like, "Great shirt!"

An even more interesting sign of the times might be the reaction I got when I wore my "My Bush could do a better job" tank top to Ocean City this August. Not one person said anything nasty to me, and I got a big "Love your shirt!" from a college-age guy I passed on the street. So either anti-Bush sentiment is spreading, pro-bush love is abounding, fewer people from Uranus are polluting Earth, or some combination of all of the above. It's excellent progress.

Pouring Chemicals on Your Legs Is, Like, so Cool!

Feministe reports that Nair admits to marketing to ten year olds. Thank goodness! I was getting worried that the adults in their lives were letting girls get too comfortable with the shaggy, "angry feminist" look. Next thing you know, they might not want hot wax poured into their vulvas and asses because they might find pubic hair weirdly acceptable. I mean, my parents never bothered me about shaving, and look how fucked up I am. In fact, I am so degenerate that I went to the gynecologist today with hairy armpits, hairly legs, and a bushy cooter. If only Nair was marketing to me twenty years ago, I might known that as "a citizen of the world," "a dreamer," and "fresh" person, I am "so not going to have stubs sticking out of my legs." Or arms. Or snatch.

Using the "C-Word"

Upon opening my New York Times this dreary Monday morning, I was shocked - shocked! - to find the lead editorial titled, "B Is for Bailout, C Is for..."

"No way!" I thought to myself. "Is the Old Gray Lady really going to call the Bush administration cunts?" Because when I see c-word, cunt is absolutely the first word that pops into my mind. Plus, the Bush administration is totally fully of cuntfaces, so this would be a truth-telling unparalleled by any other paper in the counry or even world.

Breathlessly, I skimmed the short piece. Let's see - Bush claiming that although his plan allows 80,000 at-risk homeowners to refinance their loans through the Federal Housing Administration, in addition to the Federal Reserve's recent intervention in financial markets, is not the "b-word" (bailout, not bitch). Whatever. Blah blah blah. Where's the c-word?

Ah, there it is, in the 7th paragraph of the 7 paragraph essay! The op-ed says, "But, if deep down, there is no acknowledgement of a bailout - no 'b-word' - there will be no grappling with the 'c-word,' complicity." Oh. Well, the fine upstanding editors at the Times only stracthed at the surface of the Bush administrations' evil works by using the word complicit, but that's almost as good as calling them cunts. I'll take it.

Tell Me You Love My Unshaved Snatch

I pass a lot of time on the subway these days on my way to the sites that I am visiting off the beaten track for my book, so I've been reading a lot of magazines. (What I should be doing are crossword puzzles and reading my book for bookclub, but those pursuits are too intellectual for me these days. Sigh.) The blurb-y I read in New York Magazine about the new HBO show Tell Me You Love Me mentioned that it showed lots of graphic sex, including pubic hair.

Pubic hair! This is one daring show! The curlies on TV is far more shocking to me these days than graphic sex, which you can pretty much see anywhere.

Jewish Pussy Expansion

I am pleased to announce that people are becoming slightly more discerning in their Google searches for "jewish pussy." Over the past week, CUSS had several hits based on searches for "kosher pussy" and "beautiful jewish pussy." My pride is overwhelming. I can't wait to see what people come up with next.

Pause.

That was a short wait. So my friend, who is a liberal like me, keeps being contacted by a guy who read her profile on jdate. (Jdate is the Jewish online dating site, for those of you who might not be in the Jew loop.) His profile explains that he is a Republican, and likes football, red meat and the stock market. In addition to being a Democrat, my friend tends toward chicken, fish, and other non-meat products, has zero interest in the stock market, and is one of four Americans who doesn't watch the Super Bowl.

Not that opposites can't attract, but the kicker is his blog, which describes his interests as:

Blogging is a shameless ploy to get what I really want, which is to be sandwiched between two hot republican Jewish brunettes. If I only get one of them, that is good enough, provided she gets pregnant and the kids end up with her loveliness and my last name.

My friend did point out that he might not be that bad, as the woman might be able to keep her name as long as the kids get his. Oy vey.

For shande!

It pleases me to no end that the answers are rolling in for my question as to why people are constantly getting to CUSS by googling "jewish pussy". Yesterday, this very earnest (or promotional) anonymous comment made me laugh and laugh:

THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE..
PROOF..
go to: www.askjolene.com
which is a porn search engine, type "jewish", you'll see jewish porn actresses and girls pussies..
There is nothing uncommon or special about them.

Thanks for the proof. It is important to back up exertions on Jewish pussy with cold, hard (snicker) scientific evidence.

More Beaver Suckling

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

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

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

Formula Feeding and Beaver Suckling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aint' Nothing Like Kosher Honey

Seriously, I love people. Months ago, I discovered that a very high portion of the hits to CUSS came from searches for "jewish pussy." Who wouldn't be curious about this phenomena, so I posted a request for information. (I'm not even going to bother linking to my original post, but it more or less asked people what the fuck they expected to find when searching for the chosen poon.) Anonymous replies were encouraged, partly because I don't want to know who is obsessed with kosher snatch and partly because I thought people would be more honest.

Honest to God, the replies continue to trickle in. I got these two gems over the past few days:

Although I am not jewish I have had my share of jewish pussy. I find that jewish women are very horny and thus when I search jewish pussy I associate the lust of the women which I've had to the pics I seek.

I think our horniess is due to consumption of gefilte fish, but maybe I am wrong.

being a member of the tribe- and orthodox, if i am going to be human, and desire a look at a woman other than my wife, it HAS to be jewish...besides, I agree, Jewish women are the best looking though I might be slightly predjudiced!! As to the questiom What would my wife think of me looking at other women...she doesn't care where I get my appetite as long as I enjoy only her great cooking

I actually don't care what his wife thinks of him looking at porn, but I found the answer to unasked question horribly depressing even though it was also hilarious. (And again, I'm nominating for gefilte fish as the cause of Jewish lust.)

You know what I hate though? I hate when people get all pius about porn and sex. Does it really matter if you ogle titties and snatch of another ethnic group or race as long as you respect women? Not really. If I believed in this God, I'm guessing that God has bigger concerns than whose photos you spill the precious seed on. It is always the people who are the most sanctimonious who are the most deviant at the end of the day. All the politicians and religious leaders who rant and rave against homosexuality, porn, adultery, masturbation, etc. turn out to be addicted to jerking off over gay porn while "legally sinning" with escorts. Yes, I sure love people!

The Smoke Behind the Mirror

A few days ago, Working Girl over at Mostly True Stories wrote a nice recommendation about CUSS. (And I must, in good faith, tell CUSS readers that her story about getting a cervical cap is about as priceless as it gets. This is not a you-scratch-my-back,I'll-scratch-yours type of thing. I'm saying it is a must read.) Anyway, part of her referral said:

I was kind of scared. I thought she was an angry feminist and that I had made an enemy. (I am also a bit of an angry feminist, but that doesn't mean that I'm too stupid to be afraid of other angry feminists.)

Then she went on to say nice things about me. This cracks me up because, as Working Girl so insightfully discovered, for all my vitriolic spew, I am really a big teddy bear pushover.

Seriously! Here I go and start about about hating the removal of female pubic hair and being all judgmental about the people who like it and their problems with accepting that adult women don't look like pre-teens. Then I meet all these really excellent women who say that they wax or shave or whatever and they personally like it for whatever reason. It makes me think about how much I hate it when people judge me and call me gross for my personal body preferences and here I am doing the same thing. So I decide that while I am a supporter of the beaver with its full coat, maybe I should back the fuck up when it comes to bugging other people. Unless they are automatons. (Automatons always deserve scorn for mindlessly following the advice of crap purveyors like Cosmo, which assures us that we will die alone and unloved and worst, uneaten if we dare to just be ourselves.) Logical people tend to make me get over my prejudices and biases and look outside my own little world. Not a very scary or angry reaction.

Sure there are core beliefs that I stand firm on, like my belief that while breastfeeding is clearly important, it's not my damn business to be harassing women who don't do it. I also like paying taxes, and feel that to live in a just society, Husband and I should pay our fair share of the benefits we reap. (That may mean I am crazy, though.) I can understand why people are against legal abortion based on their own moral code, but I'll never be convinced that I must be forced to live under their beliefs, nor will I accept that I don't have "values" because mine don't dovetail with the vice squad.

I'm happy that Working Girl and others stuck around CUSS for awhile to see behind the facade. I may talk tough, but really I'm just a another woman who is not quite 5'2", 128 lbs, married to the first person she slept with, doesn't tend to drink (and in fact regret that last night when I ordered a Toasted Almond at a bar, I forgot to tell the bartender to go heavy on the milk, easy on the amaretto, so it was too strong for me), is afraid of drugs, and has no tattoos. Not intimidating at all. Unless you mess with my family or friends. Then I will hunt you down and fuck you up. I think.

Merkin Merriment

Enough thanks cannot be given to Count Mockula for her tip on these videos about the history of merkins. The two part series is an utterly brilliant piece of history and storytelling, and why I think British people are the rockingest. (Other evidence: "Fuck Off I'm a Hairy Women" and "The Trouble with My Vagina," two documentaries about pubic hair that appeared on public TV! Swoon!) Anyway, without further ado, I am proud to present "Balderdash and Piffle." (Discussion to follow.)



Why do I love "Balderdash and Piffle?" Let me count the ways:
1. Excellent tie in of relics! I adore relics, and I rub my hands together with delight to think that a relic sold to the pope was a piece o' fake pubbic hair.

2. Very nice explanation of word history. Love that "malkin" means "slatternly woman," as Michelle Malkin is an evil bitch female Rush Limbaugh. If only her first name were Mary, it would be a double clue as to her character or lack thereof. (In my mind, it is far more whorish to work against equality than to sleep with people for money. Malkin is a prostitute of tthe worst sort.)

3. Mockery of Bush and his name.

These videos nicely cheered me up from my post-holiday blues. (Is there nothing more depressing than the 4th of July on a Wednesday? How about the fact that 2008 is a leap year, so it won't be on Thursday next year?) Very excellent.

Hair or Pus?

Now that I am home again and will sleep in my own bed for the next 17 nights (until I depart for Chicago for my granny's 85th birthday bash and the BlogHer conference), I can get back to concentrating on important topics, like disgusting bloody vaginal infections caused by improperly administered Brazilian waxes. While I was in Memphis, alert CUSSie Addy N. tipped me off to a science blog post by Tara C. Smith about an article in an infectious disease journal about a cooter infection resulting from a Brazilian that required 10 days in the hospital to treat. (Speaking of BlogHer, Leslie Madsen Brooks also covered this at BlogHer, with a link to the article.) Even after all that, the patient tried to shave her snatch six months later, and the infection came back.

My original plan was to excerpt the nastiest details, but the journal article had a much more interesting write up on the history of female pubic hair removal, and used it to examine the reason why someone whose cooter practically fell off as a result of this practice would be inclined to try it again instead of leave it alone.

The desire to be beautiful is as old as civilization itself, and beauticians are an integral part of many communities, often playing the role of a trusted therapist. However, as demonstrated by this case, certain beauty treatments may pose infectious risks in susceptible hosts. This case is notable, because it is the first case, to our knowledge, of group A streptococcal infection with toxic shock and reactivation of herpes following a bikini wax that recurred upon further depilation.

I thought this was a more interesting analysis than merely grossing people out with descriptions of vaginal pus and swelling that prevented the patient from peeing.

Sure, many women personally prefer to be bare or spare down there, and I don't begrudge any intelligent woman her right to decide how she likes her body best, assuming that they respect my decisions about mine. Ultimately, though, all those guys who say shit about furry beavers and say that women who sport bush are foul (and women's magazines that promote their spew) need to understand the risks that their absurd beauty standards can impose. And who would rather deal with pussy pus than a few pieces of pubic floss?

Fans of a Hairy Situation

Last night during a minor fit of insomnia, I discovered that CUSS is referenced on an English language French chat room dedicated to the sexiness of hairy women. (The person who linked to CUSS was a little disappointed that I don't write more about unshaved snatch, but recommended it nonetheless. Whoever you are, email me for stickers!) This discovery amused me to no end, although it did not help me sleep.

On a related note, it is hot as balls here in New York, and I considered shaving my pits and legs so that I can wear a sleeveless dress to my consulting gig without looking "unprofessional." The folks who like us furry ladies will be happy to know that I didn't get around to it. They will also be disappointed that I will refrain from exposing myself to the general public as a result.

This also reminds me that Dr. P suggested that we use the pool in her complex while I was helping her move. I didn't pack my bathing suit and board shorts (which go down to my knees, thank you) as I didn't think we'd have time for frolicking (I turned out to be right, sort of). Dr. P said I could borrow one of hers. To which I refrained from reminding her that her neighbors might go blind if I were to go out in public in a normal suit, and I didn't think we had five hours to spare so I could make myself more presentable to the general American public.

There's no point to this post. I just felt like I should write something about not shaving. Hope the random anecdotes entertained at least a bit.

There's No Place Like Home

Ah, NYC. There's nothing like it.

After I get some shut eye, I'm looking forward to sharing a thrilling ad about how gross women's pubes are. SJ, one of the greatest bloggers out there, sent it my way while I was on the road, but laptop issues (since resolved - happily!) and time issues (only partly resolved) prevented me from sharing the brilliant propaganda until I got back, although I have been marinating a post about it in my head for days.

Cackle.

Where I'm At

Got back to the good ol' U.S. of A. yesterday afternoon. Husband and I went home, unpacked, (I repacked for my road trip with Dr. P), showered, then went to a delightful house warming in Queens. One of the only clean shirts that I had that didn't illustrate my hairy pits (which would have been too cold to wear - it was rather chilly for June) was my CUSS shirt, so I threw it on.

At the house warming, I was talking to a commercial real estate lawyer about my book about weird things to see and do in New York, when he interrupted me.

"Does your shirt say 'Campaign for Unshaved Snatch?'" he asked with some disbelief in his tone.

"Yes it does!" I puffed out a bit with pride.

Stickers were distributed before I left the party.

Now I am heading off to help Dr. P move to Florida. More adventures to come, and thank god they do not involve walking. My blisters each have their own blisters at this point.

I'll Iron the Wrinkles Out of Your Balls, Asshole

It has been a long time since I had occassion to rant about unshaved snatch! Thanks to some visitors to CUSS from Carolina Huddle (seriously!), I discovered the following gem:

Just today the hosts on the Mac Attack on WFNZ... one of the producers says he "grooms his wife" and suggests that it is a form of foreplay. Mac responds that it is disgusting and if a man wants that done he should "order it" from his wife, either asking for the "bald eagle" or the "Charlotte Douglas"

what say you?

Well, you asked, so I am happy to respond! My idea of foreplay is not having someone scrape around my cootie with a razor blade, but if it floats someone elses' mutually consenting boats, then all the best to them. However, don't you dare fucking order anyone to groom her crotch to your specs. I assume this was a joke, but damn if it doesn't piss me off. Last time I checked, scrotums are wrinkled, hairy, and unattractive. If a guy thinks that a woman's hairy poon is gross, I suggest he take a good look at his own goods.

On another note, I have to admit that I have no fucking idea what a "Charlotte Douglas" is. There is no definition on my favorite site for these types of questions, Urban Dictionary, and I don't feel like googling the phrase. Any ideas?

Update: I couldn't stop myself from googling "charlotte douglas." Initially I was puzzled because it brought up the Charlotte/Douglas International Airport. Then the light bulb clicked on: landing strips.

You're Wearing What?!?!

Ever since I returned from India six weeks ago, I have been eagerly anticipating our group reunion. It was every bit as delightful and fun as I hoped it would be. I debuted my newly altered punjabi dress, which I wore with a dark pair of jeans. Sundar (beautiful)! Many compliments were tossed my way. I basked.

After the reunion, I went to dinner with my parents, both grannies, and my aunts. The family also liked the punjabi.

"What is that pretty thing you are wearing?" Granny asked when we got back to my parents' house after dinner.

"It's a punjabi dress," I told her.

"A what?" she squawked.

"A punjabi dress."

"Oh, you're wearing a poon?" she asked innocently.

And on that note, I'm heading back to New York on Sunday afternoon.

Best. Anonymous. Comment. EVER!

Well, at least this answer to my question regarding why anyone would look specifically for "jewish pussy" made me smile:

Okay, coming from a Gentile man....so forgive my "all English" usage (sans Yiddish). My search for Jewish pussy is to narrow down the large list of hot women to look at to only look at the MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN in the world-Jewish Women. Not sure if there is any physiological difference in the actual unit itself, however, there is a distinct beauty to the women who possess Jewish pussy.

My search and quest for finding beautiful Jewish women is almost reason enough for me to forget about old "what's his name" and convert to Judaism myself.

Also, I'd like to chime in the whole unshaved thing...I CAN'T STAND shaved pussy! I like REAL women who have curves and hair. I'm not in search of a woman who looks like she is 12 year old. Put those razors away!

Keep up the good work ladies...you do it so well naturally. No wonder you are the Chosen Ones....

OK, back to feeling sorry for myself, even if I do chuckle over this every once in a while.