Archive for January, 2009

Do Women Hate Themselves?

Thursday, January 29th, 2009

A while back, I wrote on the subject “Why Men Hate Women,” and I still get comments from angry men. (If you enjoy angry men, go and look!)

Today, after reading some of my email, I’m wondering if women are starting to hate themselves, too. Why else would anyone listen to Suzanne Somers, who went on Oprah to discuss her beauty regimen: 60 pills a day and injections in her Female Area!

Why else would anyone want to wax her Female Area, spray it with “24K gold” and have Swarovski crystals glued to it? You must really have to hate the sight of your crotch to mess with it like that.   Ladies, or gay men, do you want to see your man’s Johnson sprayed gold and glued with rhinestones?

God, it’s depressing. We haven’t come very far if this is our lot in life. If the best we can hope for is to pump our faces full of Botox and work out 3 hours a day to look like Madonna at fifty, it would be better to go back to the good old days when pubic hair was actually sexy and you didn’t have to look young forever. You could just wear a girdle if you got fat, and you could stay home and play bridge instead of touring the world in a leotard and top hat.

Are there any decent role models out there besides Patti Smith and Naomi Klein? Maybe we need to cultivate other qualities besides youthfulness and hairlessness. This might be a good subject for our pajama party.

Here is the badge thingy I made for it, but I know Honeypants or someone else could improve it.   Please have a go at it, and send it to me!

A Trashy Goldmine!

Wednesday, January 28th, 2009

Okay, so I bought another pair of black boots but I swear to god this is the last time. I can actually walk in them because of the big hidden platform. Not that I’ll wear them or anything, but if I did, I’d be capable of walking.

I saw them at Oak but I decided to look around and found them for $86 less at, which turned out to be an eye-popping bonanza of cool and awful delights. I love this model, who’s kind of a gangsta Amy Winehouse with bulging implants.

Not only that, but there are Tripp jeans in every possible variety of plaid, vinyl, and leopard print, as well as basic black. The jewelry includes a necklace that says “I Love Me” in braille. Better yet is this fake Chanel chain belt by a brand called Office Tramp.

This bondagey leather belt thing reminds me of Susie B’s cage skirt, and from behind it appears to be an effective butt-lifter, too.

Even if you’ve sworn off shopping or you’re way too old to dress like a slut or a homegirl, it’s fun to click your way through so much wacky and inappropriate merchandise. Plus, everything is 30% off.

The Nose War

Monday, January 26th, 2009

When you’ve been in a relationship for years and years, you need to make an effort to have fun.

Here’s a game I just made up, called The Nose War:

There’s a little rubber nose on my kitchen floor, just to the left of the fridge. It’s been there for around 10 days. I don’t know how it got there, I only know that I bought it in a little packet of rubber body-parts from Borders, at least a year ago. They were creepy but cute, and cost around two bucks.

(I put a quarter next to the nose for size comparison.)

Anyway, the nose is in plain sight, but NO ONE WILL PICK IT UP!

It occurred to me that it would be fun to see how long it stays there. In other words, I’ve decided to leave it there as a test for my husband, who normally hastens to tell me what’s wrong in the kitchen. Then, it occurred to me that my husband must be leaving it there on purpose, too, to test ME! He’s probably thinking, I’ll see how long that slob leaves that nose on the floor, and eventually I’ll draw her attention to it and say “Look what a lazy slob you are, this has been on the floor for — days, bla bla bla!”

I’ve pointed out the nose to my kid, who said “I was wondering why that was there,” and I told him I was conducting a test. But I like how he had no intention of picking it up, either. The apple doesn’t   fall far from the tree, eh?

God, marriage is fun.

Phil Spector, Shoes and Suicide

Saturday, January 24th, 2009

It’s hard to believe that Phil Spector (above with his crazy wife Rachelle) is STILL on trial for the murder of Lana Clarkson. But on Friday, the prosecution rested its case against him. The last person to testify was Lana Clarkson’s mother, Donna, who maintains that her daughter’s purchase of eight pairs of shoes just prior to her death proves that she was not suicidal.

Apart from the fact that we already know Phil Spector is guilty, the shoe argument is a convincing one. At first, anyway.

Eight pairs of new shoes seems like a really optimistic investment, a gesture of hope. That’s a lot of shoes, even to me. If I was planning to kill myself, I know I wouldn’t buy eight pairs of shoes first.

Lana Clarkson went shoe shopping with her mother at Nordstrom, looking for flats to wear at her new job. She found eights pairs of black flats, including the Mary Jane’s she was wearing when she died. Her mom loaned her the money for the shoes, a total of $150.

150 divided by eight is….I can’t do math, but it means the shoes were cheap. This makes me reassess the whole suicide thing. What if you went home with eight boxes of awful cheap shoes and thought, God, why do I even bother to live?! That I can relate to.

I ran this by my husband, who replied, “But it’s Nordstrom, she could’ve taken them back.” He is well aware of Nordstrom’s liberal return policy, since he has driven me there to return things at least a thousand times.

But that’s not the point, duh! Even if you knew you could return them, the horror of having bought so many black flats might in fact be overwhelming. If you were already depressed, it could push you over the edge.

Of course, whatever Lana was feeling on the night she went home with Phil Spector, he blew her brains out. There is more than enough proof of that. His new lawyer is attempting to defend him by showing that Spector doesn’t hate and threaten women, specifically, but rather he hates and threatens men, too. It’s a brilliant defense strategy if the jury has been lobotomized.

However, I’m stuck with the idea of shoes and suicide. Maybe I’ll have to have a philosophical discussion with Imelda Matt. Until then, here is a pair of shoes that make me want to kill myself. They’re on sale at for only $771.81.

Blogger Pajama Party!

Friday, January 23rd, 2009

Yesterday, my friend Suebob notified me that a meme was spreading throughout bloggerdom, called “Grace in 5 things.” She told me to google it. The idea is that everybody post a daily list of five things they are grateful for. For a year.

Let me just say, I am plenty grateful for not being a midget and many many other blessings. But five things a day is just too much. Plus, I really don’t want to know what five things anyone is grateful for, every single day.

But people like to jump aboard whatever bandwagon comes their way, I guess. So therefore I am proposing something much easier and more fun: the Blogger Pajama Party.

In a tribute to Mrs. Palin, we should all set aside one day to blog in our pj’s, and to post photos. Above, you can see my nice warm pj’s that I acquired from my friend Jane. Thank you, Jane! They were a present for my son, in the wrong size. On the day of the Party, I’ll wear my Other pair of Pj’s, with little tattoo thingies on them.

Okay, so, are we on for the Blogger Pajama Party? How about Feb. 13, because it falls on a Friday, so it’s bound to be lucky.

I am looking forward to seeing David Duff in his Long Johns. Maybe Juri will wear a negligee if he doesn’t have pj’s.

Remember: Any blogger worth a damn is wearing pajamas, if not actually living in his or her parents’ basement!

Let me know if you’re in, and pass it on.

Enough With the Boyfriend Jeans

Tuesday, January 20th, 2009

Has everyone had it with the fucking “boyfriend jeans” yet?

The whole thing bothers me. The jeans themselves, the sudden ubiquity of them, the Katie Holmes connection, and the name for them. What if you don’t have a boyfriend? What if you’re a lesbian?

The Younger Wolf has produced this beautiful pair of “Teenage Son Jeans,” that I hereby offer for sale at the special Tanking Economy price of only $200. But if you act now, you can get them for $100, plus shipping and handling. (He is officially through with them, in case you’re thinking that I’d sell his shit online without asking.)

Now to complicate things further, we have the “boyfriend jeans” for your boyfriend, thanks to Current-Elliot, who seem to have started this unfortunate scourge trend.

Shouldn’t they be called the “girlfriend jeans” when guys wear them?

Whatever. I just want them to hurry up and go away.

Pastor Schmastor:Leave God Out of Government!

Monday, January 19th, 2009

Sometimes I can’t believe what an idiot I am!

Here I’ve been getting madder and madder about Obama’s decision to leave Rev. Gene Robinson’s opening prayer out of HBO’s coverage of the events at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday.

The Presidential Inauguration Committee and HBO took turns blaming each other at first. And everybody is SO SORRY as usual. Fuckers. First they invite big fat homophobe Rick Warren, then they throw us a crumb with the openly gay Gene Robinson, then they take away the crumb!

But wait. While reading the responses at AfterElton, the dim bulb that is my brain suddenly lit up. To quote one of the commentors:

“As an American, I can’t tell you how much it pisses me off that ANY  pastor is participating in an official government event. Regardless of whether the pastor is pro-gay or anti-gay, the Consitution specifically states that not only should the government NOT take preference to any religion (the first amendment), but that no religious test is required for an official (Article VI, Section 3). Having somebody spouting platitudes about god before the president takes the oath of office (his hand  should be on a copy of the Constitution, not a Bible) is deeply offensive to me as an American.”

Too fucking right! Thanks ‘Joseph’, whoever you are, for reminding me. xo

More About Hoarding

Monday, January 19th, 2009

While trying to find a research study I once read about hoarding and gender, I came upon a great documentary called “Possessed.”

The film maker, Martin Hampton, lets four hoarders talk about their behavior and how it has affected their lives. It is 21 minutes long and well worth your time if you’ve ever wondered why you have so much crap, or why you continue to buy things you don’t need.

Even if you can’t relate to hoarding, you will still be fascinated and moved by the plight of Mr. Hampton’s subjects. They are in different stages of both awareness and desperation, but all four are so straightforward and sincere that you can’t help but feel for them.

Is hoarding a metaphor or a mental illness?   Do our possessions provide solace or do they weigh us down?

I was going to count my t-shirts to add a personal note here but I can’t bear the thought of it right now. Let’s just say I have a lot of them. Inside my thin self is a fat circus lady trying to get out, and inside my t-shirt collecting is a hoarder of empty toilet rolls and plastic bags.

Know what I mean?

I’m Sorry, I Hate Her

Friday, January 16th, 2009

I’ve just discovered a fashion blogger that everyone else already knows about, thanks to a newsletter from Refinery 29.

I hated her at Hello. I feel this is a huge faux pas on my part, and yet, there it is. My Hatred Endures, and it never runs out.

The interview with her is harmless, objectively speaking. She is asked questions about her style, and gives answers. She is asked to name 5 pieces that define her daily style. Piece number 2 cinched the deal for me.

“This ridiculously threadbare tie-dyed vintage Grateful Dead shirt. There’s a huge hole in the middle of it that’s literally held together by two stitches, it’s hilarious.”

God. It’s like a knife in my heart. The “ridiculously” hurt, and “it’s hilarious” was agony. I had trouble reading the rest of it. I was too tense to really take it in, but I did flinch at “iconic.”

What is wrong with me? Why can’t I give this girl some slack? She’s probably only 20 years old and who is she hurting (besides me?) It just struck me as the epitome of something that has bugged me from the first time I came upon a fashion blog. It’s kind of a narcissism crossed with a complete lack of inhibition about seeming shallow.

I have posted plenty of photos of myself, so I am hardly blameless. But the idea of dressing up and describing every piece of clothing as though it merited documentation is just horrible on some level. Who the fuck cares where your shoes came from, know what I’m saying? And yet, when I went to the girl’s blog, just to give her a chance to change my mind, a thingy on the page said there were 90 viewers online.

Fashion Girl, you are more than welcome to hate me back. I’m old and mean, for starters. You can just take it from there. It’s not fair for me to pick on you, but maybe it will make you a tiny bit more famous and beloved for all I know. While you’re busy laughing hysterically at your torn t-shirt, I’m sitting here disgustedly in my ill-fitting black Nudie jeans that I got from, with a roll of flab that I got from Having Two Kids.

Fashion has been an obsession for me since I was around 12, and even now I can talk about it forever with my friends who are similarly addicted to it. Yet I’m wondering if there’s a saturation point beyond which the whole subject is just pathetic and awful. OR, maybe I just need to stick to magazines and shopping sites. OR maybe it’s the grim economic news that’s making fashion seem so petty and irrelevant.

Or maybe I just can’t stand this particular girl. Comments or insults, anyone?

Love, Boobs and Antidepressants

Thursday, January 15th, 2009

I have been reading about neurochemistry and the effect of serotonin on relationships, and some new studies suggest that antidepressants are not the free lunch some of us were hoping for.

Not only do the SSRI drugs dampen the libido, they can fuck up your relationships. They can even inhibit the neurochemical activities that are involved in romantic love.

This is a little alarming. Many of my friends and enemies are on one or more antidepressants, and we are all authorities on which ones are energizing (Welbutrin) or sedating (Remeron). We know which ones are too constipating (Cymbalta) and which ones have the worst withdrawal symptoms (Effexor.)

Most of us are less interested in sex than we used to be, but many of us are lucky enough to have partners who will rise to the challenge. They know that if we stopped taking our meds, we’d be impossible to live with, so our increased sex drive would be a moot point.

While reading about the biochemistry of love and attraction, though, I was happy to see my own theory of female sexuality confirmed: It’s all about oxytocin.

As long as we’re secreting oxytocin (which is stimulated by breastfeeding and orgasm) we are driven to connect and nurture. Oxytocin leads us to form bonds, basically. Any woman who has nursed a baby can tell you this. Oxytocin equals bliss. When male voles are given a shot of oxytocin, they want to be clingy and monogamous. When autistic people are given oxytocin via a nasal spray, they are better able to make eye contact. It even increases trust and empathy.

Here is the important part, men: If you pay more attention to our boobs, this will make us love you more, and continue to love you without straying. It will make everything better. When you come home from work, don’t complain about the traffic and how much you hate your job. Instead, play with your partner’s boobs!

Back to the SSRI problems, I don’t know what the long-term effect on our society will be if no one wants sex and people stop falling in love. Maybe we’ll adapt somehow, or maybe we’ll decide it’s better to be depressed because we hate ourselves than be resilient but sexually numb.

In any case, let’s all make sure that everyone’s boobs are properly attended to, and that everyone keeps taking their meds until reality is more tolerable in larger doses.