My trip to CVS...

Today I bought my first pack of condoms. I don't know quite what this means; if anything, it may simply mean I no longer live on a college campus where free condoms are stashed in every possible location from the mailroom to every bathroom stall in a five mile radius. If I were on a college campus and somehow wound up stuck in a broom closet in the basement of some abandoned dormitory dining hall from the 1930s and suddenly found need for a condom, I'm pretty sure I'd still be in luck. Which is a wonderful thing. On TV whenever people do it in a broom closet, it looks really hot and sexy and not at all like everything around them is intensely dirty and smells like disinfectant. But now I live in Los Angeles, and I have a job. And when I go to the bathroom, I don't find thirty varieties of condoms stuck in an envelope on the back side of the door with a note that says, "Please take one."

So maybe what this purchase means is that I'm in the real world. And in the real world, you have to pay for all your shit.

Anyway, around 1 pm today, I went to CVS, determined and ready to make a purchase. I found the family planning aisle with ease and then stood there, face to face with the prophylactics, awed by the sheer number of possibilities, brands, and styles to choose from. I couldn't decide between lubricated or non, ribbed or regular, intense female pleasure design or standard pleasure design, ultra thin (this scared me... does that mean they break easily?) or regular thickness, never mind the fact that three different brand names all boasted being America's number 1 condom. I am plagued with indecision in general, a problem always exacerbated when making a decision that will affect someone else as well. And condom selection - let's hope - is just that type of decision.

But there was something else that gave me pause. I started to worry, while standing in that aisle between the yeast infection cream and home pregnancy tests, about how my primary goal in having sex seemed to be avoiding pregnancy and disease. For a moment it seemed as if having some fun along the way would be an added bonus, but mostly I was just trying to stave off Preggaritis. Frozen with indecision and a loss of determination, I phoned a friend for some advice. "Lubricated," she said. "Definitely lubricated."

I returned home with a conservatively-sized box of three, still hesitant to make any sort of long-term commitment to any one brand or style. I promptly put my new condoms in my sock drawer -- where I suppose all contraceptives not currently in use and not belonging to a college or university rightfully belong -- and there they will stay until the right situation presents itself. After which, I'm definitely gonna go for the ribbed. Or ultra-ribbed. Or heat-activated something or other. Or, you know, whatever's on sale.

cross country, day 4: what happened on day 4.

It occurs to my friend Luke that I haven't written about days 4-10 yet. He tells me this Sunday morning when I am trying to sleep because it is only 8:30 am here on the West Coast - an ungodly time for anyone to call. I do not care that it is already 11:30 in Connecticut. It's friggin dinner time in China, but I'm not about to accept calls from Beijing.





<-- Beijing








Here's the point. Luke calls to say, "Hey, Lijah. I was reading your blog" -- really??? -- "and you didn't finish."

"What? What are you talking about?" I am in the process of simultaneously recovering from the shock of being woken up and recovering from the shock of the fact that my friend Luke has actually read my blog. I am in all sorts of shock.

"What happens on day four?" he asks, rather demandingly to be honest.

"Luke, I'm sleeping."

"No, you're not."

"Well I was, and I would be if you hadn't called."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda."

"Stop watching Sex in the City," I tell him. This is why he has no guy friends to hang out with. This is why he is calling me so frigging early in the morning. This is the root evil of all his (and my) problems. "Make friends and go to brunch. Leave me alone."

"What happened on day four?"

"Jil and I went to the Badlands. We hiked. They were bad ass. Then we drove through South Dakota and read silly billboards. You know, they said things like, 'Wear fur. Help Manage Your Wildlife.'"



"Really."

"Really. And, um, something like, 'Every child deserves a life, even this kid with Down Syndrome,' and then it showed a giant picture of a baby with Down Syndrome. Oh and there were Prairie Dogs. Lots of them. And then we saw the world's only corn palace."

"Cooool."

"Not really. I guess. No, not really."

"Then what?"

"Then we found a hotel and went to bed."

"That was it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Talk to you later then."

"Okay," I say and am about to hang up the phone. "Wait! Don't you want to hear about day five?" I ask.

"Eh. Not really."

That's my friend Luke. He's like, I don't know, pretty cool. Not like *very* cool, but like, OK cool. You know what I mean?

Oh yeah. Luke wanted a shout out. Here goes. Whuddup, Luke! If you're reading this, you still owe me $4.13. Don't forget.





<---- Luke

2 bdroom and roommate wanted.

Hi. My name is Lijah. I just moved to Los Angeles from the East Coast, and I am looking for a two bedroom apartment and a person to live in the other bedroom. I am a writer/ns/responsible/clean/college grad/female. If this sounds like something you might be interested in, please take a look at the true/false exam below.

Roommate True or False Exam: Please mark true or false next to each of the statements below. Be honest; you are being actively judged.

1. I smoke.
2. I do drugs.
3. I never do my dishes. Generally I am a messy, messy person. It's gross.
4. I have never used a vacuum willingly.
5. Sometimes I don't feel like paying rent. I have bad credit.
6. I'm not very intelligent. You can tell because I leave the stove on all the time, and sometimes I forget to lock the door.
7. I can get upset easily. I like to ask people, "Are you mad at me?" even though they have no reason to be mad at me.
8. I can tell the difference between genuine Gucci and fake Gucci from a mile away. I care.
9. Music sucks.
10. Except for Enrique Iglesias.
11. Sometimes I like to have deafeningly loud sex parties. (And you will never be invited.)
12. I cannot take a joke.
13. Actually, I am no fun at all.
14. I will never talk to you ever. I am afraid of people.
15. Just kidding. I need to hang out ALL the time.
16. I think homophobia is awesome. Racism is pretty rad too. Recycling is for sissies.
17. I can correctly identify Iraq on a map of the United States.
18. My previous roommate thought I was cursed. May she rest in peace.

Congratulations. You are done with the exam. Please send your answers via email to hous-430139459@craigslist.org. Thanks!

Cross Country, Day 3. "Spam"

8/25/07

And then Jil and I drive from Chicago, IL to Sioux Falls, SD. We dilly dally in Madison, Wisconsin, a great little college town with wonderful shops and coffee houses. It makes us nostalgic for college, as nearly everything does. F'ing Thai food and trees make me nostalgic for college, but this time the feeling is a little more reasonable. As this is just before school starts, Madison is bustling with new U of M freshmen and parents ready to dole out money as quickly as warm, longing hugs. More nostalgia. Jil buys some Wisconsin cheese, and we sit and eat it and happily observe the Wisconsin-y world around us.

Our next stop is Austin, Minnesota, where we visit the parking lot of the Spam Museum and take pictures (the museum is, alas, already closed for the night, which means we miss out on seeing the towering wall of spam and playing the interactive can-your-own-spam game). Because we are lame, we pass on the fried spam strips available at the adjacent diner and instead order a much safer mac n' cheese, veggie burger combo. Then we get back on the road. This is what we find: Minnesota is flat and rural. There are cows and corn fields. This might be your unverified preconception of Minnesota. You are right.

We get into Sioux Falls around midnight. We would have made better time, but Route 17 is undergoing construction and we have to find an alternate route to our hotel. This is complicated by the fact that when we call the hotel for assistance, the over-eager hotel clerk offers us the entire geological history of the area in lieu of actual, you know, directions. But we get there eventually.

Weighed down by bags and parcels, Jil and I awkwardly make our way to the check in desk and get our room key. We are tired and weary, disheveled, and half asleep. All we want is a bed. Maybe a shower. Perhaps we desire to put down our bags inside our hotel room. Perhaps. Instead, we encounter this same over-eager hotel clerk - a woman who is awe-inspiringly talkative, a sheer mountain of vocal strength and South Dakota knowledge. Or, at least, Sioux Falls knowledge. Or, at least, she has some ideas about how to get around town.

"Did you find it okay?" She asks us. Judy, according to her name tag.

"Yes, thanks," we say.

"Someone else wanted directions yesterday, but I wasn't here when he came in, so I don't know if I gave them correctly."

"Well, we got here fine. So... thanks. Is our room to the left or the right?"

"The truth is, you could have taken route 7 and gone around the construction the other way, you know, through the center of town, but I never know if it'll be a left or a right turn after that. Which is why I suggested taking 23. But you got here fine, so I guess it worked."

"Guess so."

"It's usually just a straight shoot off 1-90 down 17. With the construction it gets a little confusing. I got people calling for directions all the time. But I just never know, you know? Route 7 or 23. Of course there are all those back roads you could take. If you got off by Chucks Chickens and took a right heading you down to that hair place, and then see at that point I don't know if it's a left or a right again. And you know what?" she laughs, "There's that construction going on on the other side too."

We laugh too. Yes, yes. That is funny. Now let us go to bed.

"You know what I did the other day? I went on the computer and I went onto msn.com. And then I looked up all the different highways, and you could see at that point if it was supposed to be a right or a left turn coming from all those different roads. So then if someone called in, I could just ask where they were coming from. But my boss took off the internet from this computer, so now all I have is these maps. Which of course don't show the construction, so that's why I just say take 23."

We shuffle our bags around in our arms and try to inch our way closer to the hallway. "But you got here fine?" Judy asks again.

"Yep."

"Once the construction's gone, you could probably take Joseph directly through to that intersection by the grocery store. That is, if 17's backed up. Then we're just a left and a right and another mile down the road."

"Okay."

Somehow, Judy goes on for another fifteen minutes. She has broken some record somewhere; I am sure of it. Or maybe it is just South Dakota. Maybe we have reached that part of our country that is actually a foreign land.

"That was amazing," says Jil, when we finally break free from the hotel lobby. Judy may have kept us from bed for a whole half hour, but she also just made our night.

---

Last week I was playing Trivial Pursuit when, wouldn't you know it, the following question was asked: "What US city considers itself the Spam Capitol of the world?" Not only did I get it right, I whipped it's ass. Boo yah, Austin, Minnesota. Boo Yah.

Cross Country, Day 2. "Two thoughts from Chicago that have nothing to do with Chicago"

1. This Dog.

I took very few pictures in Chicago. Seventy-five percent of them were of this dog.


This dog is the ultimate people-watcher, but he has the best cover ever because he is a dog.


2. My Thesis.

Jil and I were at this wannabe German pub slash sports bar in downtown Chicago, and I was talking to some random friend of a friend’s friend, and the kid actually asked me about my thesis. How we got into a thesis discussion in the middle of a somewhat terrible, fratty bar, I have no idea, except to say that I swear I didn’t start it. In fact, I hesitated to impart the title of my thesis because, frankly, the title alone tells you a great deal more about me than I sometimes care to share within the first five minutes of meeting someone. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, my name’s Lijah. I’m going to insult your taste in movies and PC your ass all over the pavement.” It’s not my intention, but I guess it’s the effect.

I told him anyway. “Interesting,” he responded. “So, could you unpackage that a little?”

If you’ve ever completed a thesis you know that, like me, your heart’s greatest desire is that someone will actually read the damn thing, besides your advisors, readers, and the department head, who are all mandated to do so. But since it’s not socially “acceptable” or “cool” to carry around your 115 page manifesto and then make people read it, the next best thing is that someone will voluntarily bring it up, and then ask you all sorts of questions about it, and then reinforce your mother’s proclamations that you are an extraordinary genius and generally speaking a gift from God. Your thesis is, after all, the pinnacle of your academic existence, a paper that took not just one whole year, but a lifetime’s worth of maturity, preparation, sweat, blood, and caffeine to complete.

The cool thing about my thesis (that’s right, I said “cool” and “thesis” in the same sentence) is that it’s completely accessible. If you’ve ever seen Wedding Crashers or heard of Will Ferrell, you can pretty much get it. I remember attending my brother’s thesis presentation, which was entitled “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben,” and latching onto the occasional conjunctions and articles – and, but, or, the – as if my life depended on it. These were truly the only words I understood for about fifty inferiority-complex-creating minutes. My thesis (here comes the cool part) isn't like that. Nevertheless, I do accept the 99% full-proof Unwritten Law of the Thesis, which states: Everyone thinks his/her own thesis is brilliant and dynamic and absolutely intriguing, but to everybody else on the planet, it’s… not. (Half because everybody else doesn't get it, and half because it's... not.)

Anyway, this kid asked me lots of wonderful questions, and I reveled in the thrill of it all, until the time came to return the favor. You see, Unwritten Law #2 of the Thesis states: If someone asks you about your thesis, you must act in kind and ask him/her about his/her thesis. While I like to believe my topic's accessibility makes it a fairly decent discussion piece, Random Kid’s English major thesis might as well have been called “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben.” At least then I would have felt better about not understanding anything but the definite articles.

As it was, Random Kid's paper dealt with a certain archaic novel by a certain incomprehensible author. I’m sure that had I known the work/author/context, it would have been quite interesting or at least not completely off-putting when he ultimately concluded, "You see, everything is really death!!!"

Of course, not everyone should write about something everyone else can get. In truth, I applaud his thesis, it's just not something I'd like to TALK about. I mean, if I ever become an author with, like, a book, instead of a silly blog, I think the highest honor would be to discover that some college kid has wasted away his entire senior year trying to figure out why I'd named Jenny Crossfire "Jenny Crossfire," and why I put three doves in the fifth chapter instead of six, and how it all symbolizes the re-emergence of life and the disenchantment of the East with the West, when in reality I'd forgotten there were any doves in chapter five at all.



And that's Chicago.


To be continued....

Cross Country, Day 1. "Traffic"

8/23/07. Today's goal: Connecticut to New York to Cleveland, OH. Before leaving, I must check the air in my tires, buy a pressure gauge, check my email fourteen times, and buy a cooler.

I have some trouble checking the air pressure. We won't discuss the details, but to summarize, it was embarrassing. My father may have been called in a state of panic and quite possibly I accused my mother's pen-shaped pressure gauge of insolence instead of admitting my own incompetency. It was, what one might call, an "episode."

By 12:00 pm I am technically ready to depart. I procrastinate by taking pictures of things like our garden in the backyard and my mother standing on the porch. I don't want to forget that the backyard can look so resplendent or that my mother sometimes stands on the porch. There are only so many things to photograph, however, so eventually, I get into Eloise.








<---(Eloise)









I stock Eloise's side pockets with packets of gum, my cell phone, and anti-bacterial goo. I reset my odometer to zero. Considering I am saying goodbye to everyone and everything I have ever known for some indefinite, but assuredly long, period of time, I am in relatively high spirits; after all, there are snacks, my new cooler is blue and has one sleek silver stripe, and my ipod has been outfitted with a new playlist (that morning, I'd hastilly downloaded a bunch of songs with "California" and "Los Angeles" in the title, including Bob Marley's cover of "Hotel California," Arlo Guthrie at Woodstock, and the theme from The O.C. It is an odd mix.) All in all, life is good. Stereo off, I sing my way to New York City to pick up Jil, my travel companion, because once she is in tow, singing really loudly a cappella will no longer be allowed - unless I wish to be both mortified and cruel. (I don't.)

Someone in a red Subaru cuts me off, then decides to drive window to window watching me rock out to my own original off-key tunes. He is a douche. He points me out to the passengers in his back seat. Awesome.

After successfully crossing the NY-CT border, I confuse I-278 with I-287. New York highways are not kind to dyslexic folks, nor those who have dyslexic moments, nor those who can't read. It's no biggie, however; I still manage to get to East Harlem at the appointed time of 2:30 pm. Jil and I are in the car and officially off an hour later. One hour after that, we have officially moved two miles. I consider this practice for LA. I also consider it a huge pain in the ass. Finally, we are in the clear and driving at a comfortably illegal pace. Then we stop to pee.

Around 2 am, after 5 or 6 pee stops and 2 tanks of gas, we arrive in Cleveland, OH. We are tired. Cleveland has beds, and a nice girl named Tessa who takes us in and feeds us muffins in the morning. We like Cleveland.

To be continued...

I should be packing RIGHT now.

I leave for Los Angeles in 48ish hours. I am not packed. Here is a list of things I've been doing instead of packing:

1. Got my guitar restrung. Been meaning to do this for 6 years. Now seemed like a good time.
2. Ate.
3. Thought of a number 3 for this list. Zoned out. Watched an episode of Scrubs.
4. Edited my brother's wedding video, which again, been meaning to do for about 2 years (this, by the way, took 5 hours).
5. Made copies of the wedding video for everyone I could think of (still in process).
6. Ate.
7. Bought some clothes. (I don't even like shopping.)
8. Bought more clothes.
9. Contemplated the fact that all these new clothes won't fit next month when I'm down to a size 2.
10. Pooped.
11. Dusted.
12. Bought shoes.
13. Ate.
13. Did the dishes.
14. Practiced the guitar. (I'm still really bad.)
15. Called some people. Might put together a bbq.
16. Wrote this blog.
17. Proofread this blog.
18. Determined MUST pack. Seriously. MUST DO IT.
19. Ate some more stuff while wearing new clothes. Spilled on new clothes. Had to go nuts with the zout and the clorox and the washing of the new clothes.
20. Got a Pap smear.

___

Am leaving for Los Angeles in less than 47ish hours. Here is a list of things I DO have packed:

1. Blow up mattress.
2. Tennis racket (I don't play tennis).
3. Newly strung guitar (I don't play guitar).
4. Umbrella.

humble apologies

Dear Loyal Readers,

Thank you for your continued readershipness. Please accept my apologies for the month-long lack of blogging, which can only be explained by a song performed in the key of Fb major. If you find one and listen to it repeatedly, you will understand. Anyway, I do solemnly swear to blog more soon, barring Nuclear Holocaust.

With Warmest Regards,
moi.

Mmmmmm, body hair.

I've never gone gaga over a guy simply because of his perfect tresses, like I might over a perfectly sculpted abdomen or a sinfully sumptuous intellect. I've certainly never said, "Damn, the way his chest hair curls just so. Could anything be more divine?" But I have done the contrary: I've been physically turned off by receding hairlines and men whose neck hair crawls over the back of their shirt collars. Might these men be otherwise dashing? Perhaps. Might their over-zealous shoulder fur be covering up a warm heart and million-dollar personality? It’s possible. I'm not proud of it, but still the reality exists: body hair can't make you, but it certainly can break you.

While I sympathize with the argument that Nair commercials and Austin Powers have made us believe body hair is far more disgusting than it actually is, I contend some of the repulsion is instinctual: back in the day, cavewomen who looked like men and cavemen who looked like apes got a lot less ass, and this continued until all the super hairy homo erectus were Darwined right into extinction, leaving behind the far less but still too hairy h. sapien.

Nevertheless, somewhere along the line, let’s say during the Reagan years, the cosmetics industry took our dislike of body hair and drove it right into the Land of the Absurd. If you live in a world where it seems perfectly rational to attack your own body with razor blades, hot wax, dyes, poisons, and laser beams – and to pay good money to do so – it’s perhaps time to sit back and recognize just how truly insane we all are. Which is why, although I totally buy into the “Back hair –yech!” movement, I also find my own superficiality as appalling as chest hair that literally pokes through T-shirt fabric like little, black, rabid tentacles (how does it DO that?!?).

And so the hypocrisy remains that while body hair turns me off like a downed power line, I'm rather anti doing anything about it. In fact, guys who wax give me the heebies even more than guys who should and don't. (As a general rule, I prefer men who primp less than I do, which pretty much means they’re allowed to roll out of bed and shower - but no more than five times a week.) A likeminded soul recently described a guy she was desperately attracted to as "so hot: he was in need of a shave, and you could tell he wore that same shirt yesterday." And since this makes perfect sense to me, I realize that what I'm looking for (aesthetically speaking) is some guy who's good looking, but doesn't try, and is also completely unaware of his hotness. Such accidental dreamboats are both extremely rare and extremely difficult to nab; for the most part, they seem to find each other among the wreckage (the rest of us) and settle down, thus leading gorgeous and ignorantly blissful lives, running ten miles a day for fun and never getting cancer.

But besides the primp factor, I'm simply against spending oodles of money on unnecessary cosmetic procedures and products. In fact, three years ago I vowed to henceforth never get a manicure/salon treatment without simultaneously donating an equal sum of money to charity. The vow was prompted by the fact that I only ever got manicures when I visited New York City, which was also the only time I encountered and refused to give money to masses of homeless people, and the whole "No I will not give you fifty cents so you can eat and one day maybe rejoin society as a functioning individual"/"Oh, yes, here's my twenty-five dollars for 0.3 ounces of paint spread upon 1 square inch of surface that will last 1.2 weeks before it will grow out, chip, and look crappy" didn't sit well with me. Of course, since that vow, every hypothetical manicure has cost me upwards of $40, which has reduced my manicure per year rate from 0.75 to 0.0. But even putting my own financial woes aside, as well as all well-thought, tempered, and reasoned argument, the cosmetics industry is an evil, evil empire that fuels and is fueled by eating disorders and teenage insecurity and is also the sole entity responsible for nightmares and Tyra Banks. So I try to stay away.

Also, waxing scares the bajesus out of me.

Despite the yuck-factor, it's true that many of the men I've loved in my life have been hairy, hairy beasts. My step dad was one of those unfortunate creatures who could weave a toupee out of his ear and nose hair, but was elsewise completely bald. When it came to body hair, life dealt him a harsh hand of ironic. It's different of course when you're talking about a person you'd potentially like to see naked, but yes, I have sweat a hairy boy or two, and yes I did want to see him naked.

There's a finely tuned thought-process hierarchy at work that, at least for women, goes heart, libido, head. (As for men, your brain functions allude me completely.) When a woman first meets someone who’s really awesome, but has gorilla arms, her head says, “Oh, he’s really awesome,” but her libido says, “He’s got gorilla arms.” And since she's yet to create any real emotional connection, her heart’s got nothing – at which point, libido wins all. But, if she gets to know someone, say, at work, and suddenly she realizes she's in love with him, her head could say, “Bad idea; we work together,” and her libido might be whining about his trucker stache or man boobs, but both are quickly ruled out by her heart gushing something about loving him more than [insert favorite dessert]. This is how women work. In any event, the head gets the short end of the stick every time.

So yes, we are all (men and women alike) superficial, brainwashed idiots who likely don't measure up to our own impossible standards, but there's hope. I imagine that when I’m truly in love, my man could have two noses (that's right, two noses!), and I wouldn’t care. Or, maybe he'll turn out to be a habitual waxer. Or maybe he'll shower eight times a week, and change his clothes every day, and I'll just have to deal, dammit. See, we all have to make compromises. Nasty ass body hair is reason enough not to be into someone, sure; but it’s never reason enough not to love someone.

Another reason to love wikipedia

The following article is a great read for aliens plotting to conquer earth who may need to brush up on their Human 101. If you're not an alien, it's more like reading about your astrological sign for the very first time, when all the pieces fit together and you realize just how much you really are a Pisces(!!).


Humans, or human beings, are bipedal primates belonging to the mammalian species Homo sapiens (Latin: "wise man" or "knowing man") in the family Hominidae (the great apes). Humans have a highly developed brain capable of abstract reasoning, language, and introspection. This mental capability, combined with an erect body carriage that frees their upper limbs for manipulating objects, has allowed humans to make far greater use of tools than any other species. Humans originated in Africa about 200,000 years ago, but they now inhabit every continent, with a total population of over 6.6 billion as of 2007.

Like most primates, humans are social by nature; however, humans are particularly adept at utilizing systems of communication for self-expression, the exchange of ideas, and organization. Humans create complex social structures composed of cooperating and competing groups, ranging in scale from small families and partnerships to species-wide political, scientific and economic unions. Social interactions between humans have also established an extremely wide variety of traditions, rituals, ethics, values, social norms, and laws which form the basis of human society. Humans also have a marked appreciation for beauty and aesthetics which, combined with the human desire for self-expression, has led to cultural innovations such as art, literature and music.

Humans are also noted for their desire to understand and influence the world around them, seeking to explain and manipulate natural phenomena through science, philosophy, mythology and religion. This natural curiosity has led to the development of advanced tools and skills; humans are the only known species to build fires, cook their food, clothe themselves, and use numerous other technologies....

---

If you still need a reason to love wikipedia, there's also the fact that it contains some rather indispensible information like the following photo and caption...





Squilliam Fancyson – fictional character from SpongeBob SquarePants is endowed with a unibrow.






... as well as a list entitled Famous People with Unibrows, which includes: Jim Adkins, Adam Carolla, Jennifer Connelly, Colin Farrell, Oasis band members and brothers Noel and Liam Gallagher, Josh Hartnett, Salma Hayek, Matisyahu, Matthew McConaughey [really?], Jack Osbourne, Frank Zappa, Rudolf Hess (Deputy-Führer of Nazi Germany), John Kerry, Pete Sampras, Frida Kahlo, and Oscar the Grouch...

Fabulous.

Puppies are cuter. Fact.

Since I own ovaries (or perhaps simply since I'm a person), I'm supposed to like children and babies and all that. There's supposed to be this automatic insta-feeling of affection and protectiveness at the sight of tiny digits and bald heads, coupled with a searing love for wiping spit up and vomit from dribbling chins and my clothes – but the thing is, I don't feel it.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've babysat. The first time, my friend Jamie and I co-sat this 8-year-old monster named Adam. While I admired his energy (as one admires the power of a wrecking ball), his penchant for riding his dog like a horse and throwing things like pasta and sneakers at our foreheads birthed within me a fair amount of disdain for this inexhaustible, destructive mini-person. The second through last times babysitting were with a brother and sister I taught in karate class. They were actually okay, but only because all they wanted to do was spar me for four hours. I'm not sure their parents knew how we spent our time, or that they would have approved, but if you don't like kids much, being paid for four hours of fake beating them up isn't the worst thing ever.

I'm not unfeeling. I like puppies. I'm even impressed by puppies. Just hours out of the womb they can walk. They master their species' mode of communication in less time than it takes a baby to "goo" (meanwhile, all the formerly self-respecting adults gather round mimicking the 7-month-old: "Goo, uh goo goo! Goo. Goo da da doo doo goo.") And I'm sorry, but puppies are cuter. It's a fact. Don't lie to yourself; don't judge me; accept the truth and move on.

The wonderful thing about not liking children is that other people do like children. This gives me hope (I think it's hope) that the world will continue to exist: people will have babies, some men and women will willingly become kindergarten teachers and den mothers/fathers, medical students will go into pediatrics instead of plastic surgery, playgrounds will go on being fertile soil designed for play, and certain sugary, delicious cereals will still be manufactured specifically for children (whilst they are enjoyed by mature adults like me on the sly). You see, I do appreciate that the world is better off having children in it than not, just as I appreciate the world is better off for having bees than not. Bees' dutiful pollination far outweighs the occasional stinging. Likewise(ish), children create a marketplace for products I enjoy (glow-in-the-dark Band-Aids and Harry Potter, need I say more?), and some of them become adults later on in life that are actually kind of cool and fun to talk to, once they get passed their fourteen or so years of painful unimpressiveness, self-serving, unappreciative codependence, and unhygienic nose-picking.

But more than that, I love how things I don't much like, others like very much. If you don't like studying nonlinear calculus, you're hard-pressed to imagine why anyone else would like studying nonlinear calculus. But some people DO like studying nonlinear calculus, and thank goodness for that. I might not want to be a mathematician, but I do understand - if only quite vaguely - that nonlinear whatever contributes to the world and necessitates a few willing souls to resign themselves to the field. I would never ever want to live on a submarine, but some people DO. Huzzah! If not for these strange, self-specializing interests (in other words, if everyone liked the things I like and hated the things I hate), very little would ever be accomplished. The next generation of children would have far more room to walk through their school hallways, true, but there'd be a lot more stupid essays like this one, and no one wants that. What's more, techno music would become obsolete, every guest at your next celebratory event would just up and leave the dance floor whenever "The Electric Slide" began to play, and Tasti D-lite would refuse to give out any more free samples. We'd have a whole world filled with people who are afraid of heights and hate doing laundry, not to mention all the space shuttles that would never go off into space or the complete lack of medical, business, political, etc. suit-wearing professionals in the coming generations.

What does this have to do with babies? My open distaste for 0 to 14-year-olds and others’ fervent love for them is what brought on this whole epiphanous realization. Some people like children(/math/submarines/The Electric Slide). They really do. And thank heavens, I say. Cause it means I don't have to.

my love life is phooey.

HOW ROMANTIC ARE YOU?

Your Quiz Results: You are a hardheaded realist who sees the world pretty much as it is. No room for fantasy--you're practical to a fault. You might be seen as a cold fish when it comes to amorous notions. You're "thing oriented" rather than "people oriented." You may need to thaw out.

Gosh "fun" internet quiz. You've known me for 7 minutes, and you're already predicting a lifetime of unhappy and unsuccessful relationships. Gee, thanks for the encouragement and kind, supportive words... Asshole. Well, how's this for a comeback: you're a stupid internet quiz and you don't mean anything. Call me hardheaded? I'll show you hardheaded when you incarnate yourself into a person and then I head butt you in the gonads. How's that for romantic, huh?!?

I mean... love me.

- the cold fish

Just Can't Stay Away...

Recently I took a road trip with three close friends up to Colby College and back. As we head towards Maine, I experienced all matter of things I have truly missed as a result of living in New York. Clean air, for one. Second of course was riding in a car that played American music and didn’t have a meter running. And then there were the sights! I saw the color green, such as one might find in trees and grass, and then if I looked straight up, or to the left, or to the right, I could see here, there, and everywhere that often-elusive natural wonder, the sky. (Now don’t fret fellow New Yorkers, we have our natural wonders too! For nothing can produce such a sunset as a terrific layer of smog strewn across a polluted skyline.)

As we drew closer and closer to our Alma Mater, the four of us began to feel a great deal of excitement that could only be matched by our ample trepidation. Would it be just like old times? Would our ID cards work and our favorite college foods and beer games be ready and waiting? Would we be treated like world explorers back from the great beyond, otherwise known as the “real world,” a world apparently distinct from that which is inhabited by all those twenty-two and below? When we told people what we were up to these days, would they look back at us in adulation and applaud how “real” we really are? (And on a more personal note, would my erroneous “I freelance” answer be correctly misinterpreted as respectable employment, such that I wouldn’t have to hide in a corner and cry, comforted only by a constant supply of booze?) We could only hope.

When we got to campus, it was just like old times. The 80’s-themed party we were headed to had just been broken up by campus security, and in the senior apartment building, fist-sized holes decorated the walls of hallways that still had that quintessential Colby hallway smell, and the toilets still flushed so violently you had to plug your ears and run for cover. And then, of course, there were my friends.

My Colby friends, those I traveled with and those I visited, are quite simply some of the best people on this earth, and I am putting it mildly. Basically, my friends are better than your friends, so deal with it. Seeing these amazing people was refreshing and invigorating and fantastic; and yet, the constant reminders that my time on campus had come and gone were plentiful and disconcerting. I no longer had a home base, people had studying to do when I wanted to play, and ultimately there was not enough time to catch up and far too much time to linger and feel awkward in a place that had been, but was certainly no longer, my home.

By the time Sunday rolled around, we were ready to go. It was sad to leave our beautiful campus behind, and sadder still to say good-bye to friends that in the coming months or years will also graduate and disperse themselves along these continental states and beyond. I took great comfort in those I traveled with, however. Colby might not be my home, but my friends are still my friends.

Indeed, road trips are great because they’re a time of intense bonding, a time to learn important facts about your friends you’d never know otherwise. For example, a road trip is the perfect and perhaps only time when it is appropriate to ask not only “If you could have sex with one celebrity, who would it be?” but the follow up: “If, in order to have sex with said celebrity, you had to first kill a baby that you were 90% sure would die the next day anyway, would you do it?” Here’s an example of something I learned: If Matt had to be killed by a wild animal, he would wish to be ravaged by a pack of wolves. I didn’t know that. Julie, on the other hand, would choose to be nibbled to death by a giraffe (which we all agreed was pretty lame). Max proposed death by piranha, which I think says a lot about him – probably all you'd ever need to know. As for me, everyone knows the best way to die is to be savagely ripped apart by a 300-pound grizzly bear. I mean, really.

Post-graduation, some things do remain the same. My friends remain as wonderfully perverted and flatulent as ever (yes, that’s right, be jealous). We still laugh about the same stupid stuff, like the time Matt and Max bought a bunny at a pet store and killed it and then turned it into soup and ate it. Or that time Emily got ass-drunk and outran two Waterville police officers before passing out in her dorm room. But now there are new things to experience and laugh about. It’s like how Julie became a high school teacher, but she’s still Julie, which means sometimes she goes to school dressed as a pirate. And thank God for that.

Global warming, global schwarming

Many out there (wrongly) believe that our earth is becoming warmer and warmer with each passing diesel truck. But how many of you have considered the far more likely and far scarier reality that the world, in only a matter of years, decades, centuries, millenniums, or days(!!), will face another devastating shift of our magnetic poles? That’s right. North will become South. Confederate will turn Yank. Yankees will become Marlins, the North Pole will be in Antarctica, and Australia will become, well, Australia. But the toilet will flush in the opposite OPPOSITE direction. And as we all know, a world in which we can’t predict the proper swirl of our poo is a very frightening world indeed.

There have already been nine polarity shifts in the history of planet Earth. Do you know how many “global warming” incidents there have been? If you said, “Not a one,” give yourself a nice ol’ pat on the back. If you said, “Uh. I don’t know. What’d’ you think, Frankie? Should we say one or two? Two’s a good number. I can count to two. One, two. Just like that. Okay, Imma say three,” punch yourself in the face.

My point is this: Instead of trying to prepare for something that may never happen, we need to be prepared for a day that already has happened nine times. Forget “scientific theory,” I’m talking common f’ing sense, people. The last magnetic pole reversal happened 740,000 years ago. So we're pretty freakin overdue.

In anticipation of that fateful and fast approaching day, here are 10 Tips to Help You Prepare for the 10th Polarity Shift of Earth:

1. Just turning your map upside down will not help. Unless you…
2. Learn to read upside-down.
3. Walking on your head will also be totally useless. But you should learn to walk backwards.
4. Come up with your market-savvy apocalypse-prevention toolkit NOW. Test out the product and ad campaign well ahead of time. Conduct focus groups. Explore color options. I always find pale yellow to be very calming, but of course the fourteen-year-olds will want something with a funky textile in hot pink polka dots or similar. Anticipate the demand for inside pockets lined in pleather leopard print, perfectly sized for holding lipstick, mascara, and/or crack vials. (This may be time to discuss dumping all teenagers into the erroneous North by South-Northerly region for the betterment of all human kind.)
5. FAQ: If North becomes South, does that mean East becomes West? No, idiot. “East” will still be called East, but it will be in the West. See how easy that is? What that means is those fuckers in Chicago will finally be getting the Northeast’s bad weather, and not the other way around. Take that Windy City.
6. People should feel free to invade Russia in the winter. But don’t try it in the summer or you will get fucked.
7. Many terrorist groups will have to alter their hate jargon and letterheads. There will be a lot of administrative costs.
8. Get into cartography NOW. You WILL make bank.
9. Move to the equator. Buy up all the good property in Brazil, Ecuador, and Peru. On second thought, just in case this whole “global warming” b.s. isn’t total bollix, stay inland.
10. In permanent marker, relabel your compass to reflect the new magnetic directions. You will need this to help you find the grocery store and gas station. Using a regular compass drunk will work just fine too.

Tall, Gangly Dudes (TGDs)

I was once at some stuffy networking event with my good friend Emily, and we were standing in a sea of collar-up imbeciles feeling thoroughly lost and particularly hateful when we spotted a 6’3” skinny dude across the room. We immediately sidled over to him, assured that while everyone else there was a dick, this guy would be cool, by which I mean adverse to being cool, and therefore pretty damn cool. But he turned out to be a dick too. We were shocked. Rattled, in fact. We just didn’t get it. And yet, not knowing the guy at all, we also couldn’t figure out why his dickishness was so very shocking in the first place. We walked away towards the cheese platters, sulking.

“Man, I thought he’d be cool,” I said.

“I know,” Emily added. “I mean he’s so tall and gangly!”

That was it. Tall and gangly. Tall and gangly guys are the best. Besides that one bad egg, it’s almost a steadfast rule that tall, gangly dudes are where it’s at. But what is it about being tall and gangly that makes TGDs (Tall, Gangly Dudes) so great? It’s not just their constantly flailing limbs and generally comical physique. Their gangliness has somehow positively impacted their chi. My tall and gangly guy friends are all hilarious, they don’t take themselves too seriously, they’re refreshingly smart, they’re masters at trivial pursuit and all things trivial, and they’re just plain good guys. They’re kind of dorks, and kind of rock stars, and all comedians, and they all have secret stowed-away talents like musical genius or mad whittling skills or they just dominate at table football. And they all have kind of funny hair. Basically, they’re all kind of awesome. Except that one dude. He was a dick.

This is my theory. There’s nothing wrong with being tall and gangly, but if that describes you, you probably think you’re supposed to be 2-6 inches shorter and 20-60 pounds heavier. You probably think you’re not that desirable, when in fact, your gangly personality makes up for your spaghetti arms, lack of upper body strength, and razor sharp hip bones. Your desire to pack on an extra few pounds makes you more receptive to women who’d like to lose a few, which makes me like you, because I could lose a few, and you don’t seem to care. You’re simply not as superficial as those who are tall and toned, or short and toned, or toned in general, and you don’t have a complex like guys who are short and shrimpy, or just plain short, or overweight, or uber-muscular.

Yes, you are a bit silly looking. You’re a normal dude that got stretched. Your stomach is concave. You can wrap your long-ass fingers around your skinny-ass arms. But you’re also superhuman: you can devour whole pizzas and not gain a thing. In fact, you’ll be hungry again in an hour. And you can laugh about it. You don’t have low self-esteem, but you can rip on yourself like no other (which means others have trouble doing it for you). You generally have a lot of friends.

To be fair, I should mention that TGDs are often gross. Just like their naturally funny physique gives them a funnier personality, their knobby-need Gumbo look gives them (they think) free reign to be as disgusting as possible. Snot rockets, farting contests, and detail-ridden poop discussions might have died in middle school for most guys, but not TGDs. You might say it’s a downside, but I say not. Look, everyone farts. One day you will do so in front of your boyfriend, and if he is TG, he’ll look at you and not laugh or make a face or run away. He’ll say, “It’s about time,” and then challenge you to a duel.

In short, if you see a TGD, give him a chance. You might fear he’ll look better in your jeans than you do, but you’ll just have to get over it. He has. And if you’re a tall and gangly dude, don’t be a dick. It’s not in your nature, and it’s pretty disappointing to random people at networking events who’d expect more from you. Also, call me.

Pancakes Anonymous

I thought this sounded like a good name for a post. or a website. Don't steal it. I will come after you. With a spatula. A big metal spatula. And if you are a pancake, I will eat you. And no one will ever know cause it will be anonymous. muah ha ha ha.

i'm starting to creep myself out...

It's That Time of Year Again!!

Can you believe it?!?! Only 260 days left till Christmas! I am so excited. I can barely keep my stocking on. That's right. When my xmas stocking isn't being hung ceremoniously from my fireplace begging to be filled with luscious trinkets - signs of Saint Nick's love and devotion to me and no one else - it is adorning my right foot. Sometimes my left. It's important to alternate and share the Christmas love. I love Christmas.

Christmas is the time we reaffirm what matters in life, and that, of course, is out and out, holier than thou priggishness. All this hullabaloo monkey schmonkey about family, and Christ, and miracles, and three kings, and wise men, and being kind to your fellow man simply distracts from the real meaning of this glorious day: Keeping it in your pants. Isn't it obvious? The Virgin Mary was rewarded for being vestal. She was given a child. And not just any child mind you. She got the son of God. That lucky M of a S of a G.

I myself haven't done the deed in... it's been a while. And yes, that's right, it's because of Jesus. Of course you, like most, will now assume that means I'm some crazy religious fanatic and that's why I'm waiting for marriage. Well, phooey on you and your presumptive judginess. I'm not waiting for marriage; I'm simply waiting to be rewarded with Jesus's little brother.

I've been thinking of names and so far I've come up with Sofia for a girl and Stuart or Ricardo for a boy. Stuart Christ. Ricardo of SpaHa (if I decide to raise the kid here). I admit they're not perfect... What about Guillermo? I had a boss named Guillermo once. He owned the bar where I used to work. Nice guy. Big fan of porn. Really hardcore porn. On second thought, maybe not the best for a son of The Big Guy, eh? I've got it! God Jr. It's so perfect, I'm surprised He didn't use it the first go around. Mary's veto maybe? I won't hold it against her. She's kind of my hero. I mean she got married to Joseph and she STILL stayed a virgin. Ever think it's cause she didn't want to get pregnant? Just saying...

YAY Christmas. 260 days to go! I'm so psyched. A little more of not having sex and I'm totally gonna get preggers.

RECOGNIZING "BOY SPEAK": A letter to my senator.

Dear Senator,

Hello again. It’s been awhile. I’ve missed that adorable way you ignore my emails and my subtle suggestive winking on Match.com. Listen, I know I didn’t return your calls either, and I fear things are growing awkward between us. I admit I told you if you shaved your back I’d be more open to seeing you again. But you can’t tell me you shave your back, you just have to do it and pretend that’s the way God made you, don’t you get it? You have your secrets and I have mine. I’m not ready for anything more committal than that. Also, I hate the word “panties” so please stop using it. (I did enjoy the nighty though. How’d your secretary know to buy the leopard print? Send Sheila my thanks and also the duplicates from our weekend at the Cape.)

*Ehem* So, uh, yeah. This email actually has another purpose altogether…

Today I am writing to urge you to introduce a new bill into Congress, a bill that would force the United States government to recognize “Boy Speak” as an official language. Boy Speak is already the unofficial official language of nearly half of America, nay, half the world, and yet, for far too long we have been remiss in acknowledging it as such. Until we do, we will never have the much-needed tax-dollar funded task force of overeager former frat boy translators nor Boy Speak’s own picture dictionary of terms and phrases. And I need that dictionary, Senator. We all do.

For as long as Boy Speak remains so unstudied and un-understood, large pockets of our populace (namely, the female half) will continue to be severely and unnecessarily confused by their male counterparts. Official recognition of Boy Speak, like the legalization of marijuana or breaking and entering, would lead to better education, limited but necessary government legislation, and increased safety for all involved parties. Most notably, women would finally be able to understand men, and men might finally be able to understand themselves.

Boy Speak is composed of mostly the same words as the American English dictionary, less all words over three syllables, and is derived from roughly the same alphabet; however, crucial differences exist and must be duly noted. For example, onomonopea are used quite frequently in Boy Speak and often substitute for not only words, but whole sentences, sometimes even paragraphs. Beyond grunts, groans, and other audible movements of oxygen through the lungs, Boy Speak often employs everyday phrases to express alternate meanings. Such meanings are dependent on the time of day, present company, and blood-alcohol level. For example, at 10:00 AM on a Monday in the junior accountant wing of Ernst and Young, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now,” is a genuine and seriously lamentable statement in Boy Speak. It is, in fact, fairly synonymous with the same phrase uttered in regular American English by any member of the human race. However, this same statement spoken at 12 midnight in the presence of a female after 2-6 beers is either a serious come on, meaning, “I have emotions; therefore, do me,” or the popular combined complement/patronizing let down, “I want to hook up with you now, but please don’t expect any sort of relationship slash follow up.” But how do you tell which is which? It’s all in the details. What seems trivial could be colossally misunderstood by the many of us who do not speak Boy. And there is a devastating lack of linguists dedicated to creating informative, reliable resources for the mono-gender-lingual among us.

Okay, you say, but what about the economic and geopolitical ramifications of recognizing Boy Speak as an official language? They are compelling, Senator. According to a recent Gallup poll, recognizing Boy Speak has a 99.8% approval rating. And the other .2% are happily married couples with great communication and 2.3 children, so fuck ‘em. Furthermore, several fully credible studies* have confirmed that recognition and increased literacy of Boy Speak could reduce our dependence on foreign oil, reduce the deficit, and settle a centuries old, Biblical beef between Israelis and Palestinians. Even the Christian Right and the Latte-Loving Left are in agreement on this issue, both proclaiming that recognizing Boy Speak is the most serious issue of our time, if only because we’re all trying to make an honest buck here, and I paid them 5 honest ones each before obtaining their statements.

Some may argue, I suppose, that if we are acknowledging the officiality of Boy Speak, we must also, to be fair, collect the same data and acquire the same official recognition of Girl Speak. Touché. My only fear in this is the temptation towards Girl to Boy Dictionaries and vice-versa leading to problematic direct translations. For example, a guy may think paying the check means he gets a little something-something later (don't deny it, Senator), and a girl may think a little something-something means "I love you," but if a man is actually asking for the check, saying, "I'm in love with you, Abigail," will only complicate matters and lead said couple in a direction they had not planned to go. Plus, there's still the matter of the unpaid bill. So I say, yes, both should be acknowledged, but one thing at a time.

Like a man needing to express himself who suppresses his emotions and subsequently develops an ulcer and high blood pressure, ignoring this issue does the nation more harm than good. Senator, I beg of you, lead this charge! Be the guy who changes the course of history – the next Webster. The next Dr. Phil. The next over-privileged, under-qualified dude who gets elected into some cool office with a cool circular-ish shape.

So sack up, grab your figurative ovaries, and get to work. And Senator, no hard feelings about the last time. It happens to all guys. Really.**

Most sincerely,
Your Lijey-poo.


*One. Not really credible. Get over it.
**Girl Speak Translation: "That was so embarrassing. I burned my sheets. Really." Also, it was green. Ga-ross! You should probably see a doctor.

Sex Ed 101

The following is a comedy sketch. Laugh.

We’re in a seventh grade classroom. A young, female teacher (ALICE) addresses her class.

ALICE: Raise your hand if you would like to have sex one day. Joey, raise your hand. Good boy. Now, raise your hand if you’ve had sex already. Joey, put your hand down. Okay. Well the talk about safe sex is quite antiquated. Very, very antiquated. And in my family what we do when the regular talking-talking isn’t working, is we yell. That’s right, we yell at each other. I mean we really go at it and say some rather hurtful things. And I’m not saying that it works. I’m just saying that it’s something that we do.

Today, since our nation’s regular talking-talking about the birds and bees doesn’t seem to be working either, I’m also going to try another method of communication. Actually, I’m not going to talk, or yell, in so much as I’m going to tell you a little story. Does that sound good to you? Joey, stop humping Annie.

Good. Ok. So I have a ‘friend’ who had sex that was not safe. In fact, not only was she not using a condom, but she was also in a car, not wearing a seat belt, going 90 miles per hour, and the engine was on fire. So what happened is that she got Chlamydia and crabs and herpes, and also a baby.

Now, what you may not know is that babies, like genital warts, don’t ever go away. In fact, most studies show that babies, most of the time, end up outliving the person who had the baby in the first place. This is scary. You should be scared. Basically, this means that babies, like Hepatitis B, are with you until the day you die. (she shudders)

Another alarming thing about babies is that as they get older, they get bigger. That’s right. A baby, like the cancer caused by HPV, will only grow with time. In fact, the longer you have a baby, the bigger it’ll get. And while we can all agree a baby in its initial form is bad, just like HIV, babies can develop into something far worse. I mean really, Joey. All you have to do is look in the mirror. Tissues, not fingers. How many times do I have to tell you?

Another fact: Babies are expensive, even more so than my friend’s monthly supply of Valtrex. And as babies get older and get bigger they also like to buy things. And these purchases, like the penile discharge caused by Gonorrhea, come in all sorts of varieties and colors. And they could be anywhere from two dollars to two hundred thousand dollars, if, let’s say, your baby decides it wants a BMW.

And the last thing that people all too often don't know about babies is that babies, much like herpes, make you vastly less attractive to the opposite sex. If you conceive a child, like contracting crabs, Syphilis, or genital warts, not even your dirty uncle will want to do it with you. You may never have sex again. That's right, Debbie, you little twelve-year-old whore. Never again.

So that’s my little story. A little food for thought, if you will. You should also be made aware that giving and receiving oral without the proper protection can magically turn genital herpes into oral, and vice versa, which also happened to my “friend”... BUT, you totally won’t get preggers. Which is why I do it all the time. And now if you'll turn to page 454 in you biology books, we're going to see how a nine-pound baby can rip apart your vagina.

The F Word

Some people really shy away from using the F word, which is not only unfortunate but inconvenient. The F word is used to create so many wonderful, meaningful phrases, phrases I’d rather not – and possibly could not – live without.

I refer you here to two articles of interest, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck and a personal favorite, http://files.kavefish.com/audio/usage_of_the_f-word.wav.

In order to maintain usage of these powerful, fricative phrases at times when it’s not effing “appropriate” (whatever the eff that means), I say simply replace one taboo-fabulous F word with another. See examples below and feel free to use these lovely little clandestine expressions as often as necessary.

Feminist you.
I want to feminist.
I’m so feministed up right now.
Dude, you’re such a feministing tool.
Feminist’s the matter with you?
He feministed me right in the ass.
I feministed up.
Feminist off.
Let's feminist.
This is feministing amazing.
You’re feministed.
I’m feministed.
We’re all feministed.
What a good feminist.
Feminist me harder.
Who the feminist are you?
What the feminist are you doing?
What the feminist do you want?
He feministed your sister.
Your sister’s a mother-feminister.
Mother-feminister.
I feministing love/hate/want to feminist you.
Feminist him up.
WT feminist, Mate?
Don’t feminist with me.
He feministed you over.
Feminist it.
Get the feminist off of me.
Abso-feministing-lutely
Unbe-feministing-lievable.
Feminist a duck.
Oh feministing A.
Feminist this.
Feminist that.
Hot as feminist.
Go feminist yourself.

For a good time, call...

Ok. I honestly don’t get it. First off, who heads into a bathroom stall wielding a marker? Packing a properly working writing utensil is the least of my concerns when I use a public restroom. Whatever is floating in the toilet bowl – yes. Toilet paper status - yes. Whatever liquid is on the floor and/or toilet seat – check. Contracting crabs and other diseases from the toilet seat – yes yes. Keeping my coat and bag away from all previously mentioned liquids and bacteria – yes. But remembering my heavy duty permanent marker? No. The scrap of paper bearing all 12 stanzas of my favorite poem by Keats? No. Just no.

But apparently I am missing something because bathroom graffiti has not only endured the test of time, it has progressed (for lack of a better word) from the “For a good time call...” and “Katie likes dick” variety (though there's still plenty o' that around) to full on discussion forums. People in NYU's library bathroom stall number 2 practically have a book club going.

Upon a recent visit to the w.c. at Think Coffee by Washington Square Park, I found the following on a tiny square of wall above the trash can:

Person #1: “Im getting an MFA.”

Person #2: crossed out the “n” in “an” and after MFA wrote “hopefully not in English.”

Person #3: pointed to person #2’s comment and wrote, “Actually it is ‘an MFA,' but ‘Im’ should be ‘I’m.’”

Person #4: “In the time it took you to read this, 10 people just died.”

Oh NYU students.

Next time, I'll have to remember to bring, not a marker, but a camera with which to capture the many musings, hopes, dreams, public service announcements, and snarky criticisms inscribed on those four teeny tiny walls.

Bathroom graffiti. Get you, I don't. Love you? I think maybe I do...

Hello!

yar. Here we are at my blog area debut-ness. It is going to be a fabulous fun time. Be ready. Pack extra fruit and peanut butter. Also water. Stay hydrated. Things may get rough. But probs not.