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.

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.

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.

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...