Favorite fun fact I learned recently that has nothing to do with happiness or being in love--swear

Hippocrates believed that the uterus "wandered untethered through a woman's body, giving rise to any number of physical, mental, and moral failings... [and taking] a transcorporeal journey up to the breastbone, even to the throat, becoming particularly frantic when it wasn't fed on a regular basis with semen."*

What a fucking asshole.


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*From Natalie Angier's Woman: An Intimate Geography

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This blog has fallen into a state of abandonment and disrepair as of late.

And I must admit: It's because I'm happy. And in love.

And happy people in love are annoying as FUCK.

So consider the silence my noble attempt at sparing you what would surely be the nauseating verbal equivalent of PDA and lap-sitting and nuzzling and inside-jokes and entwined legs and hand-holding and one-milkshake-with-two-straws and cold-weather-snuggling and sappy nicknames.

I'm so goddamn considerate it HURTS.

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Dude: Seriously?

Last night I was randomly thinking about a whole whirlwind of things, but one of the random things my mind decided to settle on was the series of strange beliefs that some of the boys in my life have held. Not the kind of strange beliefs that require kidnapping and deprogramming. But strange beliefs as in, Dude: seriously??

Case in point:

• THE SNEAKY MARRIAGE BELIEF: One of my exes would get pissed off at me that I didn't ever want to get married. AND YET, despite the fact that we dated for EIGHT YEARS (yes, you heard me right--EIGHT years), he never in any way broached the topic with me, other than to get pissed off at me that I didn't believe in marriage. It dawned on me yesterday that this was actually kind of brilliant. He was able to be righteously indignant and guilt-trip me about "not loving him enough" WHILE never having to actually succumb to a long-term commitment. Sneaky, no?



• THE PLASTIC: Then again, the same ex not-so-brilliantly believed that plastic doesn't scratch things. For example, he would toss a laundry basket on the hood of my car, and I would be like, Dude, watch you don't scratch that! And he'd be all, Plastic doesn't scratch things. We went on like this for a while until I got the brilliant idea to do the same on his car with my laundry basket. When he said, Hey, what's up with the scratches on my car? I was all, I dunno! You always told me plastic didn't scratch. BURN.



• THE MAIM: This very same ex ALSO believed, until he was corrected by a very horrified me, that a lion's mane was actually called a lion's maim.



• THE PRE-CUM AS SANTA CLAUS: Another dude I hung out with for a brief stint didn't belief you could get pregnant from pre-cum. Said I: Um, dude. You DO know you can get someone pregnant from pre-cum, right? Dude: Yeah, I don't believe in that. Because pre-cum is apparently the equivalent of Santa Claus. No doubt there are probably now a multitude of equally retarded pre-cum babies of his dopily running around and telling other women that they don't believe pre-cum can get a woman pregnant either.

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"God, it's great to be alive
takes the skin right off my hide
to think I'll have to give it all up someday..."

(M. Ward--"To Go Home")

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My Pleasure Button

"A woman... does nothing practical at all with her clitoris. The clitoris is simply a bundle of nerves: 8,000 nerve fibers, to be precise. That's a higher concentration of nerve fibers than is found anywhere else on the body, including the fingertips, lips, and tongue, and it is twice the number in the penis." (58)

"[E]early anatomists referred to the clitoris as an "obscene organ of brute pleasure"... In 1612, Jacques Duval wrote of the clitoris: "In French it is called temptation, the spur to sensual pleasure, the female rod and the scorner of men..." (62)


Seriously: If ever I was looking for a nickname for my lady-parts, "The Scorner of Men" wins out, no contest.



(From Natalie Angier's Woman: An Intimate Geography)

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Crappy & Plenty

I continue to be convinced that our work vending machine is stocked by someone who a) has a really twisted sense of humor, b) is 8-years old and also trapped in the 1980s, or c) robbed a reject vending machine supply store. Either which way, I am amazed that they are making any money at all off of the products they choose to stock. This week, they filled up a row with Tootsie Rolls. A roll with Mike & Ikes. And even worse, they filled up a row with Good n' Plenty.



Now, perhaps the tootsie rolls and Mike & Ikes might have a chance. But Good & Plenty??

I haven't eaten a Good & Plenty since 5th grade. And when I ate them last, I was sitting in a dark movie theater with my best friend and my method of consuming them was to suck off their sweet and chalky exteriors and then (*whispering*) spit the offending pieces of licorice out on the movie theater floor. Because, as you know and I know, Good & Plenty are demonstrable proof that NO ONE LIKES BLACK LICORICE. Even if you've convinced yourself that you like it, you don't. TRUST ME. I mean, even back then, I only ate them because I wanted to believe that the rejects of society, the social outcasts, could be loved by SOMEONE. And it was a filthy filthy lie.

So why anyone in their RIGHT MIND would waste a whole vending machine row on Good & Plenty candies is beyond me as they will no doubt be in there FOREVER.

To demonstrate my point, I have created a counter, tracking how long the offending Good & Plenty candies sit in our vending machine at work. (The clock started when I first noticed them in there on Sept. 30--they may have been there weeks and months prior, but I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt.)

A tracker, you say? Have you no life?

Thankfully this is a blog that rejoices and feasts on mundanities, so bite me.

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Pre-Coffee Moments That Make You Realize You Need More Sleep

Getting up when your alarm goes off, reaching over to pet your cat Zooey in the dark, and having the sudden horrified thought that something has gone seriously seriously wrong with her face in the middle of the night, and it's become mutated and elephantine while you slept, and it's all because you haven't been paying enough attention to her, and now she's entirely deformed and YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE HER EYES and why god why, and it's so flat and eyeless, and wait oh that is her fricking tail sticking out of her face for the love of all things unholy, and wait oh maybe that face is her ass, and wait oh you are indeed petting her ass and thinking it is her face, and hopefully you didn't accidentally pet her asshole, and you could really use some coffee.

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Ten--I Repeat, Ten

I had to have "the talk" with N-A the other day. You know, the one where you have to explain to the new boyfriend that--well, you know--once October rolls around, you watch NOTHING but fricking horror movies for the entire course of the month, and he's probably gonna get stuck watching at least a few of them with you, despite the fact that he has absolutely NO love for them.

You know: "The Talk."

Anyways, his response was that, as long as he can watch football at my place on Sundays, he'd watch ten horror movies with no complaints.

Ten.

I think he, for some reason, guesstimated this as a low number to have to suffer through for the month, given that yesterday, after I pointed out that he'd said ten, he said, Well, that's like a movie a week. And then the dawning: Er, two movies a week. Oh wait no THREE movies a week?!?

Two and a half, to be precise, I said, smirking.

I don't even typically WATCH 2-3 horror movies a week, even in the month of October. But god bless bad math skills for letting me inadvertently wreak havoc on October.

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