Biden v. Palin

Why did I feel like buying a box of girl scout cookies from Palin by the end of the debate? Not that Biden’s answers were always awe inspiring. For example, when asked to how he would shrink the gap of polarization in Washington, Biden cited his work on “very, very controversial issues” such as domestic violence, and fighting genocide. Yup, there’s nothing more controversial than working against the killing of an entire population. In fact, my friends and I often have heated arguments over this and other controversial topics, such as kicking puppies.

Not that the moderator was much better. She often seemed to be conducting two simultaneous interviews instead of conducting a debate. Which might help explain the strange tactic that both Palin and Biden used, they would not look at the moderator when answering and instead, look directly into the camera as if trying to make the viewer feel like the candidates were talking to them. I can just imagine people breaking from their debates about domestic violence and genocide to yell, "Honey, come quick, Sarah Palin is talking to me!" "And bring some money for the thin mints while you're at it.!"

I Am The Unicorn

Of all the things I never expected to be doing, being pregnant had to rank right up there with removing my own gallbladder with a soup spoon or voting Republican. Which might be why I feel amazed that people actually believe me when I tell them that I’m pregnant. Actually I was all for not telling anybody at all and waiting for people to say something. But, I was persuaded by the other party to this grand genetic science experiment that maybe this was not the best option. Whenever I do tell people now, I feel like a text book example of “How To Tell If Someone Is Lying,” My eyes dart around the room, I say it quick and low, like I’m trying to buy crack on street corner on a Sunday afternoon. And then the strangest thing happens—people believe me, even though I feel like I’ve just announced, “I’m a unicorn!” (Actually, becoming a one-horned horse and becoming pregnant had roughly the same likelihood in my book up until a few months ago.) It makes me think though, that we are a country that wants to believe--in $700 billion dollar bailouts, in Nigerian businessmen with million dollar checks, that the world makes sense even if only through the lens of a conspiracy theory--and apparently in the possibility that a totally-unprepared-for-parenthood 35 year-old with misanthropic tendencies, having a baby is not the greatest catastrophe yet set down upon mankind. Huh. Go figure. Coo-coo-ca-choo.

I Like My Women The Way I Like My Kebab

For amusement, I once posted a personals ad on craigslist with the title, "Does This Sound Like You?" The entire text of the ad was composed of the following -- "awooga awooga..." And although (sadly enough) I got a number of responses for an ad that consisted solely of the sound of a tugboat, it does not even begin to compare to the brilliance of the ads from They Call Me Naughty Lolita, Personal Ads from the London Review of Books. Below are some of my favorites.

I write the best literature this country's ever seen. Then my spell-checker tell me to kill, kill, kill. No sudden movements with highly-strung F, 38, Reading. Box no. 3627.

I once found the perfect match in this column, but it turned out to be an ad I'd written two years earlier that they'd forgotten to publish. Still, you have to admire my consistency. Man, 43. Consistent. Admiring. Admirable. Box no. 4321.

I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out and covered in too much tahini. Before long I'll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you're the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors. Box no. 5623.

List your ten favorite albums. I don't want to compare notes, I just want to know if there's anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward-thinking man, 35. Box no. 8089.

Only the good die young. And sea-monkeys. Providing you flush them. Reclaim those years of bitter disappointment, waiting for the turgid little insects of your life to blossom into entertaining webbed-toed critters, with good, honest cephalopod (35). Underwater kingdom and X-ray species available from box no. 5789.

I have known only shame. Then, last week, I experienced surprise. Man, 37. Box no. 4126.

Will you sleep with me? Knowing is half the battle. Man, neither the time nor the inclination for subtleties. Box no. 2574.

Using advanced quantum mechanics and some bits from an old Breville sandwich toaster, I have been to the future and witnessed its glories. They say men will never be able to hover like wasps, but I tell you they haven't witnessed our many bounteous unions with the delightful Wasp People of Ruislip's as yet undiscovered caverns. Join me, and let us be the first to offer up our bodies and secure majestic wask-like hovering abilities for generations to come. Man, 63. Possibly ingesting medicines that shouldn't be taken orally. Box no. 2268.

My Vagina Has A First Name, It's C-H-E-A-P

I have the worst gynecologist ever. I know this because he is always available for appointments. When I tried to make an appointment with other gynecologists, the conversation goes something like this:

Me: "So, um, I'd like to make an appointment."

Doctor Too-Good for Me Apparently: "Sure, no problem."

Me: "Great!"

Doctor Still Too Good for Me Apparently: "I think we can squeeze you in sometime around 2010."

When I call my gynecologist, the conversation goes like this:

Me: "Do you have any appointments available, say before the next solar eclipse?"

Doctor Desperate: "Sure do. How about today at noon?"

In fact, I am willing to bet that if I wanted to schedule an appointment at 3 in the morning, my doctor would be willing to meet me halfway...and then escort me inside the office.

The office itself is no more reassuring. The waiting room features solely magazines devoted to pregnancy and childbirth. Not one single People or US Weekly to distract patients from the fact that a total stranger is going to put a cold instrument up their hoo-ha and pry it open like some stubborn elevator door. No siree.

The waiting room selection though, beats the exam room offerings though. Posted directly in front of the paper-covered barca lounger, is a poster of a tree frog dangling precariously over a branch, its legs akimbo. The caption reads, "All progress has resulted from those who have taken uncomfortable positions." I am too frightened to ask what sort of progress I might expect. I am too frigtened to run screaming out of the room like any person with a tablespoon of common sense would do.

Sometimes I really dislike small talk. When I get my haircut, I sometimes pretend to have a headache so that I won't have to engage in strained chitchat with the stylist. However, I found myself wishing that my doctor would launch into a little mini-dialogue about the weather or sports or what effect the weather was going to have on sports this weekend. Nope. Not to be. Instead, what I get is:

"Let's hope for a normal pap result. Now, wouldn’t that be a great Christmas gift!"

Now, my vagina is not ordinarily in the habit of getting me gifts. And if it were, I'm pretty sure the wrapping job wouldn't be all that impressive. But, it was Christmas and I happened to know my vagina wasn't going anywhere. So it was with some eagerness that I awoke on Christmas and looked around to see what my vagina might have left me.

Unfortunately, the good doctor is also apparently, a liar. My vagina got me nothing. Zilch. Still, I can't help but have high hopes for Valentine’s day...