There is no dignity anywhere

Just when you think there is no such thing as death with dignity, a story like this comes over the wire...

Woman commits suicide, dangling body mistaken for Halloween decoration.

...and proves you absolutely correct. To think that I once considered suicide a positive alternative to spending my incontinent years warehoused in a nursing home.

Back to the drawing board, I suppose.

Give me the pill or give me death!

As you know, La Blonde lives the fast life of the New Sodom single girl, and she's had her share of late nights, high-vis parties, fancy cocktails, writing lectures for class, doing just 'one small side project' for the boss, cleaning up after the Greek who, despite an engineering degree at a prestigious school in a state that rhymes with 'assachusetts' , cannot learn that dirty dishes go in the sink, writing her dissertation- all the things that make up the science diva lifestyle.

And because of all this, it helps to know when you'll be menstruating. Yes, the purpose of the pill is to prevent pregnancy, but it also does a wonderful job of keeping your periods on schedule and preventing debilitating cramps when it does arrive. I schedule lunches and appointments; why not this, too?

Why can't we have birth control?

Yet the Target corporation, and specifically, a store in Fenton, Missouri, refuse to fill a valid prescriptions for emergency contraception, denying women any control that they could have over their reproductive biology.

**Warning to my mother: you should probably stop reading right here. I think it's better for both of us**

Screw you, Target. La Blonde was never a big fan of procreative sex anyway, but I say this now, and I mean it: take away my birth control pill, and I will never have procreative sex ever again. I am not going to let Christian fundamentalists make me a victim of my own biology because they want me to be either chaste (and cramping) or pregnant. Listen up, fundies: I'll get my face glazed like a jelly donut three nights a week before I accept either of your bulls**t choices.

While you're at it, help Planned Parenthood register your displeasure with the Target Corporation.

Everybody hide! It's the Amish, and they're pissed!

The NYT covers a horse manure dispute in Wisconsin between Amish citizens and damned heathen zipper-lovers. Sez the columnist:

Some business owners are clearly concerned about how the Amish will react if pushed.

I'm sure this is an issue of great importance in America's Dairyland, but here in New Sodom, we typically don't lose any sleep over a disagreement with a religious sect dedicated to non-violence. Plus, unless you're in the market for a crocheted Renuzit cover in the shape of a puppy, Shipshewana sucks ass. Yeah, how you like me now, Amish!

And we're back- five things worse than grading

I've just spent a wonderful week with my parents. One might wonder how a week with parents might be classified as wonderful, but that's because you don't know my parents, especially my mother (hi mom!), who used the word 'cocksucker' at dinner the other night.

After putting mom and dad on the road, I realized that the wireless on my laptop no longer worked. I spent several hours waiting in the wet, crowded, hot Apple Store, only to be given a 5 minute inspection by the unimaginably pretty yet inexplicably straight employee boy, and told that that my airport card had dislodged. It just needed to be shoved in harder. Seriously, you gotta really push it in there, especially with these little ones. (I have a 12-inch. Laptop, that is. *Rimshot*) It still didn't work, so he was forced take it in the back room and wiggle it around some more. At that point, my brain had him bent over 6 ways and crying, but I guess my airport card got fixed, too. Whatevs. Sweet Lord Jesus deliver me.


And without further delay or unnecessary innuendo, let's participate in a meme! I've been tagged by Dr. Brazen Hussy, so let us begin...

Five things worse than grading:

1. Waiting for the nailpolish on my toes to dry. To be fair, what I really hate are my nasty toenails, which require painting so that they don't sear the retinas of all who gaze upon them. Gotta keep the ol' self-loathing at bay.

2. The fact that it's rained almost continuously for four days.

3. Stray body hair in the bathroom. There are up to three Greek men in this apartment at any given time, and while they invented Democracy, they can't keep their body hair under control. There's nothing like going to sit down on the toilet seat and "Whoa! Hello, strange pube!"*

4. Cleaning out the refridgerator or doing laundry, my most hated of all domestic chores.

5. Men's back hair**. I've come to terms with chest hair- I don't like it, but if I'm going to date post-pubescent, it's a reality. However, back hair is an entirely different story. Why? Because if a man has something stuck in his chest hair, he can see it and pick it out. Not so with the other stuff. Things hide in there. Also, the first time you catch yourself absentmindedly running your fingers through it, there's that pesky urge to commit ritual suicide.

*There is a 100% chance that pube is NOT mine, and you can take that to the BANK.
**Astute readers may note that 2/5ths of my answers have to do with men's wayward body hair. Please do not take this as a condemnation of men in general, but rather, a gentle encouragement of good grooming. I used to date a guy who wouldn't treat the eczema on his face because he thought it looked 'manly'. Allow me to rebut: BullS**T. I apply the same criteria to myself: if it's not pleasantly fragranced and nicely groomed, I'm not going to shove your face in it. I only ask that you extend me the same courtesy. Then, it's game on.

So it's on to you, Lucky Doubles Roller

Apropos of nothing

I love James Spader. Not the old, puffy Boston Public James Spader- the shaggy-haired, nerd-cute Stargate-era James Spader. Sweet like my mommy...

Versus


God damn the cruel hands of time.

What your handbag says about you

According to the New York Times, carrying a $1500 handbag says "I am not a graduate student". Oh really? It appears that the NYT has never met a graduate student with completely misplaced priorities and lots of undeserved credit. The NYT has never met me.

On the other hand, I would never pay $1500 for a purse. I would however, pay an indecent amount of money for this sick skirt from Vivienne Westwood's Anglomania line.


I won't say how much, because my mom reads this. Hi mom!

Cover your sinful bits, ladies!

A woman who calls herself "Lydia of Purple" (probably for some biblical reason that I'm too hellbound to understand) creates modest clothing and overly long urls. Firm in her belief that "around 1901, swim wear (sic) was modest and stylish", Lydia obviously wishes to return to those halcyon days where women worried less about, oh, WHO THEY SHOULD VOTE FOR, and more about guarding their ankles from the lustful gazes of roving gentlemen

Lydia of Purple

Thanks to the studs at Something Awful for the link! For more coverage of extremely modest ladies, visit my friend Dr. Brazen Hussy (who makes up in style what she lacks in modesty) at What the Hell is Wrong With You? .

Now back to a long day of thinking impure thoughts and walking around unaccompanied by a male relative.