Please register me as Anti-Oprah. She's a one-woman narcissistic corporate machine of superficial hair and false sentiment. Sure, she gives a lotta crap away. Ever catch the look on her face after all those poor suckers cheer for her? She tosses 'em a penny, and they're all like ooh, a Broadway show, we love you Oprah. Perfectly intelligent and sophisticated females rhapsodize over the phenom that is Oprah. What the fuck? She's showing us the houses she built in Texas for Katrina survivors. Saint Oprah? I don't think so. I remember when she was Ms. Why-Didja-Cheat? When that stopped working, she became someone else. Now she's all Ms. Mother Theresa. It is truly an i.q.-lowering experience to watch her expression as she asks - I had pneumonia, gimme a break - a "tough" question. Ha! How's about her brave turn-around when she condemned plagiarism, only after her followers complained?
I say she's offering herself up as the leader of a new religion. And I'm leery whenever a group of people is devoted to any religion, even if it's mine. Oprah worship is particularly repellent to me, however. What's up with the pseudo-honesty? Why does David Letterman give a shit? Am I supposed to link to all this stuff? Like, why? (I only link if I think it's a good thing to look at!) I'll tell ya right now that Oprah can hold a serious pseudo-soulful expression, while Brooke Shields describes her descent into post-partum depression, for a good 40 minutes. Maybe they inject Botox around the mouth before she takes the stage. Or maybe it's computer-generated animation. She can hawk a book like the best saleswoman around; she can go on about her favorite lady-like things. Such talent.
I don't give a shit. I don't like Oprah. Her show is dull. Her opinions are mundane. Her compassion act is all part of raking in the dough and keeping herself in an admired position of warm and beloved - ironically - mother figure. Or maybe she's going for gal next door. At this point, it could be Princess Diana. But I say she can take all of her crap and her romance-novel style, and get offa my t.v. And I'm not buying a book with her name smacked on the cover, either.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Magical Buttons
Aren't nipples super-duper? First of all, they're round and quite naturally hold onto the breast as a root to a tree; all in one. Not like some other body parts that just kinda hang there - but of course that's the male anatomy, and I've no more to say on that subject. Nipples are multi-purpose: they get bigger when it's puberty-time, they feel good when grabbed, so to speak, and they feed many a lucky infant, instantly transforming from an organ of sexual pleasure to a cream soda dispenser.
Nipples are handy if you have kids - they tranform into little baby-feeders, sprinkling milk like a big pinkish-brownish fountain. It kinda hurts, but it's a relief, too. Ball & Chain useta call me The Dairy Queen. Then later he expected to satisfy his curiosity. Ha! That was one time - or two- in my life when the nipples were off-limits to all sexual interations. They were feeding my baby, for crissake. Even having anyone else near them made me anxious. No blurring of the territory.
One night I had no choice. My breasts were engorged, the baby was fast asleep and wouldn't drink, and nothing was working. I woke up the B&C and ordered him to drink. He was a little groggy, but then he took the order. I was complaining "ouch - shit," "jesus - goddamn" "ouch," and he made little noises, like
"Mmm, this is good. It's kinda warm. It's a little sweet." Finally, when my breasts were back down to a reasonable size, I told him that was enough. He wasn't listening well. "Enough! Enough, already, it's over." He fell back into a contented slumber. I wondered if his lactose intolerance would kick in.
My dispensers always went together. The momma books said that after awhile tit left, Lola, would know that tit right, Rola, was the feeder of the moment. But no. Baby drank from Rola, and Lola spouted like a fountain in France. It wasn't so bad unless I ran outta breast pads, and a young girl came to the door to deliver some special post-natal equipment, and my shirt was soaked because I was exhausted looking after a 4-year-old and an infant, and I didn't give a shit about changing. This girl was maybe twenty, and I am quite sure she went directly from my doorstep to the gynecologist to have her tubes tied with whatever instrument they had handy.
Some of us need the nipple for good sex. Research shows that if you make your tits bigger, just for the helluvit, you may lose sensation in your nipples, among other unpleasantries. Yikes! Now some of us have no choice and this is not about that. This is about why risk it if your tits are perfectly fine, as is? I mean, without the nipple sensation, I might have been the first Jewish nun. My nipples are so sensitive that without them I would be lost in some hinterland of sexual ignorance. No nipple, no high point; no big bang, final release, home run. There would definitely be less interest in having sex with individuals over whom I believed myself to be in love, when really I just needed a little nipple manipulation.
When given the luxury of a healthy small breast that will be your happy companion in sexual endeavors, or a bigger breast that may be as useless as an elbow, why choose elbow? Truly, this is insanity - worse than denying the need for foreplay, even. Willingly removing that sensation is akin to refusing food when it's right in front of you. Aha! It's a sex diet. It's a fucking disorder, as opposed to an eating disorder. And isn't it all the more demented when there are women who truly have to consider this option? Don't give yourself a side effect when you don't have the goddamn disease! My buttons will remain as is, small and potent, lest fate deals me the proverbial lousy hand. Get those fake balloons outta my view - I'm keeping my tits available for all magical manipulations.
Nipples are handy if you have kids - they tranform into little baby-feeders, sprinkling milk like a big pinkish-brownish fountain. It kinda hurts, but it's a relief, too. Ball & Chain useta call me The Dairy Queen. Then later he expected to satisfy his curiosity. Ha! That was one time - or two- in my life when the nipples were off-limits to all sexual interations. They were feeding my baby, for crissake. Even having anyone else near them made me anxious. No blurring of the territory.
One night I had no choice. My breasts were engorged, the baby was fast asleep and wouldn't drink, and nothing was working. I woke up the B&C and ordered him to drink. He was a little groggy, but then he took the order. I was complaining "ouch - shit," "jesus - goddamn" "ouch," and he made little noises, like
"Mmm, this is good. It's kinda warm. It's a little sweet." Finally, when my breasts were back down to a reasonable size, I told him that was enough. He wasn't listening well. "Enough! Enough, already, it's over." He fell back into a contented slumber. I wondered if his lactose intolerance would kick in.
My dispensers always went together. The momma books said that after awhile tit left, Lola, would know that tit right, Rola, was the feeder of the moment. But no. Baby drank from Rola, and Lola spouted like a fountain in France. It wasn't so bad unless I ran outta breast pads, and a young girl came to the door to deliver some special post-natal equipment, and my shirt was soaked because I was exhausted looking after a 4-year-old and an infant, and I didn't give a shit about changing. This girl was maybe twenty, and I am quite sure she went directly from my doorstep to the gynecologist to have her tubes tied with whatever instrument they had handy.
Some of us need the nipple for good sex. Research shows that if you make your tits bigger, just for the helluvit, you may lose sensation in your nipples, among other unpleasantries. Yikes! Now some of us have no choice and this is not about that. This is about why risk it if your tits are perfectly fine, as is? I mean, without the nipple sensation, I might have been the first Jewish nun. My nipples are so sensitive that without them I would be lost in some hinterland of sexual ignorance. No nipple, no high point; no big bang, final release, home run. There would definitely be less interest in having sex with individuals over whom I believed myself to be in love, when really I just needed a little nipple manipulation.
When given the luxury of a healthy small breast that will be your happy companion in sexual endeavors, or a bigger breast that may be as useless as an elbow, why choose elbow? Truly, this is insanity - worse than denying the need for foreplay, even. Willingly removing that sensation is akin to refusing food when it's right in front of you. Aha! It's a sex diet. It's a fucking disorder, as opposed to an eating disorder. And isn't it all the more demented when there are women who truly have to consider this option? Don't give yourself a side effect when you don't have the goddamn disease! My buttons will remain as is, small and potent, lest fate deals me the proverbial lousy hand. Get those fake balloons outta my view - I'm keeping my tits available for all magical manipulations.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Drug Me Into The Blogosphere
I keep trying to write about nipples and somehow my breasts hurt, my conscience hurts, I dunno if I have my facts straight. They're popping up everywhere! First, I have my-daughter's-getting-older-fear, which is utterly moronic since I already have a teenager and I enjoy being with my kids as they grow. I have no nostalgia for babydom. That was then, this is now. It's like remembering my dinner before it was cooked. It looked good, but now it's really something.
Then, and this has nothing to do with nipples, Becca and I were discussing the obsessive nature of blogging while our - yikes - growing daughters ran around a restaurant. (Doesn't it seem absurd that restaurant isn't spelled restaraunt? Really.) Anyway, blogging is obsessive because you read you write you read, and then sometimes you wonder: how the hell did this woman have the time to write 500 pages and include excellent graphics to boot? Meanwhile, I keep going back to my nipples blog.
I was staring at my nipples blog. I was staring at my nipples, too, but that's another piece altogether. I was well-aware that I am depressed, recovering from not-so-new-moan-ya, and I couldn't get to the root of the nipples problem, if you'll pardon the image. They're not really, roots, right, they're lactation paths, or milk ducts. Little rivers that sprout vitamin drink - I think it's Odwalla - to tiny tikes. And the writing had utterly - udderly (how cheap, I cannot help myself) distracted me from my predicament. Which is, truly, that my sleep, my eating, my everything is quite depressed, despite the meds the therapy and the many supportive people around.
It's not the run-of-the-therapy-mill supports, though. It's the he-man psycho-pharm guy, Dr. Rugged. Every time I see him, I am better. He's so knowledgeable about drug interactions and all this type of fancy crap, and his venn diagrams are to die for. He has massive shoulders like he forgot to take his football pads out and I find it strangely comforting: the big man will say multi-syllable words and understand my little Jewish references, an added bonus. So I visualize Dr. Rugged, and instead of the blue or the yellow, I'm thinking the little cube shape. Blogozene! If you're one of the two people reading this, you may be on it. And it's doing the trick. The side-effects are a little OCD-ish, but what the hell. I can actually write on this stuff. I'm hallucinating a little, but it's mostly text, words like "comments," "feminism," and "links." The colors are quite intense, greens and purples for the most part. I've lost my appetite and my fingers are a little numb, but I think it's worth it for the distraction from non-text, non-screen life. I'm almost ready for nipples.
Then, and this has nothing to do with nipples, Becca and I were discussing the obsessive nature of blogging while our - yikes - growing daughters ran around a restaurant. (Doesn't it seem absurd that restaurant isn't spelled restaraunt? Really.) Anyway, blogging is obsessive because you read you write you read, and then sometimes you wonder: how the hell did this woman have the time to write 500 pages and include excellent graphics to boot? Meanwhile, I keep going back to my nipples blog.
I was staring at my nipples blog. I was staring at my nipples, too, but that's another piece altogether. I was well-aware that I am depressed, recovering from not-so-new-moan-ya, and I couldn't get to the root of the nipples problem, if you'll pardon the image. They're not really, roots, right, they're lactation paths, or milk ducts. Little rivers that sprout vitamin drink - I think it's Odwalla - to tiny tikes. And the writing had utterly - udderly (how cheap, I cannot help myself) distracted me from my predicament. Which is, truly, that my sleep, my eating, my everything is quite depressed, despite the meds the therapy and the many supportive people around.
It's not the run-of-the-therapy-mill supports, though. It's the he-man psycho-pharm guy, Dr. Rugged. Every time I see him, I am better. He's so knowledgeable about drug interactions and all this type of fancy crap, and his venn diagrams are to die for. He has massive shoulders like he forgot to take his football pads out and I find it strangely comforting: the big man will say multi-syllable words and understand my little Jewish references, an added bonus. So I visualize Dr. Rugged, and instead of the blue or the yellow, I'm thinking the little cube shape. Blogozene! If you're one of the two people reading this, you may be on it. And it's doing the trick. The side-effects are a little OCD-ish, but what the hell. I can actually write on this stuff. I'm hallucinating a little, but it's mostly text, words like "comments," "feminism," and "links." The colors are quite intense, greens and purples for the most part. I've lost my appetite and my fingers are a little numb, but I think it's worth it for the distraction from non-text, non-screen life. I'm almost ready for nipples.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Blog Addict Confesses, Protests, and Possibly Misses Typos as a Result
Blogging is good. I have discovered some excellent blogs. I am forced to practice the art of writing, even if it is not the fiction and poetry that I am supposedly devoted to. I am reading, and that is excellent. But didja ever notice that every blog leads to another blog? And another? And in my world, it's not the high-minded blogs that I stick with - I already read the news in hard print, and I do appreciate those blogs. But when someone is weighing in on or commenting on movie stars, bad fashion, female problems, dumbass men, any type of bad taste, and/or lust, she has my attention. (As far as I know, I haven't yet met a male blogger outside of a comments page, I dunno why.)
Anyhoo, I have an excellent invitation to play dolls and I'm not wasting my goddamn time sucked into the computer and harping on about how fucked up those skating commentators are and how they have a million Olympics web pages but nowhere to write in and say you xenophobic pigs leave the Japanese women alone they were better than the Americans so live with it. Even Scott Hamilton was an arse. I gotta go play dolls, and as protest, I think some of them may be multicultural.
Anyhoo, I have an excellent invitation to play dolls and I'm not wasting my goddamn time sucked into the computer and harping on about how fucked up those skating commentators are and how they have a million Olympics web pages but nowhere to write in and say you xenophobic pigs leave the Japanese women alone they were better than the Americans so live with it. Even Scott Hamilton was an arse. I gotta go play dolls, and as protest, I think some of them may be multicultural.
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