A Short List of Things We Should Probably Discuss at Great Length Somewhere Else

First of all, the following sick tautology. When our feet stink we pick them up and take a sniff and declare that they smell like old cheese. When we eat old cheese we pick it up and take a sniff and declare that it smells like feet. In all seriousness, whose funk is original?

Secondly, crystallized armpit hair. Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. Dan himself has a cozy flock going half the time, he'll be pleased to learn I shared with you. It's when your armpits sweat and then the salt crystallizes along individual pit hairs, sometimes fusing together, to create what on a molecular level is probably a really beautiful space like some strange underground cavern full of twisting stalagmites and whatever. On a not molecular level, it pretty much looks like your armpits are full of mineral-encrusted armpit hair. I say "your" because my pits are as smooth as your mom. Which my boyfriend reliably informs me is why we, and I mean "we" as in people, never talk about armpit hair. Apparently men would never waste their breath talking about it, and in our circles they are the ones who are primarily afflicted. But that's stupid because you know what else men never talk about? Your U-spot. And I say "your" because what I really mean is me and my earth sisters.

No idea what a U-spot is? Yeah. Figures.

Lastly, grass fetuses. If you are unfamiliar with the grass fetus, it's what you find when you split a blade of grass open in the middle of May. Tucked into stem between the blade and the root is a perfectly formed, bright green grass fetus just waiting to peel off into the world and ripen into grass seeds. Last summer my friends and I sat by a pond and aborted them individually one beautiful day. We established that they would make a pleasantly crunchy if flavorless addition to a light salad, possibly in combination with toasted grains and a mild goat cheese. And my question is, pretty much humans have eaten everything that won't kill them since the beginning of time. So what's up with us not eating grass fetuses? It's not like we're going to run out of the things any time soon. They could be this delicious seasonal delicacy. What gives? Are they secretly poisonous, only me and my hunter-gatherer friends are immune? I mean, its pretty cool if I have some rare grass fetus immunity, because even fluffy bunnies make me break out (especially fluffy bunnies, and pillows and flowers and god knows probably rainbows and true love, too), but somehow I doubt it. So...does that mean we discovered something totally delicious that's actually a secret? That would make us geniuses. Because hahaaaa, suckers, that shit was right there in front of you all the time, hiding in the grass. Or we're at least Explorers. We're pretty much the Magellan of grass fetuses. Which is probably more than some people accomplish on a Saturday, right?

And speaking of Magellan and fetuses, you thought I was making things up back there when I was talking about the U-spot, didn't you. Schooled.

Thundernuts the Sea Cucumber

The same number of people who watch that show will read this blog, which is fair enough because just look at the size of this entry

Today was a long freaking day. At the end of it, on the tram home, I sat behind a woman who looked like an adorable button but who probably has tuberculosis because she was hacking and wheezing the whole way. It is arguably possible that she just has a cold, but I think at the very least it was swine flu, because this is the type of thing that happens to big-eyed old ladies with crinkly smiley faces just when you least suspect it. When the old lady coughed, the lacy thing that held her bun up vibrated, and she hunched her little button shoulders over and made tiny button fists with her hands.

I was fairly sad that she had consumption and I hoped that she had a husband and a daughter or a son to take care of her, but then I figured that probably her husband was already dead and her stupid ungrateful kids never write unless they're mailing her brochures for retirement homes that look like Santa's workshop in the pictures but where really they beat old people and make them thread tiny needles all day long in a poorly-lit room. I might be confusing retirement homes with sweatshops. Either way the old lady is pretty much screwed, because she has the wasting disease. (I'm not going to lie, I just looked that up. Did you know that tuberculosis is also called the King's Evil? Fact.)

So anyway, after my incredibly exhausting day of being a normal professional grown up, all I wanted to do once I got home was sit down and chill out. So I threw my keys and my bag on the couch, and kissed Daniel hello, and then I fell to my knees and slowly keeled over, and then my body melted into a thin soup and I seeped into the cracks in the parquet. That's what it felt like I should do. Actually, Daniel handed me a glass of wine and I curled up next to him to watch TV. Even though going to the gym and working on my novel (I don't have a novel) would have been more righteous, I was digging the wine and the couch. And the TV.

Only, you know what was on TV? C.S.I. . If you've never seen C.S.I., even by accident, then either you have a really fancy cable package or you actually spend your evenings stretching and reciting poetry. Since no one will ever read this, it's probably important for me to explain that C.S.I stands for crime scene investigation (I'm pretty sure), which is a terrible title, but then they just turned it into a snazzy acronym, which adds some zip but is confusing, because it could stand for just about anything. Crackheads snore ickily. Anyway, I shit you not, this episode was about some guy who hung himself at a ritzy rehab clinic with a rope that some depressed brat had knit together out of dental floss because she was raped and on heroin and was planning to hang herself. Also, in the end it turned out someone else killed the guy because he was beautiful but gay, and the killer just set it up to look like a dental floss suicide. No, seriously.

Then on another channel was a detective show that is about people who are raped and then murdered under extra fucked up circumstances, because normal murder is so yesterday. So then Dan and I skipped to a kids' channel which had some show about how to make super fun rabbit faces out of cream cheese toast and raisins. Then we found some movie that was just starting.

Which turned out to be about a group of Russian prostitutes that thought they were selling out to become strippers in a foreign land, only it turned out that actually their pimp stole their passports and then sold the women to a bunch of fat, ugly old men. It's on right now. It's twenty minutes in and I just watched a scene where one of the girls has to pee but now she's locked in a room, so she's banging on the door screaming, and then her new fat ugly owner opens the door and says, "You pee, then we have sex?" and she screams "Sex no!" and there are tears running down her face, and then he screams: "NO SEX, NO BATHROOM!" and slams the door in her face and locks it, and she sobs and sobs and, finally, pees in her pants.

I don't want to harp on this, but for real. What is wrong with television? I don't actually want to tell you what I do for work in case one day an actual living person reads this, but basically I get to hear about fairly depressing things all day long that make you want to save the world with an enormous silvery-white sword of awesome righteousness, and kill all the bad guys, but you can't because we don't live in that world. Instead we live in the movie where mostly the bad guys win most of the time, and all of the people that are totally cheering for the good guys have to savor a couple of rare victories that are sweet but relatively short-lived, like a tic tac.

Given all of the perfectly fucked up shit that goes down worldwide on an hourly basis, you'd think that most people, like me, would want to go home and watch well-crafted dramas about unicorns and dinosaurs and ancient Amazonian tribes that probably even still exist somewhere. TV could be so fabulous. Entertainment would consist of hour after hour of cute furry animals engaged in witty conversation. Sometimes, when that's too much, there would be a channel where you could watch a koala bear suck on a cheerio until it turns to mush. Thrillers would be whimsical beetle adventures. (I just realized that this is basically what children's tv is like, only clearly is really isn't most of the time, because the only children's show I found was about making a frightening bunny face out of cream cheese and raisins and celery, which probably tastes like cream cheese with raisins and celery. Gross.)

Anyway, in my happy universe, shows wouldn't skim their feel-good factor off of my hopelessly middle class superiority complex which is based solely on the fact that I don't know anyone as fucked up as the guy who was murdered in a fake dental floss suicide.

But obviously, no one else wants to watch Mongolian tea rituals and pygmy shadow puppet dramas about horned lizards. Which, to conclude, is what all the wine is about.

P.S. This blatantly cribbed photo comes from this site