Stop, my sides!

Okay, when did Cosmopolitan become a comedy magazine? I don't read it often, mostly because I'm not exactly their target demographic; the only "walks of shame" I do these days are the ones that involve spilling coffee on myself by 10:15am. But I decided to pick one up today, and I've been laughing my head off all afternoon. For those of you who don't want to spend the $5.49, a few gems I learned from Cosmo:

In the article "Would you do this to your vagina?", I'm informed that leaving some hair down there is the new thing. Isn't that kind of the old thing? I hit puberty on the cusp of the 80s. The 70s were pretty bushcentric, so I've actually never understood why women feel the need to go all Kojak. Granted, looking like you're smuggling a hamster in your underpants might be a bit too au naturel, but completely bare? Nope. But the best part of that article was this little revelation: there's a temporary dye women can get to pink up their pussies. Sort of a new kind of lip stain, I guess. Who in the hell is sitting there thinking "You know what? My vadge is looking a little pallid?" Jesus Christ - I'm 41, and I only got the courage to dye my hair at home 6 months ago. If you want to paint something, I suggest your toes.

Next. Apparently, studies have been done, and the colour green got a 96% on something they call the Colour Happiness Scale. I briefly rejoiced, since I just bought a lovely green top. Unfortunately, I then remembered something that might suggest a serious flaw in the research: Oscar the Grouch.

I kind of suspect a lot of the "Cosmo confessions" are made up, simply because I don't think it's mathematically possible for that many people to get caught having sex by their parents/roommates/cleaning lady/ a news crew. But a contributor named Matt Meltzer apparently rounded up some real live guys and asked them how they keep from finishing too soon. Bit personal there, Matt, but okay. My favourite, and the guy I want to buy a beer, is 25 year old Gus, who says he thinks about "dead animals on asphalt". Really, Gus? Maybe I'm old school, but I'm pretty sure, all things considered, I'd rather have sex with a guy who didn't last super long as opposed to a guy who was thinking about roadkill the entire time.

Sadly, the last thing I learned today at Cosmo U is not, in fact, a laughing matter. I have a well documented fear of overripe bananas. Imagine my horror when I read that putting a piece of well-ripened banana skin pulp-side down over a splinter, then covering it with a bandage, will help draw out the splinter. I would like to go on record as stating the following: I don't care if a well-ripened banana would help draw out a samurai sword on which I was impaled, I don't want the damn thing anywhere near me.

There were also 8 new sex positions with catchy names that made my knees hurt just looking at them, and an article entitled "OMG, I'm in Love With My Stepbrother", but the banana thing did me in. Thanks for the laughs, Cosmo. I didn't know you had it in you.

Minimalist? Um...no

Hurricane Earl turned out to be mostly talk. But I didn't leave the house, got bored, and have been wandering from room to room, feeling kind of edgy. All of this wandering got me to wondering - why in the hell do I have so much stuff? And why have I kept it?

My friend J. likes lists; she's requested more lists. Which is sort of ironic, since I could probably write a fairly comprehensive list about things I saw at her bachelorette party that I wish I could un-see. Another time, perhaps. For now, and for sentimental reasons, here are 25 things you can find in my house that will be of no use whatsoever during a hurricane.

1) An ancient tin that, many years ago, held raisins from Malaga, Spain. My grandfather had it buried somewhere, stuffed with money, when I was a teenager. One day, he went and bought himself a new car, and when I went into their porch later that day, this muddy old tin was on the table, empty. I don't keep money in it, so no breaking in, please.

2) A plastic figure of Marie Antoinette. She has a removable wig and gown, and underneath she's sporting drab Conciergerie clothes and a buzz cut. When you press a button on her back, her head pops off. I realize this is in poor taste.

3) Bop-It. I've owned it for a few weeks. I'm obsessed. But you need to get to 100 to unlock the next level, and that is never going to happen.

4) Three little finger puppets of Friday Kahlo, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. I should really buy the Freud finger puppet; he'd have a field day with those choices.

5) The obligatory giant souvenir glass from Planet Hollywood New York, circa 1992. The place was hopping. Saw my very first transvestite at the bar. It was awesome.

6) Ticket stubs from every musical I've ever seen. I think "Crazy for You" was my favourite for pizzazz, but "Rent" for emotion.

7) A tiny wooden idol a friend sent me from Timbuktu. Seriously; it's a real place. It makes me a little sad, because I miss him being in my life like he used to be.

8) A copy of the book "How to Procrastinate". Haven't got around to reading it yet.

9) My childhood Raggedy Ann doll. I didn't realize until my 20s that she and Andy were apparently clowns. Fuck.

10) A vintage lime green porcelain clock with gilded gold cherubs. My aunt's sister-in-law coveted it, but my aunt secretly gave it to me years ago. Her sister-in-law hasn't noticed yet. It's rococo fabulous, and it keeps great time.

11) A painting I made at a breast cancer event by applying paint to my boob and pressing it to a card. It's quite pretty, and sort of looks like a pansy. I'd always suspected my breasts were the real talent; this confirmed it.

12) A reproduction vintage menu I bought along the Seine on my last trip to Paris. It's pretty much steak and potatoes, but it sounds so much cooler in vintagey French.

13) A framed photo of a sign shaped like a giant pig with the word "Norcineria" on it. Took it outside a shop in a small village in Tuscany. Near as I could tell from looking in the shop, "norcineria" means "we sell parts of the animal you didn't know existed".

14) A denim and metallic floral, fur-lined cat carrier. It was a housewarming gift billed as "The world's gayest cat carrier". It is.

15) Four handpainted margarita glasses (2 senoritas, 2 senors who look a bit like Juan Valdez) that my mother bought me. In Newfoundland.

16) Bone china cups and saucers that belonged to my grandmother and, likely, my great grandmother. I would love to display them, but I have them on a very high shelf because I'm terrified I'll break them.

17) A Magic 8 "Beauty Ball". You're supposed to ask it fashion and beauty questions and it'll guide you. Where was this in the 80s?

18) A giant pair of slippers that look like Grumpy the dwarf's head. They're lovely and warm, but now that I have stairs, I can't wear them; they're huge, and pose a serious safety risk. One of my old cats was absolutely terrified of them.

19) A tiny teddy bear I've had since I was about a year old. He's yellowed and long ago lost his original neck ribbon. But I love him.

20) A little metal crazy lady who comes with magnetic cats you can stick to her. I think of it as my very own action figure.

21) A pair of windup lederhosen. Doesn't everyone have those?

22) A receipt from the first night I spent with a special someone. I mean a receipt from a restaurant or shop to commemorate the evening, not from the special someone. He was cash only.

23) Barbie clothes from the 70s. From the looks of it, my Barbies spent a fair bit of time at Studio 54.

24) My Brownie Record handbook. I was apparently able, at the time, to care for and tie my own tie, sew two types of buttons on actual garments,
and keep my room tidy for two weeks. Didn't stick. However, looks like I never got around to making a terrarium or preparing a package neatly for mailing. Slacker.

25) A cheese bell. Has anyone, ever, in the history of entertaining, actually used a cheese bell?

Will I get rid of any of this? Absolutely not. But now I want cheese. And a brownie.

How do you spell "ridiculous"?

Christ - it's much harder than I thought to come up with something regularly for this thing. Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I've sort of been held in thrall to a serial killer. "Dexter" is awesome. And I should know better than to go on imdb when I'm behind in my viewing; I'm forever accidentally spoiling myself. Actually, that was a good thing with "The Wire" one time, because if I hadn't known what was coming by spoiling myself, I would likely have soiled myself.

So what's going on? What do I feel like talking about? What's got me all in a tizzy? Well, nothing and everything. Men in general. Men specifically. The impending demise of the English language. My inability to leave the house without a liberal sprinkling of cat fur. The mutinous nature of my breasts. The high cost of furnishing a spare room.

I think, for today, I have an etymological bee in my bonnet. "Shit My Dad Says" is flying off the shelves, topping the NY Times hardcover nonfiction list, and yet comes news this week that the Oxford English Dictionary will likely never publish an updated hard copy edition again. I really hope your dad doesn't use a word you don't know, because that would be quite infelicitous.

I get that you can't continue to do something if it's a waste of time and money. But the dictionary? Curt Hopkins over at www.readwriteweb.com summed up what I've been thinking, though far more eloquently (odd, since lately, disagreeing with men is kinda my thing): "Although the OED is not a narrative, not scripture, not poetry, it is, nonetheless, transportive. The idea of flipping from one entry to another, following a line of inquiry...from one page to another, even one volume to another, is a sensual experience. I don't mean it's sexy (it is), but rather that it's an experience that encompasses sight, sound and touch and even hearing (the rustle of pages, the thump of the volume hitting the desk) to create the context for comprehension."

Word, Curt. Word.

I fear for this symbolic loss of language. Too many people rely on spellcheck and text speak. As a Twitter neophyte, I concede the occasional use of "2" and "U" is necessary in a 140 character world. But other than tweets, and unless you're Prince, spell it the hell out.

I adore words. Words are the backbone of my work life and the lifeblood of my down time. I still get a thrill, a little frisson of anticipation, when I happen upon a word I don't know. As Curt pointed out, words are sexy. I've been known to hit the pause button on a romantic evening when a spirited conversation calls for a defining moment. A hook-up look-up, if you will. Maybe I was having the wrong sorts of conversations. And maybe it was more the verbal tussling than the actual verbiage that I found so compelling. Maybe it was my sparring partner. But this I know for sure: while some guys reach for your bra strap to move the evening along, I prefer a man who reaches for the bookcase. And maybe that's the answer, the saving grace. I'll just bet if you tell the online dictionary generation that owning a dictionary gives them a far greater chance of having a serendipitous libidinous interlude, the OED just might give shit your dad says a run for its money. I know it works for me.