‘Oh, I really would, but I can’t on Monday! I have a—’

‘—Yeah, okay, fine. Never mind.’

–

 ‘What’d you think of the new Harry Potter movie?’

 ‘I haven’t seen it yet.’

 ‘Okay, I get the hint, I won’t bother you anymore.’

 –

‘Could I get you a drink?’

‘I just have a full one here, but thank you.  My name’s–’

‘–Hell, I tried. Good night.’

–

 ‘I’m Bill. What’s your name?’

 ‘Anna.’

 ‘Okay, I’ll leave you alone, Anna.’

 –

 ‘Do you live around here?’

 ‘No, I live in—’

 ‘—Fine. Sorry I asked.’

 –

 ‘Would you want to grab a bite sometime?’

 ‘I—’

 ‘—You know what, never mind! I don’t need this shit. I’m a great guy.’

–

  ‘I appreciate our friendship, but I like you as more than just a friend.’

 ‘I feel the same way.’

 ‘And that’s okay – we can still be friends.’

 –

‘Do you follow basketball at all?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I’m actually kind of seeing someone already, so.’

–

‘Are you single?’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘Oh. I guess you’re unavailable, then.’

My hair grows thick and lustrous red,
Most everywhere but on my head.

My eyes are wide and clearest blue,
And ooze the most entrancing goo.

My laugh is like a birdie’s tweet
When it’s been crushed ‘neath someone’s feet.

My chest is pert, my tummy flat
Beneath three hundred pounds of fat.

My breath smells sweet as breeze in May
In New York on trash pick-up day.

I know about the birds and bees –
I have a dozen STDs,

And am as skilled and fun in bed
As any corpse that lies there, dead.

My sense of humor is a wonder,
The cause of many a social blunder.

Kind and patient, loyal and true…
These words don’t describe me! How about you?

I am as talented and smart
As is a football player’s fart.

Guys say I could be thought pretty
If the last girl in the city.

My date last night did not even retch -
So message me quick, for I am a catch!

–

Why am I still single?  Thoughts?

Girl: ‘Should we get fruit and other stuff, or…do you think…’

Guy: ‘I mean…I don’t really…’

(Long pause, during which other shoppers pushed them further into the store.)

Girl: ‘Ok, well, let’s just get fruit then, and that’s it.’

Guy: ‘Ok! Yeah!’

Girl: ‘Oh, God, I don’t even know. Do we need something for like a base, like juice, or…’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Well, I guess we should get apples, yeah?’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Should we, do you like red delicious apples?’

Guy: ‘Sure. Oh, sorry.’

Me: ‘Excuse me.’

Girl: ‘These are my favorite kind of apples, actually!’

Guy: ‘Yeah?!’

(Another long pause.)

Girl: ‘What? What are you laughing at?’

Guy: ‘Nothing! I just think it’s really funny that we’re making smoothies.’

Girl: ‘We are not making smoothies!’

Guy: ‘Yeah, I know. But like (mumble) funny if we were.’

Girl: ‘Should we get a mango? Excuse me.’

Me: ‘Oh, sorry.’

Girl: ‘Mango?’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘These are hard, though. It would need to be soft. Um…’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Well, I’m going to get a carrot.’

I met this fellow (let’s call him “Patrick”) while waiting for the G-train late one night. I was too tired to read anything and didn’t have my headphones with me. He made eye contact and I cut him dead with a glare, as is my habit. But he came over and started talking to me anyway, and well, he was really, really good-looking. So I gave him my card.

After the usual three-to-four day waiting period, Patrick called, and we agreed to meet up in the Village for dinner. He explained that he had to pick something up at 7:15p.m. around Washington Square Park?

I said that was fine, and then he said (and I thought this was really odd at the time), ‘Hey, wear pants, alright? Not, like, a skirt or anything.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Are we going bowling or something?’

‘Uh, did you want to?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I thought we’d just grab a bite and maybe-’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘No, I just thought, because you said to wear pants that-’

‘That we were going bowling! That’s hilarious – do you always bowl when you wear pants?’ he laughed (a lot). ‘You’re so funny!’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why did you-’

‘So, I’ll see you then, then, in your bowling pants!’ he said, and rung off.

So, okay, whatever. People are strange.

Anyway, the big date night arrived, and I went down to the park (wearing my usual jeans), and soon Patrick arrived. He was still really good-looking. And he was carrying a small cage with a guinea pig in it.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What’s with the guinea pig?’

‘Well, this is what I had to pick up,’ he explained. ‘I did some work for this friend of mine, I, uh, I built this really piece of furniture for him, you know, and so then – get this – I get done, and he’s like, oh, I don’t have any money to pay you. But he just got this guinea pig? And I don’t know, I was just like, well, I’ll take the guinea pig. Because I’ve been wanting a pet, but I don’t have a lot of space. I’ll have to get a bigger cage for him, though. I sort of wonder…do you think they kill mice?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He’s cute. What are you going to name him?’

‘I’m thinking Palin,’ he said.

‘Topical,’ I said. I then told Patrick about how I knew this guy in Tennessee who raised guinea pigs and had cage after cage of them in his garage, and took them to guinea pig shows and so forth. And that there’s a guinea pig transport system, where if you live in South Carolina and you buy a purebred guinea pig from Seattle, there are people signed up in every state that will drive the guinea pig along to you, like a sort of pony express for guinea pigs.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Patrick.

‘It’s true,’ I said.

‘I think you’re making up stories, and honestly, if you are, you should just stop it, because I’m about just being real.’

This was sort of funny, because I really do make up stories sometimes when I’m talking to strangers I don’t think I’ll see again (say, at a party…although sometimes I do end up seeing them again, often, and then it’s awkward because the lie has to be kept up forever), but this was actually true – I do know a bit about guinea pigs. I sort of apologized and changed the subject, and then we went back and forth on where to eat, and Patrick suggested Red Bamboo, which is this vegetarian place that I’d been to before and was agreeable to. When we got there, we had some issues with the guinea pig at the door. The hostess wasn’t sure we could bring Palin in, since Palin is basically a rodent, but after Patrick promised to keep the cage discreetly under his chair with his jacket over it, she said it was probably fine.

‘So,’ I said, as we looked at the menus. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘But I tend to…what I do is, I’ll like pick a color? And then for a week, I have to only eat things that are that color. So, this week, I’m only eating black things. So, I’m thinking I’ll get this black bean ginger stir-fry, but I have to check and make sure it really looks mostly black.’

Now, a lot of you may be thinking, ‘Freak!’ But I actually have really weird eating habits myself (Clif bars, anyone?), so I’m sort of understanding about this type of compulsive behavior. And additionally, I had once flipped through this book at Barnes & Noble about challenging your brain every day a little bit to keep sharp and stave off Alzheimer’s, and it basically said that you had to always be looking for ways to break your routine in non-routine ways so your brain doesn’t just go into habitual autopilot, and one of the specific suggestions it gave for doing this was to make a new eating rule every week, like maybe just pick a certain color and only eat things that were that color for a week. So, I figured Patrick had read this book.

‘Did you get that idea from a book about keeping your brain entertained?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘Um, eating all things of one color,’ I said. ‘Did you read to do that in a book about how to keep surprising your brain, so that-’

‘-It’s got nothing to do with my brain,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s about my body. I figure you should only ask your body to break down a certain kind of compound at one time, you know?’

This was a really bad sign, as I have no patience whatsoever when people start spouting this kind of bullshit, so I quickly changed the subject, and the conversation was more or less okay until the server came to take our order.

‘Is the black bean stir fry black?’ asked Patrick.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s black beans, yes.’

‘But is it black-colored? Like, if I looked at the plate, does everything look black?’

‘Um,’ she said. ‘It’s in a black-bean glaze, but it’s all vegetables, but it’s…’

‘Is it mostly dark?’

‘I guess.’

He sighed heavily. ‘But is it- you know what, forget it, I’ll just get a double order of the black rice, and black beans, and a chocolate milkshake.’

Seriously.

So, fine, you know what? I got a gigantic dessert for my meal. Because I am always wanting to get dessert for dinner, but I always figure people will give me shit about it. But at this point, Patrick sure couldn’t say anything about it, so I got a slice of peanut butter tandy heaven cake with a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said Patrick.

‘I’m only eating desserts this week,’ I replied, and stared him down.

At this point, I’ll admit, I was actually kind of thinking Patrick and I might be perfect for each other. I began to think it might be quite freeing to be with someone so much more eccentric than I am that I could just give total free reign to my own eccentricities. I imagined how being weird in a pair in public would be far more comfortable than being weird alone, and you know, actually, I could probably kick it up a notch and be even weirder if I had a partner who could act as a buffer. It might be really fun. And the conversation was going along just fine, the food came, all was well. And then…

We got to talking about our favorite authors, and I mentioned how upset I had been that David Foster Wallace just died.

‘Oh, me too!’ agreed Patrick.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, I have to say, I kind of cried when I read that-’

‘Me too!‘ screamed Patrick, and he burst into tears. I shit you not. Right there at the table, out of nowhere – and we’re talking giant, chest-heaving, gape-mouthed, wrenching sobs. I mean, he was screaming. Everybody in the entire restaurant went dead silent and turned and stared at us. I was mortified. I didn’t know what to do. It seemed like that moment went on and on for hours, for days. Patrick just bawled his head off – he didn’t even put his hands over his face, he just stared straight ahead with his mouth wide open and howled – and everybody stared at us, and I was so humiliated I wanted to drop through the floor…and then I started to laugh. I kept picturing the scene from the outside, as if it were in a story, the way it looks now as I’m blogging it, and it was just so damn hilarious that I went into a sort of hysterical, giggling anxiety fit and couldn’t stop. Patrick sobbed, and I brayed with laughter, and we sat there over our insane dinners with the guinea pig scrabbling around under Patrick’s chair, and I feared we’d be frozen there in that demented tableau for all eternity.

What eventually happened was the manger came over to ask if we were okay, and we both said that we were fine, and he suggested that we might be happier the hell out of his restaurant, so we paid (well, I paid – Patrick apparently had forgotten to go by an ATM), and got out of there as quickly as possible.

‘Do you want to come with me to shop for guinea pig stuff?’ asked Patrick, who had more or less gotten himself together, but had not apologized for his mad behavior.

‘I should probably head home,’ I said. ‘I have to be up early tomorrow.’

And then, even though I knew I should leave it alone, I just had to ask:  ‘Patrick,’ I said. ‘Why did you tell me to wear pants?’

‘What?’ he said.

‘On the phone, you said I should wear pants. Why?’

‘Look,’ he said, looking pissed off. ‘I move slowly, okay? I’m a slow-moving guy. And I’m honest about myself. And I don’t make any apologies. So, just, you know, I take my time! And I won’t apologize for that.’

I didn’t want to press him further. I went home, and I haven’t heard from him since, about which I’m extremely relieved.

I rarely take a chance on going out with a complete stranger, and sure enough, every time I actually throw caution to the wind, the guy invariably turns out to be a complete psychopath.  My intuition is either hopelessly broken or missing entirely, so perhaps I’m wise to be standoffish.

You and I are similarly of low fortune. While in rare circumstances, a certain charm and affection can make up for a deficiency in income (for a time), in our case, no such affinity exists, and we would surely be as miserable as ever two people could be. I dread the despair into which this missive will surely cast you, but I implore you: bend your thoughts to your daily task, to living virtuously, and to God’s grace, and in time I am certain that you will forget your disappointment, and find some measure of peace and happiness in a life well lived.

Gently,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Dear Sirs In the Helmets
(at work upon the scaffolding near my residence):

For some months now, you have been engaged in making some renovations to an estate adjoining my own property, and so I have had occasion to pass by you several times daily. Thus frequently tossed together, we have developed a familiarity with each other that perhaps we would not have done, had circumstances not caused it to be so. I cannot say that I regret this turn of events, as your cheery greetings of a morning never fail to bring a smile to my face. However, of late, I have noticed that all of you, dear sirs, do seem to be somewhat competing for my affections. I would not trifle with honest working fellows, so let me be plain: I do so value the friendship of each of you that I could never forsake the dear, genial esteem of all for a closer intimacy with one. I hope that we can carry on as before, feeling for each other the true, deep love of brothers and sister.

Your Neighbor,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Young Laborer Upon the 6 Train:

I did not mean to appear, all windswept and partially undressed, on the threshold of your subway train. It was the storm, you see. And rude it was indeed of you to heighten a lady’s shame by exposing her to ridicule and unseemly remarks, especially in front of a train car’s worth of strangers. I am no woman of easy virtue. I merely could not afford to secure myself a taxicab. Am I to be subject to such abuse merely because I have not wealth enough to hold myself remote from it? Does it make you high to bring me so low? Would you make sport of a richer woman in this way? Am I not, though poor and undefended, a woman, after all, with a woman’s heart, a woman’s shame? What have I done, sir, to deserve such ill-treatment at your hands? Is my offense merely to be of little fortune, alone and beautiful and subject to the whims of public transportation? I may not be wealthy of purse, but I am proud, sir – proud and honest. I pray that this letter may work some remorse in you, and teach you not to use another woman thusly. However, for myself, I merely hope that our paths never again cross.

Firmly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Fellow in the Tavern Friday Last,

Having had some little time to reflect upon our brief tête-à-tête and the unfortunate way in which we parted, I have decided at last that perhaps I was to some extent to blame. I will admit that I had gone into a bawdy place and imbibed too much wine. I was low of spirits and convinced to enter the tavern by a dear friend who, while possessing of a good heart, does not, I am sad to say, always conduct herself with the utmost prudence. I am in charge of my own affairs, however, and ought not to have behaved myself thusly. I had lately been disappointed in a marriage proposal, and perhaps I sought to cure my wounded vanity by attracting admiration from another. A dreadful, wanton way to behave, true, but if you but knew how I had been wounded!

However, it was still my hope, in any event, to attract the attentions of an upstanding and genteel young man of suitable birth and proper comportment. Little did I expect, even in such surroundings, to be so accosted by one who I now cannot but regard as a most debauched and sorry fellow. Furthermore, just because a lady consents to speak privately with a strange gentleman in an alleyway, it does not follow that she is likewise prepared to enter a taxicab with the gentleman and proceed unchapheroned to his private residence! If your black eye did not teach you the truth of this, allow this letter to remove any remaining doubt. And so, while it may indeed have been true, as you so unkindly and repeatedly asserted, that I was in some respect ‘begging for it’ . . . not from you, good sir! Never from you! I would bed an hundred hipsters before I ever stooped so low!

(I do sincerely apologize, however, for becoming ill upon your oxfords. That part of the business was indeed my own fault.)

Scathingly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Stockbroker Who Took Me to Dinner
(and bragged about his ventures all night, then stiffed the waiter):

I guess money can’t buy class, you dick.

Decidedly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

Alright, so I went over to the lair last night. I know I have to stop spending so much time over there. But the turtles are so much fun! We just mess around; it’s so easy to hang out with them. Last night, Michelangelo and Donatello both wanted the last piece of pizza, and they were really starting to fight about it, and then, like, this sai comes flying down in the middle of the last piece, and Raph’s just sitting there – it was really funny. And Splinter was all, ‘kids!’ I love those guys. But seriously. I was there until three in the morning, and I was wrecked today. It’s fine for them. They’re turtles; they never sleep. But my work’s starting to suffer – I’m not getting much reporting done anymore. And too, all these kidnappings are really getting in the way.

–

Went out with Irma after work today. We went to some bar, and a couple guys bought us a round, but then when we tried to talk to them, they kept making jokes about me. ‘So, you like being kidnapped, huh? You like the freaky stuff? You want to see my turtle?’ That kind of bullshit. These are the only kind of sick jerks I ever meet. When I meet anybody at all, that is. I guess that, as a high-profile news anchor in a major metropolis, people just find me unapproachable. It’s amazing to me that I can be known by everyone, and still so lonely.

–

Had disturbing dream. All four of them. And the rat. That’s it. I have to start hanging out with people.

–

Kidnapped again. Got a little nervous this time, waiting for the turtles. The Shredder going through his usual monologue. But, just as Beebop and Rocksteady started closing in ominously, they came in through the windows on their ropes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but no matter how many times it happens, I still get a thrill out of it. It’s so exciting, and at the same time, I feel so safe. Really, what girl doesn’t want to be rescued?

Now, if only some human man would rescue me from hanging out with turtles all the time.

–

Extremely uncomfortable in the lair tonight, and started to wonder – is this less about me being a woman, and more about them being turtles? Do I assume, just because I’m alone with four turtles in their prime that something will happen to me? Would I be this uncomfortable if I were alone in the sewers with, say, four male colleagues I’m slightly attracted to?

….Actually, probably.

–

Hung out with Irma and Vernon last night. We went bowling. I should just date Vernon. He’s arrogant and boring, but at least he’s a man. But it’s just…there’s no click, no spark. After a strike, I screamed, ‘Cowabunga!’ And they just stared at me. Was so depressed, I went over to the lair after. Only one up was Raph. We had a long talk about life and expectations, and how no matter how boxed into your own patterns you might feel, each new day is a chance to bust out of them. We talked until the sun came up. Raph is so insightful, and I really admire the way he transcends his own fate. It’s like…he’s decided to see the man-half of himself as a gift, rather than see the turtle-half as a curse. The more I get to know him, the more I respect him.

…Oh, April, what the hell are you thinking?

–

Sometimes I wonder about Splinter. He’s by himself way too much. And I think he drinks. And last night, I noticed some weird marks on his wrists, which he quickly pulled into his robe when he saw me looking. Tried to mention it to Leonardo, but he snapped at me that turtles respect each other’s privacy. And that of rats.

–

Seriously, though…what would it even be like? Not that I’m considering it, but with the shell and everything…is this even a possibility? Google really isn’t helping – I tried everything: turtle sex, sex with turtles, women having sex with turtles, sex with an anthropomorphic turtle, turtles + radioactive slime = genitals? I’ve learned some things, but none of them are particularly specific to my situation. God. I’m so annoyed I can’t just ask! You know? Because surely it’s occurred to them, that it might be something that could conceivably come up. Not that I think about it that much, but of course, I’m going to wonder. Who wouldn’t wonder? Which makes me think that it must not be possible, or surely one of them would have made a joke about it, you know, casually, to clue me in that if I was up for it… Everything’s always implied with them about the whole transformation, and the turtle thing. I don’t feel like it’s my place to ask probing questions about their situation at all, much less about something so private. I’m not that kind of reporter.

…Oh, I’m sure it’s not possible. Not that it matters.

…It’s not even possible, April! Stop thinking about it, freak!

–

Brought Irma over to the lair last night. I was nervous to introduce her to the turtles, but I wanted another woman’s opinion about the whole situation. Well, she had a blast! She freaking loved the turtles! She and the guys all played flip cup and got totally shitfaced. And she and Donatello totally hit it off! He took her number, and she’s all, ‘I really hope he calls! He’s so hot – totally ripped. How come you never introduced me before?’ On and on. Which made me feel like a total ass for being ashamed of my own friends and so worried to introduce them to other people, when clearly, I’m the one with a problem. I over-think things too much. Why can’t I just relax and let go?

At one point last night, Michelangelo said it was so great to have another woman around, one who wasn’t dressed like a giant banana. He was just teasing, and it wasn’t really mean…but it’s jokes like that that make me wonder: is that all I am to them?

–

Went over to the lair last night. Wore a dress, and got all kinds of teased about it. I could just be imagining it, but I felt like Raph looked…smug. I just felt like wearing something other than my jumpsuit for a change! It has nothing to do with the turtles. I don’t care what they think.

You know what, fuck them. They’re just a bunch of turtles.

–

Ok, so, I made out with Raph. It was…hot. But I realized…I mean, he’s a turtle. A turtle, you know? And also, even though he doesn’t seem that young, he is a teenager. And I’m a grown woman. With a job and an apartment, and I’m not getting any younger. It just wouldn’t work. And so I told him that our friendship means more to me than anything, and I’d rather do anything than hurt him, and I just thought we should be friends. He said he understood. But he wouldn’t look at me.

I feel awful.

–

Kidnapped again. Only Leonardo bothered to come save me. I like him least of all of them, too. He’s oh, so put-upon, total martyr. He seemed really annoyed with me the whole time we were running back to the lair, with me slung over his shoulder. I tried to make jokes, and he just rolled his eyes. When we got to the lair, everybody was just laying around. Irma was there with Donatello; they were messing around with some old broken radio. I felt ignored, and just generally awkward and uncomfortable, so I just went home.

–

Haven’t talked to the turtles in over a week. I miss them, but I’m not going to call. I want to know if they’d even miss me if I didn’t come around. Let them call for a change.

–

Ran into Splinter today when I was reporting on a burst water main. He was all, ‘hi, stranger, we’ve not seen you in many moons,’ like there was nothing weird. I straight up asked him if everybody was pissed at me, and said I didn’t think I deserved that. He was just like ‘teenagers will be teenagers.’

‘Well, I’m not a teenager,’ I said. ‘I’m an adult, and I’m too old for this bullshit.’

He just nodded sagely; I wanted to punch him. He looked healthier, though. I’m glad he was out getting some sun.

–

Kidnapped again. They didn’t come. After two days, The Shredder just let me go. “I guess you’re not the turtles’ greatest weakness anymore,” he said. Irma wasn’t at work today.

I guess there’s a window for these things, and then it closes, and that’s that.

Not making a choice is still a choice, April. That’s what you should take away from this.

Even on the most hotly contested questions—like whether women have better verbal skills, or are hard-wired for empathy, or have cognitive differences that limit their advancement in math and science—the case for large, innate disparities is messy and, for the most part, underwhelming. This is especially true when it comes to neural and hormonal claims, which tend to be controversial. These writers offer canny caveats about culture and its role in gender difference. But they tend to imply that if a difference has innate roots, it’s likely to be relatively fixed. And that’s not necessarily so. In crucial ways, the mind is malleable. Ultimately, the evangelists aren’t really daring to be politically incorrect. They’re peddling one-sidedness, sprinkled with scientific hyperbole.

And while we’re on the differences between men and women, a nice rant all about orgasms – having them, not having them, faking them and who’s to blame – in response to a totally stupid column by MSNBC’s Brian Alexander:

But the thing that pissed me off the most is how Alexander wants us to look at his “roughly one-third” of straight women always have an orgasm statistic and be impressed by it. Clearly, the language he uses around it tells us that he’s saying WOW! One whole third? What a big number – especially when so many women are sexually defective!

As everyone knows, women love jerks, who, it seems, get laid a lot more. Why might that be?

It’s not always a matter of bad boys wooing vulnerable women into bed and then leaving them; it’s often two people who are both interested in just sex picking each other and calling it a day. Of course, there are no doubt some women who are suckered in by narcissistic jerks; there are also some dudes who are suckered in by narcissistic jerks (just as a Nice Guy). But sex isn’t always a trick men play on women.

What? Women might have different criteria (like looks and availability) for a one-night stand than they do for an actual relationship? No way!

One of the (many) things that really pisses me off is when guys go on about how women don’t like them because they’re too nice. I realize that everybody has to tell themselves something to get over rejection that puts the blame on the rejector and off themselves – women do the same thing (“I’m too intimidating/smart/successful”) – but I hate hearing guys go on about how their whole trouble is they’re just too swell for their own good. You know what? Usually “too nice” really means “unattractive and obnoxious.”

Hey, did you hear anything about these girls who had a pregnancy pact? And then, did you hear about how they actually didn’t?:

In short, the actual news item isn’t TODAY’S TEENS ARE SO IRRESPONSIBLE OMG. Rather, it is PREGNANT WOMEN REALLY WANT TO DO THE BEST THING FOR THEMSELVES AND THEIR CHILDREN, EVEN WHEN THEY THEMSELVES ARE PRACTICALLY CHILDREN, AND IF YOU REMOVE THE STIGMA AND GIVE THEM SOME ACTUAL FUCKING SUPPORT IT HELPS A LOT. But that doesn’t fit in a headline, and it doesn’t give people an opportunity to feel morally superior.

Apparently, the problem is knocked-up teenagers aren’t being mocked and derided sufficiently anymore:

When the same girl shows up at the school clinic for five pregnancy tests in one month, shouldn’t somebody be mocking her for it? In fact, isn’t promoting shame through mockery our civic duty?

(via Feministing)

Just…wow.

More on keeping daughters in line:

“Authorities allege that Rashid killed his daughter because he feared that her resistance to a recently arranged marriage would disgrace the Pakistani-American family.”

Sounds so simple right? He killed her because his “culture” made him. Not because he might be mentally ill or pathological. There is no denying that in basically every culture there is pressure put on women to act a certain way and especially with regard to marriage or the ownership of her sexuality. But the way that “honor” killing is discussed in the media you would think it is some normal cultural phenomena, when it is not. It is a sign of illness, culture gone awry and patriarchy at its most exaggerated.

Speaking of other cultures, here’s a few utterly sickening photo shoots in which black women are used as props for white models. Can we please, please, please just completely be done with the fashion industry now? Please?

–

I didn’t mention Michelle Obama once! If you need your fix, Michelle Obama Watch is a new blog entirely devoted to the subject. (via Feministing)

[It's] made the standard transition from “we don’t illegally manipulate the news” to “of course we did that, why are you still making a fuss about this old story”.

Also MIA: conservatives’ support for states’ rights:

Since the conservative ascendancy in Washington, many of these same people have stopped praising states’ rights and have begun burying them – not to protect citizens’ rights, but to take them away. The Bush administration and its Congressional allies have helped their friends in industry by enacting weak environmental, health and consumer regulations – and arguing that they wipe out more robust state protections.

–

The Christian dating site, Bigchurch.com, is owned by Penthouse:

It’s not like BigChurch isn’t about sex. It’s just more subtle than a site that’s explicitly aimed at swingers. BigChurch’s function is to connect people whose concepts of sex are tied so closely to faith and doctrine that it can be difficult to meet potential partners in more traditional settings.

–

There’s racism in Japan, and there’s also a parrot who, when lost, can tell you where he lives.

–

I am always looking for ways to get by with less sleep (ideally, I need about 14 hours per night to function properly). I also periodically have problems with insomnia, so I’m always on the lookout for causes: apparently, obese people are short sleepers. Wouldn’t you think it’d be the other way around?

What if all the “sleep hygiene” recommendations mean diddly-squat when the prime reason for one’s poor sleep is simply too much weight?

But then, on the other hand, I usually don’t eat enough, and will often wake up from sheer hunger at 2 or 3 a.m. and have to get out of bed and eat something, just so I can go back to sleep until a decent hour. So, you can’t win.

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Is the Internet ruining humor?

Because the Internet lets normal people make as much noise as funny and original people, the lame humor that usually dead-ends in offices instead spreads like crazy.

The net doesn’t kill humor. People kill humor. (Incidentally, for the very best in original online humor content, click this link!!) [And, while I'm at it, do you agree with Jessa Crispin that "more misanthropes should write travel literature?" If so, then click this link!!]

Also funny:

The Wit and Humor of Immanuel Kant

…and others of the world’s shortest philosophy books.

(via The Morning News)

1. In earliest morning, put on your fanciest cocktail dress. At about 11:00 a.m., go alone into an upscale restaurant in your city’s business district. The restaurant will be nearly empty at this hour, but there will be a few servers sitting toward the back, eating breakfast and polishing silverware for the lunch crowd. Stand there patiently until one of them approaches you. Ask if it’s too early to be served. Request a large, central table. When seated, do not get out a novel, newspaper or cell phone. Rather, make eye contact with the staff, all trying very hard to look anywhere but at you. When the busser brings bread and asks what you’ll have to drink, ask for a wine list. When the server offers the lunch menu, ask if there’s a prix fixe. Order several courses. Have the Porterhouse steak for two, or, if there’s a dish that involves the server wheeling out a cart and/or setting something afire tableside, go with that. Get dessert – ask if the chef can do a tasting menu. Linger as the restaurant fills up with businesspeople and their clients, all having Diet Coke and chef salads. Ignore the hustle, the bustle, the fact that your large table is now desperately needed. Sit, placid and content, in your gown and jewels, polishing off your bottle of wine, and working steadily through your feast.

If you can pull this off, you are more courageous than 98% of the population.

2. Think back to your junior-high or high-school years. Who was the first boy you ever dated? Google him. Look him up on MySpace. Email him and ask him if he remembers you. He’ll probably reply, excited to hear from you, and ask what you’re up to these days. Ask for his phone number – tell him that there’s something you must discuss with him, and you don’t feel like typing it all out. There will be a couple days’ delay after this request, but he’ll probably give it to you eventually. Call him up. Get drunk first. Call at about 11:30 p.m. on a Tuesday evening. Tell him that you realize this probably comes as a shock to him, but you’ve been seeing a therapist lately about your inability to connect with men, and you’ve decided that the only way to move past your dating hurdle is to confront it, head on. Inform him that he is that dating hurdle. Tell him that you never got over him, that he was your first and only love. That in the twenty-odd years since the two of you shared your first tongue kiss under the bleachers at that Saturday afternoon JV soccer game, you’ve never had more than a single date with any other man. Tell him that you think about him every day, and wonder where he is and what he’s doing. That at night, you dream of him, and wake up feeling bereft and empty. That you compare every male friend, every coworker, every actor on the screen with him…and they all come out unfavorably. Tell him that, even though you know you must move on, if now or at any point in the future, he were to call to you, you would leave whoever you’re with, and any children you might have with that person, and you would run to his side – immediately and without question. Tell him that you’ll always be his deep down in your heart, and that you need him to know that, so that you can go on with your life. Ask him if he knows that.

If you can do this, there’s really nothing you can’t do.

3. Ask out that guy that seems like he kind of likes you, but is far more attractive than you are, and is already sort of dating that really stunning woman who works in accounting. When he starts to politely decline, begin to cry and tell him that you’re sorry, it’s just that your parents and your cat recently died (your parents were cat-sitting for you and all three of them were shot to death by a couple of junkies in what was probably a gang initiation of some kind) and sometimes it hits you at odd moments. Get yourself together, and ask him, sorry, he was saying? He’ll probably agree to go out with you. Tell him that since you invited him, you insist on picking the event and paying. Tell him that he’ll be coming along to see you make your open-mic debut at Caroline’s. Tell him he has to promise to laugh really loud, even if you totally blow. On the evening in question, wear a dress that is a little too young for you, and a lot too short. Wear it with heels that are brand new and uncomfortable. Part your hair on a new side, and wear a giant flower pin in a totally ironic way, but worry that people might not get that you’re joking. When you’re all awkwardly trussed, take a cab to Caroline’s and wait out front for your date. Get there 40 minutes early, and mention this when he shows up ten minutes late. Get over your nerves by having a few martinis. Tell him that you totally didn’t eat because you wanted to look pretty in your dress, which you think is maybe just a tidge too small. Tell him you can admit these things, because you have a good sense of humor about yourself. When your name is suddenly called, take the stage. Perform the following stand-up routine:

“Hey there, folks! Whoo, are we having fun tonight? Having a few drinks? I know I’ve had a couple. Who here finds me attractive? Huh? Anybody? Did you note my giant flower pin? I put it on today and I thought boy, this looks goofy. I sometimes will do things to be funny, and people will think I’m serious and feel bad for me! But the joke’s on them – because I think that’s hilarious! I’m on a date tonight, folks. First time in awhile. Stand up, Eric! Take a bow. Oh, that’s…where did he go? Oh, there he is. He’s cute, right? Yeah. Dating’s tough these days, am I right, ladies? It’s hard to DATE when you’re DATED!!! Ha, ha. I dated a Hispanic one time, and boy, did he love my cellulite. Am I right, ladies? You know I’m right! I sure do find my body hair unmanageable. But life today, with the Britney Spears and the iphones…. Who can keep up? I don’t know, it’s crazy. All my friends are gay guys. And cats. And that’s my set!!! Thanks, you folks have been terrific.”

Run excitedly back to your seat and ask your date how he thought it went. Tell him you thought it was awesome, and you’ve never felt so great. Tell him you’ll probably give notice at work the next day, and ride this wave all the way to the top. Ask him if he’d like to do something insane and just go to Maine this very night! Just go to freaking Maine! Fart audibly, and giggle in embarrassment. Tell him that, okay, you understand…in that case, he can come back to your place. Topple over onto the sidewalk, and stand up, blaming it on the heels. Explain that you’re really not that drunk. Tell him that, alright then, you’ll go back to his place. Start to cry. Scream that he’ll be sorry someday, when you’re the next Lisa Lampanelli and he’s still working IT in his dippy little tie and dating his anemic, beanpole of a girlfriend who’s never made a joke in her life. Calm down, and ask him if he can spot you a $20 for cab fare. Tell him that you’re super stoked he was on your arm to witness your big debut, and that you feel the two of you are going to be really great friends, no matter what else fate may have in store for you.

If you can pull of this evening, and show up at work the next day, you are the bravest mortal ever to walk the face of the Earth.

“They don’t go after employers. They don’t put CEOs in jail,” complained the Postville Community Schools superintendent, David Strudthoff, 51, who said the sudden incarceration of more than 10 percent of the town’s population of 2,300 “is like a natural disaster — only this one is manmade.”

The article opens with a quote from one fellow who’s been working in a meatpacking plant in Postville for 11 years. Good lord, is that not punishment enough for any conceivable transgression?

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I’m a big fan of Slate’s daily digests of various papers and blogs, and I think Friday’s round-up of bloggers’ reactions to the California Supreme Court’s gay marriage decision provides links to a particularly nice range of opinions on the issue. I’ll give Oscar Wilde the last word on this one:

Morality is simply the attitude we adopt toward people we personally dislike.

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Bush has been implying Obama is one of those appeasers we all hear so much about:

The president is just being a demagogue. There’s no general prohibition against talking to regimes we don’t like. There never has been. It’s just a made-up rule that right wingers invented to browbeat their critics and to make war seem inevitable. It’s not like the Bush administration has ever been bound by that constraint.

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Because I can never get enough of this, here’s Mark Liberman on Leonard Sax again:

In his books, Leonard Sax is a political activist using science to make a case, not a scientist evaluating a hypothesis.

Science is sometimes on his side, sometimes neutral or equivocal, and sometimes against him. He picks the results that fit his agenda, ignoring those that don’t; and all too often, he misunderstands, exaggerates or misrepresents the results that he presents.

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I’m sure this jives with the personal experience of anybody in the arts (I find it hard to relate to people who have some expectation that they’ll actually be paid for the work they do):

Unlike 20th century innovation, the most important developments in innovation have been driven not by research funded by governments or developed by corporations but by the collaborative interactions of individuals. In most cases, this modality of innovation has not been motivated by economic concerns or the prospect of profit. This raises the possibility of a world in which some of the sectors of the economy particularly the ones dealing with innovation and creativity are driven by social interactions of various kinds, rather than by profit-oriented investment.

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Another article about how little today’s sex objects have to do with actual sex:

But the women in FHM are an equally false representation of male desire. FHM is not a men’s magazine like GQ or Esquire. It’s a magazine for lads – for 15-year-olds. It serves adolescent boys with the fantasy that there is something or someone out there who is the “sexiest,” a comforting norm of male desire which does not exist and has never existed.

(via 3 Quarks Daily)

When I was in junior high and wondering why all the guys wanted to go out with the exact same girl, someone wise explained this to me: boys like to be told what they ought to want, because they worry that if left to follow their own desires, they’ll want something weird. (An observation that applies to more than just teenagers about more than just sex.)

See also, Scientific American‘s very comprehensive article on orgasm and the brain:

The men, by contrast, were physically titillated mainly by their preferred category of sexual partner-that is, females for straight men and males for gay men-and were not excited by bonobo copulation.