Buddy, I'll Show You Offensive

Seriously? This vaguely Georgia O'Keefe-ish Absolut ad should offend me?

People are SO SENSITIVE about giant fake vaginas. Sheesh.

Enlist in the Infinite!

I saw this sticker plastered on a power box across the street from Powell's in Portland.



I actually wouldn't have noticed it except there was a somewhat crazy drawing of a cow underneath it:



When I noticed the sticker, it made me giggle (because what's funnier than a stick figure being bombarded by microwaves?) and then look closer. Being a nerd, I took a picture and then Googled the telephone number, which led me to The Jejune Institute.

"The Jejune Institute aims to maximize human potential through the continuing advancement of socio re-engineering methods across the geopolitical realm. We accomplish this through financial support, independent research, and experimental initiatives developed through our many international facilities."

I'm ready to be inducted. Who's wants to go up to San Francisco with me for our free introductory workshop?

Oh, Barry!

I had a somewhat, *ahem*, romantical dream about Barack Obama last night. Unfortunately, one minute Barry and I were alone, about to make some real progress on the important and pressing issue of nudity in my bedroom, and the next minute three other people appeared and were all up in our business about what we were doing. Thus, he never got to use his signing pen, if you catch my drift.

And then I woke up! I really need to work harder at learning to lucid dream.

Miss Lonelypants

A friend recently told me about a dating site she's using that she likes. According to her, it's free and filled with attractive people. (I'd tell you the name of the site, but she made me promise under penalty of death that I wouldn't share it and lessen our chances with the available men.)

At any rate, feeling sexually frustrated (my version of lonely), I decided to sign up yesterday. I saw a couple of interesting profiles and had a few emails by the time I came home today. While I was online checking my messages, I was asked to chat by two different guys, one right after the other.

Wow, I'm popular!

Right.

Sure.

I got hung up on both times. TWICE. IN A ROW. By men who initiated contact with me.

Granted, the first one wasn't really a "man", given that he was only 19. Okay, I admit, I shouldn't have agreed to talk to him in the first place! But he was hot and he said he liked older women, and, shamefully, I kind of wanted to make fun of him. (I'm horny AND cruel.) He disconnected on me after I responded to his greeting with "Aren't you a little young for this?" I didn't even get to ask if he was just going after older women so they could buy him booze! Honestly, I think he was lying about his age anyways. He was easily 20.

The second dude was older and kind of cute, but halfway through our conversation he had already made a reference to being nude (uh, gross)...still, I stuck around and tried to ignore the comment. Then he started an anti-Obama rant, blaming the state of the economy on a man who's been president for less than two months.

And yet HE is the one who hung up on ME.

To my credit, whatever that means, I actually tried to have an adult conversation, arguing my political points with reason and facts and only a few insults. After he said Obama didn't know what a bad economy is really like because he's only in his mid-forties, I typed, "Uh, you're 40. Are you telling me you traveled back in time to experience the Depression?" This is the point at which he disconnected.

I wanted to yell, "I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR!" but unfortunately, I was sitting alone in my bathrobe at home in front of my laptop. The statement loses a little power that way.

Anyhow, it's obvious that neither of these guys were right for me, but somehow I can't help thinking that if I started saying a little less of what I'm thinking, I might date a little more. *sigh*

Good Bacon, Bad Bacon

I've eaten a lot of bacon in my time. (Especially if you start "my time" about a week ago, since I have a package of bacon in my fridge that I'm afraid is going to go bad before I can finish it. Do you know how hard it is for one person to finish a pound of bacon?)

I won't say I'm a bacon connoisseur - though that would look great on a business card - but I will say I know good bacon from bad bacon.



And Oscar Mayer, your Center Cut Naturally Smoked Bacon with 30% lower fat in the stay-fresh reclosable tray is BAD BACON. It's the skinniest bacon, width-wise, that I've ever eaten. (And everyone knows that with bacon, as with uh, other things, thicker is better.) Speaking of skinny, there's so much less fat on it that when I cook it, it sticks to the pan instead of making a pool of delicious bacon grease.

W.
T.
F.

NO BACON GREASE! That's never happened to me with other bacon. It's making me sad.

The Accidental Episcopalian

Admittedly, I don’t go to church very often. I’m Catholic, but I’m one of those Catholics...you know, the big holiday Catholics. The ones who take up your parking space at Christmas and Easter, who cry during confession because of guilt and shame from not going to Mass for months on end (and who forget we prefer the term “reconciliation” over “confession”.)

But Ash Wednesday is a good reason to go to church, and so I drove down to South Pasadena to hit up Holy Family for some forehead ash. Or at least that was my intention. Driving down Fremont, I saw the front door of the church, open and welcoming. I made a turn onto the side street and went around the block to enter from Monterey.

The church looked different somehow, but it had been (*ahem* over) a year since I last set foot inside so I ignored the lack of familiarity. I was surprised by the singing congregation when I walked in, since it was supposed to be ashes only, not a full Mass, according to the Holy Family schedule on the website. But I slid into a pew, knelt for a quick prayer, and joined in.

A cute young priest read the Gospel and I noticed that the people around me didn’t exactly say "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ" when he announced the reading. I chalked it up to them being irregular attendees like me. Then I noticed the supposed priest was wearing a wedding ring, which I attributed to him being a deacon because it was just ashes, not a full Mass. (Note how I rationalize everything. Because I am the crazy.)

Then a woman in purple vestments got up to speak. She did a lovely sermon on Lent and I thought, “Wow, a woman! This is a really liberal church! I don’t remember it being so progressive. I’ll have to come back again soon.” There was a lot of singing, much of which was somewhat mournful and almost all of which I didn’t understand except when they said “Jesus” or “Lord”.

I got my ashes and when I sat down, I (finally) noticed a purple sash that had been in my line of sight the entire service that read, quite clearly, “St. James , South Pasadena 1904”. I turned my head and saw a picture of Mary, who's quite obviously our thing (and by our, I mean Catholics). I felt reassured, but still a bit unnerved. Then I looked down at the collection envelopes in the pew and noticed they said “St. James” followed by the words “Episcopalian Church”.

Panicked thoughts: OH NOES! I AM IN THE WRONG PLACE AND AM GOING TO HELL!

It seemed rude to run out of there screaming, so I sat quietly, contemplating the fact that if I died that night, I would have spent my last hours in a heathen haven. I apologized to God and wondered how quickly I could set up a confession...er, reconciliation session. I also noted that Anglican churches have an interesting and unintelligible interpretation of music.

An observation about Episcopalians, from an anthropological perspective: they’re not conformists. At one point during the service, half the people knelt down and I followed suit, only to look around and find that the other half of the attendees remained stubbornly standing. “Uh, what?” thought I. We Catholics don’t do that at Mass. We’re big on homogeneity.

Also, I’m pretty sure they don’t believe in transubstantiation. I didn’t take communion (or whatever they call it) just in case. And embarrassingly, to show you how deeply ingrained the patriarchy of the Church has wormed its way into my head: when the female pastor(ess?) took the host and started breaking it up, I was like, “Oh no she DIDN'T. A woman’s touching all over my Body of Christ! I CAN’T EAT THAT.” Yes, I have been brainwashed to believe only men can touch the consecrated host. *sigh*

At any rate, it was a very nice service but I still feel guilty and shameful about going to the wrong church. Also I got lost trying to leave and felt very freaked out and had to shout “This isn't my church please help me where is the exit!”

Lord, forgive me! (Also any Episcopalians I may have offended. You seem like a very nice people.)

Take It Off!

As a member of Meetup, I occasionally get emails inviting me to join a group in which I might have an interest. At first, I was flattered by these solicitations: wow, somebody wants me as a member! Then I had the Groucho Marx reaction: if they want me as a member, I should probably avoid them.

I hadn't received any of these emails recently, but then last week I received a message on my profile page: "Hi Vice Girl: I wanted to invite you to join the group that my husband and I started. Its called Persephone Club and it is a great place to socialize and meet really wonderful people."

Well, that sounds lovely! But somehow I had an uncomfortable feeling when I read "my husband and I." Call me crazy, but it sounded a little creepy, like it might be run out of a conversion van by a guy missing some teeth and at least a couple of fingers. However, the Greek reference threw me off. "Maybe I'm overreacting," I thought. "Maybe this is a club devoted to drinking POM and eating pitas."

But a single click showed me my instincts were correct:

"We are a group of professional young adults who value themselves & others through nude recreation and nude travel. We are looking for couples and individuals to join as new members. We provide a safe and fun environment for socializing & networking."

First, let me just say that I'm no burqa-swaddled prude. If I'm wearing pants at home, either I have company* or I'm expecting the pizza man. (And if he was younger and cuter, I'd be open to staying pantsless when answering the door.) I perform many of my morning rituals in a state of at least partial undress, much to the chagrin of my neighbors, I'm sure. But nude recreation? Call me old-fashioned, but that's a two-person** enterprise.

I was weirded out because my profile is fairly buttoned-up on the site, so I wondered what about me made these people think I wanted to "network" (or God forbid, "travel") in the buff. Then I mentioned it to a few other Meetup friends who, as it turned out, had received the same note. (At least then I knew it wasn't me somehow putting out nudey vibes.) I found out they're actually using Meetup to promote their private*** website.

I'll note two interesting/amusing/disturbing things about the site: first, out of four pieces of artwork on the front page, two are of clothed individuals. And second, for all the talk about how there are "no falsehoods, no agendas" and the statement "[o]ur intention is to take away the evil stigma that society places on nudity," there is ZERO INFORMATION about the couple that allegedly founded this group.

So, yeah, Buffalo Bill, thanks, but I think I'll keep my clothes on for now.

* The kind of company that wants me to stay clothed. (Jerks.)

** Okay, maybe three on special occasions.

*** No pun intended.

This Banana Needs A Brazilian

I admitted in another life* to loving bananas for the perfectly packaged and tasty treats that they are.

However, today I must give a wag of the finger to bananas for the weird stringy bits** that cling to the crevices after you peel the skin. I usually try to pull most of them off, but today I was overly lackadaisical in my efforts and ended up choking on a tangled bunch of flossy banana thong underwear. Actually, it was like a mouthful of fruit pubes.

WHERE ARE GENETICALLY MODIFIED HAIRLESS BANANAS WHEN YOU NEED THEM?

* Or another blog.

** Apparently, they have a name: phloem bundles. SEXY.

ALL CAPS KIND OF ANGRY

An open letter to my not-so-bright ex-boyfriend:

If you're going to insult me on Facebook to elicit sympathy from your office crush, perhaps you should first remember that if we are "friends," I CAN READ EVERYTHING YOU'VE POSTED. Because you are too stupid to know how to change your privacy settings.

Also, if you're going to irritate me online, perhaps you should make sure I am not currently in the throes of PMS, lest I flame you in response for the world to see.

Jackass.

Making My Stomach Hurt Via My Eyes

(Photo from Union Square Falafel Battle: Maoz, Pita Joe, Moishe's, and Rainbow | Serious Eats : New York.)

Good Christ. If this was a quiz and I had to guess what these were, I'd have said (from the top left, going clockwise):

• vegan cookie (raw)


• mutant crab cake


• close-up of batter crumb from bottom of Long John Silver's combo meal box


• vegan cookie (burnt)

I'm obviously a falafel ignoramus. I'm assuming they taste much better than they look.