The مهبل and other topics (but not Cher’s مهبل)

I promise not to devote this post to the word vagina, but I do feel like I need to pay regular homage to the word and the genitalia since it now refers so many people to my blog…my blog that I neglect terribly.  So, I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll try to seamlessly allude to the vagina in some way in every post from now on.  Or maybe not.  Anyway, in case you were wondering how to write it in Persian, here it is: مهبل. 

On to less important things!  Back in January I explored my questionable habit of talking about my mom and the people/places/things she likes with too much frequency.  Then yesterday I realized that I’ve been neglecting to tap into the flip side: things she doesn’t like! 

It came up while on the phone with her the other day.  I mentioned that I had watched Moonstruck for the second time in three months the night before, and how much I’d enjoyed the experience.  And that’s when she declared, “I don’t like Cher.” It wasn’t said offhandedly either. It was said in a tone that implied some sort of deep disgust and disapproval with the woman. I’ll have to investigate.

Myself, I’m kind of indifferent about Cher.  I remember it was awkward when she guest starred on “Will & Grace.”  And I remember being exposed to all sorts of biographical information on her when Sonny Bono died.  How she used to have terrible stage fright.  How the light rock favorites radio stations love to play her songs (especially “The Shoop Shoop Song”).  How she has long hair.  Stuff like that.

Anyway, Nicholas Cage’s performance in the clip below blows my mind.  I want to memorize the lines, dress up in an apron, chop off part of my hand, and recreate his performance because it looks like he’s having that much fun.  His character is just insane (I especially like the “HUH? SWEETIE?” part).  God, it’s sexy. And, it’s a little tragic. Nowadays Nicholas Cage is all whored out in those Disney action-adventure movies meant to rape families of a hard-earned 50 bucks. Also, I worry about his gaunt face and rapidly thinning hair. I know there’s that whole aging process thing, but what happened to this dude:

Hmm. I didn’t know Cher was so feisty! An illuminating conversation with Sonny, Cher, and Dave:

The recreational activities of female genitalia.

Oh. My. God. Something beautiful has happened. In the past few days, HUNDREDS more people than usual have viewed my blog.  And it’s all thanks to a little search term called…vagina.

Plain ol’ “vagina” is bringing in the most people, but runners up include “big vagina,” “dirty vagina,” “vagina is purple,” “piece of vagina” (ah!), “light up vagina” (OOH!), and “how to make a finger vagina.” That last one sounds like it came from a terribly confused soul who inquired about a noun when a verb was intended.

In case you only recall there ever being talk of Barbara Walters lap dances or Tom Brokaw sex dreams on this blog, click here to see a giant bicycle vagina. That also sounds like it was meant to be a verb (giant vagina bicycling), but it really is a noun. It’s a giant bicycle vagina. And it’s amazing.

Well.  I got completely distracted by vaginas in this post.  Here are some less interesting things I may have done had vaginas not stolen the show:

• Complained tirelessly about banks and their exorbitant overdraft charges.
• Cooked you a steak like Cher in Moonstruck.  (You’d have eaten it rare while wearing a wooden hand.)
• Wished you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day.
• Referred you to this Craiglist ad.
• Compared Kim Jong-Il to a summer’s day. 
• Presented a hypothetical question asking: “If you were a predator, would you be less likely to pursue as prey someone who walked down the sidewalk wielding a fork?”
• Reminisced about the Halloween I dressed up as a fork.
• Mentioned the fork that is literally in my road, in the tar of my road.
• Displayed an obvious affection for bullet points.
• Retracted Kim Jong-Il comparison.

Valentine’s Day 2009: Confessions of a chocolate-eating, hulu-watching recluse

Suddenly I find myself overwhelmed, filled with things to discuss about tomorrow’s “holiday.”  When I was in elementary school I decided to make my own valentines for my classmates, only it ended up being really time-consuming and hard, so I didn’t make enough and then I got in trouble.  Alas, I’ve always been mediocre.

Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.  Actually, I wanted to talk about Marlene Dietrich, the Golden Age screen vixen.  Remember the beyond mediocre Witty Women daily calendar?  Well, today’s quote comes from her.  The first film I saw her in was 1932’s Blonde Venus.  I wasn’t planning on tracking down the clip, but it’s just so offensive and ridiculous that you kind of have to see it for yourself (especially the 2:30 mark).

But you can’t blame Marlene.  (Don’t you love that name?  The woman who trained me at McDonald’s had that name and she was mean and sexy with a Polish accent and she made me cry.)  Over the summer when I was interning at the Library of Congress I worked with a collection related to the Golden Age and part of the collection was a silver cigarette case that Marlene gave as a gift–it was inscribed with her signature.  It was pretty cool and that’s what Marlene means to me.  So here’s the quote:

It’s the friends that you can call up at 4 a.m. that matter.

This quote doesn’t really apply to me…I’m usually still puttering around, wide awake at 4 a.m., but that’s good because it means that anyone can call me at that hour.  Therefore, I matter.  (It’s important for everyone to realize this with tomorrow being Valentine’s and everything.)  

While puttering around last night, I found myself on hulu.  Does anyone else do this?  You rent stuff from the library or the video store, but then you just queue up last night’s Conan or Moonstruck even though a Cher/Nicholas Cage romance doesn’t really do it for you.  So that was me.  I started watching Go.  I had just about come to terms with reuniting with Dawson’s Creek era Katie Holmes when an AXE commercial ruined everything.  I don’t know why I let myself get so distracted by bizarre advertisements.  AXE has been putting out sexist ads for years.  Shouldn’t be a surprise anymore.

It’s been on YouTube since September, but last night was the first time I saw it:

Mainly, I guess I’m just confused.  Yeah, women like chocolate.  But…I feel like I’d just get nauseated if my date reeked of it.  I’d rather receive some actual chocolate.  And enjoy the natural odor of my date.   But then again, I’m listening to my Celine Dion/Bryan Adams/Chicago station on Pandora and reclining on a camping cot in my living room, so what kind of authority am I?

Lastly, while I was watching Ellen yesterday (you’d think I have stay-at-home mom ambitions or something), Steve Harvey presented a theory from his new book, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man.  He said that employees at Ford Motors don’t receive benefits until they’ve put in 90 days, so women should likewise refrain from sleeping with men for at least 90 days into the relationship.  Wait before giving away “the greatest benefit of all.”  Don’t you find it funny?  You’ve got Steve Harvey putting that out there, and then you’ve got AXE commercials with girls raping a man made of chocolate.  These mixed messages!  No wonder I just hide out in my apartment watching romantic dramedies from the 80s.