One D at a Time

How one out-of-touch woman is hurting women.

I have to give it up at least a little bit to Linda Hirshman, for her essay about "The Trouble with Jezebel," because she made me cry and she made me laugh and I don't think I've experienced such a rapid cycling of emotions in many, many menstrual cycles. And just like mood swings during really bad PMS, Hirshman's piece doesn't make much sense. That's when I started laughing. To talk about "the state of feminsim today" by using examples from one, two, three, four years ago? That is actually the problem with "the state of feminism today": Focusing on bullshit from the past that we can't change instead of trying to understand the way that things are right now. Because how can anyone nitpick about the way things should be, when they don't even have a grasp on how they really are?

Best Birthday Present EVER

I turned 30. My BF really gets me.

Sicko

This photo is the embodiment of how I feel. I have been so fucking sick all week long. Sicker than I've ever been in my entire life. Worse than all the hangovers I've had combined. Worse than when I had morning sickness 'round the clock. Just the absolute pits.

My doctor has no idea what's wrong with me beyond having a some sort of infection that's causing me to have a really intense, high fever that's, in turn, causing delirium, and the occasional loss of bladder control while vomiting. My antibiotics finally started to kick in today, and I was able to sort of work a half day today, but unfortch, I was too busy pumping out my guts into the toilet and my urine onto the bathmat to pump out a new Pot Psychology. It will def be back next week though!

Pot Psychology Is Back!

Check out our latest installment, featuring Susie Bright!

Putting a Face to a Crime

When I saw the police photo of Rihanna taken after Chris Brown (allegedly) attacked her, I said, "Oh shit" out loud. I work from home, alone, on the internet all day. When I think something's funny, I don't laugh. I type "haha" or "lol" into iChat. When something pisses me off, makes me sad, excites me, confuses me; my emotions and my reactions to them remain equally virtual. But my response to Rihanna's injuries was visceral. And I immediately recognized the value in that.

My mind is in my laptop for long stretches of time, which causes a disconnect—from my own body and others. It results in desensitization and, more importantly, a lack of face-to-face human interaction. After a while, you forget how you got there, and why you never mind to stay. Facing Rihanna's bruises humanized the situation for me. I no longer felt disconnected.

I was late to the party on the whole pre-Grammy altercation, due to a self-imposed exile to Mexico in an attempt to escape from relationship problems of my own. With no internet, television or tabloids, I didn't even hear about it until several days later, at which point, I didn't care. I thought it was just some more celebrity bullshit and purposely didn't read any reports or gossip on it, assuming they'd be speculative, inaccurate, and invasive of something that seemed to be a private matter, believing that nobody really knows what goes on within a relationship unless they're one of the two people in it.

I hate the idea of jumping to the automatic conclusion that women are either victims or potential victims. It implies that we're weak, unable to take care of ourselves, and need men to protect us from…men? Without knowing any factual details or the extent of either parties' injuries (beyond conjecture)—and knowing my own behavior when fighting—I didn't want to assume that Chris Brown was evil and that Rihanna was completely innocent, which I'm sure that some people did, based solely on gender. I particularly didn't want to do that, so long as Rihanna wasn't saying much about it.

But, you know what they say about what a picture says…

Riding On The Love Train

I wrote about this documentary about Objectum Sexuals (OS people) for Jezebel called Strange Love: Married to the Eiffel Tower. OS people (who are all women, btw) have intimate, emotional, sexual relationships with inanimate objects. It's the best thing I've seen in a long time, and probably ranks right up there, for me, with Living Dolls and Grey Gardens, particularly for how quotable it is. For example, one woman—who looks like a run-of-the-mill bull dyke—named Amy is in love with an amusement park ride named 1001 Nacht. While standing next to the structure, she began explaining, to a fellow OS person, her lovemaking process with the ride saying, "When I start climaxing, I keep saying to him over and over, just as I'm startin' to go over the edge, I just tell him, 'I want your fluids. I want your fluids. I want your fluids.'" I love how clinical her dirty talk is. Anyway, you can watch the whole documentary online, and I put a clip up on Jez as well, but here is an additional clip that I have been watching repeatedly, in which Amy is freaking out to the Eurotrash song that plays loudly while the 1001 Nacht is in motion. Enjoy.

My Mother's Gay Holiday

I just got off the phone with my mother. Despite her devil-may-care attitude about traffic lights, and her love of Chardonnay on the rocks, she's pretty conservative. One time when I was 14-years-old, I described a pair of shoes in a store window as "Cool as hell," and she turned sharply to me and said, "Watch your mouth. I'm your mother, not your friend."

So when she began her story tonight with, "I just got back from Florida. My friend Joann's gay hairdresser was throwing a 40th birthday party for his gay partner down there, so I went to that with her…" I was all ears.

I Can Have Whatever I Like?

3 Things I Didn't Know

1.) Fat Free Fiancés is a television show.
2.) Ann Coulter's breath smells like white wine.
3.)

Yet Another Uncomfortable January 1

I went upstate to my friend Gavin's house for NYE. The night started off really fun with Cuban food, a talent show and a bonfire. It ended on a sour note, with second degree burns, tears, and violence.

Merry Christmas!

Then she takes her top off, as a finale.

I Drink Because It's Fun, Not Because It's "Feminist"

Have you seen this retardation in New York magazine? Apparently women are drinking more these days. And apparently it has something to do with feminism. And women like me and my coworkers represent that kind of feminism. According to dickish comments on some blogs, because we drink (sometimes in excess) and openly discuss it, we are ruining feminism.

When the fuck are people going to understand that what Moe, and I and the rest of Jezebel do—when we write about—is anthropological, not ideological?

The fact that women like to knock a few back is not a pro-feminism statement. Sure, it may be a result of feminism, but not, in itself, a feminist act. (Personally, I don't drink to fight sexism. I drink to forget about it.) However, making the argument that now that women are lucky enough to have the freedoms earned by earlier feminists, we should forever be indebted to them and pay homage by being responsible and striving for social perfection is, in fact, an anti-feminist statement. Because we're not "lucky" to have such rights. We're owed them. And so, what, now that we have them we better behave?

It's the same fucking thing that feminists/women have always faced: being told "you can't." But now it's been switched up—within our own ranks—to "you can, but you shouldn't," as this smart lady pointed out. So who exactly is the Aunt Tom here? Us for the sad state of feminism at happy hour? Or them for trying to tack on so many other issues to this movement that it's so heavy it's stuck right where it is?

The article discussed the "Thinking and Drinking" thing that Moe and I did, and published a private iChat conversation between "two editors at Jezebel."

Probs Gay: Clara Barton

 I spent my Thanksgiving vacation in D.C. and took the opportunity to take in some culture via museums and historical sites. I've always loved visiting old homes since I was a little nerd kid and used to make my mom take me to Teddy Roosevelt's Sagamore Hill in Oyster Bay, NY, or Betsy Ross's house in Philly several times a year. I've been to lots of historical homes in the D.C. area in the past, but wanted to visit one I'd never seen, so I went to Clara Barton's home. She was the founding president of the American Red Cross, and the land was given to her as a gift so she could a build a home there, which she also used as the headquarters for the Red Cross. As I was reading about her accomplishments on the various plaques on the property and looking in all the rooms all I could think was, "This lady was a such a lez."

Hindsight

Moe was asked to do this comedy night thing, so she asked me to do it with her about why we don't do comedy night things. (The last time we did, people didn't like it.) I get terrible stage fright, but the event, which was this past Sunday night, was actually really positive closure, at least for me. When people on the internet were all pissed off at us this summer for not being good role models, some of them took a moment to look down on us from their high horses to tell us that, at some point down the road, when we look back on the things we said, we'd gain some perspective, see the error of our ways, and learn from the experience. It's true that in looking back on it four months later, I've gained some perspective—that it's laughable how much people overreacted for no reason and that Lizz Winstead is a bigger phony than I'd initially thought.

Kids in a Sandbox

Have you seen this?

Electile Dysfunction

The first time I was eligible to vote in a presidential election was in 2000, and I was living in London. I was so pumped about it that I actually went to the trouble of sending in an absentee ballot. I heard that they don't even count those until like five days after election day or something, but it didn't matter to me because I felt like a grownup and I felt like I was making a difference in the world.

Except that I wasn't making much of a difference at all. I voted for Al Gore, who won the popular vote and he still wasn't elected. It kinda took the wind out of my sails, but not enough for me to not vote in the next election. In 2004, I was living in the U.S. again. I got this mailer thing that told me which poll site I had to go to in Greenpoint. When I showed up to the basement of a middle school in my neighborhood, my name wasn't on the list of voters, so I was given this Scantron sheet instead of going in a booth. The 90-year-old Polish woman working at my poll site gave me an ink pen to fill in my circles.

I was like, "Um, I think these only work with pencils."

She said, "I give you pencil right here."

I was like, "This is a pen."

She nodded her head and smiled.

I tried to explain more, but she put her finger over her lips so as to shush me and then hobbled away. I started to mildly freak out, thinking that this stupid idiot old lady was gonna fuck up my vote and George Bush would most definitely get elected and we'd get in all these new wars and the world would fall apart.

If my vote wasn't counted that night, it didn't matter. New York went blue, as it always does. Maybe that old Polish lady wasn't so stupid after all. Maybe she knew it was pointless, and that's why she didn't want to walk her old legs around the room looking for a pencil that wouldn't change a single fucking thing. So that's why I'm wondering if I should even bother schlepping to the poll.

Happy HalloWEEN

Even though I'm getting married, it doesn't mean that I've stopped writing about penises for good. I did an extensive post (with video!) on 10 castration scenes in horror movies.

You Wanna Be On Top?

I can't fucking believe I forgot to mention this, because it was the highlight of my month. Rich and I filmed an installment of Pot Psychology with two America's Next Top Model Cycle 10 alums, Lauren and Amis (whose real name is Amy, but Tyra made her change it because there was already another Amy). Check it out here.

FAQ YOU

 Ever since I announced that I'm getting married, I've received a lot of congratulations (thanks!), unsolicited comments from complete fucking strangers claiming to know why I decided to do this ("Deep down, all insecure sluts just want to be loved") and gleefully remarking about how I'll soon be divorced. I mean, I'm not gonna even attempt to get into the psyche of anonymous commenters. I just don't get their deal, and I never will. I can't imagine having the time on my hands to obsess about someone I claim to hate, follow their writing and then going out of my way to try to make them feel bad. (Not that it works, motherfuckers.) Anyway, I wanted to take some time to answer some frequently asked questions.

Now that you're getting married, does this mean the end of your blog?
Good question! I really don't know. I obviously have gone from one D at a time to one D all the time, so consuming men like they're tapas isn't a part of my life anymore. But what people who don't know me don't realize is that most of the sex stories I've written here weren't in chronological order or real time. It was more like picking and choosing some of the more outrageous stories over the past 12 years of fucking. It's kinda like the Weight Watchers technique of putting your soup in the refrigerator so that all the oil and fat will form a layer of scum along the top that you scrape off. So this blog has kinda been my presentation of the scum of my sex soup. I think from now on, instead of straight-up scum shots, I might go a little deeper beneath the surface, and be a little more anthropological. Or not. I don't fucking know.

Making a Ho a Housewife

This is going to ruin my reputation as a slut.