My thoughts, exactly.

I now understand the appeal.

Sun, 19 May 2013 11:25:43 -0400

I now understand the appeal.

THIS.

Sun, 19 May 2013 11:15:15 -0400

THIS.

Writing update

Fri, 17 May 2013 20:51:00 -0400

In the past few months, I have finished:

The first, rough draft, of NOVEL: i.d. (or, swallow).

Yes, that’s the name. All of it.

i.d. (or whatever I end up naming it) is a consecutive series of novella/short stories that asks the question — can you ever really leave the your past self behind?

Eva Gould is the youngest daughter of a charismatic, Reform, philandering Rabbi, Saul Gould, and his remote wife, Rebecca. Saul has been carrying on an affair for years, Rebecca ignores this in order to keep her world in order, and Daniel, Eva’s older brother, has turned to “soft” drugs as a means of dealing with the family meshugenas. In response, Eva retreats into a world of magic and fairy tales.

That is until a black family — the first in the neighborhood — moves in, and Madison Harrison swoops into her life. Suddenly, Eva’s living in technicolor, with someone to stick by as she navigates her f’d up family and the more f’d up terrain of adolescence.

But even that can’t keep the demons at bay. As Eva — sure that she has no personality of her own — gets older, she starts seeking out charismatic men with visions of what the world should be. As her relationships become more and more extreme, and her family more and more estranged, Eva herself becomes self-destructive to the point of almost no return… until something happens to call her back to her little Midwestern suburb and her family.

Told in three points of view as the book progresses, i.d. (or swallow)will hopefully be awesome, but may just be… too long.

As for the pilot:

I also finished a full first version, currently-being-polished draft of my TV series pilot spec: THE PUKES AND THE POOPS. It’s about two roommates who have more of a “codependent, heterosexual, homosocial, loveless marriage” type friendship than a normal buddy buddy one. They’re proud of it, but it gets in the way of a lot of things — namely, their ability to separate their lives and make their own decisions.

One, Alexie, is currently a Ph.D. candidate in a Feminist and Sexuality Studies program. She’s starting to reconsider her life choices, especially when those choices have caused her to run around at four in the morning picking up her dissertation committee’s dry cleaning.

The other, Lindsey, is ‘head intern” at an up and coming music label — and has been for two years. They have yet to staff her, even though she’s more committed and talented than most of the Millenials on payroll. Alexie thinks she needs to move on with her life, but Lindsey is sticking to her guns.

The stresses and unreached goals cause a lot of stress — both intestinal, yes, but also in their friendship.

Also, it’s a half hour. So I don’t know how that’s going to pay off.

Anyway, so you have it. The Pukes and The Poops, ladies and gentlemen.

Never Have I Ever: My Life (So Far) Without a Date: Katie Heaney: 9781455544677: Amazon.com: Books

Sat, 11 May 2013 00:02:22 -0400

Never Have I Ever: My Life (So Far) Without a Date: Katie Heaney: 9781455544677: Amazon.com: Books:

katieheaney:

Never Have I Ever: My Life (So Far) Without a Date [Katie Heaney] on Amazon.com. *FREE* super saver shipping on qualifying offers. I would like to tell you about a theory I’ve developed about a certain brand of people I like to call ‘lighthouses.’ Lighthouse people are beacons that call all the cute sailors in ships back to land

I have just discovered that my book is pre-orderable on Amazon now and it is just so so so so nice.

PetHarbor Pet- MATTY IS NEXT ON THE KILL LIST!! PLEASE HELP THIS SWEET BOY!

Sat, 11 May 2013 00:01:19 -0400

PetHarbor Pet- MATTY IS NEXT ON THE KILL LIST!! PLEASE HELP THIS SWEET BOY! :

mavrock1:

PLEASE HELP MATTY - He is next to die at Pasadena Humane Society/ SPCA at 626-792-7151

ID number A323924 http://j.mp/1016OB0

Thanks, Gigi! Y’all, this is super, duper important. Please, please help.

MACKLEMORE & RYAN LEWIS - SAME LOVE feat. MARY LAMBERT (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

Fri, 10 May 2013 23:59:56 -0400

MACKLEMORE & RYAN LEWIS - SAME LOVE feat. MARY LAMBERT (OFFICIAL VIDEO):

Same Love feat. Mary Lambert on iTunes: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/same-love-feat.-mary-lambert/id543948282 We support civil rights, and hope WA State …

I CAN’T get over how great this song is. And I didn’t know what a Macklemore was until yesterday.

It gets better.

tribecafilm: Celebrate the ones you love today by sending them...

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 16:11:26 -0500

tribecafilm:

Celebrate the ones you love today by sending them one of our very special a cinematic valentine.

For even more choices, click here.

shut up. tell me. by katie heaney.: I have exactly as many feelings about Valentine’s Day as I do St....

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 11:26:25 -0500

shut up. tell me. by katie heaney.: I have exactly as many feelings about Valentine’s Day as I do St....:

katieheaney:

I have exactly as many feelings about Valentine’s Day as I do St. Patrick’s Day, which is to say none at all except that I’m good with the candy, but I will always think of it fondly for also being V-Day. When I was president of my college’s Feminist Majority Leadership Alliance, V-Day was…

This may out me as a feminist. Oops.

When I said I was going on a diet

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 21:45:45 -0500

whatshouldwecallme:

"‘She’s got you thinking this is how you’re supposed to be. It’s not. We’re young. We’re supposed to..."

Fri, 04 Jan 2013 03:00:46 -0500

“‘She’s got you thinking this is how you’re supposed to be. It’s not. We’re young. We’re supposed to drink too much. We’re supposed to have bad attitudes and shag each other’s brains out. We were designed to party. We owe it to ourselves to party hard. We owe it to each other. This is it. This is our time. So a few of us will overdose, or go mental. Charles Darwin said you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. That’s what it’s about - breaking eggs - by eggs, I mean, getting twatted on a cocktail of class As. If you could see yourselves. We had it all. We have fucked up bigger and better than any generation that came before us. We were so beautiful. We’re screw-ups. I plan on staying a screw-up until my late twenties, or maybe even my early thirties. And I will shag my own mum before I let her, or anyone else take that away from me!’ — Nathan, Misfits”

This is just lovely. And true.

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 02:47:09 -0500

This is just lovely. And true.

breakmyheartfuck: What the fuck is brunch? This may be my new...

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 02:43:24 -0500

breakmyheartfuck:

What the fuck is brunch?

This may be my new favorite moment on my new (old) favorite show. Even if this makes Lauren Socha look like she’s chewing on play-doh.

Even the birds were all, "#FirstWorldProblems"

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 13:03:00 -0400

T: i just called my car garage

and asked him if he could rinse of my car

because i wont have time to get it washed before i go meet ___ for lunch

and he told me no

he’s really busy

and has a lot of important things to do

J: I mean

maybe he has too many other cars to wash

T: not to be an asshole but like

isn’t that part of your job to rinse off my car
its not like i want him to scrub it down

J: Or he has an intense Scramble with Freinds going

T: right

J: It’s possible that there were too many other cars

T: no

theres literally like

never any cars being washed

J: Well maybe today is the day that half of your building woke up and was like, “you know what, there’s literally like never any cars being washed,” and so they all brought their cars around to be rinsed off, not scrubbed

T: no

well

J: and this dude is all FUCK. my life. What has happened.

T: also i was like ill be leaving in the next 45 minutes or so, it doesn’t have to be right this second

and he was like i have too much to do

J: And also he’s worried because he actually has no idea how to wash a car or is allergic to soap or something but since there were literally no cars ever to be washed, he didn’t think it mattered and now he’s like fuck it

T: lolllll

i dont want him to use soap! just water

J: I think it’s Scramble with Friends though, personally

T: yes probably

J: I dunno. maybe he has a water allergy

T: ugh now i have to leave super early

to get my car washed

J: this is why I don’t bother with getting my car washed

T: you would if there was bird shit all over your car

i parked under a tree

not thinking about birds

and literally like

20 birds had diarrhea on my car

J: well that was your first mistake

The Collegetown Pee-er, Part II

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 20:42:00 -0400

It was a snowy and awesome night.

It was the weekend after Thanksgiving and before finals. Otherwise known as party weekend. Otherwise known, to myself and my four roommates, as Must Throw Huge Blowout Party So That When We Go Abroad Next Semester We Shall Always Remember This Night.

(Spoiler alert, we did.)

This time, I drew the line at the keg thing. It was helpful that there was a foot of snow and even my trusty Subaru wasn’t going anywhere but still, I got my way. Instead we decided to get a gagillion boxes of wine and play wine pong. One of my roommates — who I’m pretty sure to this day doesn’t drink, yet still manages to be the life of every party — made egg nog, which is really, really disgusting. I proceeded to do my thang.

(My thang was to get plastered and rely on the kindness of friends to keep me from going on a joy-bus-ride to Varna or unintentionally performing an homage to Janet Jackson’s Superbowl Halftime Show on the Ruloff’s bar.) Once again, everyone else for the most part disappeared to the bars.

My good friend, L, who was many things but especially a Canadian, a breakdancer, and a mensch, put me to bed. He closed the door. He didn’t think to lock it.

The party raged on.

I snored, out cold and oblivious.

At some point, my guess is, people came home. A kicked everyone out and went to sleep. S (a different S) went to sleep at her current boy toy’s. R and M considered spending the night at our place, but then decided they’d rather go back to his because he had remembered to record The Soup whereas I had forgotten, again.

Morning dawned.

I opened my eyes, unsure when the waterfall had arrived.

And looked up. And, well, screamed.

Now, I don’t know if you’re a girl, and I don’t know if you’ve ever had the blessed opportunity of waking up, still drunk, only to stare up at a stranger who is standing in your room with his dick out.

(I really, really hope you never go through this. Mainly because that is, actually not funny. Thank God that this story does not end the way you think it does.)

Okay, that tactlessness aside, just, put yourself in my pjs for a second. (By which I mean dress L put me to bed in from the night before.) You have no idea what is going on but that some random bro is like, standing there with his dick out and he is making relieved sounds.

Let’s just say I lost my shit.

I stood up in my bed, screaming at him to stop. He didn’t make a move toward me, but I was too overwhelmed by the situation to notice that, or even that his eyes were closed.

Instead I stood on my tiptopes and attempted to beat him over the head with the hardest thing I could find, which was a Scrubs Season 4 DVD case.

Which is when I looked down and realized that the reason for the waterfall and relieved look on his face was because he was pissing on my floor.

Actually, not even my floor. I failed to mention this, but I had just gotten back to Ithaca the day before from Chicago. I had gone home for the weekend to celebrate my mom’s graduation from her PhD program, and of course, didn’t unpack my suitcase which at the time contained the very pretty outfit I wore to the graduation, my favorite jeans, my fluffy white hat, some other crap I can’t remember, and the USB that contained the script that was my final project for my film class. My mom has, for years, expressed the importance of unpacking immediately upon your return and procrastinating stuff like that is an indicator that there are bigger issues going on and so on and so forth. I’m pretty sure she never considered the fact that my suitcase (actually, her suitcase) would be mistaken for a low to the ground black porcelain toilet, or she definitely would have used it as a persuasive technique to get me to start unpacking when I got right home.

But you know, I had a party to throw. Priorities.

Anyway, I finally realized (after throwing the Scrubs DVD and whatever else I could find at the perp which didn’t help because they just landed on the floor and in the never ending stream of what was probably half the wine boxes from the night before) that the kid was half asleep and thought he was in the bathroom, and mainly, was not trying to rape me.

Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU ASSHOLE. THIS IS NOT THE BATHROOM. OR YOUR APARTMENT.

C.P.: Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Me: Don’t you fucking shush me, you piece of shit. Are you fucking one of my roommates? I’m going to kill you. STOP PEEING.

C.P.: Shhhhhhhhhhhhsh. It’s okay. Shhhhhhhh. It’s all okay I just need to pee.

Me: OH. MY GOD. STOP PEEING. Just stop. I am going to cut you. I don’t know if I can actually manage it, but I’m so mad at you right now that I ——

C.P.: Shhhhh

I finally hopped down from the bed (avoiding the pee area), and started beating on him.

He slightly woke up, and looked at me, and smiled.

C.P. Oh, hey, you’re Julie, right? Nice party.

ME: GET. OUT. OF MY APARTMENT.

I then proceeded to actually, literally, chase the kid down the hallway and towards the door, which I’m sure was pretty funny but I certainly did not find it so at the time.

Unable to handle this nonsense, I ignored the mess and did what anyone would do in my position, which was to just go back to sleep and deal with it later.

Later came, and when I woke up I had the unfortunate issue of having forgotten what had happened until I stepped on the carpet and well.. You know. Raging ensued, showering ensued.

I went out into the hallway to share my angst with the roomies.

A came out of her room.

“Dude, you were passed out when you were asleep. The door was closed. You look like shit.”

“Some drunk asshole fucking pissed on my floor.”

“What?”

“Yea. I swear to god, I don’t know who that kid is…”

I described him to her, but brown hair, kinda tall, and bro-y was not particularly unique. I could have described his penis since at the time it was burned into my retinas (thankfully since then I have forgotten what it looked like) but I somehow didn’t think this would be the case breaker.

“Are you sure you’re not still drunk?”

I carefully showed her the evidence. She tried not to laugh. She failed. I blamed her.

“Let’s go ask S… squatter and pisser sounds like someone she would know.”

Which is how we found Goldi—I won’t even— sleeping in not his bed.

I was past the screaming stage. I was not, however, past the smacking around stage. I apparently get fairly violent when pissed on.

A peered at the victim of my angry fists. He rolled over.

“Peen?!” (Clearly not his name, but it actually does rhyme and I couldn’t pass it up.)

“A … why am I here? And why is your roommate beating on me?”

“You fucker you …” and I proceeded to tell him exactly what he did, in detail and many vulgarities, punctuated by my punches. To be fair to him, he took it like a man.

He looked shocked. Starting laughing. “I did not pee in your bedroom.”

“You did. Come look.”

He looked at A. She was trying not to laugh. “The other option is that you revealed yourself to her, so…”

I dragged him in by his arm. I had to resist shoving his head in it like he was a dog who done wrong. Mainly because I was sort of vaguely starting to see the humor in the situation.

“Fuck. Fuck. I am so sorry. That is… not how I wanted this to go.”

Incredulous. Was me. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s why I stayed so late. I didn’t realize I had gone to —”

“No.” I shoved the suitcase at him. “Go. Get it dry cleaned.”

He got all embarrassed and mumbled something and fled. A explained the 6 degrees of how he got there (also explaining why, for some reason, he had thought that previous to pissing in my suitcase he thought I might bang him), and I called his roommates.

I didn’t even need to explain. Apparently he did it all the time.

“And you were going to set me up with this guy?”

“I mean, he never pissed on a girl before. That we know of.”

DEATH. They promised me they’d make him come back and get the suitcase and clean the floor. Four hours later, he had not. I called his roommates back, and twenty minutes later, they came in, dragging him between them.

He was super contrite but tried to talk his way out of dry cleaning, until I threatened to start beating on him again. Since I was now in the living room, there were much bigger, heavier books to aid me. He relented, gave me money for a steam cleaner situation, grabbed my stuff, not failing to comment on the white pompom hat and other crap.

By then, everyone was back. S was frankly, more mad than I was that someone she didn’t even know had slept in her bed. She didn’t seem to see my point that I was the abused party, here.

“At least his ass wasn’t half naked in your bed.”

“He pissed all over my stuff.”

“His junk was probably on my sheets.”

“You win.”

When finally everything calmed down, and we cleaned up, A paused. There was the inevitable puke smell. Which was (do not even ask) in the dishwasher. It was empty, except for a couple bottles of wine and my Patron that we had been saving for a special occasion. This is, to date, the only time when the good alcohol was not found and stolen.

It was a moot point.

Senior year, I got my revenge. Ithaca’s a pretty small town. Peen — who somehow failed to understand why, after everything that had happened, I was still not interested in sleeping with him — had moved onto a new group of girls. Now, normally I would try the whole turn the other cheek thing but the truth is that I don’t really know all that much about Jesus and the dude had pissed in my suitcase and even though most of the things had been taken care of, the USB was unsalvageable and even though I had another copy of the script, it was, as I had told every single person who would listen ad nauseum, not the point.

I went over to say hi. Everybody tried to stop me. Wasn’t going to happen.

Peen looked terrified. It was, all things considered, a fairly powerful moment.

I started to say hi to the girls. One of them was a staff writer of mine, super cute and sweet and I knew would walk the second I mentioned piss, floor, exposed penis to stranger.

“So, funny story about how Peen and I —”

“Can I talk to you?”

And that is not only the story of how my suitcase got pissed in the last week of classes of junior fall semester right before I got mono and then went off to Nepal. (I blame the mono on the peeing incident, or the puke in the dishwasher — which, btw, is the best place to puke if the toilet is taken. Everyone else points out it was probably going gorge jumping in Ithaca in the middle of November. Either way it was really embarrassing.)

It is, also, the story of the fastest $256 I have ever made.

Brought to you by my hormones.

Mon, 22 Oct 2012 12:14:49 -0400

Brought to you by my hormones.:

Which sounds nuts but … well you know how some ladies get all, “OMG look at the BAABYYY!” I do that with puppies. Often out loud, while their owners give me creeped out half-smiles.

Which leads me to the story about the Collegetown Pee-er* (Part One)

Mon, 22 Oct 2012 00:14:00 -0400

College is always so much fun. Even when gross messy things happen, they aren’t like, actually annoying. The set PA shows up after the party is over and clears out everything.

Or so I thought.

I never really threw parties in high school. It would have been unbelievably easy — parents were gone a lot, neighbors couldn’t hear us. Neither did my brother, which my sisters won’t let us live down to this day.

“You guys were such wusses. We threw parties, huge ones, every weekend. Even when Mom and Keith were in town.” Eldest Sister likes to say this in the midst of trying to herd her three young, will-be-wild-when-they-reach-high school children.

“Well, also, we had friends in high school. You guys were too busy with your Jewish youth nerds.” To be fair, Elder Sister only ever brings this up when she’s super drunk during Christmas. This was the least of her confessions/things she would never say when sober, which is why Christmas Eve at E-er S’s house is probably the highlight of the year.

But Brother and I defended ourselves. We could not throw a party in our house. There was way too much, breakable shit. Maybe not valuable in a money sense — especially not the huge pile of rocks collected from Alaska/Nova Scotia/probs the backyard — but still, enough to alert the troops to our misdemeanors.

It’s worth mentioning that the Brother and I were pretty paranoid about our parents’ psychic abilities. If they could sense junk food on us, they would know if the miniature gong from Shanghai or the gourds from god knows where had been broken.

So no big parties. I still managed to leave marks, like burning a hole in the basement carpet one spring break (from a fairly obvious cause), or having to pay steam cleaners to come in when red wine was spilled all over the rugs, but still, too paranoid to have lots of people over.

I thought I was a party goer, not a party thrower.

All that changed in college.

Even when it wasn’t my own house, I somehow found myself hosting parties. When I turned 21 before everyone else sophomore year, my friend JB convinced his frat annex to host the party. I still don’t know how he talked them into it, but I’m sure some mention of sophomore sorority girls was mentioned. The two of us took on this endeavor unbelievably seriously. We used birthday money from my unsuspecting grandparents (and, god, Citybucks), debated the merits of Jim Beam vs. Wild Turkey, and convinced a hipster friend to DJ. And as a sweet gesture, JB got me my first keg.

Inevitably, a huge fight broke out between my young buck friends and JB’s brothers, the cops charged them a $300 noise violation, and at the end of the night I only knew three people there. Surprisingly, however, I was still standing.

This hosting-by-proxy thing became a habit for me. After all, what could be better than hosting a party when you didn’t have to do the clean up, or deal with the damage the next day? I also lived in a sorority house, and in Ithaca, we weren’t allowed to have parties. In fact, Ithaca laws are so antiquated that if a family (husband, wife, child) doesn’t live in the house with them, you’d get filed as a brothel and shut down. This meant that a number of married Mormon/Jesuit young couples with miniscule grad student stipends would have to live in the basement of a house of screaming, wasted girls who — and rightly so — were celebrating freedom and the American way through hook ups and hangovers. Which is neither here nor there, but I still find it so bizarre that I feel the need to share that information.

My best social planning moment was when, drunkenly, I lied to the IPD ad pretended to live in a house I didn’t since I was one of two 21 year olds there. The other was European, and some diplomat’s kid, so I was the only one screwed in that situation. It was just a noise violation, but it could have been much worse.

We also found ourselves one morning cleaning up after the annual can’t-remember-which-frat foam party. For philanthropy. Which ps, is nothing like the apologism, “for science,” especially when you’re gathering up red plastic cups from a floor you seriously hope is only sticky from dried soap, even though you know is not.

This habit of hosting other people’s parties continued until junior/senior year, when I moved to college town and could finally destroy my own apartment. This is when I learned all sorts of fun things, such as:

How disgusting a keg smells the morning after, and how it will probably take days to get the smell out. Even if your boyfriend tells you it’s a phantom smell and you’re losing your mind and maybe you should put the swiffer down because you are making him dizzy.
It takes at least three people to lift a keg. And forgive me, ladies, but it’s much easier if two of those people are guys and the third is you, just standing there and praying they won’t dent up your car.
Someone, inevitably, will be willing to finish off the flat beer in the keg, because of course no one was going to drink Jenny Lite when there was good beer and medium range hard liquor hidden somewhere.
Hiding your good alcohol is POINTLESS. Ugh. To this day, it astounds me. We would hide it under the sink, under the bed, in the fridge … senior year on my birthday we put everything in the washer and dryer, only to stand and watch later as underclasswomen no one knew wandered out, victoriously chugging my roommates’ wine. I was angry, but also impressed because even with all the parties we snuck into freshman year, I don’t think I ever would have had either the balls or the spidey sense to pull a drunk robbery like that.
If it’s your party, inevitably by the end of the night almost every single person you know will have bounced, including your roommates. Which is annoying, but not if you like me, love meeting new people that you will inevitably forget sober the next morning.
When you are so hungover that in order to get to the bathroom you have to fall out of bed and slither on the floor and down the hallway like they made you do in fake soldier training at camp in Israel, to the bemusement of your equally destroyed housemates … when you are that hungover, seeing the wake of cups and destroyed carpet that will come out of your security deposit and knowing that somewhere, in the vicinity, is vomit you will have to clean up because you always lose rock paper scissors is literally the worst thing that has ever and will ever happened in the entire world and universe end of story that’s it no argue shut up.

Which is what I freaking thought until Dionysus was all, bitch, you don’t EVEN KNOW. You have no idea just how bad it can get.

*Not to be confused with the Collegetown Creeper, who is actually a real person.

OkCanine: The Dog Adoption site

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 23:09:00 -0400

S, my friend/sorta boss, wants a dog, which is exciting since there is nothing my crazy dog mom heart loves more than to help people puppy shop.

Maybe too much.

Definitely too much.

J: You just need to find a dog that fits your personality.

S: what do you mean

J: http://dogtime.com/matchup/start

S: oh my god

amaaaze

It’s like dating, this website.

J: …

S: it literally asks if you’re the type to interrupt people when they are talking

“Do you have road rage”

“What’s your party style”

J: Haha ‘what’s your myers brigg’s category?

J: I initially wanted a Jindo — cute, medium sized, emotionally unavailable.

S: your dog is so not emotionally unavailable

J: No. He’s territorial, bipolar, loud, aggressive, has abandonment issues.

S: bitches never know what they want

J: Whatever. He doesn’t piss on my floor. The rest is superficial.

S: I don’t want to know what you dated in college

"J: I wonder what happened to that second dog I wanted to adopt. L: It probably died."

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 10:21:00 -0400

“J: I wonder what happened to that second dog I wanted to adopt.
L: It probably died.”

- Larissa, who sometimes laughs when puppies die.

What happens when people don't learn how to read

Thu, 18 Oct 2012 18:49:00 -0400

Apparently there’s this site where a lot of idiots can weigh in on whether or not a guy is into you. Kind of like a for profit, web 2.0 version of the dandelion game.

Dear He Texted, meet He’s Just Not That into You.

No, not that one.

There ya go. I mean, you really don’t need to read the book. Just the title.

It was a best seller. It’s like The Rules, except for with technology. (Fun fact: The Rules is my mother’s favorite book, closely followed by Asking a Guy to Coffee Is Like Promising a Blow Job and We Never Let You Have Boys in Your Bedroom Because We Didn’t Want Him to Think You Were a Hooker.) All of these things are silly, so I’m super excited for you to figure it out and then go be a productive member of society.*

Actually I lied. Read the book. It even has pictures!**

Also, why do these girls only have iPhones?

*Guys, this applies to you as well. Just because you have a penis doesn’t mean you can get away with sending 10 texts in a row with no response.

** I think.

The Cost of Having a Vagina (or: Screw Women's Lib, Men Should Still Pay for Everything)

Thu, 18 Oct 2012 16:44:00 -0400

These recent debates have gotten myself and A talking. Long live the democratic process! We are putting aside the equality issues, and the macro-economic issues, and well, the rest of the issues. Because here is the dirty (sometimes) truth:

Having a vagina costs more than having a penis (period)

Okay I don’t have numbers on this because I’m not a mathemagician or whatever (or am I?). But here is the basic math that we came up with:

Gynecologists: Expensive

Birth Control: Expensive

Antibiotics for UTIs and drugs for yeast infections, which happen because of sex a lot because our sex organs are in the inside (whose idea was that?!):

REALLY FUCKING EXPENSIVE

Also, like, tampons cost a lot of money. The price has gone up. Inflation. That guy at the debates was right.

Also there is all the fun stuff like the morning after pill if the condom breaks or abortions or the fact that men are often STD carriers and don’t even know it and other shit I am not thinking of.

(The above may sound ridiculous, but I have two big old bits of evidence to chew on:

One — a friend of mine — YES, A FRIEND, NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP — apparently had to get an abortion. Her boyfriend at the time put it on his credit card, and then asked her to pay him back. Which … yes, not all guys are that tacky, except point number two:

When the condom broke one time, I asked the college boyfriend to pay for Plan B. Or at least split the cost. It was college. We were poor.

CB: Uh, no.

JB: Do you want to have a baby?

[Although in his defense I was on birth control. I just have pregnancy paranoia. Seriously. Every time I get my period, I throw myself a little party. I can actually commiserate with those happy, dancing in white dresses period ladies.]

Needless to say, he forked over the cash. But it’s not like we split the cost of monthly birth control.)

And that doesn’t include the cost of staying pretty/well coifed. Although I concede that is every lady’s own damn choice. But, if you include those things, then you have:

Bikini waxes — ranging from painfully cheap to pricey

Eyebrow waxes — you can do it at a nail salon so cheap

Manicures/pedicures, makeup, pretty dresses, cab rides home, meh I dunno lots of other shit. These things are less of an issue, or maybe I just don’t care as much? About the whole beauty economy? I think I dress up more for other women then men, anyway. And I have never had a guy say, “your eyebrows look awesome.” That would be suspect. Seriously, have you ever heard a gay guy say that either, outside of homophobic movies and TV shows?

No. No you have not.

Still, shit be expensive. Or, as A put it:

Vaginas have users’ manuals. Even that is expensive.

Which, by the way, if you know me, is partially why I support prostitution. It’s pragmatic.

Anyway, off of that, we came up with a hypothetical, end of hook up/relationship bill. This would solve so many problems! Mainly the whole “ugh what a waste of money thing”:

I have this feeling that all the sad, young, non-literary women who have been taken in by one of the hundred or so Romney sons (seriously, Anne Romney’s vagina, well done) would see one of these in the future.

Or: Tax exemption?

A:They can pay for drinks for ever and ever and when did they stop pumping gas?

Bring that back