The Terrible Trauma of Spatula Tush

Or, in the alternative, a heartfelt letter to Cosmo.

Dearest Cosmo,

We've been together a long, long time. I'm confident that I can't even count the number of hours I've spent curled up with you under a blanket to a backdrop of some terrible show on Bravo or another equally appalling channel. We've laughed together. We've cried together (well, no. We actually haven't done that...because that's just sad.) And throughout our history, you've had some pretty ridiculous advice and social commentary...most of which I won't go into here because no one needs to have the internet offend their delicate sensibilities.

Regardless, though, I really needed to comment on your advice to women in this month's edition, in which you urged them that men overwhelmingly frown upon having their bums spanked with spatulas during sex.

...as if this was really an issue.

...

...is this really an issue?

No...really Cosmo. Are there that many women out there who think to themselves while cooking dinner or baking dessert, "My what a sexy spatula. Not only does it look incredible while it seductively scrapes my brownie batter bowl, I think it'd really get me going if I could smack it across hubby's bum?" And is it such a raging epidemic that you need to issue a PSA against it? Because I'm not okay with that.

So.
Not.
Okay with that.

So Cosmo, I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you need to go back to basics that will really help women. You know. Like advising them on which boots will get them laid the fastest by drunken frat boys in dive bars and which eyeshadow they should use the following morning to hide dark under eye circles and self loathing. Please stop relating kitchen equipment to sex. It's just not okay. Spatulas belong in the kitchen basket, not in the boudoir.

With kind regards,
Me

One. Two. Three. Fourteen.

After many years of unsuccessful attempts to procure U2 tickets, I finally saw them this week through the aid of one very generous gift from one very awesome boyfriend and his very awesome family (and this, friends, is why it rocks to be a Jew on Christmas.) The show was amazing. The set was amazing. The band…was amazing.*

But Bono is an asshat.

And here’s why:

There was a time when Bono had long greasy hair and wore a lot of flannel. Of course, in the 90s, a lot of guys had long greasy hair. And wore a lot of flannel. And back then, most of these guys didn’t really pretend to care about social consciousness or rock with a conscience or any other silly terms annoying people with pamphlets and clipboards like to toss around as they terrorize you in event parking lots. And life was good.

But somewhere down the line, Bono cut his hair, lost his flannel, donned a pair of dark shades, and decided that he was the saviour reborn, strategically sent from above as a gift to all mankind.

And here’s the kicker: I’m so not even remotely exaggerating.

The concert was peppered with references to places and people that I’m wholly confident at least 99.7% of those in attendance had never heard of in what I guess was an attempt to encourage us all to live as one and smile on our brothers and weave rainbows into blankets for orphans. Or as fodder for Bono’s daily spank session in the mirror. Because I am SURE this man wanks it to his own image.

Anyway, this particular concert focused on freeing Burma. Even though I thought Bono’s main campaign was helping African AIDS babies. Or endangered rhinos. Or the fund to buy himself another pair of designer shades. Any one of these crusades is fine if you’re staffing the awareness tent at Mountain Jam or picketing a whaling vessel or wanking it in Bono’s magic mirror. But at a stadium concert? That’s so un-rockstar. And so unnecessary. Especially in a venue where parking is $25.00 per car with base tickets topping over $100.00 a piece.




*Disclaimer: I love U2. I think they are an incredible band. This is by far one of the most rocking concerts I’ve ever attended. I just hate Bono because he’s a self-obsessed tool that pretends to care about the world while he goes home to a mansion and probably swims in vats of his millions while his Burmese slave polishes his line of designer blackout shades.

Frailty, thy name is PMS

There are many perks to being a woman. We got off the Titanic first. Boys hold doors and build things for us. Professors raise our grades because we agree to look at their rock collections (no judgments, Rutgers geology department. I'm sure that's how it works at every university...) And we can wear makeup publicly without being relegated to one of "those" bars in which I'm constantly singing karaoke.

There are also many things that flat out suck about being female. Our hair rarely looks just right. Boobs get heavy. And no amount of tactful persuasion will EVER convince me that high heels get more comfortable the more often you wear them. What's more, though, is that we have a little friendly visitor who feels compelled to pop in every few weeks just to check up on us.

This, friends, I could do without. More importantly, I could forgo the accompanying symptoms that make it impossible to leave the kitchen without consuming everything not tied down. It's even worse when you find yourself cruising the Cadbury site as others cruise :ahem: adult entertainment forums. Did you know Cadbury makes a bar of fudge covered in milk chocolate? Because I do...