“It’s mutual, you know, the hate I have for cheese and the hate it has for me.” The man stands beside me, his mustache staring at mine with smug superiority.

“Do I know you?” I ask. My pink gown is dragging the floor, collecting dust and I shudder to think what else from this horrible excuse for a grocery store. I couldn’t go anywhere else, though. Couldn’t risk anyone I know seeing me with my whiskers growing in. How did this happen? It’s like my cat glued hair balls to my upper lip while I was napping and I’m already late for the party.

“No. But you can if you want,” he says. “Looking for wax?” He nods toward the Sally Hansen shelf.

“Go away.” I turn toward the waxing options. I can’t go for the heated kind because I’ll have a bright red face. And why is this mouth-breather staring at me like we met on the Love Boat?

He grabs a box and shoves it toward me and I notice that oh-my-god he has a nub for a pointer finger. “My ex-wife swore by this one.” He winks. “I like my women a little hairy.”

“Thanks, Magnum PI. Do you mind scampering away now?” The florescent lights highlight the greasy clumps in his hair.

“Wouldn’t kill you to be nice.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Do you spend all your Saturday nights in the wax aisle of the grocery store trying to talk to girls?” I ask.

“You’re not really a girl. You’re a woman speeding toward middle age and you shouldn’t be wearing that Barbie dress.” He smiles, revealing perfectly yellowed teeth.

“I, uh, what?”

“You heard me. Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re the one shopping for wax in a bubble gum pink ball gown. Life must have really shit on you.” He places his hand on my arm, tickling it a little with the nub.

“Do you want my phone number?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I guess.”

My stomach flutters from his filthy indifference. I pull a pen from my beaded bag and write my number on his palm.

“Call me, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” he says and burps a little.

My chest is heaving with the possibility of true love as I watch him limp toward the dairy aisle.

I grab at the words

As they giggle and give chase

Constant silent scream

Is that a gray hair?

I squint though my eyesight’s fine

Whose idea was this?

Blood on the pages

I’m waiting for approval

Of all I’ve laid bare.

The only reason the Academy Awards boss people (who are those people anyway? Captain Stubing , Benson, and Harvey Weinstein? That’s my guess.)  hired Seth MacFarlane is because they wanted some degree of controversy. I’m a feminist, and I did not find the We Saw Your Boobs song offensive. Here’s why: we did see all their boobs. And the song was funny. And people like boobs.

It wasn’t offensive or rude. It was about boobs.

Lena Dunham has spoken out via twitter. Really Lena Dunham? You show your boobs every five minutes. I like you, but let’s not get self-righteous about boobs or offensive comedy. That’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to say offensive things or show your boobs even though they’re not surgically enhanced.

Jane Fonda is offended because MacFarlane should have sang about penises instead. She said something like why not list all the places where people have shown their penises. Really Jane, I don’t think that would have made a good song.  But look, Barbarella. Your indignation is dually noted.

The list of commentators and celebrities who are jumping on the pouting bandwagon grows daily. Gloria Allred has added her name to the list just in case a lawsuit comes about I guess, and there have been articles all over the place about misogyny and women’s roles in Hollywood.

It’s just boobs, people. Get over it. Boobs.

This is a guest blog and frankly, I’m a little conflicted about it. If karma’s taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that I’m as unwelcome a guest here as the guests I’ve had in my house. But look, I’m not here to eat your food or clog your toilet, and I’m not staying very long, so who cares? Let’s briefly touch on a few things in my current head since that’s what blogs are wont to do. For things in my other head, see the links below.

As you know, citing health reasons, the Pope retired. Or quit. Or resigned. Or was fired. Or whatever Popes do that indicate they’re now out of a job. Welcome to the 99%. Hope the Vatican offers interim COBRA coverage. In any case, this should mean nothing to me as an atheist, yet I’m prepared to call bullshit on this whole health excuse. The last Pope was hunched over like the letter “C” and looked like a half-melted candle by the time he turned in. Now THAT’S a health condition, my friend. You’re still upright, so just suck it up and get back to judging stuff.

Speaking of half-melted candles, they dusted off Elton John for a handful of things at the Grammys and I can’t figure out why. And don’t say “…because Elton John rules.” Stop it. That may have been the case in 1972, but it’s not now. So unlike the Pope, Elton John can have a pass on resigning forever and ever. But nevermind all that. E! News red carpet coverage had a “manicam” – a small box lined in red shag, in which people put their fingers. (Why not just call it “vaginacam”?) Too bad there wasn’t a mousetrap in there. Anyway, long nails appear to be all the rage again. Were they ever the rage? Yes they were. You should know this if you were around in the 70’s, or have ever lived in New Jersey. There are 17 levels of wrong about long nails, but let’s start with the sanitary level. Business is getting trapped up under there. Don’t think it’s not. That overhang is a little umbrella cave for grossness, so please cut that shit down to a nub.

Speaking of grossness, in case you needed another reason to avoid cruises, a Carnival Cruise is on its way to Alabama for rescue. If you’re heading to Alabama for rescue, shit is dire. Apparently the ‘carnival’ includes backed up sewage, non-functional toilets, overflowing feces on the decks, urine soaked carpeting, and food rationing. How many times are we gonna go through this? STOP GOING ON CRUISES. Nothing comes of cruises except floating evil. At best, you’re looking at a hotel in the middle of the ocean. On average, it’s a petri dish of infection, gluttony, and nausea. I hate to say I told you so, but damnit, I told you so.

Speaking of infection, gluttony, and nausea, John Mayer says he doesn’t feel like he’s in a  relationship with a celebrity when dating Katy Perry. Isn’t that sort of a backhanded compliment? I’m not sure. In any case, it doesn’t matter since I’m confused on John Mayer in general. Could someone explain him to me? And while you’re at it, please get him some antibiotics and an insulin shot, because it kinda looks like he needs both at all times…?? Unclear. But something’s definitely wrong. Maybe add more raw garlic to your diet, John. It’s nature’s antibiotic.

Speaking of garlic, it’s probably high time I wrap this up. I’m at work after all, and I need to pretend I care. Much like you might be doing right about now…

Deedee Ulintz is a writer, dancer, cat herder, and wine drinker. She probably doesn’t like you. Check out her boobs, I mean blogs here:

http://viafrogger.wordpress.com ; http://meetingsfromaconservatory.wordpress.com

You crossed my mind today.  Walked right through with your dirty shoes. I asked you to please remove your shoes. You said, “okay.” But you didn’t take off your shoes. You stood there with your arms crossed and smiled.

“If I give you something you want, will you please take off your shoes? You’re getting my brain dirty.” I was beginning to fret and twirl my hair. It always annoyed you when I twirled my hair out of annoyance.

“What are you willing to trade for my shoes?” you asked.

“I have three different types of apples and a variety of cheeses.” I pointed at the basket of apples and cheeses. I hoped you would approve of my offering and remove your shoes that were dirtying my brain. Then I realized that the basket wouldn’t fit in my head.

You must have realized it, too. Because then you were gone. I promise if you’ll come back you can wear your shoes, and I won’t twirl my hair out of annoyance.

Now that Kim Kardashian is having a baby with Kanye West, I think we all know that it’s time rethink where we’re headed in our own lives. Like always, I’m here to help. Here are a few suggestions to point you in the right direction toward finding your new you:

Invent a new diet. Everybody’s going gluten-free, sugar-free, meat-free, dairy-free, and it’s working! The world is waiting for the next big diet. How about yellow-free, green-free, or actual food-free? Try to survive off air and fingernail shavings and write a book about it. You could be the next Dr. Atkins before you know it!

Cry in public and record the responses in a journal to read later. What laughs you’ll have over that! You’ll find yourself with a renewed appreciation or hatred for the human race, but either way you’ll experience a change.

Dress like a ninja. I know I encouraged you to wear cruise wear before, but it’s winter now. Black is slimming, you’ll save time in the morning on getting ready, you’ll always be comfortable, and folks will stay out of our way.

Work harder on stalking. Nobody respects a quitter! If the creepy tattoos and mixed CD’s from last summer didn’t get your message across, it’s time to up the ante. Develop a web series dedicated to your paramour and broadcast it on youtube. Outline all the things you love about him/her. Put your face right up to the camera and say his/her name slowly and clearly so there’s no mistaking whom this message is for.  You might want to describe some personal physical details as well so there’s no mistaking your beloved’s identity. Don’t give up! It might take several video clips to get the attention you deserve.

I have a feeling 2013 will be your year. Get out there and own it, gurl!

There is screaming in my brain. Stories and prose that are trying to get out. Sometimes I can’t figure out how to put them down. I can’t make the screaming go away. But I don’t want to. It’s my home.

I need validation, a visceral reaction from you. Without it I don’t exist.  But maybe that’s all right. Because sometimes I’m tired of me. Exhausted from the endless tales and always, always needing someone to tell me ‘well done’.  

If I can’t make you laugh, can’t make you cry, can’t make you react, I have wasted my time.  And yours. And for that, I am sorry.