Tina Fey is my moral compass

I've been thinking a bit over the last several weeks about this one snippet of a 30 Rock episode where Tracy asks Liz Lemmon if her strange behavior is a result of "lady problems," and she replies, "NO TRACY, I just had my 'lady problems' like ... oh, blargh," or something to that effect. Even though the exchange happens in passing, and isn't even a blip on the radar of the episode's narrative arc, it struck me just how cruel a reminder of the passage of time the menstrual cycle must be.

I mean, I guess ultimately it just reinforces how easy guys have it. Can you guys out there even imagine how depressed you would be if you got a reminder every 28 days or so not only of the time-sensitive nature of your potential parenthood, but also the expiration date of your junk and, what's more, your very life? I'm gonna say it. It must suck to have a uterus.

Even while falling to my knees to thank the Almighty that I was born a dude, I ran through a not-too-short list of ways life could suck if a certain chromosome hadn't come into play. Perhaps I shall devote an entire series of postings to these comparisons. For now, just this: men's clothing sizes are more forgiving.

Across the wide spectrum of male body-types, from Adrien Brody to Dom Deluise, there are basically only four sizes. A man is either small, medium, large, or extra-large. Even as someone who has (for a not-so-brief period - let's call it "my adolescence") forayed into the embarrassing realm of the multiple X's, I think the relative simplicity of men's sizing can hardly compare with the cruelly quantitative nature of "Women's Wear." The fact that a number exists that fluctuates in direct proportion to the size of your ass and dictates which sections (or even which stores!) you can shop in, is a horrifying prospect to me.

So, what? If you're lucky, you start your sartorial existence in the single digits. But then, you know, puberty hits, and after that freshman year accosts your midriff with the cruelty of a thousand quadrangles. And then FINALLY, one month, your Aunt doesn't come to town (or whatever antiquated system of euphemistic my-sister-menstruista-is-home-on-holiday bullshit your family subscribes to) and you're free for nine months of the cruel reminders. But on the tenth month, you've got a screaming infant, you're sleep deprived, and you feel like you're wearing one of those sumo wrestler Halloween costumes that sprung an air-leak.

Before you know it, you're in the double digits - the numbers themselves getting wider, mocking and taunting your ass, which in turn becomes even more defiant and openly hostile to its neighboring regions, ignoring the sovereignty of their borders and the autonomy of your thighs and hips. Pretty soon, you've progressed from the 10s to the 20s, and have to shop at separate stores. Stores with "barn" in the name. How fucked up is it to put "barn" in the name of a store for big girls? You're relegated to the ranks of the plus-sized - the once innocuous operation of addition now an act of outright aggression.

Meanwhile, your male compatriots progressed only from a L to an XL. I guess all this is to say: in college, I lost 35 pounds, and only changed two sizes. Thanks be to God.

MIA

I've been MIA for months now, but I think the time has arrived for my triumphal re-entry into the blogosphere.

Couple things:

-The advent of vlogs. Where to start? I suppose it works for some people, but I gladly hide behind my sarcasm and caustic tone in the blogosphere. I take refuge in the fact that no one can actually see my defiant mug as I spout off about my grandma's dog or my personal medical history. And what's more, none of you bitches can watch me as I search for the perfect words (liberally sprinkled with profanities, for comic effect) to describe how I feel or how ridiculous my subject is. (That, and I don't have to shower or stop eating my feelings to type.)

-Twitter. Just created my account a few weeks ago. Trying to figure it all out. It's harder to be funny in 140 characters or less. Unless you're Rainn Wilson (Dwight from The Office) and have mastered the art of random hiariosity. (That's a word, right?) When I first started, I took all Twitter's suggestions of people to "follow." (This means that their microblog posts show up in your newsfeed.) After 3 days of Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore running off at the mouth about Kabbalah and Oscar parties, I had to delete them. Thinking of swearing off celebrities in the Twitter realm.

That's all I got for now. Kel, Vosh and I are going to "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" at Lyric Stage tonight. Should be fun.