Body Appreciation Monday: #problematicvaginas

I'm actually not feeling real appreciative of my body today, since I have a cold/weird new allergies/something that is causing my head to be cotton-woolly and my nose to run like a tap, but whatevs, because the best recent hashtag on Twitter, #problematicvaginas (courtesy of Elon James White), encapsulates something I do love about my body, all the time: it pisses people off.

Just by existing! Man. Talk about making the personal political.

And I was thinking...if all these old white dudes are really interested in my problematic vagina * (because, rest assured, it is QUITE problematic. Why, just a few days ago I allowed a man I'm not married to into the vicinity of my lady parts for reasons unrelated to procreative sex!), if they want to nose up in its business, are they entirely sure what that entails? Somehow I think not. I get the impression that none of them actually know anything about female anatomy. So in a way, it's a good thing that my problematic vagina will be here to teach them! Oh, they'll get to learn all sorts of interesting things about cervical mucus, why Excedrin is actually the best painkiller on the market, what to say to the TSA people when they insinuate that you're storing drugs in your junk after seeing a strange little item on the backscatter image, how often you need to shave your bits (and how often is too often? Old white dudes, ingrown hairs are no joking matter!), the exact quantity and quality of dead uterine lining which exits via my problematic vagina with reasonable regularity...

Are you ready to LEARN, old white dudes? 'Cause if you want to legislate my problematic vagina and the various things attached to it, you best know what the hell you're talking about.

*vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina

Body Appreciation Sunday: Hips don't lie

And these hips will tell you: we love Girl Scout cookies.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Clay

As everyone knows, I love Wonder Woman. She is my favorite superpowered heroine, and I was very happy that DC gave her such a great creative line-up in the relaunch. Cliff Chiang and Brian Azzarello are doing a wonderful job with her series: beautiful art, smart, mythology-laden storytelling. I love it.

I do not love the decision to change Diana's origin from her being created out of clay by her mother Hippolyta and given life and talents by the goddesses, to being the product of Zeus and Hippolyta. Zeus has enough goddamn children, divine and mortal, and though we're probably supposed to helpfully forget this, Zeus in the past has attempted to molest Diana. Creepy! That particular plot point is simply uninteresting to me, having been told a thousand times over, and since I don't think Azzarello has ever written an uninteresting thing in his illustrious career, I will blame editorial fiat.

(Diana's birth, from Gods and Mortals)

There is a more personal level to my distaste for this development as well. Even before I read comics heavily I related to Wonder Woman; she was a beacon of peace, progress, diplomacy, and love, she was strong and reliant on herself, and--bonus--she had the same name as me. As I began reading her stories, I loved that she was created by women--her mother and a slew of talented, beautiful goddesses gave this heroine life and power and purpose. I began to relate even more to the Amazon, as someone also raised solely by a mother. In effect I have no father, my biological father dying when I was two and having no relationship of any kind with my stepfather later on. I enjoyed the bond of mother and daughter between Diana and Hippolyta and I liked that the Amazon community valued women's relationships, because news flash: American society does not value women's relationships. Sisters, mothers and daughters, grandmothers and aunts, and closest female friends are not as important as the Very Significant male/female romantic relationship; families raised and led by single mothers or grandmothers raising their grandchildren are not "real" families (according to some idiotic and prominent political figures); and lesbians are outliers who simply haven't been laid properly. Women are largely not perceived as being able to protect themselves or one another--that must be done by a male figure, a hero.

Diana the Amazon was the encapsulation of everything I thought female relationships could and should be. She is still magical and marvelous and truly wonderful, and I'll never stop reading her stories. But this change is the one that has hit me hardest, in the most personal way, out of all the many changes DC wrought this past autumn. My name is Diana and I was formed of clay from my mother's hands, brought to life by her love and the stories she and the other women of my family gave me. In my best moments I am their image and legacy and in my worst, I'm still me.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Blood

No, not more menstruation conversation (though it is That Week)--blood as in "thicker than water." Stupidest adage ever? Possibly. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to mean other than "you will spend major holidays with this set of people Or Else."

I like my family, mostly, in small doses. I love my cousins and my sister, especially now that we're almost all grown up and can do shots to celebrate the Savior's nativity. I love talking about books with my youngest cousin. I like food and eating; that's inherited, for sho, being that our most hallowed family holiday tradition is a Christmas Eve devoted to consuming desserts. I like doing crosswords with my mom and grandma. I like being at home where it's blessedly warm and sunny and there's plenty of water around, where I can wake up to the sound of Australian pines creaking and the pale stripes of morning sun on the ceiling.

I don't like being asked to attend church like the answer is going to be anything other than "no," as it has been for the last five years. I don't like waking up to the sound of loved ones discussing how the President is murdering senior citizens and gay people are ushering in the apocalypse. I don't like seeing my stepfather spend Christmas Day staring at his laptop, rather than spending time with family members he rarely sees.

Sometimes the good outweighs the bad, sometimes it doesn't. And I don't quite believe that blood is life.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Some nerve!

Nerves are a good thing. They tell us when something delicious is baking in the kitchen, when the music's too loud, when someone is touching us just right. And they register heat...and cold.

Oh yes. Cold. My poor nerves are probably wondering if I hate them; otherwise why would I expose them to such strange, bleak temperatures all of a sudden? Well, brace yourself, nerves, because it's going to get worse before it gets better. 28 degrees? It's only snowed twice so far and it's only December. I promise to wrap up in hats and scarves and gloves, and I promise I'll go inside before my extremities start to freeze.

Just let me finish this wander around the park. We never had real parks at home, nerves, we must take advantage! Even if it's very, very cold out. Even if there are tiny flakes of white stuff falling on our head.

Body Appreciation Monday: Elbows

I like elbows. They hurt worse than pretty much any other body part when you whack them, but other than that they're pretty cool: they're interestingly shaped, useful as props, and the closest thing the human body has to a natural weapon. I especially appreciate that last function, because here's the thing: doom metal fans are much less polite than power metal fans.

Happily enough, my move to Ohio was inaugurated by a Sword concert in Columbus, a mere 2.5 hours away from Cleveland (I am continually shocked and pleased by how close things are to each other up here). Now I have been waiting to see The Sword live for five years--since they were in Tampa last and played at the skatepark and I had to work that night--and so I was leapingly, terrifically happy when I heard they were going to be nearby. It was a very nice night: there was a bar conveniently close to the venue where I tried out the local IPA (good!), I met two very pleasant young men who happen to also work in libraries, and The Sword is undeniably epic live. There is nothing quite like hearing a band perform the first song of theirs that you loved; in my case, that was "The Horned Goddess." J.D. Cronise had on a Rush t-shirt, the band's demonic touring drummer is demonic, Kyle Shutt winked at me when I walked up to buy tickets before the show, and, well, "Iron Swan" for an encore? FUCK and YES. For Seventies-drenched bellbottom'd rifftastic stoner metal, there isn't a group currently touring better than The Sword.

Image from SkullsnBones

But yeah...doom metal fans. They like to mosh. Which is fine, because I enjoy elbowing people. Everyone wins!

Body Appreciation Sunday: Roots

First there was Waldenbooks (remember them?)--a tiny outlet in a mall already beginning to be run down, where I wandered in the speculative fiction aisle, touching the spines of books I didn't have money to buy yet: Green Rider, The Glassmaker's Apprentice, Vector Prime. My money had to be strictly reserved for Animorphs books, a new one nearly every month.

Then there was the brand-new Barnes and Noble, the biggest bookstore I'd ever seen, bursting with more books than even the library had. I hoarded money earned from digging weeds and cleaning the pool. I replaced my falling-apart copy of Little House on the Prairie. I bought All Over but the Shoutin' and The Handmaid's Tale for school. I stared at the strange new menu of coffee drinks which my friends bought, while I stuck to hot chocolate.

Then there were six years of discovering the joys of small, non-chain bookstores, of ferreting through narrow aisles of used books and giving my money to local business. There was Inkwood and Mojo and Wilson's, weird little stores crowded and crossed with interesting things (Dancing With Cats? Taxidermy Step by Step?), and my bookshelves at home exploded. A Wizard of Earthsea. Her Smoke Rose Up Forever. Six nearly-mint volumes of 100 Bullets. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Keep the Aspidistra Flying.

And now here I am, a brand-new city unfurled around me, and my great fortune is to discover Visible Voice, a beautiful bookstore in a beautiful neighborhood, a meandering shop whose exterior is shrouded in fallen leaves and bears the legend "Resist much, obey little," and whose interior is just bright enough and just wide enough and just welcoming enough. I can feel my roots going into this new Ohio soil already.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Imagination

"I don't know...I can imagine quite a bit!"

Thus spake one of the great men of our times, Han Solo. This line is somewhat of an adage for me; imagination is one of my favorite things about being human. It allows me to create visions in my mind, whether as mundane as what my manfriend is doing at the moment (carefully making green tea, wearing his superhero pajama pants and a Buzzo's t-shirt, and queuing up a DuckTales episode) or as magical as some of the characters in the current story I'm writing. Imagination is what gets me through the dreariest, quietest Friday night at work or a dentist appointment or renewing my driver's license. It is what creates dreams, daydreams, flights of fancy, nightmares, and woolgathering.

Halloween is a celebration which encourages the imagination and stimulates the subconscious. It is one of my best-beloved holidays: I love dressing up, candy, black cats, pumpkin beer, and scary stories and movies. Halloween means that, for a day or a night, you can be whatever you can imagine. Would that we could carry that particular spirit of Halloween with us always.

Body Appreciation Monday: Mnemosyne

I dislike nostalgia, but I love memory; I like the way it works. No two people have the same memories of anything, and anything, from the taste of fish tacos to the smell of shea butter lotion to a particular song, can call up a shockingly specific memory.

The air at this time of year is dripping with memory. I've never been quite sure why that is, that winter air brings so much more with it than summer air. Maybe because Florida nearly always smells like summer, and rarely like winter.

Since I've graduated, I haven't spent much time on my university campus. I still live very close by, but I've rarely had a reason to be there. Lately, however, I've been going to the library for research reasons...and also just to give myself a reason to be on the grounds. Say what you will about my mid-FL alma mater: I love it. It isn't the prettiest or the smartest or the best at sports or the most well-funded or the biggest but it's mine. Everywhere I walk on its grounds, memories leap out. On the fourth floor of that building, an eighteen-year-old me waited outside a Latin classroom and a cute little redheaded girl walked up and said that she liked my sneakers (six years later, I'm going to be her bridesmaid next month). In the basement of that building I sat with a goofy Italian guy and talked about Watchmen. In the first-floor north corner classroom of that building I fell in love, with a subject and with a man. Before the new student union was built I laid on the hill on its far side and watched Red Eye on a way-too-cold-to-be-outside November night. I studied in that Subway for a math exam. I climbed that tree. I worked in that office park. I memorized a poem on that bench overlooking that pond. I kissed my manfriend for the first time at that curb.

Soon I will be moving far away from here. Soon there will be a whole new city, a whole new state, in which to make new memories from scratch. And when I return to Florida in the winter, since winter is when family gatherings happen, that keen air will bring back all the old, beloved remembrances.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Soul

Setting aside anthropological questions regarding the existence of the soul, I think it is safe to say that my soul, my essence of Diana, the thing that makes me Me, has three specific vacuums (in the mode of Pascal's God-shaped vacuum): music, books, and Manfriend.

Books are the singular portion, the most basic, the thing that truly belongs to only me. Music and Manfriend, they go hand in hand. Not to say that I never listened to music before I met him, and there are several bands that I would get to keep in the divorce, but my absolutely favorites are two that he introduced me to, likely because my love for them and him are inextricably intertwined.

Take Kamelot. I LOVE Kamelot (though not as much as Conception), thanks to my dude. You can kind of track our relationship based on Kamelot's album releases; when we had known each other for barely four months, we went to see their Black Halo concert (2006). Two years later, we saw them tour supporting Ghost Opera. And last August, we were supposed to see their Poetry for the Poisoned tour when it opened in Florida--quite near my birthday. We did not, because the lead singer left the band and they postponed the tour. So on Friday night, I finally saw their Poetry show, with a friend who is not Manfriend, and a singer who is not Roy Khan (though I will say, Fabio Lione did an AMAZING job). It was a great experience, as their shows always are, but a strange one, because I associate Kamelot with my man. Who am I supposed to make out with when they play "Forever"? Certainly not Matt.

My Kamelot viewing and listening experiences have changed a bit since last year. When it came out that Khan was leaving the group, I said some rather immature things to the tune of, Why couldn't he have had his breakdown AFTER they toured? I found it hard to imagine the band without him (though he is their second frontman, and their first two albums, with original singer Mark Vanderbilt, are actually great too). But a year later and having seen them perform without him, I'm good with his decision, though I wish they would've put out another live album before he left. But I'm not sure if my experience with the band could ever change to the point where, should I and Manfriend go our separate ways, I would still be able to enjoy the music. I hope never to find that out.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Motherland

Everyone knows what day it is. There are 10+ memorials of various kinds listed in my local paper; there are images, songs, videos, poems, and essays all over the web.

Do you ever think about why, post 9/11, the US government opened a new Cabinet door called the Department of Homeland Security? I don't mean why they started it, period--I mean why they called it that. "Homeland" is a word that pulls far more strings than "country" or even "nation." You can add another layer and get "fatherland," a word that in the US has specific Nazi connotations to this day, and "motherland" too exists, often used to parody Russians in popular culture; of course nationalism is only worthy if your country is the one in question.

Motherland means body, soil, sweat and grit and blood, the place that holds your roots, the ground that spawned you. In the same way that we dislike to think about the birth process and the (as Frank Herbert wrote) tender indignities of physical love and the numerous small ways in which our bodies betray us daily, we find considering the nuts and bolts of our country uncomfortable. Families have so many dark secrets; countries have even more, shared shame and things everyone knows but no one talks about.

My mother's body: It is rough and vast and beautiful, scarred, aging but strong, miraculous, cruel.She has done great acts of creativity and terrible, casual brutalities. My body is the mirror of my mother, a microcosm. We move away, we shave our heads, we tattoo and paint our walls bright red, we iron out accents, buy new shoes, but a thread, a rootlet, of our mothers remains. We can never really return home, but what does that matter, when we carry our mothers with us?

Body Appreciation Sunday: Drive

TMI alert: I've been pretty horny lately. My manfriend's off to school in the Cleve, and it's been nigh on two months since he left, so here I am, alone with my battery-chewing vibrator and all the Dick/Jason fanfic I can find.

(is this better or worse than when I talk about my period? Eh, whatever)

The libido is a thing of glory. Most of the great literature and art of the world revolves around people getting it on or trying to get it on, which is either kind of sweet or pretty pathetic. Of course, when I had easy access to manfriend's pants, I didn't take advantage of him it nearly as often as I should've. Hindsight is 20/15. So now that he's far away and I'm cold and alone on my air mattress, things come into perspective. And it becomes harder (har har) to not walk around like this:

Body Appreciation Sunday: Dat Ass, redux

I found this post from Feministe really interesting and cool. I dig where the author and her husband are coming from; once I was putting on a favorite pair of underwear and lamented that they no longer fit the way I liked. My manfriend said, Guess your ass is too big! and then walked over, crouched down, and literally kissed my butt. He meant it for a compliment and that was how I took it. He loves booties: the bigger, the better. He's Sir Mix-A-Lotish that way.

Much as I like to rely on my own self-esteem and my own approval of the way I look, the way I dress, my health, and so forth, it is always going to help that he's attracted to me. I think this is ok; some things we just can't do by ourselves. The support and love of our friends is important. I'm not "fat" even by nutbar US beauty standards, but the important thing is to accept and love yourself at WHATEVER size you are, because chances are, someone wants you to hate yourself instead--to think yourself ugly--to think yourself too skinny or too fat or too flat-chested or too wide-hipped. The fat acceptance movement is largely (heh) really amazing and I'm glad to see it spreading through the Internet and daily life. The personal is still political. If the regressive assholes who run our culture want to play out their wars on women's bodies, let's take the fight to them! My body, its wide shoulders and relative lack of waist, its hips and ass, its skinny legs and long arms, its short hair: if you insist on weaponizing it, I'll use it against you however I can.

Body Appreciation Sunday: The Liver

Yes, dear readers, it's time to bow down before the mighty liver. I do enjoy drinking alcohol now, much to my mother's dismay, and every now and then "a beer with pals" codes as "two parties and trawling SoHo with guy friends."

Thankfully this doesn't happen often, but it did last night, and so this morning afternoon I'm declaring it Official Liver Appreciation day, complete with libations of Yogi's detox tea. After all, the liver is quite a cool organ--not only does it filter all the alcohol and other garbage dumbasses like me put into it, it plays an important role in metabolism, protein synthesis, and digestion. It also produces bile (yellow or black, I'm not sure. Perhaps Galen can clear that up for you). Best of all? The liver can actually regenerate itself to a certain extent! That myth of Prometheus having his liver torn out by eagles and then growing it back overnight...well, it's still a myth, but the liver is damn cool.

So churn on, liver, and in the future I'll try to treat you a little better!

Body Appreciation Sunday: Fingernails?!

I have been a consummate nailbiter for years--for most of my life, really. And it's only very recently that I think I've finally kicked that beast to the curb.

The miracle cure? Colored nail polish. For some reason, keeping my little growing nails in some fun color (currently China Glaze's Periwinkle) was worked far better than painting them with clear polish or a nude tone. Maybe because with lighter/natural colors it's easier to see the growth? At any rate, I've been having fun switching between periwinkle and some sort of bright greeny-turquoise color, and I need more. More more more. Colored nail polish is the new addiction.

Of course, longer nails have brought in a whole slew of things I never thought about--how long will be too long? Is it going to hurt if I push my cuticles up with this metal thing? What on earth am I touching that they're getting so grimy underneath? At least my preferred hair salon, the Paul Mitchell school, does manicures too, because me and my new nails are on the brink of being really discombobulated.

Body Appreciation Sunday: She's a marshmallow

I like to put on a gruff exterior and bluster about whether Alien or Aliens is better (the former, for the record) and how my favorite Wonder Woman panel is when she's ploughing down the street saying, "Out of the way, sperm bank," but really I'm as mushy as they come. Kittens, baby elephants, tulips, British costume dramas--I'm all over that shit.

And my heart really squeals for my man.

My dearest. For the last five years we've bought comics, watched Stallone movies, eaten sweet potatoes and hoagies, banged our heads at Queensrÿche concerts, studied, traveled, and played with action figures. And now you're eighteen hours away, in a cold place, about to throw yourself into six fresh years of hellish schooling. I'm beyond proud of you. I miss you like hell and I can't wait to be with you again--to nag you, to cook in our kitchen, to hang up your Marvel t-shirts on that funny octopus drying rack from IKEA, to let you brush my hair.

We are not done, indeed we have barely started.

I love you.

Body Appreciation Saturday: More period talk

(I'm out of town this weekend, so I'm posting this early. Cheers!)

Womanist Musings recently put up a thoughtful, interesting, and well-stated post about menstruation, Islam, and prayer. Obviously I can't comment with any kind of depth or authority on that particular topic, but reading through the post, its links, and its comments reminded me of something similar which occurred in my time in the LDS church.

When I was a teenager growing up Mormon, I took a lot of trips to the temple. My family was lucky enough to live close to the Orlando, FL temple, and I took many trips there with my parents and with my ward to do baptisms for the dead (the only temple ordinance Mormon teens are allowed to perform). These are literal baptisms; they involve immersion in a tank of water, and the ritual garments worn by the participants are white.

Now before we went into the chapel to sing and pray before the baptisms started, one of the female leaders present would ask me and the other teenage girls if we were menstruating. If we were, we would only be allowed to participate in the laying-on-of-hands (blessing) which is the second portion of the baptism for the dead rite. No dunking. After our song and prayer in the chapel, whatever bishopric member or other priesthood holder who was leading that night would ask the female leader present how many girls were going to be being baptized. Of course Sister So-and-so didn't name any names or point at us, but it became quite clear very soon after who had their period that day--it was whoever wasn't sitting in line to be immersed.

I don't know if this still occurs, or if it was or is widespread, or indeed if it has anything to do with doctrine. Logistically, there's nothing wrong with not wanting there to be blood in the baptismal font, especially since white clothes are involved. But quite frankly, I don't give a shit. This occurrence embarrassed me then and it infuriates me now. Women were singled out publically for something beyond their control, something that is both idolized and demeaned by the church proper. I don't actually care now if the world at large knows I'm on the rag, but I sure did when I was a teenager, partly because no one had bothered to talk about my body with me--because it was shameful and dirty and functionally nonexistent until I had a wedding ring on my finger. The LDS church--like many other institutions, I'm sure--likes to go on about the wonder of motherhood and how great it is that women give birth, etc.; it also likes to not ever talk about those things that make motherhood possible, and it certainly reinforces the popular attitude that menstruation is something either funny or gross, not something normal, even boring, sometimes holy.

At least, the church authority system does. That doesn't necessarily mean that every member feels this way, and let me tell you, all the advice and gossip and bitching about periods I got while a teen Mormon, I got in church settings (usually Girls' Camp). So thanks, Kelly, for teaching me how to use a tampon. Thanks, Sister Hill, for telling me that yes, it's ok to ask Mom for Advil during That Week. Thank you, ladies, for being there for me to complain to and ask questions of. No thanks at all to you, gents, for making me complicit in the mockery of my own body.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Junk

Today you get a two-fer: book review and body reflection. Wootstock. See, this week I've been reading Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler, and it's fantastic--pretty much the Bible of the fertility awareness method of body knowledge and contraception. It is a nice bit of synchronicity that this week is also the week of the Flow. Warning: here be oversharing.

I have Thoughts and Opinions about birth control, like most women (and hopefully most men). There is no denying the incredible amount of good that oral contraceptives, IUDs, diaphragms, condoms, and all the rest have done. However, for some women most or all of these options may not be the best options; they may not be available; they may be too expensive; there may be allergies or other reactions at work. This is where FAM (or NFP--natural family planning) can be a blessing. And for many other women, it can provide a way of finally getting to know your body. This last is the real reason for my interest. I grew up in an environment which places emphasis simultaneously on the importance of female reproduction and the cultural ick associated with the female reproductive system. I have said here before that I received very little education about why my body did the things that it did; this has caused a good deal of grief and confusion over the years. It's time to toss that out. I imagine many women, regardless of whether or how religion influenced their young lives, are not as in touch with the machinations of their bodies as they might like to be. Before beginning this book I knew "how babies were made" and that's about it. I knew roughly why menstruation happened; I sort of knew why oral birth control works.
But there is so much more! So much more. My body is an incredible machine. FAM is one key to understanding that machine. What's your expertise on the topic of cervical fluid? Do you know a possible reason for that weird sharp pain you get in one side sometimes? Most importantly, do you know when you ovulate? It's shockingly easy to understand these things and all the rest. For some, FAM is a good natural contraceptive--it works on the development of familiarity with your body's cycles. For me, I don't intend to ditch the condoms just yet, but I intend it to be a way to finally begin to really understand the changes my female parts go through each month. My body is a book, and I love to read! It's that simple.

Do note--FAM is NOT the same thing as the "Rhythm Method." FAM relies on two major fertility signs: basal body temperature and cervical fluid. The book goes far more in-depth about these and other signs (as well as everything else from achieving pregnancy to outdated and oft-sexist medical terms that are still in use), but those are the basics. Your basal body temperature, taken in the morning, remains fairly steady until after ovulation, when it jumps. Your cervical fluid undergoes dramatic changes on a monthly basis. Creating a daily, monthly chart for these signs is a way of understanding and seeing patterns in your fertility. Regardless of whether you want to stop using the Pill or condoms, a more complete understanding of your body is never going to be a bad thing.

It's an empowering thing. Gynecological health is something we should all take charge of on our own time. I like my lady-doctor a lot, but I also like understanding the most intimate shifts of my body.

For more info about FAM and Weschler's book, head to the website.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Supertaster buds!

I'm a supertaster. It is, as Professor X might say, a groovy mutation--it means that my tongue has more fungiform pupillae (taste buds, basically) than the average tongue. It means that I taste food more strongly than another person might. I found this out during a biological anthropology lab, when the professor handed out strips of paper and told us to lick them. No, they weren't laced with LSD; they had phenylthiocarbamide (PTC) on them. This is a chemical that only some people can taste: supertasters!

It tastes like ASS, by the way. Damn that stuff is gross. In hindsight it was pretty funny: we all licked our papers very seriously, and then about eight people went AAAAAAAGH and everyone else stared.

At any rate, I like my taste buds. I don't know if they work BETTER than anyone else's, but they're mine and they work wonderfully for me. I like salty food particularly, which is pretty normal among supertasters. And I like pie (I have cherry pie right now. YOU ARE JEALOUS). And watermelon, and sweet potato fries, and guacamole. I like tapioca pudding. I really like egg salad. I like dark beer and strawberries and sometimes I like Oreos. I like food and I'm grateful that my taste buds kick ass.

Body Appreciation Sunday: Ears

So here we are, my boss and I, sitting in nosebleed seats at the 1-800-Ask-Gary Amphitheatre (and no, I am not joking about the name), rocking out to Heart. Yes--Heart. Ann and Nancy Wilson and their dudes, kicking ass onstage like it's 1986. Do note, they sound fucking awesome. As my boss said, This is what can be if you resist doing ALL the drugs. The Wilsons are in their late fifties and they still perform a great live show.

And then Def Leppard comes on. The one and only, my favorite 80s metal group, the mighty Def Leppard. They proceed to play what amounts to a greatest hits set, and I am more than ok with this. I am that lady dancing and air-guitaring in front of her seat while my boss pretends she's with someone else. I'm a little surprised by the fact that I apparently know all the words to all of their notable songs. I'm pleased that they sound awesome. And, not for the first time, I am grateful--so grateful--for my ears.

Ears are great. Ears let you hear things like Def Leppard doing an electric-acoustic mash-up of "Bringin' on the Heartbreak" and your lover telling you why you're awesome and the way the air sounds in the early morning during the summer. Ears are fantastically sensitive and are erogenous zones for lots of folks. Ears look cute with shiny things dangling from them. Ears make basset hound puppies even cuter than they already are. I love ears!