A woman’s right to shoes/”It’s blamin’ men, hallelujah!”

One more on last night’s yoga class:

It was all women in the class, and at one point the instructor had us rotate our ankles, because “a lot of your acupressure points for hormonal issues are in your ankles. Makes sense, doesn’t it? No wonder we have those issues, men make us wear those high heels!”

Ahem.

1. You don’t even wear high heels, Hippie, I can tell. You wear Birkenstocks if you wear shoes at all. You just walk around on a groovy hemp-based cloud.

2. No man has ever MADE me wear anything. I wear heels because I’m 2 feet tall and chubby, so if and when I CHOOSE put on heels, I’m taller, and my legs and ass look AMAZING, and they add bonus sway to my Olivia Pope strut. Do I wear heels to attract men by tricking them into thinking I’m sexy? Absolutely. But they don’t MAKE me. (And yeah, I know I’ve been raised by male-controlled media to think all this is true, but…I mean, it’s true. Heels make me feel sexy and bad-ass. Blow me, Birkenstock.)

3. Ever leave heels on for a guy? That right there is how you get pancakes after.

#HellOnHeels

Dispatches from Pope-pocalypse

Email from Male BFF:

“I work in the Pope Zone and the office will be closed Friday. But they’re sealing the mailbox in the building TODAY. If something happens to me, make sure the world knows I loved my family, the Eagles, and ass play.”

In which heavenly beings offer me imaginary contraception.

Tonight I went to a “mindful” yoga class, trying to relax and learn to be more present.

While lying back on a pile of pillows with our legs open, the instructor told us to imagine a divine being offering us a magical sponge to absorb our impurities.

My divine being was Angel from “Buffy,” and the sponge was contraceptive.

I think I did it wrong.

#spongeworthy

Narcissist for narcotics.

If there’s not already such a thing as a definitive height of narcissism*, I may have created it this morning when I took a selfie outside the therapist’s office.

In my defense, I looked really good — I wrapped up my Crazy all pretty.

* I assume the actual definitive height of narcissism HAD to have been established at some point in the Kim/Kanye merger, or surely by Presidential Candidate Who Shall Not Be Named.

My handbasket is lubricated. 

In today’s news: Top 5 places I never thought to put the body of Christ.  

Wait, though…If the guy goes down on me after, is that, like, communion?

Happy Sunday, all. Go shop at Kink after church — they’ll fill you with the Spirit. (Spirit fingers? No, wait…)

P.S. Tee hee — “inbox.”

My vagina, log flumes, and errant cleavage.

I’m doing this “creative lady mixer” thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I’d been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because…I don’t want to say I’m “ashamed” of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.

But I don’t know, getting ready this morning, I think there’s something kind of hilarious about “vagina as log flume” coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin’ Lands’ End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I’d like to think you wouldn’t look at me and immediately assume I’m the creator of “my vagina is a log flume.” (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)

“I write a blog about women’s issues.” That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don’t like it, it’s not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let’s do this.