bitch talk

20th March
written by Dame Suzy

Dr. Kermit Gosnell, along with the assistance of eight workers in different cities, performed hundreds of murders of  babies, in the guise of abortion.This is the most shocking part of this story to me, that not one person was a participant but a whole group of monsters masquerading as people. But there are several vile facts of this case. The doctor kept feet of his victims in specimen containers on a shelf, and equally disturbing is the fact that the only place I can find this gruesome information is on pro-life blogs and news sites. I wasn’t sure if it was a myth or not until I saw the photo on this blog. Who the f* are media organizations protecting by hiding this information? Hm, could it be women? Because there is a belief that women should have a choice in deciding to terminate their pregnancies with no other regard and without full disclosure?

I firmly believe in the right to choice with full disclosure, but I do NOT believe in the right to a blind abortion, meaning you don’t see the results of what is being done, and you aren’t even required to see a sonogram of the life growing inside you. I remember what it was like seeing my baby girl swirling around inside me. It was amazing and unexpected even though I had always wanted her! And of course being required to see this life would sway many potential mothers’ minds into declining to abort. But why is that considered such a horrible thing and an affront to pro-choice advocates? Why is that aspect damaging to a woman’s rights? I don’t get it! Patients are even shown pictures of tumors that surgeons are planning to cut out of our bodies. There is something fundamentally wrong about a society thinking that the ease with which one can obtain an abortion is more important than anything else.

In Dr. Gosnell and clan’s case, abortion organizations knew this murder was going on for years and did nothing about it! That’s insane to me! I can only imagine they were protecting the whole right to blind abortion. Well, stop it already! Talk about barbarian practices! Turning a blind eye to such horrors is beyond infuriating.

These abortions took place one block from a medical center, less than one mile where I lived as a college student. This deeply saddens me.

Extracting the fetus alive and cutting its spine or slitting its throat without remorse is horrific. One of the pro-life sites pointed out that killing the baby inside the mother, then chopping it up to make it easier to remove is also horrific. And although I am pained by such imagery, I know that I do not want to take away a woman’s right to a full-disclosure abortion. As long as she knows that is what is happening and can live with that fact, I have to allow her that right. Life is tough, raising a baby on your own is tough, giving your baby up for adoption is tough, living with the guilt of abortion is also tough. How many people forget that Norma L. McCorvey, aka Jane Roe, for which Roe v. Wade is named, denied an abortion which led to the suit, later became a pro-life advocate?  Pro-choice proponents would say that’s irrelevant, but it’s not! I’m not saying that it means abortion is evil and that her being pro-life means abortion should be illegal. I disagree. I am simply saying that it’s information that one should consider when talking about the case Roe v. Wade. As part of my full disclosure, I will say that according to Wikipedia, she kept her first child who was raised in part by her mother, gave the second baby up for adoption, and in fact gave the baby the case was about also up for adoption. She also denied she was a lesbian though lived as one, in order to enter the Roman Catholic church. Not exactly a poster mother by any stretch, but nonetheless, her path in life? Worth looking at when studying the abortion question, because it points out how emotional this topic can be.

My man pointed out that developing countries are already feeling the pains from low birth rates because of an aging population and not enough young working people to bolster the economy. And meanwhile, we are ending the (for some, potential) lives of 1.2 million a year in this country alone. He has a controversial suggestion, but one that shouldn’t be considered such given the wide berth abortion is given today. He suggests that abortion clinics must have an adoption program and that the consultation needs to include not only termination options but adoption ones as well. It’s not about forcing a woman one way or the other. It’s about not funneling a woman who often feels alone and helpless into one choice, which is not a choice at all, is it?

This is a subject I am passionate about if you couldn’t tell. I don’t want to force anyone’s hand, but I do want them to be conscious of the results of their decisions in probably the most important matter there is.

21st February
written by Dame Suzy

Having photos taken of me for various brochures, websites and the like, I simply did not bother asking for copies of them. In fact, I have never seen a copy of a photo taken of me for commercial work, ever. A friend of my mother’s saw me in a Dell brochure but did not think to save it. That was my closest shot to getting one. When you’re on set, people are busy and you’re just the talent.

At my last print gig, I decided to change this unfortunate reality. I asked the producer, the client, and finally got a Yes from the photographer, who told me to email the producer in a few months. I did so, and she sent me a note in which she wrote, “The client ‘owns’ all the pictures. It often happens that the work a model does is never seen…Yes, it was great fun to take the pictures. I can’t guarantee any pics for a portfolio-part of the job.”

It was as if the shoot was done for fun, and I have no right to ever see the work produced from my efforts. Sure, the photographer gets to use a few for his portfolio. Fashion models get copies because they know their photo will appear in the February issue of Elle. Why can’t commercial models simply be given a copy, once in a while, without fuss? Because we are the chopped liver of the industry.

by Dame Suzy, aka Chopped Liver

1st December
written by Dame Suzy

And no, I’m not talking about Ashton Kutcher but I suppose I’ll give him honorable mention as a savvy entertainer.

It started with an article I read about Clark Gable’s love child Judy Lewis. Then, I’d read that his first wife, whom he married at age 24 had been 15 years older than he, or 39, and his second wife when he was 29, 17 years older, a ripe 46. His subsequent marriages were to younger women, Carole Lombard by 6 years (reasonable), and Kay Williams, 16 (reasonable for an aging star).

Recently, I’d also read that powerful screen presence and stud Hugh Jackman (43), was married to a woman 13 years his senior (56), a fellow actor.

I also remember how John Travolta (24) had had a deep relationship with an older woman, Diana Hyland (40), 16 years older, until her death from breast cancer.

So what attracts men to older women? How about just giving up and saying people fall in love without regard to age. You click, you have passion, and you’re from the same universe. Maybe you love nurturing women, who cares? I click with younger men, but I look their age, act and feel it too, so what does that mean?

Men have plenty of time to divorce (if they want) and remarry younger women, or stick it out. You didn’t have a chance with the Hollywood stud anyway, except a quickie in a hotel room. So, stop being shocked and move on. I know I did.

15th August
written by Dame Suzy

I just read an article about a girl who went home with a guy, had sex with him, then was held down by that guy while his friend raped her. What the fuck?

It used to be that going home with a guy meant you’re supposed to sleep with him, at least according to guys. So nowadays, if you go home with a cute guy and his friends, do you have to sleep with them too? Guys I meet often ask for threesomes without any provocation. Maybe they’re just being good friends. After all, they don’t want their buddy to get nothing because that wouldn’t be fair. That’s me being generous. But in my experience, these guys are pushy and annoying. And a threesome has never come out of being an asshole.

What if a girl goes home with a guy and finds out he has roommates? Does modern protocol mean she has to sleep with everyone in the house? Hell no!

If you want to have a threesome, both of you have to charm me. And no, that doesn’t mean one can be twice as charming, enough for both of them. And don’t rape me. Jesus. Talk about making threesomes unpopular. If you want to promote threesomes so badly, throw coersion and rape far, far out of the equation. You’re giving threesomes a bad name!

And if you can’t charm the girl, then get your own one-night-stand. Let the victor get the spoils; and you who missed out get a beer from the frig. Then the next day, go to the gym, shower, make yourself pretty, and charm your way into some other girl’s pants.

13th August
written by Dame Suzy

Have your cocaine, pot, heroin, crystal meth, cocaine, and all that, but don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt anyone but you.

Socially I’m pretty tolerant about drugs being done around me. I don’t feel like carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I sip my cocktail, down my shot, or have an ice cream, while those around me do the other stuff. If nothing better, it’s a study of the human animal at its most dependent.

But when I hear about another group of slayings performed by Mexican drug cartels, I’m furious. Fifty or a hundred Americans giving up drugs may save one life of the 41,000-and-counting dead neighbors to our south.

For me, it’s worth knowing that I’m not contributing to that figure with my bad habits. Though I won’t preach to people in public because that would be too much like religious crap, I’m writing here to encourage people to think about it. 41,000 isn’t incidental; it’s epidemic, as is the international nonchalance about the effect of our drug habits.

Have some strawberries instead and save a life.

12th August
written by Dame Suzy

Granted, I didn’t hit a strip club this time, and maybe I would have been pleasantly surprised at how happy and healthy the strippers were, but I’d say that the lack of people shopping, the half-empty restaurants everywhere, and the plethora of fat, ugly people, I’d say L.A. is looking like it’s becoming a shit hole. Hermosa Beach itself was covered in little blobs of tar from petroleum leaked from oil rigs off shore.

Maybe it had already been shit before and I’d just shielded myself from it, but I’m constructing the tombstone for L.A. as we speak.

20th June
written by Dame Suzy

I accidentally passed through the back-splatter machine at the airport in March, and my man said, “Never do that again!”

So when I was asked to pass through it earlier this month, I asked for the pat-down instead. As I am always happy to experience new things, I went in with enthusiasm.

And at first it was very pleasant, like a gently massage. The TSA agent was polite, respectful and average-looking, not scary at all. She explained the process and put on gloves, just placing her hands firmly here and there and quickly swiping down my sides, back, legs, and arms. She used the back of her hand to feel under the wire of my bra on either side and then in the middle.

Then she advised me she would be putting her hand up the sides of my thighs and that’s where things got questionable. She quickly slid up either thigh and both times when she reached the intersection of crotch and leg, her hand moved my panties enough that it woke up my clit. A little happy whizz happened each time. Hmm, that seemed wrong.

I cannot imagine a child having to submit to these pat-downs. Would their first memories of sexual pleasure be associated with TSA agents? As for me, I’m not thrilled to have to do that again. And I wonder how to avoid that little whizz the next time around. Should I wear no panties at all under a skirt? That hardly seems proper. But maybe going nude under it all is the insane answer to an insane practice.

Note: the middle of my bra doesn’t actually touch my sternum. There’s a good three square centimeters’ worth of space underneath which could technicallly hold something.

11th May
written by Dame Suzy

This is what several articles and talk shows have discussed. That 31,000 women last year signed up on to find an alternative mate due to disappointment on the day they are supposed to be appreciated.

I can relate. My Mother’s Day was the shiitiest on record. No gift from my grade schooler, no one in the family even told me Happy Mother’s Day except my own mother, and because my man had chosen the night before to stay up late working, the next morning as I got up, he said don’t wake me till two. Which meant I had to go to the grocery store myself so the family wouldn’t starve. I had to vacuum the mess from a two-day-old sleepover my daughter would not pick up herself, and a few other things happened that sucked.

I tried to salvage the day by taking my son to the pool, and my man came a little later, and it was nice. He then barbecued steaks and lamb chops and made Israeli cous-cous and sauteed mushrooms.

But by the time we’d gone to the fancy grocery store, of course their delicious fruit tarts had been sold out, so I was expecting him to bring one home the next day on his way back from his afternoon date with a very average chick. But to my surprise at 7pm, disappointment at 8:00, annoyance at 8:30, and anger at 9:00, I decided to stop waiting for him to come home. I started getting ready to go out at 10:30, adrenaline pumping, and by 11:15 I was ready to go but he came home (almost 8 hours after he’d left) and forced me to talk about it, called me irrational and blowing things way out of proportion when my voice rose.

I left with him still trying to talk to me in the garage, and I yelled out that I wasn’t taking my phone.

Had I not had a GYN appointment the next day, or had I been sluttier or less mature, I may have gotten drunk and hooked up with some guy. But I instead went on a search for a good fruit dessert. By 1:00am I was home with a mediocre but consolation piece of blueberry lemon cake. And I made my man wake up to take the kids to school the next morning.

I’ve decided not to wait around for him anymore. I have to get out more, be an individual again, and screw motherhood.

29th April
written by Dame Suzy

So I sit here waiting for my delayed flight, stuck here because I’ve made it past U.S. pre-clearance immigration. Luckily I was painfully hungry enough to have eaten a lovely filling breakfast in the main terminal beforehand (large croissant, orange juice, fruit, yogurt, ham and brie); otherwise I’d be a pissed-off camper. Cold enough to invite sniffles and have me in long sleeves, a sweater and a coat, I absorb the last of the bleck that is Dublin. I can count the number of smiles that have been returned on one hand – 3 fingers to be exact. Two in the airport in this dismal terminal. I guess the employees are starving for a little bit of joy too.

24th April
written by Dame Suzy

La Madame is a mere shadow of its former self. The large stage that had housed up to ten scantilly-clad models and huge ripped Spaniards et al. has been converted into a VIP section and when dancers do come on, there are only three and the guy is burdened (as am I) with layers of clothing and the female go-go dancers are typical but not enviable. The most notable is the large number of transsexuals there, which I am now aware of because of my accidental partying with some a couple of years ago. Then I wonder where those two women are. One had hinted that she was somewhere in her forties. She and her friend who drank like a fish are nowhere to be found.

Which leads to me to wonder what happens to older transsexuals? What kind of lives do they lead after their glory years? They’ve lived most of their adult lives as prostitutes – it isn’t like with men who abandon their families at age fifty and undergo a makeover into a masculine womanhood. These trannies try over-hard to be the sexiest women around, though with narrow hips and strange calves. I discuss this with my friend, and he seems to think that they may simply become normal, average-looking middle-aged women later in their lives, abandoning their vanity like most women born as such.

But back to La Madade. There are never enough partygoers to get the room hot enough for guys to take off their shirts, and it’s likely that I wouldn’t want to see them shirtless as their are few muscles to be found. And where are all the gay boys? There used to be beefy gay boys aplenty. I like pretty things; I don’t care if I don’t get to play with them. So I leave at a disappointing 3:15am to be back in my gorgeous Barcelona home to sleep off the ill effects of a deeply trouble economy.