Bunniblog

All material on this webpage is protected by an army of slavering hell bunnies that will bite on command. Ok maybe not, but clearly I have an excess of hostility and am just looking for an excuse to use it.
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I'm Not the One

I'm not going to be able to do a full post on this one, but I promised the friend of a secretary of a minion to certain important lesser demons and overlords that I would put up a little something and these aren't the sort of...entities per se that one lies to.

Rabid meets me in a bar on Thursday after work. She can tell that I have that "I'm on the jagged edge of having no sense of humor anymore" tone of voice when she calls me at work. She buys me two vodka based drinks before she goes off to meet her beloved parisian paramour. Not Tsarina. Tsarina is over, done, baked, last week's trash, already recycled. Tsarina is like bulimia "so 80's" that it would be an embarassment even to think about it. Now she's back to her original love, the Velveteen Rabbit-VR for short-the one I sent her to Paris for-the one I had to listen to bitching about for four months while I sat at my desk biting back tears about not getting into graduate school.

Now VR after a week of dalliance is telling Rabid that she loves her.

I am not the type of woman that men say "I love you" to, I am the type of woman that men emigrate to avoid. And no that's not just a joke. It was, but Eric-I was engaged to him- now in Japan-the Beast-nine months together-now in Boston-that nameless programmer from September for a month-now on the West Side.

Oh sure Henri told me he loved me last year. After how many hours? And how many glasses of kir? And how seriously do I take that? Let's start with not at all, not at all.

Rabid often has a way of making a bad day exponentially worse. She has been systematically telling me not to say anything about GHV in terms of Love. A month ago I told her I was in danger. I didn't even have to use the word before she said, "You better not fucking say it. You better not. It's a performative utterance. You know what that means?"

No, I spent two years in grad. school, and I somehow missed that one. So I didn't. I kept my trap shut. Because, as I said, I am not the type of girl men fall in love with. I am the type of girl men use to make their girlfriends jealous, I am the type of girl who turns herself inside out for a boy for two years so he can bitch non-stop about his miserable childhood in an environment he is comfortable in, and I am the type of girl men seduce to edit their novels, PhD theses, medical papers. I am a prop, background, the best unpaid therapist in the tri-state area, on a good day a piece of exotica, but I am nobody's idea of a love object.

I've spent today evaluating diagnostic exams. A full bushel full of essays written by 18 year olds about the forces that form an identity. And you know what? At eighteen most of them have had longer relationships than I have at almost twice their age. The majority of them start out their essays with, "When I was fourteen I fell in love." And then goes on to describe the long and fruitful love affair they had with their boyfriend during high school. I didn't even evaluate ten before I had to stop. Had to walk away. A bunch of idiots who can't even put together a sentence. Who can't even put a verb in every sentence never mind use the right form and in the right place have more experience of love than I ever will. Even in high school I wasn't a love object. I as the best friend, the kind of girl that male friends would say "You know I wish my girlfriend was more like you." But of course they never really meant it, or they would have dated me when they broke up with whatever dimwit they were dating. And in college, when everyone assured me my love life would perk up I spent four years hanging around with beautiful gay men. And although they loved me and I have no doubt would want nothing more than to make me feel wonderful and beautiful, it's not quite a recipe for sucess.

I decided to partake of some retail therapy when I walked into Dean Martin, an attractive man in his seventies recently a widower. Up to the point his wife died, Dean was always a gentleman. Now he gets a little more rowdy. He invites me in for a drink, always a mistake. In between telling me about his wife's cremation, he leans in and asks me for a pair of my panties. "The dirtier the better. I want you natural." This is a man who is older than my father would be if he lived. I knew his wife. He suddenly switches back. "Things are getting easier. I'll pack up her clothes tomorrow. We were married for ten years." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You just say the words though. I have strong lips."

He leaves money for another drink for me on the bar.

More to come...

Bad Bunni posted at 7/09/2005 08:56:00 PM |

Vanilla Lovers for Chocolate

When I was in college, my best friend, Starfucker (the gay son of two fundamentalist christians) decided to call Jews for Jesus Vanilla Lovers for Chocolate. I loved the name and so we spun a whole bunch of variants for them (Ocelot Lovers for Lemurs, Peanut Butter Lovers for Jelly). I don't really have a problem with them more than any other religion except they have a ridiculous name. Even Scientology has a more legitimate sounding title.

Or at least that's what I thought.

I was in a bad mood when I got to the subway yesterday. It was raining, I didn't have my umbrella, I was tired and cranky already and thinking about all the reading I have to do and how my students were whining about reading the syllabus, READING THE FREAKIN' SYLLABUS, and about the only good thing was that I managed to find a seat on the train when I was suddenly surrounded by Jew for Jesus. And not just wearing the shirts. They had the shirts, the hats, the bags. One woman had a hat, a bag, AND a fanny pack to boot. They had fist fulls of pamphlets. Ah, religious zealotry just what I need at the end of a long day.

But personally my belief about religion is live and let live. They weren't trying to give me literature or talk to me or anyone else on the train, they were too busy talking amongst themselves about the success of the day, so things seemed alright.

Until

A blonde blue eyed man in a suit who was almost crushed against the door by them and asked innocently "So what is it all about?" And the woman responded "We are Jews who believe in Jesus." Now first of all, as if the shirts didn't make that clear to begin with and second of all there is a word for people like that it's CHRISTIANS damn it. The goy asked for a more detailed explaination and this is where my blood began to rage. The woman who answered him, a nice looking woman in her 50s, made it sound like ALL JEWS BELIEVE IN JESUS.

Now technically as an atheist I really shouldn't care, but I was raised a Jew and there are enough people even in NYC who don't know what Judiasm is without cults spreading misinformation about it. Judiasm has enough problems as it is (you know what with anti-semitism,dwindling memberships, etc.). So I was faced with a dilemma, correct her so that this random idiot won't be misinformed but risk a confrontation or allow her to disseminate her misinformation. Thankfully before I could come to a decision the whole she-bang got off the train, but I was really struck by how angry I got.

I was raised as a reform Jew which basically means I knew where the synagogue was and drove by it and waved on high holy holidays. I barely learned how to read Hebrew, and don't even know all the rules of keeping kosher. (What makes a pickle kosher? I have no idea.) For the love of all things holy my rabbi used to tell us Charlie Brownstein stories at Sabbath services. Any day now I expect my excommunication notice from the Elders of Zion-You're out, Bunni girl, fired as a Jew!

Still as an atheist I'm not sure why I care.

Bad Bunni posted at 7/07/2005 11:31:00 AM |

Sockmonkey

So I had the umitigated pleasure of talking to this bloke today and to even see his cute monkey-ness on his webcam. Let me just say, that this boy remains unclaimed convinces me that the women of Great Britian have the worst taste in the world. How they can let such a bloke run around free? First they can't serve a cold drink and now they are letting this fine hunk of man remain single. In the words of my students "It ain't right."

He's just so cute I want to abduct him and keep him in my sock drawer. Lucky for me I have a walk-in closet.

Apologies for the lack of post, but you know this is the first week of summer semester and since none of the other professors have mastered the fine art of research, it is squarely on my shoulders to do the work of eight people for no credit and no money. I love my job. No really. What's really appaulling is we are teaching the Aeneid this summer and each and everyone of them has said to me "You know, the last time I read the Aeneid was in high school so I'm really looking forward to your presentation on it." Does it occur to them to, you know, read it since they are after all English professors? Ahhhh, surely I jest. Why would they bother when they have me to provide them with all the insight, history, and supplemental materials they need? It is a sad sad world when you can't depend on ENGLISH PROFESSORS to do their own required reading.

Ah, well, I must go finish writing my fabulous and intriguing Aeneid questions.

Bad Bunni posted at 7/06/2005 05:15:00 PM |

The All Time Most Bizarre Compliment

Bunni is sitting daydreaming.

GHV: You could kill a rhinocerous with your breasts.

Bunni: What?

GHV: You know, just take one and (mimes taking breast in his hand and throwing it like a shotput) and then the rhincerous would be dead.

Now I've had lots of compliments on my breasts from the cliche ("You have perfect/beautiful breasts") to the more original ("You are the living embodiment of 'tits and ass'" and "You could feed all of Africa with those breasts.") But I have yet to have it suggested that my breasts are weapons that could be used for big game hunting.

You know, it really doesn't pay to give me those kind of ideas. (Insert sinister chortle here.)

Bad Bunni posted at 7/03/2005 01:45:00 PM |