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11:44 p.m. : 2002-03-06 : Modesty and Shampooing the Short Trouser Wookie

When I was about five my parents were having a cocktail party. I ran upstairs with my blond boy cousins�one was a year older than me, one a year younger�and with the pang of an uncontrollable need to be glamorous I feverishly tossed off the frilly but typical little girl party dress (cousins outside the door, of course�my parents stressed modesty), into a silky white strapless �gown,� fashioned from my favorite handmade baby blanket and several safety pins. After several quick pivots and fluffs in the mirror I emerged from my room anew, a dewy sense of buoyant celebrity in my heart, to meet my suited cousins. I felt like Grace Kelly in my favorite Cole Porter musical, High Society. I descended the staircase, one blond boy on either arm, waiting for the guests in the living room, drinking their melon balls and martinis, to notice me. The real Jennifer. How I felt on the inside. But my father saw me first and aborted the mission with alternating growls and screams, in true form, �Get upstairs and PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES! Show some MODESTY, Jennifer, for GOD�S SAKE!!!�

Modesty. Oh how it was stressed in my house. My mother was a very classy lovely lady. She had her moments, don�t get me wrong. But the face she genuinely showed to the world was one of contented listening, with a devil-may-care smile. She was indeed modest. My father liked to watch her listen to people, smile sweetly. I don�t think he could believe half the time that she was with him. He told me about seeing her for the first time. He was teaching in Little Falls, New York, her hometown, and he happened to go to the high school for a basketball game. He saw her walking across one of the higher bleachers and thought that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Somehow he asked her on a date and they went, danced to �I Found My Thrill On Blueberry Hill,� and several dates later her told her he knew he thought she was The One.

I guess this is why I have such a hard time seeing my Dad now with a woman who looks, acts and dresses like a hooker. Hell, she even smells like a hooker. Where�s the modesty? Now, I�ve said/written a thousand times that I would have no problem with anything about her if she were a nice person. But she�s not. I won�t go into it all because all of you who know me already know, and I don�t have to explain myself to people I don�t know and don�t care about. Besides, I�ve already written about why she�s screwy. Anyway, she went to some salon or something for her trial wedding makeover for hair and makeup (when my dad was still going to marry her) and has been doing the f�te make-up ever since�blue and purple eye shadow, terrible tarantula mascara, gross lipstick, bronzer� etc. If you ask me, whoever did the makeover should not have stopped there, but smudged the makeup as well over her Vera Wang gown, just to make her look on the outside how she is on the inside. (I wonder what happened to the gown� she probably does housework in it� Ohmygod who am I kidding� she would never do housework).

Anyway, enough about that. There is probably more I would like to write about this modesty for your children, immodesty for your sex-giver thing. It makes complete sense. But don�t make me bend over and smell her fishy pum pum!

Brent and I went to K-Mart yesterday so that I could buy some t-shirts and underwear to do fun Japanese products iron-ons, er, on. The place is so freakin� depressing I had to put a whole basket of shirts and thongs down and walk out �da place.

I just finished reading Henry and June. Pretty sexy, but it�s so hard to write about sex without having it sound like a machine or a science experiment. There were many beautiful moments, though, like when she�s shopping at Printemps and as usual, is attracted to the glitter (why did Mariah have to ruin the word?) of the jewelry counter, and says she would like to lay naked, covered in all of the shimmering glass and beads and gems. The book is a nice escape (even from the 99 cent thongs at K-Mart) and loveable the way most �awakening� books are, such as, well, Kate Chopin�s The Awakening, Jeannette Winterson�s The Passion and Longus� Daphnis and Chlo� (all of which I highly recommend). Anais Nin and Henry Miller wrote so many letters to each other, it�s almost surprising they had time to steam the salami.

Word of the Day for Wednesday March 6, 2002:

obloquy OB-luh-kwee, noun: 1. Strongly condemnatory or abusive language or utterance. 2. The condition of disgrace suffered as a result of public blame, abuse, or condemnation; ill repute.

There he remained, weeping indignantly at her stream of obloquy, bitterly ashamed of his tears, until it was time for supper. --Jonathan Keates, [1]Stendhal

Once installed in office he earned near-universal obloquy by pushing through the biggest tax increase in the state's history. --Dan Seligman, "The Taxophiliacs," [2]Forbes, February 5, 2001

For Britain to have made a last imperial stand on the shores of the South China Sea would have risked local calamity and international obloquy. --Christopher Patten, East and West

Obloquy derives from Latin obloqui, "to speak against," from ob-, against" + loqui, "to speak."

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