20 November

I am adding to my (unresearched and purely subjective) list of things that I am certain were invented by men. First being those spiked high-heeled shoes given a euphemistic term I hardly want to admit to even knowing.

After this morning, I am including those machines used for mammograms. They must assume that no woman five feet or under in height must have breasts because at 4′11″, I have to stand on tiptoe to avoid dangling from the monster jaw that’s holding me captive. Also, we’re not all Pamela Anderson endowed with an abundance to sacrifice to the breast gods. And, finally, can you spell C-O-L-D? I understand that the torture is a small price to pay annually for the information it provides. Clearly, it’s beyond dumb for any woman to avoid this checkup because the only thing worse than mammary smashing is not having mammaries to smash–and having to hear one more syllable about TomKat’s nuptials. The bride wore white, and the baby wore Armani like her parents. Am I the only person who’s calling Alanis Morrisette to tell her to add this to her song?