I received a humorous yet distressing email from the editor of the Weekly last Friday. In my never ending quest to write an advice column, he and I had embarked upon what I thought was a friendly dialogue. I assumed he knew and understood me, and then, bam, he insinuated that I just wasn’t naughty enough for the good readers of the Weekly. Ouch! Apparently Savage Love (one of my favorite reads) is a “bit too naughty” while I’m “probably a bit too nice.” I spent the weekend muttering to my husband, “Can you believe this?” and giggling and wishing my mother still had email so I could forward her the news—she would be so proud. But alas, I fear I may have misrepresented myself to the good man. Was it the hair? Maybe I should have kept it red. Was it the shirt? Perhaps it should have been lower cut. Was it my tales of working for the US Senator? Was it the fact that I’m a mommy? I guess all of these attributes, taken together, might say “Suburban Soccer Mom,” but that just ain’t me. As my good friend Emily G. pointed out in her blog, I’m the girl who wears the camo mini skirt and gold shit-kicker Frye boots to a garden wedding. I’m the girl whose favorite film is To Die For and the one who longs for the next installment of Nip/Tuck. I’m the girl with Sexing the Cherry, The Story of O and other erotically-charged book titles lining the shelves of her living room. I’m the girl with enough sordid sexual experience to raise eyebrows. I've catalogued scenes, snippets and observations that I won’t share here, mainly because my mother-in-law is reading this, but they're itching to go in a column ;-). I’m that girl. Short of walking into his office and reenacting the masturbation scene from Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour, I’m not quite sure how to convince the gentleman that I’m no Pollyanna.

And in other news . . . I wrote the following soon after Pluto was demoted to non-planet status but forgot to post it. It’s even a wee bit naughty:

Millions of school children have been summarily mind-fucked by a band of rogue cowboy scientists. According to these astronomers, Pluto becomes the planetary equivalent of the lacey thong underwear you wore in college and now that you’re married and a little heavier in the hips and the lace has stretched out, well, it just doesn’t fit anymore so you toss it in the bathroom wastebasket and try to forget all about it—the underwear and your lurid past. First of all, everyone knows that you don’t fuck with Pluto. You can tease Jupiter mercilessly, you can punch Venus in the nose, but you don’t ever want to get in Pluto’s business because she’s a vengeful bitch and she will give harder than she’s gotten. Pluto is the Roman god of the underworld. Pluto’s all about birth, death, destruction, annihilation, deep dark secrets and sex, the naughty stuff, which is precisely why I adore her. Pluto was discovered in 1930 amidst the great stock market crash that ignited the Depression. Pluto was just a babe when Adolf Hitler came on the scene and yet in infancy, the girl helped cook up World War II and the Holocaust. When Pluto shows up at your house, you don’t slam the door in her face. You bow humbly, offer her some tea and with quaking voice, tell her you’re at her service. I think it’s cute that those venerable scientists, with their big, engorged PhDs, think they can defame Pluto, sully her reputation and that she’ll just quietly slink away. Pluto’s like the saucy sorority girl who shows up at a drunken frat party wearing too much makeup and super short skirt and then wakes up the next morning to a room she doesn’t recognize, a man she doesn’t know and a sticky wetness between her legs she never asked for. Yes, she’ll leave quietly and do her walk of shame and chances are you won’t hear from her for awhile, But when Pluto finally makes her presence known, it will be to paper the entire campus with pictures of the asshole who defiled her, the word RAPIST in bold on his mugshot. The point would be this: Pluto always has her revenge and usually when you least expect it. She is one wrathful bitch so those smarty-pant scientists might want to take care.