The Plan B(acklash) has begun. From today’s Times, an article that suggests that the availability of the morning-after pill without a prescription is going to lead to women being less careful and men using the availability as an excuse to be jackasses. These parts made me sigh the “Oh the world the world the world” sigh:

Arielle Fox, 23, who grew up in the Manhattan Beach section of
Brooklyn and now lives on the East Side, said that after graduation
from college, many of her friends moved back to the city, started
working and dated heavily — without worrying much about getting
pregnant.

“People just don’t think it could happen to them,” she
said, explaining that many of the women she knows do not practice safe
sex, especially when drugs and alcohol are involved. Still, she said
she could not decide whether she was glad the morning-after pill would
soon be more readily available. Several of her friends have already
used the pill multiple times.

“This weekend, they’re like, ‘I
took the morning-after pill,’ ” she said. “And the next weekend, ‘Yeah,
I took the morning-after pill.’ ”

And:

Elizabeth Jones, 23, a student from the Bronx, said the pill might give guys another excuse not to use a condom.

“Now they have one more reason to say: ‘I’m not going to use one. I’ll buy you the pill in the morning,’ ” she said.

While we’re discussing the article, can we please agree that this is a weak lead?

“Sex in New York City, as glamorized as it may be, is far from perfect.”

Comparisons of NYC to the swingin’ playground depicted Sex and the City are moldy-penicillin-bread-stale. Saying that life is not like SATC here is irrelevant. I admit I once wrote an article about how my life was nothing like the show. That was in 2000.

I expect something more current from the Times, but otherwise, who cares? This hapless lass got reamed by Gawker for comparing herself to Carrie Bradshaw. I leave her to her musings, no matter how cliche.  Making fun of a personal blog is like shooting fish in a barrel. Unless, of course, you know the person, and s/he has done you wrong, in which case one could argue that your ridicule is karmically justified.

New York Women See 2 Sides of Prescription-Free Morning-After Pill [NYT]

PS: Ooooops. Oooops again.

If your neighbor is standing outside with a massive dresser and you are a pasty-faced twentysomething frat boy who lives in her building, should your neighbor kindly ask you and your equally jerky friend if you’d help her carry the dresser upstairs, and even offer to pay you, do not walk by her, laugh and simply say, “No,” as if she’d asked you to do something completely ridiculous and foreign to your constitution, like, say, shower.

Some days I am moved deeply by the unexpected kindness of New Yorkers. Today was not one of those days. I have yet to be moved in any direction but far away by a pasty-faced frat boy.

Previously: Blink-And-You-Miss-It Etiquette Lessons on…

The FDA has approved Plan B for over-the-counter sales.
Roe v. Wade, you just might stick around to see another day after all.

Previously:
The Latest on Plan B (9 Aug 2006)
Which Is More Upsetting? (2 Aug 2006)
Birthing a Baby and Leaving It on the Street (2 Aug 2006)

Last night, on the L train platform, another encounter with the Mitchum Man, who just keeps getting more irresistible:

Okay, nothing scary about that guy. I love a man who’s a total uncommunicative dick–not to mention vaguely threatening–to his kids! Oh but wait:

Oh, Sensitive Mitchum Man! You’re just a big ol’ teddy bear at heart! I love you–and your deodorant!

PS How totally Euro of you to wear your wedding band on your right hand!

Previously:
Keep the Mitchum Men Far Away From Me

I recently joined a new gym. It’s a lot fancier (read: cleaner) than any gym I’ve belonged to previously. I was sucked in because the place is across the street from my apartment, and I had been grousing about my old (read: dirtier) gym’s deficiencies (read: stink; read more closely: too far from my apartment) when I discovered that the clean brand-new gym across the street was on the last day of it’s so-low-you-can’t-afford-not-to-join summer sale. I took it as a sign.

Now I’ve done a bit of research on gym memberships, I know what I’m supposed to ask, I know that any sales rep who keeps exclaiming “the gym sells itself!” when taking you on a tour is hilariously full of it, but still I ended up baffled. The thing is, like anyone who really, really wants you to buy what he’s selling, a wacky gym salesguy is prone to a little fast talk and speedy calculator work. This Wacky Gym Salesguy, however, has me set up in some very spurious situation whereby I’m going to get some big bucks back for “referring” three new clients. Now, by “referring,” WGS means that anyone who signs up without a referral will magically become “referred” by me, and six months from this stranger’s sign-up date, I’m theoretically getting $100 per person I referred. So we’re talking about $300 back, six months from now.

Okay, so I’m a little skeptical about this arrangement (after we calculate all my discounts because he “likes” me, the super-super sale-sale discount, and my $300-back-at-some-later-date, my monthly membership fee is about $3.79), so WGS tells me he’s going to give me a photocopy of the member contract of each person I “refer” so I know he’s a man of his word. No, he won’t put our arrangement in writing, but he will give me photocopies. I’m going to have to trust him, take him at his word, he tells me, gazing deep into my eyes as if to say “Have I ever lied to you?” I stare back, as if to say “I don’t want to die, Daddy.”

The creepy-ish part is that every time I go to my new (clean) gym, WGS comes up to me, calls me by name, and tells me he’s just gotten me another “referral.” Each time this happens I feel dirty, like we have some sub rosa arrangement going on, like we’re playing a down-and-dirty illegal game the stakes of which will only become clear when the severed heads of these so-called “members” show up in my gym locker. Last time I was there, WGS came up to me and, as promised, gave me an envelope with three members’ registration forms. I feel even more like a CIA agent now, because I think I’m supposed to take this as the sealing of our deal and assume my $300 is in an escrow account in the Virgin Islands, but instead I am in possession of the names, addresses, job info and credit card numbers of three strangers. Is this legit? Am I an unwitting dupe in a high-stakes Ponzi scheme?

[redacted]

I don’t know exactly how or when, but I have this distinct feeling that there’s a muffled late-night phone call in my future, telling me to leave 3 large (or is “large” a thousand dollars? “3 small?”) in an unmarked Halliburton case down by the pier.

Damn, I’m digging the Maira Kalman features in the Times. Enough to say “Damn I’m digging,” which means “quite a lot.” She’s so loopy and smart. I’ll never get over missing the Elements of Style opera at the library.

Sigh. The Elements of Style. She’s just beyond magic. The world is too much with her, late and soon.

Can we establish some sort of alert system for new pharmacists, you know, a memo or something that aspiring pharmacists have to sign, acknowledging that the profession on which they are about to embark may raise some sticky moral (or religious) issues? The pharmacist-to-be would state in no uncertain terms that s/he is aware that, regardless of what s/he determines is “the right thing,” s/he is beholden to the rules and regulations of the pharmacy for whom s/he works. This whole conscience clause thing is bullshit. What I’m trying to say is, whether or not you think a woman should have access to the morning-after pill, you have to fill the prescription anyway. And whether or not you think a woman is a floozy or her doctor is a renegade, if that prescription calls for a refill, you have to provide it. In short, keep your rosaries off our ovaries, and keep your moral compass off our refills.

I’m not angry. In spite of two recent posts in which I tried to take a bitchy stand on matters to which my reaction is one of spectator-distaste but not outrage, I am not on a rant. Nor a rave. I’m just concerned about the profession of pharmacology. The moral conundrums are only going to get more trying. We need people with strength, fortitude, presence of mind, ability to reconcile conscience with job responsibilities. (We do not, for the record, need the jerk at Duane Reade who entered my birth date incorrectly into the computer and then tried to accuse me of not having insurance. We need him to stop being such a total jerk and making me weep–it had been a long day, I was not in the mood.) I ask you.

I agree with Sarah Goldstein, who brought the issue of pharmacists not filling Plan B refills to my attention via Broadsheet (Get the Site Pass–it’s worth it): If this thing were available over the counter, we wouldn’t need to have this discussion. We would still need to draw-and-quarter that pharmacist from Duane Reade, but just for being a bully. I have no evidence that he’s withholding refills.

Previously:
Latest on Plan B
Birthing a Baby and Leaving It on The Street (aka “The Elisabeth Hasselbeck Outburst”)

Thank god for Brocade Home, for tapping into my "feminine energy" and creating a line of home furnishings just for young women. What is feminine energy, you ask? Why, "crystal chandeliers, satin coverlets, pink crushed-velvet pillows and sexy boudoir tables to channel Carrie Bradshaw" of course! The founder of the line plans to "jump-start ‘the feminine home for the 21st century,’" according to the Washington Post. The main inspiration for Brocade seems to have been Anthropologie, aka "Suburban Outfitters." What does it say about me that I secretly like this rococo frippery? What does it say about me that I also covet a modern, austere, "macho" look? Why did Maureen Dowd use the expression "kindle to" twice in yesterday’s column about Bush reading Camus? And what of homes where women and men live together? This look is definitely "feminine" but I can’t imagine it gracing the home of anyone  besides the trillion women nursing Amelie fantasies.  Isn’t it stretching it a bit to call West Elm and Crate & Barrel "masculine"? Is there such a thing as feminist decorating?

What’s the matter with Virginia? I spent four years there for college, and after I got over the fact that whenever the line “All is bright and gay” from the school’s fight song was sung at football games, the crowd would scream “NOT GAY!” (solution: stop going to football games), I was able to find some very wonderful things about the school and the state (the former, I should add, an institution partially funded by the latter). I love Virginia, and I love many people from Virginia. But come on, George Allen. You’re bringing everyone down with you.

What gives, creepy future presidential candidate?  I remember when Oliver North came to campaign for Senate in Charlottesville in 1994. He didn’t say anything mortifying, but just the fact of him trying to shake students’ hands was gross unto itself.

Update: Evidently there’s been a movement in recent years to stop jackasses from yelling “NOT GAY!” during “The Good Ol’ Song.”

It occurs to me I have neglected to follow up on a few things. Let me just say that Midnight Madness was indeed totally bananas, mad-as-can-be. Besides the insane-dash clue scramble through the city, there were elements of a scavenger hunt added to this year’s race.

My team was beyond tremendous. I have never had so much fun doing something I’m so very bad at. At 9:30 in the morning we called it quits. We were, evidently, in the minority. The teams that finished did so at around 3pm. See another team’s account of the madness.

Previously:
Going Mad
Related: Midnight Madness 9