…at the Abbey Pub, watching pretty ladies at the Gurlesque Burlesque show . (The show’s going on tonight, too.)

Be warned that the above link is slightly “not safe for work.” Remember, Corporate America hates tits!

More than one reader has written in to inform me that my fish is a guy.

Well, good, because I like guys.

Paula Danziger died last week. I read three or four of her novels when I was a kid. Sometimes, because of my job, I get to meet the authors of books I loved as a kid, and I always hoped I�d meet her.

I don�t know how old I was when I first found The Cat Ate My Gymsuit. The main thing I remember is that the book had a fat girl on the cover. I can�t recall if this made me want to read it more or less; at various times in my life either reaction was possible.

I know I read the book more than once and I liked the story, which was about a lot of things, but what struck me most is that it wasn�t all about the fat girl being fat. And the cover mesmerized me. My memory made Marcy fatter than she really appears in that illustration; in my mind she was really fat, and when I looked at her face I could see that her size was both the worst thing in the world and utterly unremarkable, as ordinary as the typeface on the front of her English textbook. There were plenty of details to contemplate. I didn�t want to be as big as her but I liked her I-don�t-give-a-shit expression. And she had that rumpled look about her that a lot of the protagonists of 70s teen novels seemed to have: on the covers of Paul Zindel and Norma Fox Mazer books, kids were always thoughtfully slouching around in grubby-looking jeans and seemed somehow more compelling than their 80s counterparts.

I know I�m talking more about the cover than the book here, but the book didn�t disappoint. I remember she got a new outfit that she liked even though she was fat; one night she turned down a bowl of ice cream and kept checking the mirror to see if she was thin. I loved that. And I think it’s worth noting that Marcy has never been shown as fat as she was on that old cover in subsequent editions, and that reviews and summaries often say she thinks she’s fat; funny how that sort of changes everything. I wish I could have asked Danziger about that. And what does it mean that I didn’t think the girl in There’s a Bat in Bunk Five was the same Marcy–that I didn’t buy that she was suddenly thin for the sequel? I didn’t feel cheated but I simply chose to disagree. But I think I am going to have to re-read these books now.

(Thanks so much to Eliza Lou for providing a nice big scan of the much-sought-after old Gymsuit cover.)

This weekend my good friend Leigh got married. I went to the wedding and I came home with a fish. I didn’t catch the bouquet; I got a fish.

Really, I wasn’t even around for the bouquet toss. My shoes hurt like crazy and my fancy stretchy bridesmaid undergarments were beginning to assault me, so I’d left the reception briefly to change. When I came back my friend Richard had caught the bouquet. Bitch. Good for him.

I know this all makes it sound like the fish was some kind of spinster consolation prize, but apparently I was doing the bride a favor. “Take a fish!” she yelled as I was getting ready to leave the reception. The party was winding down and everyone was walking around drunk and barefoot. “A what?” I said. She pointed to one of the centerpieces. Each table had a glass bowl with a sunflower head in it, and each bowl had a little dark thing fluttering around in the water. I hadn’t even noticed. I took a bowl and held it between my knees as I rode home in the cab.

In the morning I figured out that I’d gotten a Betta fish. It is a pretty, deep blue color. I changed its water and set the bowl on my desk. Here it is looking at me expectantly.

For now I will call it Bootsy. I always wanted to name something Bootsy.

Don’t even get me started on how stupidly difficult it is to photograph a fish with a low-end digital camera.

I bought Bootsy some Betta pellets today. So far he/she hasn’t really gone for them, though he/she is pretty lively otherwise. I have been looking up stuff about Betta fish and how keeping them in the pretty little vases is a controversial issue and I’m still trying to figure out what to do. Mostly I keep telling Bootsy, “Don’t die.”

That’s just me, though. I’m always nervous at the beginning of relationships. Even when they make me extremely happy, and that’s all I’ll say about that. And hey, I think I like this fish, too.

Why does V!agr@ spam depend so heavily on this whole Penis Of Mass Destruction concept as a selling point? When it comes to product claims I suppose treats erectile dysfunction doesn’t have quite as much appeal as unleashes powerful ninja dick!!! but come on, spammers, if you’re going to entice the guys with the promise of gigantic meat cudgel endowments to “make her SCREAM!” and “tear her APART!” or maybe even “put her EYE out!” you should at least provide equal opportunity here. Like maybe the subject lines for breast enhancement spam ought to include phrases like “SMOTHER HIM WITH YOUR DOUBLE D CUPS!” or “SUPERSIZE FUNBAGS WHACK HIM ACROSS THE FACE!” or “MAKE HIM CRY FOR MAMA!” I mean, why don’t they? Us girls, we’re too nice.

I knew sooner or later the idyllic spell of Ragdale was going to be broken by something. I knew it wouldn’t take much.

Really, any little bit of spam in my inbox would have sufficed and it didn’t have to be one with the subject line Attack your wife with semen! Clearly “Tommy Bolton,” discount pharmaceutical entrepreneur, went above and beyond the line of duty here. He doesn’t say exactly how you, the discerning consumer, might ATTACK YOUR WIFE WITH SEMEN, but one can imagine all kinds of innovative methods involving filled balloons, ice cube trays, paintball pellets and whatnot. Or you could be in the kitchen with the electric mixer pretending to be making a cake and you can say to your wife, “Honey, come here–how do you turn this thing on?” and when she comes over you turn it on high and yell WHOOOOOPS!!! and when she figures out it’s not cake batter she’ll laugh and laugh! You could even use the tried and true bucket-over-the-door trick to attack your wife with semen the SNEAKY way! Attack your wife with semen! If that doesn’t make you sentimental about heterosexual marriage, I don’t know what will.