Mimi by Lucy Ellmann Page B

her!
    Mimi on parenthood: “You share your genetic defects with somebody, and then they get your crappy furniture when you die? Some deal.” We were in total agreement on procreation: its unnecessariness.
    Mimi on male bonuses: “They earn five times what women do, and still expect you to chip in for dinner!”
    Mimi on sports: “What good’s an Olympian to me ?”
    Mimi on guys on the subway who spread their legs and their newspapers far and wide: “We all paid the price of a ticket. And I like opening my legs too!” This she then demonstrated to me, in the most beguiling way.
    Mimi on the Hadron Collider (which she insisted on calling the Hard-on Collider): “Who needs a big machine to re-create the chaos at the beginning of the universe? Chaos we got!”
    â€œHow about a Tippi Hedren Collider instead then?” I suggested. “You just throw birds at her until she flips.”
    Mimi on the guy who claimed to have started an extramarital affair with a complete stranger, involuntarily, while sleepwalking as a result of taking an antidepressant: “Yeah, sure.”
    Mimi on a beer company promotion prize of a whole “caveman” weekend for five guys—free beer, video games, sports channels, and room service: “Five drunks in a cheap hotel.”
    Mimi on breast cancer campaigns: “Them and their pink ribbons. It’s sexual harassment! They never let you forget your breasts are a liability.”
    Mimi on bras: “Tit prisons. Who decided tits have to be this stiff and high anyway? The UN?”
    â€œBut without bras,” I argued, “I’d have even more boob-jobs to do and I’m sick of them!”
    â€œI didn’t know men could get sick of breasts.”
    â€œNot of breasts maybe, but of altering them in accordance with their owner’s latest caprice, or her husband’s.”
    Mimi was pretty suspicious of my profession. We battled it out one day over Yankee bean soup and borscht at B & H Dairy on 2nd Avenue (even when you’re in love, you still need soup!). I was admiring her lips, and made the mistake of saying they were beautiful.
    â€œThey’re just my lips. Don’t separate ’em off and compare them to other lips. You’re not at work now, buddy.”
    â€œWell, shut up and kiss me then!”
    She did, then resumed her rant. “Who decides what’s beautiful anyway? It’s all a matter of opinion, right?”
    â€œWell, according to my partner Henry, beauty was decided for us by evolution. Hairiness in men, for instance, hairlessness in women. Sexual characteristics got exaggerated over time, since the people most universally recognized as desirable were the most likely to find mates. Youthfulness is another widely accepted beauty trait, because it implies fertility. Evolution decided it, and we just help it along.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” declared Mimi.
    â€œLook, Mimi. Imagine nature is the tailor, as a teacher of mine put it, and we’re the invisible menders when the suit gets a bit worn out.”
    â€œHmmm.”
    â€œHoney, it’s just a job.”
    â€œHmmm.”
    Those “hmmms” of hers.
    â€œSome people really need help, Mimi, or their lives would be ruined! I had a woman in once who’d grown a horn on her forehead! Just an excess of keratin, easily removed—but in the Middle Ages she would have been dragged from town to town as an emblem of cuckoldry or something!”
    â€œOr burnt as a witch,” said Mimi, taking a big bite of challah bread. “But come on, Harrison—most people’s lives aren’t in danger if they don’t have a nose-job.”
    â€œAll I know is, a lot of middle-aged women come to me complaining they feel invisible.”
    â€œBut being invisible’s great!” Mimi said. “You can do whatever you want and nobody notices.”
    â€œI have this sudden twitch in my