I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

So, in light of the fact that I'm apparently talking in my sleep about this, I guess I need to try to air it out in hopes that I will give my subconscious a rest.

The title post is taken from Jessica Rabbit's famous line in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Jessica is, um, one hot mama, sporting every single physical jewel that plastic-surgery junkies consider mere modus operandi to "looking like the best me": soft, enormous, pillowy lips (often referred to as the Angelina Lips), teeeeeeeny tiny nose (think Heidi Klum), and, duh, some big ol' titties.

If Jessica Rabbit were real, I'm sure her repertoire would have been extended to an ear tuck, brow lift, cheek injection, and many additional "nips and tucks" to keep that waist so trim it's a miracle she doesn't crumble from the weight of such impressive décolletage. She may even have had some more personalized procedures, such as having an elongated chin shaved down, or implants wedged into her flat trunk ... sound familiar? Maybe like a certain young "starlet" who not only did get that chin shaved and butt "augmented" this past November, but also underwent each and every one of the aforementioned procedures in-- wait for it-- one, completely unnecessary, ten hour surgery. (Click for full photo)

As much as I wanted to resist joining the ranks of Heidi Montag's critics, I simply cannot get over these interview quotes that keep popping up over my dear Jezebel. (That and, when David informed me that amidst all the sleep-talk garble I'm famous for, my subconscious was apparently fuming over how she "looks like a tranny!") There have been some true gems that came out of her post-op interviews, but some quotes were, well, gut-wrenching. I'll let you differentiate:

• In response to whether she had chosen to unveil the new look in order to promote her conveniently timed release of her first album, she responded swiftly that, "Ohhhh no! That's all God's timing."
• On how young girls are supposed to respond to the apparently superficial and self-loathing message she's sending: "Well, my message is really that beauty is within."
• On if she thinks DDD is large enough: "I actually want H for Heidi."
• "I'm not addicted [to plastic surgery]. If I was addicted I would have had ten plastic surgeries" (Um... she did. Ten.)
• "I had to look through hours of photos for what boob size I wanted in Playboy...if you're going to do surgery, it's like doing research you know, for a paper you're writing."
• Paraphrased: "It's a spiritual transformation. God made Dr. Ryan who made me so it's okay with Him."
• "I went to an after-care place, and I was in so much pain, and like, literally crying, and just saying I-- I felt like I wanted to die, almost."

Wow. I love how she talks about the recovery with a definitive air of surprise, "It really.. hurt." What? Really? You mean that injecting all those foreign objects and substances and fats into your body didn't feel awesome? Because I always imagined that having my jaw bone sanded down would feel amazing.

I'm not really anti-cosmetic surgery, just to be clear. When I was growing up, the only kind of plastic surgeries I knew about were the standard boob/nose jobs, lipo and face-lifts that were generally frowned upon and seemed to only happen with the rich, bored, and unhappy. Now, while limelight, insecurity and shitloads of cash seem to make up the dangerous combination that launches many-a young celebrity into the rusty jaws of cosmetic surgery, I know many women and men who undergo the knife for reasons that are entirely reasonable: relatively so. While I don't think that multiple procedures (and certainly, some procedures even by themselves) are all that healthy for your body, I can definitely sympathize with the feeling that you're missing something (or have too much of something) that has nothing to do with exercise and healthy living. In an effort of full disclosure, I should say that I fully plan on having a boob-job of some kind after my breasts have served their purpose (after a life-long struggle with these guys, I will savor reclaiming them in my later years).

But while I don't necessarily love my chin or lips or nose, I think that shelling these features in favor of some stock plastic replacements wouldn't possibly bring me happiness. And while I don't know Heidi Montag, I just can't imagine that now that she looks like the Cat Lady's little sister, she's 100% happy with herself. And I can guarantee she isn't 100% finished getting work done either. One doesn't get neck liposuction at 23 and just ride out the fruits of that labor til death. Tis not exactly an endeavor with totally solid long-term effects.

Animalia

I'm finally getting around to sharing trip photos, a task that becomes quite daunting once your photo counts surpasses 500. My very human instincts are telling me to do so in a methodical, organized fashion, one that presents the photos by motif, and most importantly, in much more manageable sizes. Today I offer a small sampling of Animals Encountered (with the sub-theme of "Animals with whom we directly interacted.")

Llamas in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

Sea lions at Las Islas Ballestas, "The poor man's Galapagos."

Kitten on Las Islas Flotantas in Lake Titicaca, (Uros woman behind me)

Kitten in Llauar, Colca Canyon, Peru.

Llama at Machu Picchu. Those things are a little frightening in person.

A staple of South American streets: stray dogs. Atacama desert, Chile.

Addendum:

There were alpaca and vicuna herds, condor sightings, flamingos. Those will probably be included in a more touristy, picturesque category like "Landscapes." I've begun with these photos because these are some of the moments from the trip that I recall most vividly and with much relish-- I remembered sitting on the back of a llama on a childhood trip to Santiago, and hunted down the sequel experience as resolutely as I scoured shops for the Nestle Trencito chocolate bar my abuelita used to send Christopher and I in the mail. Nostalgia is a powerful motivator and I found myself, an otherwise somewhat nervous foreigner, demanding candy in almost-perfect Spanish and staring down those cow-like, long-lashed placid eyes of South American livestock without trepidation. Someone would be proud.

But I really included these photos not for their uniqueness (cats, incidentally, are equally as impassive to their human companions across the Americas, though South Americans appear to have the good sense to be impassive back) but because I, much to my humiliation, never quite shed that childhood impulse to want to keep, love, and be the best friend of every solitary living animal I meet. Thank god for Customs, or I would have returned happily but stupidly a-lugging quite the array of companions for my two feline friends.

I don't know how, why or when this idiot love of animals was born, but it seems to have become exponentially illogical and emotionally-fraught. As a child, my father used to cook these semi-raw, fatty steaks a lo pobre (with a fried egg on top) for dinner. I remember barely grasping the ability to poke the flesh, pooling in its own blood, with that obscene strip of fat gleaming on the sides. "Be a man!"my father was known to exclaim. "That's where all the flavor is; don't be so American!" My brother, ever the sycophant and red-blooded hispanic male, devoured the cow while I choked back bile. My only saving grace was Lent, when Dad permitted abstemious vows. At 14, rebellion coincided with my father's death, and he was thus spared the event of becoming a vexed witness to a six year stretch of vegetarianism.

For monetary and health reasons, college re-introduced fowl and seafood to my diet, though I can only maintain the appetite if the foods in question in no way still resemble the animal from which they came. Granted, this tends to stem more from a "gross-factor," than emotional attachment, but I am hardly immune to Peta, or worse, Homeward Bound. Eight Below. The Never Ending Story. Once, on a very crowded bus crossing the Peruvian border to Chile, the same discerning film censor who had brought us Homeland Security and Human Trafficking just hours before, puts on the Will Smith blockbuster I Am Legend. Guess who lost her shit when the dog gets attacked by the zombies? And I'm not talking about one shining, silent tear-- no, that would have been mildly acceptable to our stoic and seemingly blood-thirsty passenger companions. I was sobbing. Blurred vision, hyperventilation, dry-heaving. The couple next to us, who had been ascribing to the South American tendency to offer zero consideration for personal space the first 6 hours of the bus drive, were looking at me with the dawning realization that I wasn't just some American tourist, but a very unbalanced American tourist. They inched away with the cautious deliberation of a level-headed hostage held at gunpoint.

I'd like to think that my pets feel love for me. I'd like to imagine that when my cat curls himself a nook on my chest, he is consciously cuddling. When my dog met me at the door with such violent tail-wagging he knocked himself over, I liked to think it was overwhelming happiness to see me. Do I understand that these are wildly fanciful notions meant to feed my ego? Yes. Does that deter these notions? Absolutely not. Consider the dust bitten.