And Her Thighs Quivered With Unbridled Lust

My parents made some terrible mistakes raising me, all of which I intend to reveal in my upcoming biography "MY PARENTS WERE CRAZY."

But they did one thing right.

They taught be to be bored by porn.

Now I realize that might need explaining.

I really, truly, seriously doubt if my parents gave a second thought to what books I was reading. Not that I was going to bookstands and requesting a copy of Playgirl or anything. But if I spotted a book at a yard sale for five cents, it was happily purchased for me.

I've always read well ahead of my years. In fact, when I was in 2nd grade I pitched a fit because a school librarian refused to let me check out a tome on Shakespeare. I was such a pretentious little snot that I already had the idea that someday I would write a book about myself, and I thought this would be a charming story that would impress my audience with my o-ver-whel-ming brill-i-ance.

The librarian--and as Dave Barry said, I am not making this up, refused to let me check out a Shakespeare play but instead directed me to a book -- "Ben and Me" by Robert Lawson that I enjoyed so much that I regularly migrate to the children's section of the library to read it again. And if I'm ever shipwrecked on a deserted island I'll certainly choose a collection of Robert Lawson books over the entire set of Shakespeare's tomes.

By the time I was Madeleine's age (11 in September!) , I had amassed an impressive collection of "soft" (no pun intended) pornographic novels. At least they described, in vivid detail, um, the, um, you know, thing you, um, do when two people, um, love each other very much--and very often. But they did have a story line.

My two favorites were "Valley of the Dolls" and "The Godfather" which I had to get rid of for two reasons: 1. They were falling apart and 2. If you picked them up, the pages automatically opened to the scene with Anne and Lyon (Valley) and the scene with Sonny and the bridesmaid (Godfather)

Anyway, I read all that stuff, and I turned out perfectly all right. A paragon of morality. My first kiss didn't happen until I was nineteen. (Being a rather dorky looking kid didn't have anything to do with that, of course)

And sure, I read a lot of silly romance novels by Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, Catherine Coulter, etc. But you know what? When someone starts trembling with lust, I skip to the page where the killer gets revealed or someone gets a diamond ring or a plane ticket to Paris or into a fight with her pawnbroker, or something.

I am perfectly confident in my ability to raise my small doppelganger Madeleine. (See? I also amassed an impressive vocabulary). Saintly little Meredith? I have to rely on her father to figure her out. I just don't get a kid who is practically perfect. I mean, if she chopped down a cherry tree, she'd totally confess. Madeleine would blame it on a gang of roving cherry tree choppers who were protesting against going green.

So I let Madeleine read whatever she wants--within reason, of course. She was heavily into Seventeen when she was nine. She enjoys the articles. Really, she only reads it for the articles.

Then, for some unfathomable reason, I started getting free copies of Cosmopolitan delivered to my home. I picked it up with interest. I enjoyed Cosmopolitan very much when I was a young(er) woman. Back in the good old days, Cosmo was filled with interesting stories and profiles by some world famous writers. Helen Gurley Brown was famously cheap, but she hired some excellent writers. And articles were as long as four or five pages and covered topics outside the bedroom. Today....

OH. MY. FREAKING. GAWD.

No. Just...NO.

I'm far from being a prude, and I hang with people of candor and great wit, and not all of their jokes and emails are G rated....but honestly, they need to change the name of that magazine to Brain-Dead Slutmopolitan. The articles all sound as if they were written (and I use the term "written" very generously) by Paris Hilton. They are usually one page long and contain explicit descriptions of about fourteen sexual acts on that page. I can honestly state that there is no SOCIALLY REDEEMING VALUE to the articles unless you enjoy reading about makeup, shoes, clothes, that thing that people who love each other do, or a list of current movies. I mean, unless you really crave knowing about the nicknames that the various young starlets have, or what they consider to be the best part of their body.

I have called the magazine TWICE to ask them to STOP sending me copies. And they still...ah....come. (No pun intended) What do I do with them? I suppose I could save them and take them to my gynocologist's waiting room, which is filled with boring magazines like "Rich People's Houses" but if I hide them where Madeleine can't find them, I won't be able to remember where I hid them.

help!