End of an Era

When I wanted to start a blog in 2005, I selected Blogger because it was easy. I didn't need fancy templates or design features. I just wanted a little home on the internet for my rants against shaved snatch.

For the most part, this has worked well. Not long after I started blogging, I decided to get a domain name and host for my work. This was partly because cussandotherrants.blogspot.com was a reallllllly long URL. The transition was not without any pain. The blogspot URL was supposed to link visitors to the new URL, but after a few weeks someone hacked the blogspot URL because it was not quite programmed right. This sucked, but was not awful.

This afternoon, Blogger sent an email to the 0.5% of Blogger users who use FTP to upload their blog to a non-Blogger hosted site. They said that as of the end of March, we can't do that any more. People with custom domains would need to transfer to their custom domain services. This means no more cussandotherrants.com. It also means that Google is my host. I understood their reasons, but I still fell into the fetal position and rocked back and forth.

Once I uncurled myself and got up off the metaphorical floor, I realized that maybe this was OK. I pondered the issue on my walk home from work. Sure, now is the worst timing to have to change CUSS to another platform, but it could use a good overhaul. There's no way I could pull this off myself under even the best of circumstances (i.e. - not working full time and writing a thesis). However, people spend money on their hobbies, and so far, blogging has been a pretty cheap one. It's time to invest in it.

So, anyone know a good web designer? I'm pretty excited to work with someone to take CUSS to a new level.

There's Goes That

I decided in October to grow my hair a little longer. The guy who cuts my hair said that he'd cut it so it would grow back in stages. I loved it. I actually decided to keep it medium short, and went in for a trim this morning.

"Hey, I just want a little trim," I told my stylist.

"Sure," he said. Then he went outside to check out the traffic situation because there was a lot of honking. A few minutes later, he ran out to move his car before it got a ticket.

With all that disruption, he seemed to forget what I wanted because I am sitting here at my keyboard 90 minutes later with really short hair, depressed and wanting a paper bag to put over my head because not only is it shorter than I wanted, but it also is not that great. There are worse things in the world, but it's really frustrating to think that I'm right back to where I was two months ago, except worse because he didn't even cut it in a way that will grow back nicely.

Living in Outer Space

As noted in previous blog posts, my memory is shot. I re-write entire stories, I forget birthdays and anniversaries (CUSS hit the four year mark on Oct. 19), and alternatively I believed that I was both 32 and 34 this year. Yesterday I had the ultimate space out day.

I woke up late, but was still tired and remained groggy while eating breakfast. While reading the newspaper, I drifted back into sleep. In hindsight, I think this was when the aliens focused their suction beam on me, but they were thwarted in their morning efforts to kidnap me when my friend Sara called and woke me up. She popped over for what was supposed to be a way to kill 30 minutes before yoga class, but turned into a morning chat fest that ended when I walked her to her noon appointment.

At that point, I was supposed to hop on the subway and meet my friend for lunch downtown. Instead, the aliens seized the moment and sucked me into space. Next thing I knew, it was 3:30 and I checked my BlackBerry life-organizing machine for the first time that day. Boy, did the aliens fuck me up! Still, I felt horrible missing my lunch date, and called my friend.

When I begged for her forgiveness, I left out the part about the alien abduction and took full responsibility for my pathetic inaction. But I'm not sure which is scarier - the fact that I let an afternoon pass and have no idea what I was doing during that time, or my wish that aliens abducted me so I could have some explanation for my spaciness.

The Nightstand Dilemma: What Would CUSS Readers Do?

In Ye Olden Dayes, when people had questions about situations they faced, they traveled miles and miles on foot and donkey to seek answers. The Oracle at Delphi was popular with the ancient Greeks, for example. How lucky we are today! I am extremely grateful that I don't need to schlepp to the top of a mountain to find help for my thorny dilemmas, but instead can turn to the visionaries of the internet for their advice. This not only saves time and money, but does not require me to change out of my pajamas.*

So here, Great Sages and Visionaries of the Blogosphere, is my pressing problem: my nightstand of nine years broke. Given that I purchased it from Ikea, it's run as my bedside companion is very impressive. The drawers went a little off track a few years ago, but two weeks ago, the plastic snapped, and now the middle drawer rests in the bottom drawer.
This will not do. It is time to invest in a new nightstand.

I initially purchased a similar three drawer model from Ikea for $40. However, Husband and I managed to fuck up putting it together in rather inventive ways, and he told me never to buy anything that required construction from Ikea again. I went back to the internets and found two alternatives:

Option A:


Option B:


Now, there is nothing wrong with Option A. I could totally be fine, even happy, with Option A. It might even match a dresser that Husband has, which would be exciting. However, Option B is gorgeous. How can I not desire its sleek design and shiny wood? O, Oracle, how I covet it!

The problem is that Option B costs three times as much as Option A. Husband told me that it's OK to spend some money on nicer furniture (nicer furniture that will of course match nothing else we own, another bonus in my trashy eyes), but I can't help but feel guilty at spending so much money on a freakin' nightstand, even if it is the best nightstand ever made.

What would you do?

*To be accurate, I'm wearing my gym clothes. But whatever. It would probably be disrespectful to consult the Oracle in smelly gym pants.

I Hear the Secrets that You Keep

Someone recently blogged that this song was stuck in her head (Count Mockula, I think?), but apparently I don't have to close my eyes and go to sleep to blab my lame "secrets." No, a low grade fever, a medium dose of insomnia, and a high level of rue for something stooopid I did, combined with Facebook status chatting, is all it takes. Last Thursday night/Friday morning, I confessed to my 7th grade (possibly part of 8th grade, I get confused about timing) crush that I liked him back in the day! Ooooooooooh.... (No, it wasn't "Arnold" from Always. I feel like such a slut. Ha! That's sadly about as slutty as I get - overlapping school crushes. Oy vey iz mir!)

Whatever the case, I sat at my computer blushing like an idiot. (Or maybe I was flushed from fever? It was not a super high fever, just a smidge above 99, although for me that's a bit higher than it is for others because my usual body temperature is 97.5 or something low like that. Husband says it is because I am a cold-hearted bitch. He is hilarious, no?) You know what's funny? For a second, I was actually sad when he didn't say that he had also had a crush on me. I had kinda believed, back in the day, that my crush was not unrequited. Like, this was over 20 years ago, but I still took it as a rejection.

On a related note, earlier in the week, I tried quizzing Husband about his junior high days to "get into the head of a 13 year old boy" so I could maybe fix up my young adult novel. He hesitantly submitted to my questions:

Me:"Did you go to junior high dances?"
Husband: "No."
Me: "Why not? Weren't you interested in them?"
H: "Yes, but no one would dance with me because I was a loser. Do I have to talk about this? I prefer not to relive those days."
Me: (Kissed him on the head) "Well, this cold-hearted bitch would have wanted to dance with you."
H: "Thanks."

Yeah, junior high just sucks.

Puke

After I posted the last chapter of Always, I went to school. My story about my grandfather's life was set to be workshopped. I was nervous, but figured that it was still better than something I wrote 20 years ago, even if it had no similes.

The workshop was extremely helpful, but also brutal. People were very generous with their praise for what worked, and constructive with why the parts that didn't work failed. I may have improved my writing since "Always," but damn, I have a long way to go.

Class left me both drained and with lots to ponder, but I joined a few friends for food and drink anyway. Indulging myself, I ordered chocolate pudding at the French restaurant we went to. It came with this luscious almond studded chocolate cookie thing (it was sort of like a chocolate waffle cone) and sugary whipped cream. I felt nauseated after I ate the cookie and a few bites of pudding, but ignored it.

When I finally got home, I still felt sick. My undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment does this to me every once in a while, so I went to bed, figuring I'd feel better in the morning. Dear Reader, false hope. Oh, false hope.

Since I woke up, I have done nothing but puke and crap. It was so bad at one point that I even shit myself, ruining a pair of underwear that I really like. At other times, I lay on the bathroom floor, writhing with cramps. I worried about dehydration, but my second round of vomiting was the Gatorade I sipped to prevent that. I also have a low fever.

Sam Tanenhaus is scheduled to speak at school tonight about his book, The Death of Conservatism. I'm not sure I buy his theory about the two different types of conservatives - good ones who see that government can be positive and bad ones who, in the words of Grover Nordquist, want to shrink it to the size where it can be drowned in the bathtub - but I've been looking forward to the event all semester. It is pretty rare that my political interests and my literary interests collide. Now I can't go. Puke. (Well, I could go and puke on the conservatives, but that is pretty rude, and I don't want to stoop to their behavior. Plus there aren't likely to be many conservatives in a New School audience.)

Notes on the Economic "Recovery"

Several times in recent weeks, I read blurbs in newspapers about how the economy is recovering. It's not like economists are all gung-ho about it, but there are supposedly glimmers of a happy smiley sun peeking through the rain clouds of economic woe. Let's take a moment to sing:

Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!

Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.

When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.

I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.

I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.

Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.

A Conversation with My Father*

I called my dad. "Did you get the paper yet?"

"Yes! There's a color picture of you on the fr-"

"I know!!!! It's horrible! I can't believe how bad it is!"

He sighed. "I think you are too hard on yourself."

"That's true, but seriously, this is a bad picture. My friend Suebob said that I look as if I had a terrible accident involving my neck." I cackled. "But now no one is going to want to hire me because they'll think I have a disability that they'll have to accommodate! I'm screwed."

"Well, I'll always love you."

"Thanks, Dad."

And that is the last I will say about this awful picture. It is almost ironic that I am obsessed with how I look in a picture attached to an article about how terrible it is that young girls have to struggle with body image.


*Big nod to Grace Paley, whose essay of the same title we read in lit class last year. My lit prof thought it didn't work, but I adore anything Paley wrote. If she wrote a limerick on the back of a cocktail napkin, I'd find it brilliant.

When Then is Better Than Now

When I first posted the link to the WSJ article, the photos had yet to be posted. I may have been an enormous nerd in 4th grade, but now I am a woman who needs a better hairstyle and more sleep. Damn. And my friend Sara checked my make-up and everything before I met the photog. ("You look sort of like Rachel Maddow," my other Sara friend said, trying to be positive. Dude, Rachel Maddow may be awesome, but I do not want to look like her.)

The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.

MMM (More Medical Mishaps)

Somehow, both of my little toes developed humps. I think they were initially blisters that turned into calluses, but whatever they are, they hurt like fuck. I need extra wide shoes so that the Hunchtoes of the Upper West Side don't rub against the shoe while I walk. The problem is that even my gym shoes are not wide enough to get me through a full day as a New Yorker, which requires a lot of walking, even though I've been sitting at a desk for hours while doing a consulting job. I'm trying my hiking shoes today. Bah.

After limping to Cosi for internet access, I called my ob/gyn to schedule an appointment for September. (I had to google her phone number.) When I saw her last year, I really liked her. I found her after reading an article she wrote for Glamour magazine about the dangers of Brazilian waxing. It was meant to be.

"Are you an existing patient of Dr. O'Connell's?" the receptionist asked me.

"Yes," I replied.

"Oh, well next week is her last week before she leaves here forever."

"WHAT?!?! May I ask where she is going?" I prayed quickly that I could just follow her to her next doctoring gig.

"Massachusetts."

It took everything I had in me not to scream motherfucker. When I first moved to New York, I retained my gyn in the suburbs of Chicago and made my yearly appointments when I was in town to visit my family. I loved that doctor. Then she moved to Champagne-Urbana, which is about four hours from Chicago, so I sucked it up and found a doc here. I hated her.

My co-worker then referred me to her doctor, who I adored. After two or three years, she completely fell off the planet. (Dr. Pollitz, if you are out there, I miss your care!) I saw my friend Sara's doctor. Sara swore by him, telling me that he always took lots of time to talk to her and answer her questions, but he was super late to my appointment and rushed me through a history while I was sitting on the exam table in a paper gown. I was not impressed.

A few months after that disappointment, I visited my friend Dr. P in Florida, where was doing a fellowship. Dr. P had a subscription to Glamour (good bathroom reading?), and that's when I found the article by Dr. O'Connell, whose byline noted that she worked at Columbia Medical Center in NYC. I decided that this was my future doctor. I waited another few months for my yearly cooter exam time to arrive, and had a very nice appointment with her. Which of course is inevitably why she is leaving.

Now I have painful toes and no snatch examiner to boot. Motherfucker.

Greetings from Pittsburgh!

BlogHer was a trip and a half. I laughed and laughed with my
roommates, Suebob and Maren. I romped with Count Mockula, her mom,
and her genius toddler daughter. I wore a paper bag hat, sat in the
bathtub of the Presidential Suite in the Sheraton, and ate a
cheeseburger at the CheeseburgHer party. I socialized with
Sassymonkey, Denise, LaurieWrites, Heather Clisby, Megan Smith, Major
Bedhead, Amber Rhea, Pam Mandel, Sarah and the Goon Squad, Average
Jane, Liz Henry, and other exceptional women. Updated to add the Graces: Mitchell and Davis, who made my lunch on Sat. one of the highlights of the conference.) I wanted to meet
Nordette Adams, and failed. I collected swag. I ate Mars Bars,
courtesy of Sassymonkey. I dined at Gino's East of Chicago with Liz
Rizzo, Virginia DeBolt, Laurie Kingston, my parents, the
aforementioned roommates, and Count Mockula clan. And on and on.
(Oh, yeah. I attended some panels and also did a book signing.)

So I am tired. I want to get to my furnitureless, dust-infested
apartment (except for the bedroom, which has almost all of the
remaining furniture and boxes, but not so much dust at my last time of
residency). I want to prepare my bag and outfit for an interview I
have tomorrow morning. Then I'd like to sleep in my bed, which has
dirty sheets because we haven't changed them since construction began,
but this kind of dirty sheet smells like Husband, who is in Vegas
nowe, and makes me happy. And I want to prepare for my interview
tomorrow. (Noted twice, not out of senility, but to emphasize
importance.)

Instead, I am sitting in an airplane in Pittsburgh. The flight was
scheduled to arrive in NYC twenty minutes ago. Planes are not allowed
to land at LaGuardia right now due to a storm, so we flew in circles,
slowly progressing east, until we ran out of gas. (Like me, but no
refueling in sight!)

It could be worse. I could still be at O'Hare. And at least I have
six Mars Bars in my bag. And a Vosges chocolate bacon bar (thanks,
Suebob!). Plus, BlogHer will be in NYC next year. Yay!

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Double Tongued

For dinner last night, Granny took Bubbe, Mom, Dad, and me to dinner at a Jewish deli called The Bagel. I sat sandwiched between the grandmothers, and found myself surrounded by tongue. Granny ordered the boiled tongue, while Bubbe opted for pickled tongue.

Before I departed for Chicago, I was supposed to buy a train ticket to visit my sister and nephew in Iowa. Shit hit the fan and splattered far and wide last week, though, so I didn't have a chance to do so until Friday night/Saturday morning at 12:30 AM. "Train sold out," flashed at my across the monitor when I put in my online request. Fuck - that left me with Greyhound.

My six hour Greyhound odyssey will begin at 11:45 am on Tuesday. I think I will try and dehydrate myself in advance so I won't need to use the on board facilities. I will also not have another mint milkshake (as I did with my friend and her four year old daughter when I arrived yesterday), as that left me with an angry digestive system.

The only plus side is that I'm curious what the Greyhound bus station in Chicago is like these days. My only reference point is from Adventures in Babysitting, when teenage Brenda (Penelope Ann Miller) runs away from her lux suburban home and then changes her mind and calls her friend Kris (Chris? either way, Elisabeth Shue) to pick her up before her parents find out what she planned. Hijinx ensue, including a homeless woman stealing Brenda's glasses, leading Brenda to wander around with blurry vision and pick up a furry little beast that she thinks is a kitten but is actually a jumbo sewer rat. Oh, the hilarity!

At any rate, the Greyhound station featured in the film was torn down and a new one built on the Near West Side. I also have not been to the Near West Side in eons, and am curious what that formerly extremely crime-infested neighborhood is like these days. Yeah. I'll hope that my contact lenses don't pop out of my eyes, and if they do, I will avoid touching anything that looks furry. (Given how bad my vision is, that would be pretty much anything.)

Snake on (the Way To) a Plane

A series of black clouds with lightening bolts hovered over me as I
left my apatment this morning. I walked to the corner to get a cab to
the airport, staring at sidewalk. The sidewalk slithered. This
confused me for a nanosecond until I realized that I was gazing upon a
panicked snake.

The snake slithered back and forth in a series of s-curves. Its pace
was breakneck as it moved toward the street. "Uh, don't go there!" I
silently urged.

No matter how unfortunate things are right now, I don't have it as bad
as that poor, terrified snake. Good luck, little guy!

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

This Made Me Laugh My Ass Off

My days of cheerful optimism are behind me now, as none of the six interviews I have had turned into a job. (To be fair, I didn't yet get a rejection from two opportunities, and in theory I have another interview coming up, although they have yet to confirm a date, which is really the cause of my despair cloud.) Husband is stressed about work this week, which makes me feel worse. Plus, I have writer's block, so I'm not using my free time as productively as possible.

At least I can read this email and laugh my ass off:

On this, a day in one of the worst summers in decades, and in the worst economy in decades, let's take a moment to remember how much we fucking hate George Bush. Don't forget. Don't let it go. It's soothing. While you are counting pennies, he is counting skeet at his "ranch."

Did you know that the first day he walked in to his family ranch was the day after he was inaugurated? I haven't forgot. Did you know his ranch is state-of-the-art and 10,000 square feet? Do not forget why we are all jobless and fucked. Did you know that Crawford didn't exist before his Neo-con men created it?

So while it is depressing, know that now is the perfect time to spend what little money you have left on cheap, subversive comedy! We have a bar, so you can drink your problems away while laughing at nonsense. You can't afford drugs, so fuck it. See you at The Annoyance.

-Mick Napier, Artistic Director

The Annoyance is the producer of my all-time favorite musical, Co-Ed Prison Sluts. Singing along to "Shit Motherfucker" is always fun. (Chorus yrics: Shit/motherfucker/fuck you, you cunt or a prick/blow job/suck my dick.) It's nice to have something to chuckle over when your career is in the toilet (and not the nice new one with the smiley face on the underside of the lid).

The Stressed Out Tante

Between the unexpected early arrival of my adorable nephew, school wrapping up for the year, and my job implosion, things have been rather hectic lately. While I am very happy that my nephew is here and healthy, the other things thrill me significantly less. I realized that the only thing worse than a job that goes awry is not having a job at all. I sort of figured this out last semester, but it is really hitting home now. I can't say that I like working in general, but I definitely enjoy being employed and feeling like a productive member of society. I forget how closely my sense of self-worth is tied to my work. Bah.

On a more positive note, I just love this picture of me and Marcus:


On Friday, I am flying into Chicago, seeing my friend, her partner, and their kids (an almost four year old and two month old twins), then my parents are picking me for for a roadtrip to Iowa with Bubbe. Fortunately, Dana's friend from high school will also be with us, so I think Bubbe will tone it down a bit.

The reason for the return trip to Iowa? Dana's baby shower is on Saturday, and Marcus will be the guest of honor. I can't wait!

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To

I remember very clearly in 1984 worrying about Reagan being re-elected. Although the Gipper managed to fool a large number of working-class families into thinking he was helping them when in reality he was a reverse Robin Hood, my seven year old self knew that bad shit was going down. I was a Democrat through and through.

I survived the past eight years. I was excited to see things change in federal policy. And I am more disappointed than ever. First, the Democrats proved that they like being treated like shit. Lieberman can campaign for fucking McCain, and when his candidate loses, all he has to do is say that he was just kidding and everyone is like, that's cool. Now Arlen Specter changes parties to continue to work against progressive policies, and the Democrats are like, you said you want that conservative psychopath Norm Coleman to win and you joined other shithead Democrats and all the Republicans in voting down fair change in bankruptcy laws so that people with one house get treated the same as people with vacation homes and yachts? That's cool. Welcome to the party.

I am tired of this bullshit. If the Democrats are going to continue to suck the shit out of Republicans assholes and leave me with brown stains on my teeth, I am done. Forget it - that's not cool. I don't think I've ever been so disheartened by the possibilities or lack thereof.

To the caves!!!

Poked by the Doody Finger of Fretfulness

My adorable little alien nephew* finally proved that he is a member of our family when he took his third extremely nasty shit. (Fortunately, I missed Nasty Shit #2, and as I reported yesterday, was peed on during Nasty Shit #1.) As I helped clean up the squirmy, screaming kid, doody got on one of my fingers. I knew that I loved the goober because I didn't mind at all that he managed to smear poo on me; I found it oddly endearing.

Other than Marcus's arrival in the world, things have been extra special stressful lately. I feel like the Doody Finger of Fretfulness poked me in the eye. Seriously, my right eye is punishing me for something. It is super allergy angry, and my contact gets blurry and dry at the same time. My glasses are very nice, but the last time I had the prescription updated was 1999 since I just wear them around the house at night, so I don't see so well out of them, either.

Our bathroom is still not fucking fixed. The person from the management company neglected to respond to my last email about what the status is. Things are going on in my professional life that keep me awake at night with anxiety. (Worse, the anxiety leads me to pick my cuticles, which then got baby doody on them...) School, which I love right now, is ending in three weeks.

I guess things could always be worse - the Doody Finger of Fretfulness could have poked me in both eyes...

*I swear, photos to come. I need to be sleeping now but am waiting for some stupid USB port to format, so I thought I'd blog a bit, but can't find the camera.

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

True Age

According to one of those online "true age" quizzes, I am 28. (Or maybe it said 29 - I can't remember, which is a sign of how accurate the quiz is, isn't it?) My "true age" was determined through a series of questions about my height, weight, some moderate exercises, lifestyle (smoking, drinking, drugging), and a few actual health-related questions about asthma and family history with diabetes and hypertension. Since I am the most boring person on the planet, the lifestyle questions clearly brought my age down.

Perhaps a more reliable true age quiz would ask whether anxiety caused me to peel the flesh off my cuticles, if I had mysterious ailments, and at what age I was told to wear reading glasses with my contacts. Because that last question's answer? Would be 33 year old. Yep. The eye doctor told me yesterday that my eyeballs were straining to focus and I should wear reading glasses in the afternoons.

My plan is to get the crotchitiest, most elderly looking pair I can find at the pharmacy, then partner them with some hideous chain. Then it will be obvious that my true age is 77. Gah. At least March 2009 will finally end in about 28 minutes.

The March of Time

How is it that there are still two more days left in this blasted month of March? This has been the longest month ever. Days seem to go by, and then a week is over, and then another week, and yet it is still fucking March!!!

Assuming that April will be a fresh start, I am so looking forward to Wednesday. Husband is returning from his business trip to Europe, and even more exciting, my mom is coming to visit! I took two days off work, and she will be here until Sunday. I have not seen my mom since mid-December, so I gleefully anticipate her arrival. I'm sure that, just as long as I waited for her to arrive, her trip will somehow be over in no time. At least after that, I have something else to look forward to. In mid-April, I am heading to DC for a conference, and hanging out with some friends over the weekend. It will be nice to see my ladies.

Time is a vicious tease. (Ooh, a metaphor!)

Damn, Damn, Damn

Earlier this week, Husband worried that he was coming down with a cold. I advised him to take it easy, particularly since he was leaving for the Old World for a week, and being sick while traveling is miserable. Of course, I did not take my own counsel, staying up all hours and running around in chilly, damp weather, and now I'm knocked again with a fucking cold. Will this winter of discontent never end?!?!

Yesterday evening I journeyed out of my sick cocoon and was distracted by a store offering 70% off the original ticket price of certain items. I found a great sweater, and was pleased by my savings. The cashier told me that they had another shop around the corner with more items, so my friend and I sauntered over there. I found a flattering wrap dress that was originally $98. When I went to pay for it, the cashier said it would be $39.

"Oh, the sign said that the items in that section were 70% off the original price," I told him.

"Right," he nodded. "That's $39."

"No, it's less than that."

He sighed and pointed at the tag. "It was originally $98."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, I am aware of that. And 70% off of 98 is NOT $39. It is $29 and change."

Long sigh from the cashier.

"OK, forget it," I snapped. "I don't want it anym..."

"That'll be $29.40."

Damn, people! Of course, when I woke up this morning and looked at the original price of the sweater, I discovered that they overcharged me by $5.60. Gah!!!!

Lord, I Was Born a Rumbling Man

The less pleasant symptoms of my undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment returned last week, making my life stink. These include:

• Gas that could kill infants, toddlers, and small animals;


• Explosive bowel movements that fill a toilet bowl; and


• Acid reflux.

Thus far I have been spared the once a month, wake up in the middle of the night vomiting that is so violent it comes through my nose. Unfortunately, I also have not experienced the only upside of this misery: weight loss!* Even more disappointing, my ailment strikes hardest during my free time. So while my evenings and weekends are spent groaning and trying not to smoke Husband out of the apartment with my toxic fumes, the stupid condition doesn't lead me to miss work. It's bullshit.

Still, the other odors in the air at the Allman Brothers concert that I attended on Friday night were far stronger than my noxious gases, so I didn't feel too self-conscious in that regard. The show did remind me how conservative I am at heart. Not only is smoking not permitted in public places in New York City, but the historic theater that the show was at was recently restored, so I was seething from the second the envelope of various smokes enrobed my head when when I walked through the lobby. People were also spilling their beers everywhere. Between the ashes and the beverage, I fumed about the useless of restoring the building. Plus, all the smoke gave me a headache and made my throat itch. Later, I fell asleep during one of the many jam sessions. I did groove to special guest Bruce Willis's harmonious harmonica, though. That was exciting.

Rumble, rumble.

*No need to worry, though, I'm just trying to look on the bright side of a bad situation; every cloud has it's silver lining; etc.; etc.)

Satan Comes In Many Guises

Just as I prepared to hit the sheets last night, I noticed a message in a Facebook thread mentioning that so-and-so was not planning to hang out after class on Wednesday night because her class was canceled. Incidentally, her class is my class (let's sing it together, "This class was made for you and me..."), and I didn't know bupkes* about class being canceled. I spent the next hour or so clenching and unclenching my fists while inhaling and exhaling deeply. Long story short, this is the second class (out of two classes) where the administrators of the program don't have me on the list.

My tuition is $22,000 and change. I take a whopping two classes per week, and attend some literature readings and weekend seminars. For all that money, I expect that people could make some fucking effort to figure out who is in what classes. Since this is obviously not the case, I decided to attempt to transfer to another school in city that shall remain nameless but costs 1/4 of the price. Last week, a woman who blogs about how God dictated her stories to her and she writes for the glory of Jesus received a phone call admitting her to the program that my tax dollars support. I did not. (Fists clenching and unclenching, deep breath in, deep breath out...) No, I'm not bitter at all.

Once again, I had a restless night and on my way to the subway this morning I passed by a group of people tempting me with forbidden apples, if it is possible that the plaza in front of the 72nd St. subway station is Eden. Yes, that's right: they were giving out granola bars. Along with propaganda about the seven deadly sins. (Motto: "They may be deadly... but they sure are fun.") My cravings for granola bars are somewhat less this week than last, but still bad. Fucking religious nuts, screwing with me everywhere, I swear!!!

I took a granola bar. I decided that I would not eat it, but save it in my desk at work just in case I ever got snowed in or something and needed sustenance. (I also have a large bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate, distributed by the landlord of the building for Valentine's Day, stashed in my drawer. And an insulated container of 2% milk, the kind from Horzion that doesn't require refrigeration. It's almost enough to make me hope I get snowed in so I can chow down, but I digress.) Really, I took it because it was free, and I hate turning away free things. Also, I wanted to waste the crazy church's money. However, I am not so evil that I took two. God didn't give me that story to write.

Sigh.

*Yiddish: shit

Carb Cravings

Until this week, I never lusted after a granola bar. Last night, I dreamed that I drank half of a glass of apple juice before realizing that it was not part of the South Beach Diet; I don't even like apple juice. (Later in the dream it dawned on the that the gallon of vanilla ice cream that I ate before freaking out about the juice was also verboten.) I might kill someone for a bite of a cookie. (Could I use the South Beach Diet Defense in court? "My restrictive diet made me do it, your Honor!")

The first phase of South Beach is the most restrictive because carb cravings generally come from eating carbs. In theory, if you only eat good ones (i.e. - vegetables) for a few weeks, then your body will no longer miss the baddies like granola bars. Clearly, I am driven by psychological and emotional food cravings. Or, the problem might be that I used too much artificial sweetener, which is allowed on the diet. It turns out that the latest research shows that the body produces insulin whenever someone consumes artificial sweetener as if the person ate regular sugar.

On the other hand, once I found out about the Equal/Sweet n Low/Splenda problem and smacked my head and sighed dramatically multiple times, I cut down the amount I used to two packets and tried to drink less than 12 ounces of diet pop a day. That's when the cravings intensified. Craziness.

What? Who Am I and How Did I Get Here?

My future is grim. Case in point: this morning I arrived at a doctor's appointment with a coat, scarf, hat, mittens, backpack, and bottle of water. Before leaving the exam room, I put on my coat and scarf, then attempted to grab my hat and mittens, but they were nowhere to be found.

"Shit, I hope they are in the waiting room," I muttered to myself. Then I headed over to check out. After paying, I ducked back into the lobby and sure enough, my hat and mittens were on the chair I used. Fine. I put them on and left for work.

As I walked to the subway, I noticed that my throat was dry. "Damn, I wish I had a drink," I thought. And that's when I realized that I left my water bottle in the bathroom at the doctor's office. Sigh.

I am only 33 and senile already. It's amazing that I remember the password to my blogging account. (I guess my brain knows what's really important.) I'm so fucked.

Sunday Spazz Sessions

On the way home from a lovely weekend visit with Alex Elliot & family, Steph, Husband, and I discussed cars that our parents had driven when we were kids. Steph mentioned a Cadillac Eldorado that her dad lusted after and finally purchased after years of motoring around in Toyotas, only to have it sit around in the garage after they drove it from Pennsylvania to Disney World one summer. Husband said that his dad installed an 8 track machine so that he could listen to Sesame Street songs in the sensible sedans they drove. I talked about the Bobcat debacle.

I am not sure when my dad bought the Mercury Bobcat two door hatchback or why, but by the summer of 1984, the air condition no longer worked and the driver's side door didn't close properly. (The driver had to pull the door up while yanking it closed, or it would pop back open.) The car had four bucket seats, making it inappropriate for car pooling, and yet my mom inherited it. I fondly recalled sitting on the fuzzy light blue "hump" with no seat belt in the back between the two bucket seats while we sat sweltering in traffic jams on the way to my allergist appointments. The Cubs game blared over the radio. That was probably the best summer I ever had.

As I regaled Steph and Husband with my tale of the Bobcat, I realized that not only was that a great summer, but it was probably the last time I was ever consistently happy. When I went back to school, none of my friends were in my class. I had a horrific asthma attack while running in gym, and was sent to the hospital via ambulance. After that, I wasn't allowed to exert myself in gym, so by the end of third grade, just when I was sliding into early adolescence, I lost touch with my friends, stopped exercising and gained weight, and hid in books.

In fourth grade, I experienced my first bouts of depression, gained more weight, and failed a test in school for the first time. (I got a 49% on a fractions exam.) From then on, it was low self-esteem, and increasing frustration as I began to understand what a horribly unfair place the wider world was. Suddenly, it mattered that I didn't live in a nice house or wear trendy jeans. At the same time, I knew that millions of people had it worse than me, and I was lucky.

Almost 25 years after I cheered for the Cubs with all my heart while my mom hoped that we wouldn't get into a car accident that would send me straight through the windshield, it vexes me to realize that no matter what I attempt to do to improve my situation and be happy, I'll never have the same constant satisfaction with life. Sure, I'm happy at times - and frequently - but underneath it all is the frustration that I can't balance what I want. I can't find a combination of paid work, writing, education, leisure, family, friends, exercise, etc. that satisfies me. It's always too much of something, leaving me stressed, anxious, and worried. And yet I know I've got it good, making me feel guilty for not being happier. The hump on which I perched so cheerfully is long gone, leaving me without a vehicle to get where I should go.* Maybe the summer that the Cubs finally deliver is when it will all come together for me, too.**

*How's that for a metaphor?
**Of course, I happen to think that a Cubs World Series victory is a sign of the apocalypse, but that's another story.

The Grass is Always Greener When You're Born a Ramblin' Man

As usual, I'm behind. I promised people who submitted essays for the potential anthology COngratulations, You're a Woman Now! that they would hear back about their work by the end of 2008. I'm not even close to finished reading the submissions. (But I swear I will, and I apologize profusely.) I haven't read blogs in a few days, which makes me feel disconnected from the online community I so cherish. Yet I'm spazzing out about what to wear to work for the rest of the week, so I'm not going to make much progress on the things that I want to do. (And oh my god, I didn't realize how short my wardrobe falls for a 5 day a week job that requires more than cords and definitely is not jeans-friendly.... Panic.)

Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?

On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)

Worst.Headshot.Ever!

Seriously, this is the worst photo I've ever taken:

I look like Adrien Brody's long lost twin:

Oof.

But, for anyone who wondered what I look like with lipstick and terrible, terrible lighting, there's the answer.

Backfire

I hate my workshop. Two weeks ago, our writing workshop professor asked us to hand in a copy of the comments we left on other students' papers so she could have a sense of what we were thinking about feedback and criticism. I suspect that my complaint about Cunty McCunterson's rude comments and illustrations in my paper played some role in this exercise. While I am not obnoxious, I also do not think I leave the most useful feedback in the world. I try my best, but sometimes I just don't know what to say. I hoped that the professor might have some useful tips for me.

Instead, she photocopied Cunty McCunterson's comments and handed them out to the class as an example of how we should all provide feedback. Of course, Cunty's comments were far more constructive when she knew that the professor would be reading them. Only an idiot would turn in something rude and insulting when she knew the prof would see it. Sigh. I knew this would backfire on me.

There's another woman in the class who didn't read anyone's work for two weeks, and yet we all workshopped her story last week. She also yelled at someone last night for using the word "analysis" to describe the analysis of film that another student wrote, insisting that "analysis" was too Freudian. (I wonder how upset she would be if she knew that I applied for a part-time data analysis job yesterday.) I watched the person whose piece we were discussing doodle in his notebook the whole time. I'm not sure he cared what anyone in the class thought.

That I am counting down until this class is over (only four to go...) is upsetting. It didn't have to be this way. I like the professor a lot on a personal level and tremendously value what her insight. But that two or three people have managed to make class so dysfunctional and unpleasant for six of us (I think one person is unperturbed because she is low key like that), infuriates me. I can't believe how much money I paid for this. I am getting things out of it, so it's not a total loss, but it's enough to make me apply for a part-time data analysis job. Ba dum dum cha.

A Blue State

In my 32.75 years of existence, I've only lived in two states: Illinois and New York. Appropriately, these are both states that are "blue" - i.e. have gone Democratic in presidential elections. New York as a state is turning even bluer, as out of 29 House seats, we are down to sending only 3 Republicans to Washington.

My mood for the last few days has matched the color of New York. Sure, I'm ecstatic that Obama won the election, and every morning I'm devouring the news as to who he's appointing to his administration (Rahm Emanuel is a fellow liberal Jewish New Trier graduate, which is a rarity) and what his next moves are. Still, it's been raining and gray and I've been sitting around with not enough work to do, which is upsetting. In this exciting time, I want to be doing public service work again. My consulting job owes me money and more work.

I'm hoping that I am offered the position that I interviewed for two weeks ago. But that's stressing me out because I know that I can't really handle a full-time job, school, and my other commitments. I could do it, but I'd never see Husband, socialize or go to the gym. That's not good. The problem is that there are no part-time jobs that are in my field at my skill level. Frustrating.

Plus, I know that Steph moved away five years ago and Dr. P has been gone for 18 months, but I still miss them like hell. My other friends are great, and I appreciate them immensely, but last night we had a post-election celebration party, and I felt their absence acutely. As Husband put it, there was not enough cackling without them in attendance.

Hence, I spent the day stuffing my face with chazerai: jelly beans, chocolate, cookies, and other goodies left over from last night. All that junk food is both comforting and also makes me feel worse. It certainly is negating the 6 mile run I did in Central Park yesterday. Bah. I hate being old, unemployed, and lonely.

Aging

In order to keep my supply of asthma drugs current, I visited my allergist this morning. After sticking various lighted instruments in my ears and nose, he gave me a test for my lungs, which I nicknamed "Old Betsy" as I typed this. I took a deep breath, then blew into some plastic pipe-thingy. As I panted into the machine, Old Betsy's air capacity was measured.

"Looks very nice," the doctor said as he looked at the graph of results.

"Um," I said and pointed to a line under the graph. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"Yes, the age of your lungs is 39," he replied nonchalantly.

"Yeah, but I'm only 32!"

He shrugged. "Don't be so glum. It's not a big deal."

If it's true that you are only as old as you feel, than I am about 77, in which case, my lungs are significantly younger than the rest of me. But if it's true that you are only as old as you act, my lungs are years ahead of my kindergarten mentality. (I was fascinated and enormously pleased by the glow-in-the-dark hands of my watch as I reached out in the dim lobby of my building to unlock the door to my apartment.) From a chronological perspective, I'm concerned that my lungs are seven years ahead of the rest of me, although god knows how "old" some of my other semi-functional organs are. I sort of need them. Maybe I can age up the rest of my body by obsessively worrying about my elder lungs.

And now that I know that my lungs are entering middle age next year, I bet that I will be psyched out when engaging in cardio activities. Like, "Oh, I better slow down running or else my old lungs might fall out since they can't keep up with my youthful legs." Yes, it's ridiculous, but I can't help it. I so wish I didn't notice that little line. Bah.

Our Shack

My friend Sara showed me her apartment this afternoon. When she bought it in December (January?), I saw it then, and when the renovations began a few weeks later, I saw it then, too, but there was no kitchen any more. Today, it was gorgeous, complete with a kitchen full of appliances and cabinets, a built-in entertainment system in the living room, and nicely painted bedrooms. She even has new, matching furniture. My very brown eyes turned green.

My apartment, on the other hand, is filled with junk. We've owned it for over five years now, and still only managed to paint the living room and bathroom. Husband and I furnished the space through a combination of Ikea, secondhand shops, and cast off items rescued from trash piles on the street. (I swear we recently contemplated bringing from a broken piano thrown out by a synagogue.) Our bedroom TV stand is a computer desk that broke 7 years ago when we moved it into our previous apartment. Husband's nightstand is a microwave cart that became obsolete after friends' gave us a hutch they no longer needed in their dining room. My writing desk is our former dining table. (Our new dining table is actually very nice, and we got it for a great price at Macy's.) We have two worn out couches in the living room, and two used purple leather armchairs that the prior owner's cats clawed. Need I go on?

Generally, I love our eclectic style. Today, though, I thought about how nice it would be to live somewhere that a normal 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career might find acceptable. Then I remembered that although I may be a 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career, I am not normal, nor is Husband. I also recalled that I am too cheap to pay for nice things. (Not that they cannot be acquired through sales), and how much I would miss the turquoise armchair stashed in a corner of our oddly-shaped dining room. My desire to acquire matching furnishings diminished, and I felt better about living in a hovel.

More Terms for Today's Equation

Tack these terms onto my previous equation for a new sum:

+ Irrational lunatics
+ Unseasonable cold
- It is not Monday
----------------------------------
Ready to stab someone

It All Adds Up to Extra Crabbiness with a Side of Bitch

Today's equation:

Had less than 6 hours of sleep Sun. night
+ Did not sleep well last night
+ Ragging it
+ Raining outside
+ Sitting in my cell (tiny office with no natural light, although there is an interior window missing glass that looks into the hallway where people congregate near the photocopier, printer, and shredder)
+ Performing menial data entry tasks that are boring
+ Nervous about book (supposed to receive galley last Friday; now hoping it'll be tomorrow)
+ Anxious about wait list
__________________________

Exceptionally crabby and on edge

The Thorn is Out

When I applied to law school in 1996, the process was pretty straight forward. If you did well on the LSAT, had a decent GPA, and proved to be the slightest bit interesting, you were getting in somewhere. I applied to four schools, and was accepted to two second tier programs with scholarships, and waitlisted at two top tier schools. At the end of the day, I was glad that I did not get into my top choice program, as I suspect I would have felt compelled to finish law school and begin a miserable career as an attorney.

In 1997, when I applied to public administration programs, I knew that schools preferred people with some work experience. I hoped that my single year would be enough to get me through the doors of the two programs to which I applied. Immediately, I was accepted at one school and given a scholarship. The program I preferred to go to waitlisted me. Although I ultimately was accepted, I hated that the program was more business-focused than public service oriented, which struck me as odd for a public administration and policy school. I worked while I schooled, finished my two years there, and began a miserable career as a child care policy expert.

Given my history with graduate education, I am not sure why I expected it to be different this time. If anything, the admissions qualifications are even murkier: demonstrate talent. What the fuck does that mean? I tried my best, and sent my writing sample to two programs, knowing that only six people are admitted at one of them.

I knew that I didn't make the cut at Hunter when I didn't get a call in February (hence all my blather about silent bad news), but I didn't have an official rejection, either. At first, I just wanted it to be over with. The longer I lived in limbo, the more I knew that rejection would hurt. This morning, I sent an email to the program director, noting that I understood that the six spots were filled, but if something opened up in the late spring or summer, I would love it if they would consider me. She emailed me back a few hours later and said that she would keep me in mind.

Imagine my surprise when I found my rejection letter from the program in the mail when I got home from work. I realize that suggesting that they eat shit is inappropriate, but I sort of can't help but think it anyway. Fuckers.

Grumble, Grumble

I've been killing time by frequenting a few MFA message board while the two MFA programs I applied to string me along. After reading some of the comments of people who have already been admitted to programs, it makes me wonder if I might not be better off if I don't get in anywhere. Such a large concentration of Cunty McCuntersons and blithering idiots would be hard to find in other places. Not that everyone is an irritating fuck, but I'm shocked by how many are. If I do get in somewhere, I hope I am not forced to slash any throats to save my sanity.

Seriously, though, back in late February, when people heard from both programs I applied to and I did not, I hoped that my silent bad news would just become real bad news so I could move on. Opening my mailbox and finding my rejection letter would've been a relief. Now that this has dragged on, I feel like a rejection would suck that much more since I've been waiting so long at this point. I dread the (inevitable?) rejection, and prefer the limbo status.

If time heals all wounds, it also allows anxiety to fester.

What Hit Me?

The first day of the new job was fine. It was about the same as any first day - full of awkwardness trying to figure things out, meeting people, etc. Given that the organization is so grassroots at this moment that they have no fax machine, I was not terribly surprised to learn that they also do not know how to change people's voice mail messages, and as a result people who haven't worked there in years are still on the voice mail. Needless to say, I have no computer log in or email yet. But hey! At least there is email! Once I started some real work, it was good.

Fortunately, I like the people with whom I will work, and the others seem very nice. I was cornered at the end of the day by a nutjob who told me all about how Gov. Spitzer was framed so that the real criminals will get away with their crimes while all the attention is on the sex scandal. Sadly, I found myself silently agreeing with his rant even as I looked around nervously for an escape and backed away.

As if a first day at a new job is not tiring enough, I also signed up to be part of a focus group about Fidelity Investments, which is where I rolled my 401k into an IRA when I left my last job. It paid $150 for two hours (8 pm - 10 pm), so it was hard to say no. I figured I could use the cash for my upcoming trip with my sister and brother-in-law. Let's just say that it was difficult to keep my eyes open at the end there. Still, I am $150 richer for sharing my uninformed opinions on Fidelity's services, so no complaints.

Feeling Like a Dinosaur

Husband's off to Europe for work. It's very quiet in here, except for the episode of Myth Busters that is blaring from the TV to cover up how quiet it is in here. I'd rank the effectiveness of the TV-blaring strategy as low right now.

I have a stomach ache that could kill a large animal. In fact, it makes me wonder if the dinosaurs did not become extinct because they all ate Uighur (pronounced "way-wooer")* food for a late lunch, then chased it down with an early vegetarian Indian dinner. They had very little brains, after all, as apparently do I.

*Uighurs are "a Muslim Turkic group who historically served as guides along the ancient trade routes," according to Robert Sietsma's Village Voice review of Cafe Kashkar, the restaurant at which I consumed the potentially fatal late lunch. It's in Brighton Beach, a community of Russians and other Eastern Europeans in Brooklyn. I was in the neighborhood with my new bestest friend Roger, who heroically filled in as a photographer for my book at the last minute after my friend Stef got food poisoning. (She did not get food poisoning from Cafe Kashkar, though.)

Uighur cuisine is tasty stuff, but also greasier than my hair when I haven't washed it in three days, which I haven't, but that's another story. I knew I was in for imminent future bad times as I shoveled the slick foods down my gullet, and for no good reason decided to make matters worse by meeting Dr. H for dinner and ordering deliciously rich Indian food (vegetable korma and paneer makhani - mmmmmmm). Assuming I do not explode, I will consider this a lesson learned.

Shhh! It's So Quiet!

Man, it is hard to not be working today. Nothing is going on.

The mail came and went. Husband received a magazine from his alma mater and one of those evil checks that credit cards insist on sending even though we don't want them, and it is easy to have them stolen out of the mail and cashed by frauds. (Does anyone go a day without receiving a credit card offer of some sort? The only days we don't receive something from those companies that would like me to live above my means are ones in which there is no mail delivery.)

The phone is silent. No one calling to get me to give to Al Franken's senate campaign, no credit card offers, and no job or school news. (Incidentally, a friend of mine was admitted to the nonfiction program at the New School yesterday. She's pretty damn talented and super nice, so I am really happy for her.) I even tried calling friends, but everyone is busy working or taking care of sick partners. (What is with this vile strain of flu that is striking good people around the nation?)

Even the email is slow today. Doesn't anyone want to send me a cute picture of his/her kids or pets? Share some gossip? Anything?

Do I have to dress like Bjork just to get some reactions! I thought her stork dress was cool...

On Hold

Why is so much of life waiting? Whether I'm waiting to find out if I got a job interview, a job, or into school, it seems like everything these days* is hurry up and wait. The funny thing is that I was feeling pretty good yesterday until I got my silent bad news. Last week, I found $40 on the sidewalk. How could things go wrong? It looked like it was all coming together, and then, kaboom. I'm back to waiting to see what I'll be doing with my life in the next few months.

In Which I Am Sad

It's a lie that no news is good news. Sure, I didn't get any bad news today, but other people got good news and I didn't. I think that is silent bad news. Silent bad news is worse than bad news because at least there's certainty with bad news. Silent bad news leaves doubts - and worse, hope - until you finally get bad news.

Bad news is a big, bloody wound that can heal. Silent bad news is a festering sore that hangs around spewing pus. Silent bad news makes me focus on all the things that aren't working out for me right now, as opposed to the greater number of things that are fantastic.* It's poison, like baby formula.**

*Hey! I've got a book coming out in July! How awesome is that?!?!

**Just kidding about the formula, but that does crack me up.

In Which I Spazz Out

There is both a lot going on here and nothing at all going on here. That combination drives me up the wall, stresses me out, and makes me extra bitchy to my parents, who I yelled at on the phone last night for no reason. (Honestly, I do not know why they put up with my crabby insolence.) Of course I felt horrible about it the second I hung up (as I do every time this happens), but I had a sinus headache and didn't feel like calling them back to apologize. Instead, I sat around feeling like an asshole and wondering why I can't be nicer to my parents, which made my headache worse.

The problem is that my work life is very uneven. I've got nothing to do for stretches of time, and then I suddenly have tons of jobs that need to be done in a short time. For example, on Tuesday I had lunch with a friend/colleague, then got better fitting bras. Wednesday was spent freaking out while perusing various blogs about MFA acceptances, then attending a bris. I played a lot of fake Scrabble on Facebook on both days, and also applied for some part-time jobs.

Last night I got a frantic call around 9 pm from the woman organizing the program that I touch in about things I should bring to my class this morning. Why people can't get their shit together in a timely fashion is beyond me. My class today, as it was last week and the Thursday prior to that, is from 9 am - 12:30 pm, which is a loooooong time to talk about budgeting. I'll drop off my headshots and "resume" to the agency, finally. (Since it was not ready before, I've made no progress with my quest to be a dead body on Law & Order. Hopefully submitting my materials will change that.) Then I have a meeting at 4:30 pm to talk about another round of training. Tomorrow, I'm meeting a friend/colleague for lunch to discuss a new consulting project that I hope will not pan out because it sucks, and then running over to my consulting gig to finally wrap that shit up since people finally decided to comply with my requests for information.

Next week? Nada. I am very much looking forward to meeting Mar on Tuesday and showing her and her mum around the city a bit. So, long story short, I am stressed and spazzing out.

If the Bra Doesn't Fit, Don't Buy It

My faith in the ancient cult of bra fitting saleswomen is shattered. The sole reason I went to the Town Shop is because it reminded me of Schwartz's lingerie shop. My mom always took me to buy bras at Schwartz's because the salesladies there are trained in the art of fitting bras. The Town Shop has the same set up as Schwartz, in which some woman measures the customer, shows her some bras from the boxes behind the counter in which they are kept, then brings stuff to her in a fitting room, and finally adjusts and tugs the products once they are donned in a final fit test.

I went through the process (minus the measuring) when buying two bras to replace two of mine that were branapped. I thought one of he bras was too tight, but the saleswoman, who was my age, insisted that there was plenty of room.

"If you can stick your hand under the back, it's too big," she said, criticizing me for wearing bras that were too loose.

I figured that she was a bra expert, and that the bra would stretch a bit, so I purchased it. However, when I wore it yesterday, it was so tight that it left red marks all over my back in the shape of the bra. The receipt clearly states that bras must be unworn and have the tags on to be returned, but since I bought mine based on the recommendation of their staff and could only tell by wearing it that it was wrong, I am hoping that they will exchange it for a product that actually supports and uplifts without also squeezing my rib cage like an angry octopus.

Either way, the age of the wise bra fitter is over for me, although I did watch two episodes of How to Look Good Naked on Lifetime (yes, I am admitting that I stooped low enough to watch that crap channel, although this show is awesome and worth it), and the show has a "bra whisperer" who helps women find their best tit supporting garment. It almost restored my faith.

Gripes and Grunts

While I could have arrived home from my delightful weekend with Count Mockula before the clock rolled to Tuesday, I decided that I'd save money and take a shared van service from the airport instead of a cab. Sure, it was about 1/3 of the price of a cab, but it also took three times as long to get back. First we drove all over JFK to pick other people up, then we drove all over Manhattan to drop them off. Compounding my misery, the van did not crank the heat up, my feet got numb, and then the driver misunderstood my directions ("Please make a left and pull over to the far corner") and instead drove a block out of the way. At least I had the chance to hear a hilarious "sexy" ad on the radio on how KY heating lubricant will make your Valentine's night extra good multiple times while shivering in the van. Hell, maybe I could've used some to help my feet.

Anyway, before I left for my weekend trip, I carefully checked my punim for any signs of chin hairs. There wasn't even a bud. By the time I got home tonight, I could have been mistaken for a Hasidic guy. How the hell do those suckers grow so fucking fast? And how can I harness my chin hair growing power to help men who worry about receding hairlines? If I could unlock the secret, I'd be a rich woman who could afford a cab home from the airport.

Job Hunting and Celeb Spotting

People depress me. It just boggles my mind how much other people love telling me that they are not judgmental, it's just that we all should live our lives according to their values and beliefs. Right.

I'm not having a great day over in dark, rainy, gray, and cold New York City. My quest for semi-meaningful part-time employment that is not child care policy is not yielding many results. My drop dead date is late March before I crawl back to the child care policy field and beg for a job. I feel like if I do that, though, I'll never break free from the industry.

Anyway, on my way home from a temp agency "screening," I walked past Bryant Park. Being the clueless woman I am, I had no idea that it was fashion week. (Somehow, it always seems like there is some fashion event going on in Bryant Park, though.) A bunch of photographers and reporters were bunched up outside the big tent in which the shows go on (damn, fashion truly is a circus, now that I think about it...), so I paused to see what the deal was. Tyra Banks emerged through the crowd. I must say she looked stunning.

Merely spotting a celeb of Tyra's wattage was not enough to brighten my day, unfortunately. If the Weinermobile would show up near my apartment again, that would be appreciated. Who isn't cheered up by the sight of an orange and yellow hot dog vehicle parked across the street?

So Much for a Day Off...

OK, I admit that I spent a good portion of the morning/early afternoon fucking around and hanging out with Steph, who stayed with me this weekend. Seeing Steph always makes me happy. Here's hoping that she moves back to the City so I can see her more often, although I am not going to be greedy - as long as she doesn't go back to North Carolina, I'm pleased as punch because I get to see her at least once a month instead of once every six months.

However, once Steph jumped onto her bus back to the boonies, I settled down to finish some handouts for a workshop that I am conducting on Wednesday. My initial plan was to complete them last week, but I 86'd that when I got another gig. Of course, it was more complicated than I thought it would be and I was still sweating out how to make the numbers work (that's the beauty of budgeting - since it is as much an art as a science, you can play with shit a little bit and still not be cheating) when 7 pm rolled and Husband returned from work.

Yeah, Husband had to be at work all day. When his boss started up their firm last year, he decided that they should be open on all bank holidays. Husband almost convinced him to close on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day since, "after all, Reagan is the president who signed the holiday into federal law," but it wasn't good enough. I admired Husband's attempt, though.

Bad Things Happen in Threes

Damn, was I in a bad mood for most of yesterday. It started when I didn't go to sleep at a normal time on Friday night although I was tired, leading to a case of full blown insomnia (bad thing #1). When I finally drifted off into much needed beauty rest, I woke up about an hour later seconds before blood began splurting out of my nose in geyser-like fashion (bad thing #2). I think it was under the impression that it was auditioning for Sweeney Todd. More awakeness and lots of blood pooling in my stomach ensued, and I ate a large amount of chocolate-toffee-powdered sugar covered macadamea nuts (bad thing #3) so that the blood would have some company. Not cool.

Anyway, I got together with Des in the evening and ate yummy seitan, so that was good. I felt more cheerful after that. Still, I'm having a "what am I doing with my life?" hang over. Some times I think I should stop going on awesome vacations because when I get back, I'm exceptionally miserable. Yes, this is ridiculous, but so am I.

The good news is that my nose didn't erupt again today and I had a nice evening of sleep. I'm still freaking out about all the shit that I need to do in the upcoming week and the fact that I also don't really have that much to do.

For a more interesting blog post (i.e. - no whining and hand-wringing about my overall very good life) by me, check out my thoughts on female geekery on BlogHer.

Ouch

Here are some pictures from my Christmas Eve sea urchin mishap:

This is the two mile trail husband and I hiked down to get to the Capt. Cook Monument and the bay that is known for excellent snorkeling. It is full of loose rocks and over its course, descends 1,300 feet to the water.

The Monument stands in British soil! I thought this was very cool. Given its remote access location, however, it is not so well-maintained.

Although it hurt like a motherfucker, here I am calmly awaiting medical evacuation. Note the completely hideous sunglasses that I bought at Urban Outfitters the day before I left for the trip. They are fudiculous, which is my new term for fucking ridiculous. (Maybe the sea urchin attacked me because it was so offended by my bad taste?)

A close up shot of my injuries doesn't do the damage justice. (A random tour guide/registered nurse plucked out the sea urchin spines that hadn't broken off already before I thought to document the experience. (It's a fuckload scarier to look at when there are long thin sticks poking out of the skin.) The big ink blobs and blood smears cover up all the individual barbs. There are 24 barbs in my heel and six on the side of my foot, plus about seven more near my big toe and four more near my little toe. While I still feel that a helicopter was a bit excessive, there was no way I could climb back up the trail.

All's well that ends well... sort of. Most of the ink from the sea urchin is gone from my foot (but not all), I can put on my shoes again, and here I am posing cheerfully in the lovely lobby of our hotel in O'ahu.

Smarts

The word smarts really does function for me on two levels: I want smarts, and it smarts when I don't have them. Standardized tests always leave me smarting. No matter how well I do, I feel like it's not good enough because I know too many really smart people who do better. I'm the idiot, which honestly says significantly more about how damn smart all my friends and loved ones are than it does about my lack of smarts, but it still smarts.

Back in the last century when I took the SAT, I "only" scored an 1100 1110 (thanks for the correction, Mar - I'll chalk it up to a typo or being brain dead after the exam). (This was before they jiggered up the scoring a few years ago.) I earned a 600 on the verbal section and a 510 on the math. Thinking I could do better, I sat for it again and decided to answer more math questions. Unfortunately, I answered them all wrong and thus got only a 470 on the math while the verbal remained the same. Compared to my peers in high school (and later college), I was a total fuck up for scoring under 1200.

How ironic it is, then, that I got an 1100 1110 on the GRE. This time, the test is administered on a computer so you can't skip any questions and if you answer a question incorrectly, it gives you an easier question next which lets you earn fewer points if you get it right. (The upside is that you get your score immediately.) That left me with a 470 on the math, which quite frankly, I'm sort of proud of because its been a damn long time since I've done algebra, geometry, or any of that other crazy stuff. My goal for the verbal was 650, and if you just did the math, you'll know that I fell slightly short of achieving that, racking up 640 points.

So that's that. I'm glad it's over with, I'm more glad that writing programs don't care about math scores, and I'm hoping that I never need to take another one of these horrific tests again. Thanks to everyone who wished me well!

A Taxing Situation

Someone's gotta pay for the Iraq War, and it sure as hell isn't going to be the uber-wealthy. Instead, they get special tax cuts for being so special. I mean, everyone knows that God shows His favorites by making them rich, so it would just be totally wrong to make them pay for God's blessings. It would be punishing them for things that weren't their fault, you know?

The working poor can only pay through indirect means, like cutting programs that help them make ends meet. Check. Still, we need more money to pay for the Goldy tax cuts and Iraq War. OK, squeezing the middle class will shake out a few more pennies. Who does that leave? Oh, the self-employed! Yay!

Seriously, I don't mind paying my fair share in taxes. As a person who has seen the benefits of an excellent public education, tax write-offs on owning a home, and other general good fortune, I believe it is my responsibility to support the same opportunities for other people. My commitment extends, however, to all classes. It strikes me as insanely unfair that I am for some reason paying a higher share of my earnings than people who made 10 or even 100 times more than I did. Last night I calculated how much I managed to eke out this year (and was impressed that my high priced consulting gigs yielded about 30G! Go me!) and then Husband informed me that 60% of that is going to taxes because of FICA.*

I understand that people like Paris Hilton need their hard earned money in ways that I don't, and that their valuable contributions to society's entertainment via porn tapes leaked to the internet completely dwarf anything I might be doing. But is it not a little fucked up that their tax rate is about half of mine? I guess I'll need to screw some little people over so that I may earn God's favor and exempt myself from taxes. Better luck to us all next year.

*Our income disparity does not help my situation. Hello, marriage tax penalty, which gives me a double whammy!

Driving Me Crazy

My drive up to Alex's house yesterday was mostly uneventful. The worst part was driving in the area near the city. It's a little absurd when I am driving 70 in a 45 mile zone and people give me dirty looks as they pass me in the left lane.

Alex and I made excellent progress on organizing an official call for submission for Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!. Her husband (aka Big Giraffe) will put up a website for submissions in the next few weeks. I'm pretty gosh darn tootin' excited.

I'm also exhausted. I don't know how people spend a full day with kids and don't fall asleep by 4 pm or need to be institutionalized. Just pretending to be a squirrel for five minutes this morning left me out of breath and in need of a nap. All you parents out there - and teachers - are amazing.

The Whole Story

Although Brother-in-Law's (BiL) wedding was not until Saturday night, the gang headed down to New Jersey for the event on Friday afternoon. During the 90 minute drive, traffic clogged the roads and rain poured down in bucketfuls. Bubbe took the time to tell my mom and I how essentially every party she attended over the past two decades made her puke at some point. From her 40th wedding anniversary surprise party (she "vomited it up" from the shock) to my sister's bat mitzvah (undercooked broccoli made her "vomited it up" because she can't eat raw vegetables), we heard it all.

Fortunately, no one that I know of vomited it up after the wedding. On the other hand, the bathroom door in Big O's room fell off and all the guest rooms smelled like there was a mold infestation. Plus, one of the three elevators broke down and was not repaired for some time and the hotel deigned to have service elevators, which meant that the poor room service folks and maids were left standing with their carts as elevators chock full of people passed them repeatedly. At least the beds were super comfy.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I had a blast at the reception dancing it up with the family. I was rather self-conscious about the brown bridesmaid's dress from the get go (while the cut of the dress was very flattering, I felt like I looked like a big turd so much brown, although I am very happy that it was brown instead of orange or seafoam green or some other completely cruel hue), at least my $195 of alterations left me secure that it would fit me well. Oh did I say it fit me well? My bad. At first it fit perfectly, but as the night flew by, the top expanded and expanded. It happened with the other ladies as well, I noticed. We were all hauling our tops up and hoping that our boobs wouldn't fly out. There's no rationale for this, as the fabric was not stretchy. This (nor my imperfectly shaved armpits) did not stop me from throwing my arms up in the air while boogying it up.

After brunch on Sunday, we dropped Sister and Sister's Husband off at the airport (sob!) and spent the afternoon with my parents, bubbe, and Husband's parents at our place. It was very pleasant. My parents stayed at a hole-in-the-wall hotel (there are no hotels in Manhattan other than this one that gives guests private bathrooms in their cells for only $100 a night plus tax). It smelled in the hallway, but not like a mold infestation and the cell had a beautiful view of the Hudson River and lights of New Jersey's east bank. They came back to my apartment this morning to wash up.

Now everyone is gone, which makes me sad. Overall, the whole weekend was fantastic and I only yelled at my various relatives a few times despite being tired and crabby. I guess it's back to my "usual" routine, whatever the hell that is.

Onto the Field

It was a weekend of sports, and it was a weekend of losses. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets blow their first game against Philadelphia thanks to lazy and sloppy play. We did, however, get a kick out of the free fake mustaches distributed to 20,000 extremely lucky fans in honor of Keith Hernandez, former Mets player and cokehead, and current TV announcer who sometimes talks with food in his mouth. Saturday, we attended the game in person to encourage them. Other than the free cute hats that were given to a lucky group of 25,000 fans and the quality time I spent with Husband and the in-laws, I would say it was not the best use of my time. Sitting in a windy, shady part of the stadium, I froze my ass off as the Mets once again played like shit. Finally, on Sunday, I witnessed the Giants suck ass, although at least the seats we had (second row behind the 20 yard line on the Giants' side) were excellent and I got a free useless calendar that I threw out immediately. Also, being at the Giants game prevented me from watching the Mets play worse than your local Little League team, so that was some avoided aggravation. Good times.

This weekend also saw a personal kick-off to the GRE season. To apply to the Hunter College MFA program, I must face my nemesis. I did answered 125 questions from the verbal portion (I haven't faced my biggest challenge yet, which is the quantitative section) and did mostly OK. I played the antonyms section like the Mets, though. It's bit hard to identify the correct antonym when I don't recognize the word at all. Out of 30 words, I didn't even have the foggiest idea what 15 of them meant. I guessed well on one of those. Yeah.

The Acid Test

In my previous life as a nonprofit finance person, I often employed what is called the acid test to measure the health of the organizations with which I worked. The Acid Test involves taking the business's current assets, subtracting the stock, and then dividing that answer by the organization's current liabilities. Since nonprofit organizations don't have stock, this is really the same as finding what is known as the current ratio, which is just current assets divided by current liabilities. Obviously, you want to see that the organization has more than enough current assets to meet their current liabilities, although in my work I often found that was not the case.

On a personal level, the Acid Test is instead something I use to figure out how bad my acid indigestion is doing to be. I take the petty frustrations that mount in my daily life that I blow out of proportion minus the amount of post nasal drip I experience, and divide that by how well I have eaten that week. This week, I have failed the personal Acid Test. Every evening and a few mornings were torture. This afternoon was so bad that I skipped my site visit to a rustic farmhouse and lighthouse in northern Manhattan so I could lie down a bit.

A few hours of resting didn't help much, so I decided to try some very low impact aerobic activity. I rode an exercise bike at the gym and read an Us Weekly. I was surprised by three discoveries:

1. Camryn Mannheim, actress and author of the bitterly funny book, Wake Up, I'm Fat!, seems to have lost a bit of weight. She's not absurdly skinny or anything, just average. On one hand, I was sort of saddened by this because she was an amazing advocate for social tolerance towards overweight people. On the other, I don't begrudge anyone her health, and she doesn't seem to be freakishly thin, just healthier-looking.

2. Naomi Watts actually resembles a woman who just had a baby. Not that she's obese, but she's not rail thin, either. She looks like what a lot of women look like after they give birth, which I think is cool.

3. Clive Owen's wife is plus-size. How rare is it to see a hot movie star married to a completely normal woman? You always see super hot actresses with shlubby overweight men, but never the other way around. Ever. He told the magazine that none of his co-workers have ever tempted him to stray because he values his wife so much that he would never risk losing her. I adored Clive Owen for his work in Children of Men and Inside Man (or whatever that Spike Lee movie was called), but now he has cemented my admiration of him.

Anyway, hopefully the Pele of my volcanic stomach will go away this weekend and the acid eruptions will calm down.

Bad Taste

My interview with egomaniac Tucker Max is up over at BlogHer. It was ready about a week before I posted it this morning, and every day I've been increasingly nervous about it because I think I am going to disappoint people since I don't hate him. I acknowledge that I have bad taste. I can't help that. I'd try and blame it on my upbringing, but there's a big difference between my mom not understanding why people think that Graceland is tacky and me laughing my ass off at a guy who accidentally jizzes in his own eye. It is not my parents' fault.

Raunch culture is a complicated thing. Things like Girls Gone Wild offend me about as much as anything possibly can, I'm totally not into strip clubs as cool places to hang out (for guys or ladies), and I don't get things like ookie cookie at all. Anti-woman jokes rarely strike me as funny. I HATE Revenge of the Nerds, which implies that women who are snobbish deserve to have spy cams installed in their homes so that nerds can spend their days watching them naked without their knowledge. I'm not a post-feminist feminist at all. Yet there are just some horrible, evil, vile types of humor that I can't help fall prey to although I know in my heart of hearts that what I am laughing at is not funny, but there I am, cringing in disgust while guiltily rolling on the floor with tears squirting out of my eyes.

So now I am sitting back cowering and hoping that quality feminists who I respect and like immensely don't unleash their wrath on me and shun me for my weaknesses. (But have you seen Varsity Blues? Horrible butrhilarious....)

Still Not Sunny

As far as I can tell from my small dining room window that looks into a courtyard and has a small slice of sky available for analyzing, it is not sunny today. (My dining room window has almost the only vantage point for weather analytics, as my street-facing bedroom and living room windows are shrouded under scaffolding that's been up for at least a year already, and my kitchen window looks mostly into the building across the courtyard. It's a good thing that my childhood was spent living in darkness - Husband freaks out at the lack of good natural and artificial lighting whenever we visit my parents - preparing me for City life.) I wanted it to be sunny today so that I could really enjoy my visit to the UN Sculpture Garden, where a bull elephant statue with a 2 foot long penis resides.

Also not improving my mood was the research I just did for an article about single women, subprime lending, and mortgage foreclosures that I posted on BlogHer. It should be obvious that women are going to get especially fucked up the ass by the mortgage default crisis, but I haven't seen much about it. However, there is ample evidence that single women, along with non-white and low income people, were railroaded into subprime loans. Yeah, you can buy your dream in America, but it's temporary and will cost you everything in the long run. Bah.

I need to eat ice cream and/or cookies today.

No More Rain or Idiots, Please

The rain has me down. It is amplifying my friend Des's problems. Right now, I am trying not to scratch my eyes out at the horrific online class I foolishly enrolled in. (Although how was I to know how bad it would suck?) My only consolation is that I don't have to sit in the same room and try to not want to kill people. Instead, I can make fun of them on my blog. For example:

Instructor>> First, think of it as not just blogging, per se, but really, Web 2.0. It's not what it was when if first started - basically, online journaling that was oh-so-self-obsessed. Rather, it's now the accepted way of providign content on the front end, while outsourcing the back end coding to your blog provider.

Idiot #1>> thanks! Maybe I just need to be reading some of the better blogs, 'cause most that I've read seem to be more like journals

Instructor>> exactly, naval gazing is blogging 1.0 to a T. Its evolved tons past that!)

You know what? The best blogs are personal blogs. I hate this class. Someone help me. Please let it be sunny tomorrow. Des and I are planning to go see the life-size statue of a bull elephant with a two foot long dick at the UN Sculpture Garden, and we need to laugh. (Her more than me, but still.) Giant statue elephant schlongs are funny, even with rain, but much more hilarious in the sun with ice cream. I'm buying.

Nice to Meet You, Too

For those of you lamenting not attending the BlogHer conference, you may have missed a great breakfast with awesome people, but you also escaped the "Speed Dating" ice breaker. All 750 or so conference attendees formed two circles around the ballroom at Navy Pier and we rotated around, greeting each other.

This was fine enough until I met The Branding Consultant.

"Hi, I'm Suzanne!" I chirped, but really screamed because I was trying to be heard over 750 other chatting people. "Here's my blog sticker."

"Hi, I'm The Blogging Consultant," yelled The Blogging Consultant in my face so I could hear her. She looked at my sticker. "You project 'Radical Lesbian!'"

"What?" I was shocked. "That's not what I am trying to project. Good thing I am going to your workshop." I think she then told me that my blog title and hair signaled that I am a radical lesbian. "Of course, I love radical lesbians, but that is not how I am trying to portray myself. I hope I don't have to change my blog logo because I really like it."

She said something that was probably important that I didn't hear and then it was time to change partners. Oh well. There are definitely far more misleading (and worse) ways to portray myself than as a radical dyke; she could have thought I was a Republican!

The Gathering of the BlogHers

Those of you not traveling to Chicago for BlogHer need not be jealous. There was an announcement on the news that the kitchen in the Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier was just closed by the Health Department for vermin. Guess where us hungry bloggers will be meeting and eating? Gonna be interesting, that's for sure.

On the other hand, Chicago has plenty of great eats. Des, Alex, Count Mockula and I plan to eat deep dish pizza on Friday night. I have almost convinced my parents to come downtown and join us. That's right! If you'll be in Chicago and want to eat pizza with me, you can meet the people who produced me. Many of you are members of the Mom Reisman fan club, and this is your big chance!

Before all this happens, however, my mom and I are heading over to the infamous Graceland Cemetery to spend a few hours today. Many of Chicago's biggest names currently reside there, and the cemetery plays a fairly interesting role in one of my favorite books, The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. (It is an amazing book about the 1893 World's Fair and America's first known serial killer.)

On an unrelated note, but something that is irritating me to no end, I am reminded once again that I should not bother going to concerts. Generally I don't like live musis, as I like to hear songs the way that I know them by heart from CDs, MP3s, or the radio. Still, every five years or so, I am compelled to attend a concert. I went to see Madonna in 2001, and Prince in 2003 (or so). Hated both concerts. This year, I was super psyched to get tickets to see The Police on Aug. 1. Of course, then it turns out that Dr. P will be in town that night, which means that I will be anxious for the concert to end so I can see her. On top of that, I signed up for an eight week online course on travel writing. The first lecture was tonight at 10 PM EST. I completely misunderstood and thought that meant the first online chat was also tonight. No, stupid me. The first fucking chat is on - you guessed it - Aug. 1. So now I am going to miss that unless I miss the concert, and look like an irresponsible idiot. I don't want to miss the concert, as Danger Doll said it rocked the house when she saw it in her home state a few weeks ago, although I fear that I will hate it anyway because I am a dorky loser like that and something will probably upset my conservative musical tastes, most likely a poor rendition of "Roxanne." I am totally stressing over this, which is ridiculous.

Out of curiosity, at this point would you go to the concert or find someone else to take your ticket? (And, as an aside to the aside, if you live in NYC, we have an extra ticket regardless of whether I flake out or not.)