Another Disturbing Ripple in My Universe

My mother and I are planning a trip to Warsaw in mid-June. We will visit the Jewish cemetery and try to find my great-grandfather's grave. (He died before the war, so he probably is lucky enough to have a burial place unlike my grandfather's sisters and mother.) We will see the few remnants of the wall of the Warsaw ghetto. We will visit the Jewish Historical Institute. We will do a records search. We will pass by the address where my grandfather's family owned a butcher shop and/or lived.

We will also go to Treblinka.

I always assumed that my grandfather's family died in Auschwitz, if they even lived to be deported from the ghetto. But, one of the dangers of Holocaust hagiography is that the fame of Auschwitz dwarfs reality. Deportations began in 1942, and when Warsaw's ghetto was liquidated in the spring of 1943, everyone left was sent to Treblinka, 2 hours outside of Warsaw in an isolated forest. There was no work at Treblinka. People died within an hour of their arrival.

Husband has a friend who lives in Warsaw who is very kindly helping me arrange my trip. He sent me a link to the Treblinka Museum. One of the things that fascinated me when I first learned about the Treblinka site is how noncommercial it is. Auschwitz, to me, is tourist attraction at this point. Tour groups go, people gape at the convent built on site, they exclaim over the signs proclaiming how much the Poles suffered* because it was initially built for Polish political prisoners. Treblinka was completely destroyed by the Nazis, so there's nothing "fun" to see. It is a sober monument to the 800,000 Jews and thousands of Gypsies and Romani murdered there.

Anyway, as I read the museum's website, I was taken aback by this statement:

The memorial should be visited with due seriousness and respect.
Within the area of the museum it is forbidden to bring dogs, smoke or eat ice cream.

Damn, I can't eat ice cream there? Well, I guess I'll have to pack ham and cheese pierogies and chocolate kolacky.

I hope that this was a translation error and in Polish it says, "no eating." Otherwise, WHAT THE FUCK? How weird is the focus on ice cream? Even weirder, it reminds me of a fucked up Hasidic monument I visited in Israel:


I mean, they are not the same thing, but the utter randomness of what is forbidden strikes me as similar. (In case the photo does not appear, it is a sign that says that it is forbidden for women to dance at this site.)

Anyway, it is going to be an intense trip. I believe we will also take a trip to Krakow, as Husband's friend recommended.

*Oh yeah, and some Jews, gypsies, and homosexuals died there, too. But whatever. (This is written in the vein of signage at Auschwitz, so pardon my bitter glibness.)

The Tipping Point

One of my former bosses told me that she always knows who has had restaurant experience when she goes out with a group of people based on how much they tip. She said that people who've never worked in the food service industry generally give tips of up to 15%, but people who have worked tables give closer to 20%. I am fortunate enough to have been able to go through life thus far without waitressing (I guarantee that I would be awful*), but I tip 20% unless service was utterly abysmal (i.e. - the staff was actually rude to me). My ex-boss said I am an exception.

I find that in NYC, most people are calculate tips in one of two ways: they double the tax (which is 8.75%) or they give 20% of the subtotal. Either way seems right to me. The minimum wage in the restaurant industry in NYS is $4.60. In theory, if staff do not earn enough tips to average them out to $7.15 an hour, the restaurant must cough up the extra dough. But how likely is that? Not very.

I rant about this now because I have gone out with some people a few times who consistently refuse to acknowledge that they have to pay tax and tip. It is so bad that I've actually pulled out a calculator to show how their $15 entree is really over $19 when you add tax ($1.31) and tip ($3), so putting in $20 is fair. Even after this, people have argued with me that they overpaid.

Not everyone is good at math. I understand that. I'm no math genius myself. But when I fucking run through the numbers and explain them, and my co-diner still doesn't want to pay his fair share, I am going to be very angry. Because I'm not going to short restaurant staff because my companion is too fucking cheap to pay what he owes, I get stuck paying for it. And it adds up over time. Eventually I just focus on how the person is going to screw me or someone at the end of the meal, and I don't enjoy myself. It makes me not inclined to dine out with certain individuals any more.

*Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, would never be able to keep up with all the orders and I'd always forget to bring people drinks or who ordered what and all that.

BOMB and Explosion

My friend Mark and I went to check out Brooklyn's Other Museum of Brooklyn (BOMB) after work this evening. (If you visit the website, note that the BOMB we went to and the BOMB depicted are different buildings. BOMB moves with the real estate market.) It is open every Tuesday from 7 - 9 pm.

The new BOMB is in a building that is not heated or necessarily finished. As I went up the staircase, I was slightly fearful that I would plunge through the boards. It was sturdy, though. When we were upstairs, the curator, Scott, offered us beers. When I said I don't drink, he sweetly said he also had cranberry juice and various flavored seltzers.

Basically, BOMB is a museum dedicated to promoting the historic preservation of Admiral's Row, which is a set of buildings in the Brooklyn Navy Yard that the Mayor's office wants to tear down, and a place for the curator to store things that he rescues from the trash. Here's what Mark and I saw (apologies for the blurry pics - I used my BlackBerry phone):

If you squint really hard at the upper right, you can make out a canister used during Prohibition to make alcohol. The twisty spigot is wrapped around a gumball machine. Near the furnace to the right, sort of behind the fireplace, is a long black cylinder which is a rusted out sewage pipe. The window shade is pulled back by a paper mache puppet that looks out the window and admires the neighborhood.

The bathroom counter is covered with items that Scott, the curator of BOMB, found on the beach. This includes a femur, many pieces of broken china, coins, and rocks.

This portion of the wall was part of a church steeple in the 1800s. I love it. Yes, that is a cow skull hanging in the center of it. The Disgruntled Cow uses Scott to express her displeasure at how the Mayor milks the City dry. The object with wheels is a racing car from 1920 that reminds me of a go-kart.

This torpedo used to hang outside the museum. I sort of like it in the niche at the top of the staircase.



Mark and Scott are far more knowledgeable about Brooklyn than I can ever hope to be, so I mostly listened to them chat as my feet went numb from cold. Scott gave us all kinds of goodies to take home. Of course, I loved every second of my visit.

The explosion on the subway ride home, though, was terrifying. As we sped through the tunnel, a passenger with a wispy white goatee suddenly blew up at another rider. He jumped in the man's face and bellowed, "Why are you staring at me? Get your eyes off me! Do you have a problem with me. I said stop looking at me. Are you sweet for me, huh? Are you a homo? DO you want me to shove something up your ass? Fuck you!"

A few months ago, someone was randomly stabbed on the subway under very similar circumstances, and even though I was at the other end of the car, my heart thundered away. The other passengers watched the scene unfold and looked nervous, but only I changed cars when the train stopped. The man who was harassed got off, whether it was his stop or not. I hadn't been that nervous on the train since I was caught in the middle of a fight during rush hour and a guy broke a glass bottle and brandished it at someone.

Go Figure

Yesterday my grandmother finally recovered enough from the sedatives given to her before her angiogram/angioplasty for my mom to tell her what happened. We expected Granny to be upset. My mom assured her that we would find her another doctor.

Upon hearing that her doctor forgot which stents he was supposed to use, my grandmother, apparently, shrugged. "Well, I like him. He doesn't talk to me like I'm senile or a child."

My mom was confused. "So do you not want a new doctor."

"No," Granny said. "I'm happy with this one."

While I hope that he does not commit a much bigger fuck up in the future, I'm relieved that she is not upset about what happened. This doctor got lucky. That's all I'll say.*

*Except that if he does anything to hurt Granny in the future, I will come after that fucker with everything I've got.

I Don't Even Know What to Title This

Granny is mostly OK. Sunday the cardiac doc came to discuss her options. Her blood work indicated that she had a very small heart attack, so he wanted to do an angiogram. Depending on what he saw, he would insert balloons or stents into her arteries. Everyone agreed that because she needs oral surgery soon, he would use nonmedicated stents because the medicated ones would basically cause her to bleed out if she had dental work.

On Monday morning, the doctor told us that the test went well. He said that her heart was strong and that there was no damage from the heart attack. Then he said he saw a lot of heart disease and inserted a balloon and two medicated stents.

My mom and I recoiled. "What do you mean medicated stents?" she asked.

"Oh. Ooops. I forgot. I even wrote it on the board and I forgot. Sorry about that."

Yes, that is actually what he said. "Ooops... sorry about that."

"What about the oral surgery?" my mom asked. She was trying not to punch him. (She later told me that she was more angry about his flippant tone than the fuck up, not that she condoned the fuck up.)

"Oh, she'll have to wait at least six months, but I really recommend a year," he said as if it's no big deal to have a mouth full of rotting teeth. "Maybe you can find a dentist who would be willing to do a procedure while she's on Plavix."

I pictured some back alley dentist ripping up my Granny mouth and leaving her to bleed out when things went awry. I wanted to slap the doctor. (Husband suggested slapping the doctor - with a lawsuit.) I know it could be worse, but this really, really sucks.

Swish

If I were a cat wearing corduroy pants, no one would need to tie a bell around my neck to warn the little animals that I was coming. The swishing sound that my pants make when my thighs rub together as I walk would alert them to my presence. Meow.

No matter what I weighed or looked like, "chub rub" (a term I learned from my friend Alex Elliot) has always bothered me. I can't wear skirts without putting something (tights, shorts, whatever) between my bare flesh, otherwise my legs are red and burning within a few hours. Warm up pants are even noisier than corduroys. SWISH!

Now that I've got that out in the open, I'm off to pluck out my chin hairs. Such is life.

Blizzard!

As of this middle of the night writing, New York City is expected to get up to 14 inches of snow. Husband and I had tickets to a Michael Jackson tribute show put on by my favorite cover band production house, The Loser's Lounge. Before I left, I spoke with my family (via Skype - I feel so tech savvy, years after the fact...), and they suggested we stay in.

"Dudes, this is NYC!" I assured them. "The subway will be no problem."

This was accurate. The subway came and got us there in a timely fashion.* It was actually nice to wander around as snow came down. The sidewalks and street were quiet, devoid of traffic. The show rocked. We had tea afterward, then journeyed through the blizzard home.

Anyway, the show was one reason why I hadn't made plans to travel home this weekend. (Another reason is that my in-laws were supposed to come to our place in the afternoon and have a belated Hanukkah celebration, but that was canceled due to said blizzard. The main reason, though, is that I'm exhausted from school and work and writing and just needed to sit around and rest.) My sister and nephew are at my parents' house this weekend, and I really wanted to go. Now I'm relieved that I didn't make plans. Even if I got out last night or this morning, I can't imagine being able to get back in time for work on Monday.

All that got me thinking about the passengers who are stranded at airports around the country due to the storm. I felt bad for them. Then I read an article on CNN.com that noted that Greyhound canceled 300 routes from New England to Jacksonville, FL, stranding lots and lots of people at Greyhound bus terminals. The Red Cross has been called for assistance. Yeah, that is one of my worst nightmares.

*This will no longer be possible in the spring. Thanks to gross mismanagement of the Metropolitan Transit Authority under 12 years of Republican "leadership,"** major service cuts are to be implemented.
**Although Husband points out that if Democrats were in control, the situation would be just as bad because the state is so fucking corrupt.

On the First Night of Hanukkah Someone Threw Up on My Face

Actually, it only looks like a cat threw up a yarn hairball on my face. In reality, Husband found this crochet sleeping mask on etsy. He said it made him laugh so hard that it was worth the few bucks.

He also gave me an awesome Snoopy watch that was advertised on eBay as "for girls." What it meant was "for giants." It was even too big on him. I love it, though. I'll just buy a new band. Fortunately, he assured me that it was very cheap.

The sweater I am wearing in the picture was a Hanukkah gift from him many years ago. When he first gave it to me I hated wearing turtle necks. However, it soon became my favorite sweater. It's shrunk a bit, and I am fearful that it may not make it through this season.

Incidentally, I gave Husband a Kindle last night. At least I didn't sell my hair to buy him a watch fob only to discover that he sold his watch to buy me fancy combs. Love is all you need.

Happy Hanukkah!

The Gonifs* Win

A few years ago, Rudy Giuliani, a mega Yankee fan and dictatorial mayor, put together a deal offering the Yankees a new stadium. This ballpark would be financed in part by New York City taxpayers. It would also require taking one of the few public parks in the South Bronx** and handing it over to the Yankees for the new structure. Boo! Hiss!

Then, thank to term limits (a concept I generally disagree with as it is not compatible with democratic elections, but that's another story), Giuliani could not run for mayor again. Whew! The new mayor, Michael Bloomberg, announced that the public was not in the business of building new stadiums for sports teams. Hurray! Rah rah rah!

Fast forward a few years, and Mayor Bloomberg inks a deal turning Macombs Dam Park over to the Yankees for their new stadium. There is lots of taxpayers supported financing, and a secret deal for a fancy luxury box for high ranking city officials, which somehow is called a public benefit. The Yankees also get a new MetroNorth stop, so that rich Republican assholes from Westchester need not set a foot in the surrounding neighborhood. In exchange, the Yankees agree to create a series of new little parks for the impoverished people of the South Bronx. Very generous of them, right? Boo! Hiss! Rotten tomatoes!!!

Now that the Yankees won the World Series, are the people who live in the shadows of the new stadium gathering in the newly built parks to celebrate? No, because there are no new parks. At best, there might be a park in 2011. But one of the lots promised to be a park is now actually going to be a parking lot. Sure, I understand that "parking" has the word "park" in it, but my dear Yankees, they are not one and the same.

So, go Yankees. Nice work. Taking from the poor and giving to the rich is considered an admirable American trait. You are exactly the American champions you set out to be.

*Gonif: Thief in Yiddish
**The Bronx, incidentally, is the poorest urban county in the US. The South Bronx is the poorest neighborhood in the Bronx. Clearly, these people have a lot to spare for a struggling sports team that has little revenue...

Maurice Runs the Wheel Out of My Head

Earlier this year, I handed in a story in my lit class. I thought it was really good, so I was surprised when my instructor gave it back the next week with no comments. When I asked her why she didn't like it, she explained that she always looked forward to my work, so she was disappointed to read a story I had submitted before.

I was confused, as I was certain that I had been thinking about the story for weeks, so I didn't see how I could have handed it in already. But when I looked through my files, I discovered that I had written a story, turned it in, forgot, and then wrote almost word for word the exact same story and handed it in. It was scary.

Nine months later, I decided to write a story about my work with Haven Coalition. I knew I wrote a short piece about it first semester, so I re-read it, and used what worked. I thought I wrote a scene in which I was at my desk at work, the phone rang, and my first hosting night was arranged. But when I looked through my files (eerie music), I found a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago that, almost word for word, had the same opening.

Maurice, the hamster who runs the wheel that powers my brain, is scaring me. On one hand, if I wrote almost the exact same thing a year apart, I think it means that I had an important idea, and I'm glad that I did not forget. The fact that I have no memory of doing this is disturbing.

The Republican in My Apartment

I am not biased against all Republicans. In fact, I realized that I live with one. It was a little bit of a shock at first, but I sort of even adore him.

How did I figure out that there's a covert Republican in my household? I evaluated his key personality traits:

1. He is greedy. If offered a piece of candy or raisin, he gobbles it down without thanking the giver, as if he is owed the treat. Then he expects more and turns his back if additional bribes are not provided.

2. He makes messes and does not clean up after himself. However, he seems to be a moderate Republican, as I am not subjected to hypocritical griping about how other people need to take more responsibility for their actions. He just expects me to clean up after him.

3. His situation in life is inherited. He does nothing all day, yet lives a very nice lifestyle, thanks to other hardworking members of society who provide for him.

4. He seems to like the Yankees. (This is not definite proof that he is a Republican, as I know some excellent old school New Yorkers who are liberal and root for the greediest corporate welfare team in America.) While I watched the play off games, he emerged from his space and joined me a bit. He never did this when I watched Mets games in the past. Everyone knows that the Mets are the team of the people. (Yeah, losers like the rest of us chumps, but I digress.)

Here he is doing what Republicans do best, which is mooching off hard working, honest people after sitting around all day doing nothing to earn their keep:

Tycho is cute, though. And since e can't help his small-brained natural instincts for survival, I forgive him.

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.

PDA

No one gave me the memo, but based on graphic anecdotes, yesterday was PDA Day. By PDA, I sadly am not referring to Personal Digital Assistants, like my BlackBerry. Every day in New York City is that PDA Day. It's impossible to go anywhere without someone walking into you because he or she is texting while walking down the street. (Guilty!)

Rather, yesterday seemed to be Public Displays of Affection Day. But really it was EGPDA (Extremely Graphic/Gross Personal Displays of Affection) Day. I have only two examples, but I am certain they were part of a wider trend that I missed by staying home all day and watching Top Chef re-runs to recover from whatever stomach bug had me in bed and on the toilet all day on Tuesday. (As an aside, I do not recommend watching "Top Chef" or other food-oriented shows while you are eating toast, bananas, and Jell-O and starting to recover your appetite. Just saying.)

I ventured out at 7 pm to go to class. Still a little weak from lack of food over the last 36 hours, I took the only seat available when I got on the subway. Unfortunately, this was directly across from a couple sucking face. Literally. I might have been part of some horror movie scene in which it seems like a couple is making out, but really the girl is some sort of face eating monster-bot. They did not stop for air once between 72nd Street and 42nd St. The groaning and swaying were over the top. Of course, this happened to be the time I had nothing with me to read, so I had no idea where to look. I tried staring at the bag on my lap, but that didn't stop the pleasure noises from invading my ears. At any moment, I thought the girl was going to unzip the guy and give him a blow job.

Then, as I walked home from my subway stop after school, I encountered another couple going at it. They stood right in front of the Jewish Community Center, vacuum suctioned onto one another's mouths. The man was feeling the woman up right on the corner!!! Unlike on the subway, I noticed two other people pointing at the lovers and laughing.

People, have you no sense of decorum? How bad is it when I, a person who writes about throwing brown acidic stomach contents through my nose, am the arbiter of good taste? Yeesh. New Yorkers, go back to your BlackBerries and clueless and antisocial wandering!

Theo* Gets a Bath

It could have been worse. While ailing in bed yesterday, I sat up to take a sip of Gatorade. I didn't sit up enough, though, and the viscous reddish-pink fluid tricked out of the bottle, down my chin, and onto Theo's head. It looked like someone hit him on his matted head and he bled out. I dabbed at my little victim with a tissue, but Gatorade is powerful.

When Husband came home from work, he told me that we both looked awful. This was probably saying less for me than for Theo, as I had just taken a shower, and he hadn't been bathed in years. "Why didn't you put Theo in the wash?" he asked. "It's long overdue anyway."

The pathetic part of all of this is that I wanted to wash Theo up, but I didn't have the strength to deal with even a simple task like that. Today, however, I am 115% better. I put Theo in a pillow case and when he came out of the machine, the Gatorade-assault victim look was gone. He also smelled fresher. Hurray for the new washer!

*Theo is my long time companion bear.

The Definition of Ironic

On Wednesday, I went to the Museum of Jewish Heritage, which is a Holocaust and Jewish culture museum, in lower Manhattan to do some research. Upon my emergence from the subway, I looked for a food vendor from whom I could buy a carbonated diet beverage in a bottle. The first cart in my path was a hot dog purveyor. I asked for a bottle of Diet Coke.

"That's $3," he said.

"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.

"Three dollars," he nodded.

I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."

He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.

I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.

At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."

"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.

"Yes, him."

"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"

He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."

"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"

"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."

I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.

The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.

"But this is only $1," I noted.

"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."

Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)

Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.

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.

Oy Vey Iz Mir

Oy vey iz mir means "woe is me" in Yiddish. Things sound much better in Yiddish, don't they? I'm having some technical issues today, and it is making me feel slightly better yelling, "Oy vey iz mir," as I pull my hair out.

The Squirrelly and the Acorn

It's been a bad morning. I overslept, then while eating breakfast, read several depressing stories in the New York Times. The one that upset me most was about a "sting" operation enacted by two ultraconservatives who decided that they would bring about the right-wing wet dream of destroying the community organizing group Acorn.

Acorn is not perfect. It has had a series of scandals involving its officers over the last few years. But it also has done legitimate work to empower and engage disenfranchised, low income Americans in politics and economic growth. In New York City, Acorn has helped families frozen out of the housing market obtain places to live through shrewd credit counseling, homeownership classes, and technical assistance. People who participated in Acorn's programs here are not losing their homes to foreclosure.

Conservatives hate nothing more than when low income people ask for their fair (or I should say, fare) share of the heaping American apple pie. Actually, forget the "fair share" - they loathe when people who have been locked out of the mainstream systems that benefit white, middle- and upper-classes as for even a crumb or two of what they deserve. These groups and people, many of which have engaged in questionable activities themselves (remember Rush Limbaugh's illegal prescription addition and how he blamed his maid?), thus must bring down organizations like Acorn that are successful.

Today's New York Times article explains that two squirelly right-wingers dressed up as a prostitute and pimp, then went to Acorn offices and asked for help acquiring a home that they could use a brothel for under-age El Salvadorean girls. Two Acorn workers didn't blink an eye, explaining not only how to obtain the property, but also how to hide their illegal activity from the government.

There is nothing excusable or OK about what these Acorn employees did, and they have been fired. As a result of disgusting actions, Acorn is losing federal housing funds. But here's the problem with these incidents: they were isolated. And we don't find that out until deep in the article. See, the Times notes that the filmmakers "spent months visiting numerous Acorn offices, including those in San Diego, Los Angeles, Miami and Philadelphia, before getting the responses they were looking for."

Why is no one demanding the rest of the tape? The evidence where almost everyone they came into contact to at Acorn did the right thing? It's like shutting down an entire hospital because of one awful doctor and a shitty nurse. Investigative journalism is NOT when you go out and do undercover investigations, find one thing that confirms wrongdoing, and then portray it as rampant corruption. YouTube may have made this video popular, but it certainly did not help tell the truth.

Between these squirrelly, unethical "truth seekers" and the fucking lunatics who protested in DC on Sept. 12, I really give up. Americans are not, as far as I can tell, interested in truth or justice. The sad part is this is what the real American way might be.

Burned

For the second time in three weeks, I felt the sun bore down on the back of neck and forgot that I had sunscreen in my backpack. My fried neck was a small price to pay for such a gorgeous wedding, though:


I know I am biased, but I love (liberal) Jewish weddings. The chupa (wedding canopy) is so beautiful, and since I've never been to Orthodox wedding in which strict gender segregation is practiced, I always am extra-touched by the equality demonstrated in the ceremonies. Other than the sunburn, the only downside of the wedding was the number of bees flitting about the lush landscape. Bees scare me shitless. Another guest assured me that these bees were friendly, though, and I will say that it was certainly friendlier than the one that chased me around the parking lot of an ice cream shack at a beach town in New Jersey. (I offered that bee my ice cream and wallet to make it go away.)

Other things that I saw on my trip that uplifted my spirit, were these murals in the Mission District of San Francisco:



OK, so the birthing mural freaks me out a little (but I overall think it is cool) and the sidewalk graffiti is not technically a mural, but whatever. It reminded me that I like humanity. However, discussions that I had with friends and Bob Herbert's column in today's NY Times brought me back to reality.

I am burning with indignation at the lunatics who live in this nation. Protesting Obama's speech to school kids about studying hard and respecting teachers as socialist brainwashing? Calling him a Nazi? What the fuck is wrong with people? Of course, these are the same assholes who insisted that I had no right to dislike Bush since he was our president and as president, I needed to respect him. Gah!!!!! I give up.

Passing the Steamy, Hot Crotch Test

The streets of New York sizzled under the beating sun this afternoon. Humidity enveloped anyone foolhardy enough to walk around in a blanket of steam-room air. Sweat dripped from brows, armpits, and other bodily areas.

It was in this weather that I decided that I did not want to pay $2.25 to take the bus to my doctor's appointment. "It's only a mile," I reasoned. "I can walk on the shaded side of the street." I allotted plenty of time to saunter over there.

By the time I arrived at my new gynecologist's office (thanks for the referral, Dr. F!), my underwear were soaked through. Since I was 30 minutes early, I hoped that would allow me to dry out in the overly air conditioned office. Better yet, maybe he'd run late. While I waited, I pondered how much I would hate being an OB/GYN on a day like today.

Fortunately, before he performed the exam, the good (and wise) doctor brought me into his office to go over my history. We chatted about the Mets. (They are dead to me this season, by the way.) I told him about my exciting medical history - the PCOS, the undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment, the breast reduction surgery - and he wrote it all down. We discussed about my increased risks for uterine and breast cancer and diabetes. He complimented the friend who referred me to him, and we remarked on how crazy it is that her son is already turning one. Thanks to all the talk, I even had enough time to get cold and put my cardigan on. This was good.

When the time came to do the dirty deed, the doctor did not pass out. He didn't even make a face. At the end, he said that everything looked normal and that he'd see me next year. Whew.

Unicorns

I passed by a boutique the other day, and in the window was a fabulous white dress with a unicorn spewing pink squiggly lines out of its horn:



Later, I called to ask how much the dress cost.

"It is $420," the woman replied.

"Oh."

"Shall I check to see if we have it in your size?"

"Um... no, that's OK. Thanks." I hung up fast.

Then Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, fired up his run. Perhaps I could find it online cheaper? I stopped by the store to check out the brand. The unicorn dress is made by a company called Death by Drone. Intriguing...

When I looked it up online, I discovered that the dress I covet is named, "Evil Eye Through the Garden of Suffocation." Now I was a little scared. I also discovered that it is also $420 on the Death by Drone website.

Even if it cute, and even if there is a blazing red jewel in the eye of the unicorn, that seems like a lot of money for a silkscreened cotton dress. But what do I know? Maybe I should splurge and go for it. Right. After that, I can feed my pet unicorn a bowl of gold and we can frolic under rainbows together. Harumph.

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.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

"Do you ever wish I was less petty?" I asked Husband as we sat in a taxi, returning from his brother's apartment.

"Yes," he said with no hesitation.

I have no idea what prompted me to ask him, but damn, am I sorry I did. I snarled and made nasty little comments for the next hour, as I could not help be petty. It will be so tragic when I do the first load of laundry in our newly installed washer dryer tomorrow and all his undershirts come out pink. Mwa ha ha ha...


Seriously, though, I am so excited to take the washer and dryer for a spin.

Dirrrty Conference

Our first night of BlogHer, Maren noticed that a pillow on our bed appeared to have a moldy pillow case. The bathmat had a crusty orange substance on it. I called reception, and the woman told me that housekeeping would be by with fresh linens. We waited and waited, but not one came, so we just cast aside the offending items and went to sleep.

Then last night Maren and I discovered that there were mold-like splotches on the sheet, in addition to what might have been a make up smear. Our top sheet was so threadbare we could see through it, even in the sections that didn't have holes. Maren's "new and improved" pillow case had three holes in it. (Suebob's bedding was fine.)

Continuing on our dirty theme, but in a more fun way, the three ladies of 3011 realized that our lack of invitations to exclusive unofficial BlogHer parties freed us up to attend the early evening soiree at Playboy headquarters. (You know how it is - Hef tires out so easily these days!) The swag was fantastic - bunny ears and puffball tails, crotchless underwear and peekaboo bras, and vibrators. We mingled with the likes of George Clooney, Adrien Brody, Daniel Craig, and Matt Damen. It was so fabulously exhausting that we could hardly stay awake during the otherwise delightful Sparklecorn party (complete with unicorn cake).

The only party that will be more exclusive will next year, when the conference takes place in NYC in early August. The Party in My New Bathroom* will include the most select group of bloggers and other fine individuals. I feel bad for Hef, but I don't think there will be space for me to return his favor.

*Assuming the fucking renovation is even finished by then, but that's another story.

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.)

More to Love

While I was at my parents' house two weeks ago, I found this photo of Husband and me from 1996 or 1997:


Here we are in July 2009:


There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.

(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)

So Burn Me at the Stake Already, You Fascists

During the last presidential election, Husband regularly received mailings from the McCain campaign requesting donations. (He regularly gives to Democratic candidates around the country.) After the election, issues of The National Review mysteriously appeared every month in our mailbox. On Friday, when I retrieved our mail, I discovered the scariest sacrilege yet: an envelope depicting black cloaked priests lying face down in the aisle of a crowded church, next to a picture of priests holding a "Dominicans Friars for Life" banner at a march. In the upper left corner, the envelope read, "God is calling new men to the battle. And the Dominicans are answering - again. (Battle plan enclosed.)"

Inside, a six page letter read:

Dear fellow Catholic:

About 800 years ago, a poisonous heresy arose in southern France. Left unchecked, it could have threatened the very existence of the human race.

Its adherents saw the human body as a prison for the soul, and thus adopted an anti-life philosophy. They forbade procreation, applauded divorce, and openly encouraged suicide.

The Church called these beliefs Albigensianism.

Seeking good men to fight the Albigensian heresy, Pope Honorious III approved the founding of the Order of Preachers, better known as the Dominicans.

St. Dominic and his preachers rose to the Pope's challenge, using Truth to blot out heresy. They did their job so well that, nowadays, you'll never meet an Albigensian.

I interrupt this letter for a moment to point out that we would never meet an Albigensian regardless of the Dominicans because they all would have killed themselves or died through lack of reproduction. Also, Husband is not a "fellow Catholic," so "God" is apparently not very good at dictating "Truth" in mailing lists. But back to the scariness:

Today, the Dominicans are rising again - to defend Christian morality against an attack that is even more widespread, vicious, and uncompromising.

Yeah, that first part of the sentence scares the fucking shit out of me.

What is this latest, most ferocious attack on Christian truth and morality? Pope Benedict XVI calls it the Dictatorship of Relativism. Relativism is the "universal heresy" because it dissolves all truth and eliminates all categories of good and evil. This deranges the mind and morals of modern man to a dangerous - indeed frightening - degree.

Fore example, relativism not only dictates that abortion is merely a personal choice, but also dictates that the government muse guarantee the "right" to this choice... Relativism can also cause people to take a good thing - such as holy matrimony - and tamper with its very definition to fulfill their own selfish purposes.

Right. I forgot that love is selfish. Of course, I also think that abortion is "merely a personal choice," and my people killed Jesus according to this institution's "Truth," so what do I know? I'll cite one more line:

Relativism is profoundly irrational - anything that denies objective truth denies reason.

Am I the only one whose eyes are bleeding? That is the most fucked up twisted "logic" I've read since Husband's free issues of The New Republic stopped arriving last month.

But on a serious note, the remaining four pages of this toilet paper screed boast about the increase in enrollments at their vocational school, and how their latest crop of 54 trainees are going to stamp out my irrational belief in religious freedom and my vile heresy against the One Truest True Truth. It is pretty damn terrifying to think about these people and what they would do to me in order to "save" me. Shudder.

Ironically, I also pulled out a receipt for a donation I made in late May (right before Dr. Tiller was killed by a psychopath who believed he had to stop abortion) to the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice. I very well might send them more money. Because now I've seen the enemy's battle plan - the Truth - and it is chilling.

New and Improved

Anyone have any suggestions as to where I can get free photo editing software? I want to post a picture I found of Husband and I from the summer of 1996 or 1997, but he doesn't want his face appearing on CUSS, so I have to find a way to draw a mustache on him or something. The picture is a nice example of how much more of us there used to be to love, so I want to post it.

In other news, we had a friendly toilet installed today:


It has quite the power flush, which is very important around here. Unfortunately, it also is gurgling and won't stop. I'll miss our old deranged toilet seat, but the floor looks a million times nicer:


The contractor told me that they used 700 pounds of concrete to even out the underlying floor and walls in the bathroom. The bathroom is maybe 60 square feet, so that's impressive.

Either the dust or the unhealthy food I consumed today (ate six Oreos for breakfast and two scones for lunch) is giving me a headache and stomach ache. Seriously, I think my parents got it right when they decided to forgo home improvements and just let their house slowly deteriorate around them.

Back at the Ranch...

Upon our return from Chicago, we found the apartment covered with dust and the following:

The copper pipe sticking out of the wall in front of the tub? That's where the toilet goes...


The blank wall under the window? Usually taken up by a sink.

We knew that the bathroom would not be back online when we returned, but it is delayed a day further than anticipated. We are literally shit out of luck until Friday. Last night, we used Husband's hotel points to stay in a hotel. From now until Friday, he's staying in a hotel by his office in Connecticut. Tonight I'm borrowing a friend's couch, and then playing it by ear. I'll probably head up to his hotel tomorrow night.

It's not all bad news, though. We got a sneak peek at the new floor:

I love it!

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!!!

Snip the Tip

Yes, it is time for the inevitable circumcision post. Despite the lovely cross that decorates the wall behind me and my brother-in-law in the photo I posted previously, we will continue the ancient ways of our Jewish heritage. Yesterday was eight days after Marcus arrived in the world, and thus his covenant with God was made, albeit at the doctor's office with a regular rabbi saying a blessing. There are not to many mohels wandering around Iowa, and thank goodness even fewer with these weird plush moyel scissors.

Happily, the procedure went off without a hitch. The doctor told Dana she could give Marcus some infant Tylenol if he seemed to be in pain, but she said he slept sounder last night than he had since he came home on Monday. I'm not sure what that indicates, but I'm glad all is well.

However, for a more disturbing circumcision story, let's go back in time. While I was in Iowa over the weekend, the rabbi visited my family in the hospital and gave the new parents a book on raising a Jewish baby. I began reading it, and was fascinated by the story about how Moses's son came to be relieved of his foreskin.

Basically, the father is supposed to do the job, but Moses was too busy leading his people around the desert, and forgot. Zipporah, the baby's mother, then took matters into her own hands. Using a flint knife (the tool of ye olden days), she sawed off the kid's foreskin. The baby was fine (or as fine as a baby can be after being cut up by a flint), but the book reported that Zipporah was supremely pissed that she had to see to this task herself. (I see her point: if she's gotta birth the damn thing, the least Moses can do is circumcise it - she's already traumatized enough.) So she went up to Moses, and bitterly flung the foreskin in his face.

Now that is the way to end both a circumcision and a story.

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.

The Month

Man, March took forever to end. It was like the longest month in the history of recorded time. It's so great that it's finally ove...

What? It's only been a week?

Shit.

The More You Know

Back in the days when Saved by the Bell starred a young Mark-Paul Gosselaar, a fresh faced innocent girl by the name of Elizabeth Berkely, and a pre-Dancing with the Stars Mario Whateverhislastnameis,I'mtoolazytolookituprightnow, NBC ran public service announcements with featuring a celebrity who imparted wisdom about things like the evils of letting friends drive drunk, which concluded with the graphic of a star and the words, "The More You Know." I got the impression that "The More You Know" is a good thing. This was a bald faced lie.

See, The More I Know, the more I realize what scumbags people are. Take two cover stories from yesterday's New York Times. The first one was about how the guy who ushered in exploding loans during his tenure at Countrywide now is making bazillions of dollars by buying those exact same loans for pennies now that they have gone bad. His new company, nicknamed "PennyMac" (seriously, is it possible to more directly spit in people's faces?), is reaching out to borrowers to modify the loans. What seemed very possible is that he is giving people temporary modifications that will explode again in a few years, so he can duck out and find new ways to profit. Fists clenching, fists unclenching...

Story #2 was about a debt collection agency that uses grief counseling to trick grieving family members into paying off their dead relatives' debts, even though they are not legally liable for them. The company has the balls to say that they are helping people through their grief by giving them the opportunity to rectify their loved ones' debits. FUCK YOU. Am I the only person who has the urge to kill someone close to the executives of the company, then start calling them and asking them to heal their wounds by paying for their sister's credit card bill?

The More I Know about the world, the more I like my imaginary cave hermit life.

Mini Disasters that Add Up to Laughs

Witness arrived in movie theaters when I was nine years old. I thought it looked like one of the scariest movies ever. If memory serves me correctly (and it usually doesn't), it also received complementary reviews as a suspenseful film.

Husband and I watched it on Saturday night. Let me just throw this aphorism out there: Any time there is a 20+ year build up to something, the odds are high that it will disappoint. Damn, that was one crappy movie. The plot makes almost no sense, the action is limited, the score involves some weird synth/organ droning, and there is about as much suspense as watching Jell-O set. Still, Harrison Ford is smoking hot in it. Holy shit, that made the movie almost worth it. (So as not to be sexist, I noticed that Kelly McGillis is gorgeous.)

Then on Sunday, Husband, my friend Sara #1, and I loaded ourselves into Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and headed to New Jersey. My goal was to return two shirts that I purchased on Nordstrom online to an actual store so that I could find replacements that fit. As we neared the luxury mall in Paramus, I thought it odd that the parking lot was empty. It was almost 2:00 in the afternoon - prime weekend shopping time. Was the recession really so bad that people didn't even hang out in malls in Jersey any more? Terrifying thought.

My economic fears were soon replaced by annoyance. Husband drove around some orange cones that blocked parts of the parking lot and pulled up to the doors of Nordstrom. "Sundays: Closed," I read aloud. So the whole freaking mall was closed. How fucking un-American is it to close a mall on Sunday? Seriously! We tried another nearby mall, only to find it closed as well. That's when we realized that Paramus, NJ is the most unpatriotic town in the US: no retail stores are open on Sundays, which we assumed is by law. The horror! The horror!

Note to Self: Listen toBlog Readers,* Not Allergist

There's a first for everything. Once I had a sinus infection that was so bad I developed pink eye and laryngitis before it was properly diagnosed.** Another time in college I had a urinary tract infection that I somehow did not notice until it became so bad that it made me vomit.*** Today, I discovered that a sinus infection can get so bad that it gives a person a toothache.

On Saturday, I called my allergist to tell him that I had a lot of yellow mucus that reminded me of the slime that they used to dump on the kids on You Can't Do that on Television. He told me that I should wait until I was sick for a week before he would consider antibiotics. Now, although this is the same doctor who insisted that I take Singular pills (I do not and never have) when I called him to get a refill for my inhaler, this sounded OK to me since I worry about the overuse of antibiotics and the super bugs they create. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, dammit, so I went about my business.

I swear I even started to feel better. "I see the light at the end of the tunnel," I told a co-worker today at lunchtime after hacking up four pounds of neon mucus into a Kleenex at my desk. She looked a bit skeptical, but said that was great. Then around 3:00, I noticed a dull throbbing in my upper left molar. This eventually spread to my lower left molar. By the time I got out of class at 10:20, I had to hold my face in my hand.

Fortunately, the 24 hour walk-in clinic is not far from school, so I headed over there. I won't go into the hour long wait I experienced although I was the only person there (the doctor apologized profusely and said that no one should have to wait when she's sick; I am easy to mollify), but when she asked me if I had tooth pain, I felt a little less insane. "How did you know?" I asked. "Oh, it means that there's an infection," she smiled. As an experienced sinus infection sufferer, I've never had this before, but hey, first time for everything.

Now I am on some sort of super antibiotic which will hopefully clear up my head infection, but also wreak havoc on the rest of me. (Other good reasons to steer clear of antibiotics if they are unnecessary: 1. disruption of birth control pill; 2. potential for explosive diarrhea; 3. potential for massive vaginal yeast infection. When the doctor said that I had to use condoms for six week and then mentioned the diarrhea and yeast infection, I asked her who would want to have sex under those conditions any way?)

Time for a new allergist. And thanks everyone for wishing me well! Now I am finally on the way. I hope.

*Especially when one reader is an excellent ass surgeon.
**Thank you, NYU student health center for administering pregnancy tests and insisting that I did not have a sinus infection every time I went in to get help for my congestion.
***Seriously, I'm not sure how the fiery burn when I pissed - and constant need to go - didn't tip me off.

The Great Bathroom Wall of Tile

The bathroom wall saga continues. Quick recap: while Husband and I were away at the end of the year, the super of our building asked permission to enter our apartment and tear up the bathroom wall to repair a pipe that was leaking. We were promised that the wall would be returned to the condition in which it was found. Uh huh...

For reasons I cannot possibly fathom, the super refused to allow the management company to hire a professional tiler to fix the enormous holes that were ripped in the wall. (The management company was perfectly willing to do this.) Instead, he had his handyman do it, but the tiles were cut to the wrong size, pasted in so that the insulation was still exposed, and fell out when I looked at it closely. The next day, Husband asked the super to stop the work until a professional could come in. When we arrived home that night, the outrageously crappy tiling job was ripped out, and a new job was done. It was not as horrifying as the first job, but did contain problems like this:



Yes, that is a small hole next to the faucet into which water drips, probably causing a mold problem to fester. This is in addition to all the old tiles that were cracked or chipped during the work and not replaced, but left there to look like shit. And the corner, which was originally a curved tile, that is now two glued together at a 90 degree angle with exposed ceramic. Not to mention that the new tiles are a different shade of white than the old ones. Furious, Husband called the management company, which agreed to order appropriate tiles and have them professionally installed.

Today the super told Husband that he refuses to accept that his work is not as good as a professional. When he arrives here at 7:00, I would like to ask him to return the $130 holiday gift we gave him in December, as he obviously enjoys shitting in my bathroom and telling me I should be grateful it isn't diarrhea and that he left me a mop. I would also like to break into his apartment and shatter all the tiles in his shower and tell him that it is perfectly fine. And really, why is he fighting this? The repairs are not fucking coming out of his personal pocket. I trusted him to come into my home when I wasn't there and do what needed to be done to save the building from extensive damage. His repayment is to take my old shower, which was rather ugly, and make it worse.

We all know where this leads: he better hope that he doesn't need access to make repairs ever again if no one is home, as I will now let the whole fucking building collapse before he ever touches a fucking thing in here. Hey, I have homeowner's insurance.

Update: The super did not show up or call us to cancel.

AAA

Three As are a cause for suspicion these days. The bond rating agencies ignored all common sense, succumbed to pressure, and gave AAA ratings to all manner of junk securities. (As Husband explained to me, when there's a lot of shit in a lot of buckets, the smell of each bucket doesn't offset the others, which how how the rating agencies justified giving excellent ratings to buckets of shit.)

I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.

Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.

Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)

Out with the Old, In with the New

There's nothing like starting a new year than by breaking things. By things, I specifically mean bathrooms. And by bathrooms, I mean home and hotel facilities, one on each coast.

Yesterday morning, Husband and I awoke to urgent voicemail messages from my cousin, who is staying at our apartment while we gallivant about California. It seems that the pipes in our bathroom are leaking. The super and a maintenance dude came over to poke about, and after ripping up the linen closet (and patching it back up), concluded that the walls and floors of the bathroom need to be torn open to fix the problem. Work is to commence on Friday, Jan. 2 and hopefully will conclude on Monday, Jan. 5, which is my first day of work and I was already a nervous wreck about it before I learned that I won't have a functional bathroom that day.

I rang in the new year today by nearly breaking the toilet in the hotel. The result of my spontaneous self-cleansing strongly resembled an eel. Steph warned me yesterday morning that the toilet was not as powerful as it should be. ("It took me three flushes and a lot of hoping. I almost started looking around for a wire hanger, but then figured that this place was too fancy. A wooden hanger would work," she explained, "but wire hangers can be bent so that you can get as far away from the shit as possible, whereas a wooden hanger, it is what it is.") I thought about my honeymoon trip to London in August 2001 and how I had broken the toilet with a shit brick, and then feared that my eel turd would be even worse. Fortunately, it went down in two flushes and nothing resurfaced. Whew!

Happy new year and shit...

An Expensive Way to End 2008

Bubble bath and champagne, anyone? The menu only starts at $525...

Happy New Year!

Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings: A Review

In a previous post, I discussed the difference between earned and entitled. (Quick recap: to earn something means that one worked for it and deserves to be compensated for the effort and results; to be entitled means that one did nothing productive or positive but for some reason believes that they should be compensated anyway.) It seems that the same people who caused the global financial collapse still do not understand this important distinctions between the two words.

A headline in yesterday's New York Times Business Section read, "Bonus Season Afoot, Wall Street Tries for a Little Restraint. Tries? Well, par-done-ay moi, aren't you the same assholes who paid yourselves billions of dollars in bonuses over the last few years? You shitheads are lucky there aren't mobs with pitchforks outside your mansions, calling for your heads. You are going to have to "try" a little harder.

The article does note that the top echelons of executives are foregoing bonuses this year, even though they worked very hard all year. Now, here is a prime example of the difference between "earned" and "entitled." At least, in theory, the honchos who destroyed the nation and assisted in rendering people homeless through the sale of shitty mortgages earned their salaries through hard work. To insist that one also gets a bonus for such poor performance is a demonstration that one feels entitled to wealth that one did not earn. In fact, all these fucks should be fired. Their assets should be seized to repay as much of the taxpayers' cost of bailing out their banks as possible.

One line in the article cracked me up:

“Clearly they’re trying to spread the pain out a little bit,” said John Pierson, president of 10X Partners, a finance recruiting firm in New York. “But if I worked at Morgan Stanley and was looking at this, I would not be happy.”

Oh, poor executives who earned billions of dollars over the last few years! It brings a fucking tear to my eye to think about how you'll just have to live on your six or seven figure salaries alone this year, and even in future years, now that bonuses will be stingily parceled out over a longer term to match it to performance, forcing you to demonstrate that you earned your compensation! Such sacrifice!

In the "Holy Shit!" Department

Illinois government has always been corrupt, as my dad pointed out when I called him this morning, but this really (literally) takes the cake:

Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich taken into federal custody for attempting to sell Obama's Senate seat, among other disgusting abuses of power and appalling and vile corrupt acts.

I'm traveling to Chicago to visit my family this weekend. It should be an interesting time.

A Letter to the American Catholic Church

Dear Powers that Be in the American Catholic Church:

I read today in the New York Times that you are urging your bishops to challenge Obama regarding legal abortion. While obviously you have the right to free speech and to advocate for your religious interests, please remember that this is not the Vatican City nor Europe. In fact, the same amendment that permits you to urge your bishops to challenge Obama also says that you don't have the right to force your religious beliefs and practices on the population through the government.

I find your constant bitching about legal abortion to be hypocritical. I understand that you feel that a fertilized egg is equivalent to a life. However, I cannot understand why a woman who would otherwise die if she were not given an abortion is not considered a life worth saving. When you advocate to ban abortion, you don't make exceptions for women who would die without one. This infuriates me because it shows me that you could not care less about the lives of actual people who happen to be female. Once a female fetus is born, you write off her right to life.

Also, when you threaten to excommunicate or withhold communion for politicians who represent their constituents who believe that abortion is a personal decision based on a woman's religious beliefs and moral values, and not from politicians who support the death penalty based on their constituents' belief that it is OK for the state to kill people that we are pretty sure committed murder, I don't believe that you value all life equally. If it is wrong to take a life, why aren't you pulling the same punches with death penalty supporters? Or, for that matter, politicians who deny health insurance to children, which certainly leads to at least some deaths per year?

Quite frankly, all your double standards, combined with your parent church's 2,000 year history of enthusiastically killing Jewish people (or at least keeping quiet when other people do), provides you with no moral authority to lecture Obama, me, or anyone about the value of life. Please stop interfering in my democratically elected government.

Sincerely,
Suzanne Reisman

Workshop

Tonight my story about developing breasts and how boobs have affected me over time will be workshopped in class. I am excited, but also nervous. The good news is that a few people already mentioned that they enjoyed reading it. (Right after I submitted my work two weeks ago, I convinced myself that I would be asked to leave the program.) Mostly, I look forward to hearing what people think I can do to make it a richer piece, but I am also relieved that at least a few people found it funny.

If I am lucky, I will avoid the same fate I suffered in class last Wednesday. My mysterious digestive ailment reared its ugly head earlier that week, plaguing me with acid reflux and cramps. The cramps and gas pockets were particularly painful on Wednesday night, and it is only a testament to how much I enjoy my literature class that I was able to focus on the discussion while simultaneously worrying that I might literally shit myself.

During the peak of my mysterious digestive ailment, I often worried that I might poop my pants, but I had never done so. As I gathered my belongings and dashed out of the classroom last Wednesday, I felt wetness on my ass. Two possible explanations ran through my head: 1. I got my period early (please, please, please); or 2. anal leakage. Whatever it was, I prayed that I did not reek. The two women who walked out with me did not seem to notice anything, so I took that as a good sign. All I can say is that I subsequently learned that anal leakage does not smell. Sigh.

The World is Ending!

For years, I've said that a Cubs victory in the World Series is a sign of the apocalypse. We have a potential global financial meltdown just over the horizon. The Cubs are about to begin the first round of playoffs...

I'm conflicted. I so want to the Cubs to win, although I wouldn't mind an end to the horrific acid reflux that torments me at this moment, maybe the end of the world is overkill. Seriously folks, I'm not ready for the world to end. I've got a few books opportunities in the pipeline, I want to savor another Mars bar, and I have never visited Spain.

Yipes.

Good-Bye, Shea Stadium. Hello, Wrigley Field - Go Cubs!

With three outs left until the sad end of the Mets 2008 season, I am not very hopeful that there will be a post season. Husband says that if this leads to the dismissal of horrific team general manager Omar Minaya, he can live with yet another year in which the Mets crumple in September. Plus I will need not be conflicted about my desire to see the Cubs win the World Series for the first time in 100 years with my status as a committed Mets fan. (Had the Mets won the wild card, they would face the Cubs in the first round of playoffs.)

That said, I look forward to watching the Cubs crush the Phillies in the second round of post season play. To repeat one of my favorite childhood ditties, "Go Cubs go!/Go Cubs go!/Hey, Chicago, whaddya say?/The Cubs are gonna win today!/Go Cubs go!"

Ghosts

For years, Dr. P and I were close friends with Dr. P's roommate (DRM). After graduation, DRM went to grad school in the Boston area, Dr. P attended med school in NYC, as I enrolled in a masters program at Columbia University. Although we were somewhat scattered up and down the east coast, we kept in close touch with one another and a few other NYU pals (including Dr. F, who was in dental school at the time) through a listserv that we called laterchicas because Dr. P always ended her email with the phrase, "Later chicas."

It's hard to emphasize how much I valued laterchicas as I struggled to fit in at Columbia. Every break I had from class, I ran to the computer lab to check and see what the word was from my chicas. Those were good times.

Not long after I graduated from Columbia and got married, DRM dropped out of our lives with no explanation, although Dr. P and I suspect that it had something to do with her plans to marry a man she only knew for a few months. Over the last eight years, Dr. P and I have speculated about what happened and what she was up to. Then last night, she friended me on Facebook. While I am happy to hear from her and glad that she now has a lovely family, it really opened an old wound. I hope that we can resolve the past and rebuild our relationship.

On a not at all serious note, but continuing the theme of hauntings, I publicly announce that the Mets are dead to me for the remaining two games in the 2008 season. I spit on their symbolic team grave. If they somehow resurrect themselves and qualify for the post-season, I will now feel no conflict about cheering the Cubs to victory.

Un-Conventional

I was just starting to recover this morning from my post Democratic Convention hang over (I ate 2.5 many cupcakes in a pathetic attempt to savor the sweet taste of victory) when I read that McCain chose Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin to be his running mate. She's about as qualified as I am for high office (OK, she's slightly more qualified in that she is Constitutionally old enough and I am not) except that she has more scandals. But I find it depressing.

I'm scared for the future. Good thing I ate another 1.25 cupcakes for breakfast before I read the news.

Update, 7:23 PM EST: I feel a little bit better about the situation now. I saw her speak, and she was as inspiring as a dead salmon pulled from a river polluted by oil drilling. Further, some of the arguments of her supporters are cracking me up. Someone actually suggested that she has a lot of foreign policy expertise because she shares a border with Canada. Not to dis Canada, which I am sure if a tough negotiator on road access or whatever, but that just makes me laugh. I'm taking a deep breath, and waiting to see what happens.

Goodbye, Marylebone Road...

For a variety of reasons, the London move is 99.9% dead. I am bummed. My visions of life in London were rather exciting. Husband and I spent hours scouring the internet looking at neighborhoods, and we loved Marylebone. I pictured the delicious candy bars I would consume every day. Unlike in the US, the community development field is growing in London. (I think.) Plus, I could use the time to write Off the Beaten (Tube) Track. How much fun that would be!

At the same time, it certainly makes life easier. I won't have to live apart from Husband at all in 2009, which is very good. Not eating delicious candy bars every day is much better for my health. Finding employment in New York when I plan to live here year round will be easier than when I planned to spend my winter and summer breaks in London. Another big plus is that we won't go broke.

Still, dreams die hard. I'm hoping that Husband will get another opportunity to work in London in the near future. Until then, Elton John's lament plays in my head. Oooooh ooooh oooooh...

Shit that Pisses Me Off

A quick list of shit that is vexing me:

Al Qaeda Warrior Uses Internet to Rally Women - According to the NY Times, a woman who benefits from the freedom's the west offers her - and who absorbed the lessons of feminism and demands to be heard - is blogging for jihad against the hand that feeds her. My favorite part is how she refuses to believe women in Afghanistan that the Taliban regime discriminated against them. When I read things like this, I just despair for humanity. Dealing with ignorance is one thing. Dealing with willful, crazy ignorance is another, and impossible. You can't reason with people like this.

People still are using interest-only mortgages to buy homes that they clearly cannot afford. In the past two weeks, I reviewed two applications to buy apartments in my co-op that were so far out of the buyers' budgets that I could only laugh hysterically. Yet there they were, acting as if there is no mortgage gimmick crisis going on in the nation. In fact, why shouldn't they get to live in places that are completely above their means? Waiting until you can actually afford something is so old-fashioned. You only live once, so who cares if you take down the responsible fuddy-duddies like me when you default?

The Minnesota Supreme Court screwed the child care industry by redefining what it means to be a nonprofit organization. Of course, their reason was faulty and lacked any knowledge of the economics of child care, which is a classic example of a market failure. Anyone who wants to be depressed can read my explanation of the pathetic situation ("Why Child Care is a Non-Profit Enterprise, Sliding Fee Scales Be Damned") at Just Cause.

Bah. Later I'll write about how I eyed a puddle of vomit on the subway platform like vomit.

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

Hippos Lurk, But So Does Happiness

After my trip to the Bung Hole wine bar yesterday, I figured that I was due for some good news today. Initially, I was disappointed. Returning to work, I discovered that my the grant that my new employer uses to fund my position was revoked while I was gone last week. There's a chance that the funder will be convinced to give it back to them, but I won't know until tomorrow or Thursday. Cool.

When I got home from work this evening, there was still no word from either graduate program that I applied to. However, my answering machine did contain the best news possible: Monkey Girl said that Count Mockula had her baby in the wee hours of the morning! Both mom and baby are doing well. (And MG: I can't find your number, so can you email it to me or call me back?) Yay!

My advice to Zadie is to stay away from hippos. Although they look very peaceful lying around in pools of mud, they can suddenly creep up and tip your canoe. Or at the very last, scare the crap out of you with their bad teeth, which makes me think of that hilarious shark from the Strange Wilderness commercial.

The Picture Says It All

After losing my planned post for BlogHer yesterday, which was infuriating (I re-wrote it and posted it today), my fucking piece of shit laptop lost an article that I worked on for almost four hours this most delightful afternoon. This was partially my fault, as I forgot to save it as another document after I downloaded it, but I did save it about 400 times while I worked on it, so I'm not sure why it never showed up in the temp file.


That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. As for the restaurant, I am curious who would eat at a place with such a name. Fascinating.