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.

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.

Tits are Expensive

Back in November, I discovered that one of my bras went missing. It was very disconcerting, and not in the least because replacing it would cost me $68. I grit my teeth, chalked up my loss, and vowed to guard its fraternal twin (the missing bra was white; the remaining one beige) carefully.

So it was with enormous regret that I realized this week that my remaining fancy bra also disappeared. What the fuck? Where are these bras going? I looked everywhere: in the laundry, under my bed, on my rocking chair, in suitcases, in my undies drawer, and it was the same damn thing. The bra was gone without a trace. (Man, that would be a good episode of Without a Trace, watching Anthony LaPaglia and co. chase down missing items of clothing.)

Now that I lost another good bra, I had to buy replacements. I moseyed over to the old lady bra shop near my apartment. The type of place where the salespeople have been measuring women for bras since the bra was invented. Not only did I nearly faint from the sticker price - $142!!!!! - but I also was displeased to learn that I required a larger cup size.* Breasts certainly come at a high price, my friends.

*Interestingly, the bra I wore while shopping was deemed to fit perfectly, and I bought that one around the same time as the ones gone missing. It seems the manufacturer is making their boobie supports smaller rather than "Leon getting larger."**

**A hilarious quote from Airplane. I do not actually refer to my boobs as Leon, although now that I made this joke, I may begin to do so.

Health Care Denied!

As I've mentioned before, my mom battled and thankfully survived breast cancer approximately 30 years ago. In recent years, she tested negative for the breast cancer gene, but my sister and I are still considered at higher risk to develop breast cancer because my mom had it. Of course, that does not mean we will inevitably get it, but it does mean we need to be more cautious.

Thus I had my first mammogram was performed about seven years ago. I also see a breast surgeon for an exam every six months. The funny thing about mammograms, though, is the more you have over the course of your life, the more exposed to radiation you are in an area that should be protected from radiation. So while mammograms can save lives, they can also increase your risk of your tits being chopped off because you had so many mammograms. Damn, life is complicated.

Anyway, two mammograms ago, the radiologist suggested that I stop doing mammograms and have a breast MRI instead. The breast surgeon thought that wouldn't be helpful yet. My friend Dr. P (who is a colo-rectal surgeon - yeah, she cuts up assholes - ha ha ha) explained that MRIs are so sensitive that everything looks like it could be a lump and so many people wind up with unnecessary biopsies as a result. This year when I visited the breast surgeon, he prescribed an MRI for me.

Long story short, it was supposed to be on Tuesday morning, but the insurance company was "waiting for more information from the doctor," so I rescheduled it for tomorrow. Yesterday the radiology center called to tell me that the insurance company rejected the request. I can appeal the decision, and last night my mom offered to submit her pathology report on my behalf if it will help. Somehow I suspect the insurance company won't find it compelling. I guess I'll see what happens. They may think it is cheaper for me to get later stage cancer (as I may not be their problem at that point) than to pay for the fucking MRI.

And that my friends, is preventative health care in America.

We Apologize for the Delay in Awkward Photos

Here at Case de CUSS, computer issues crop up every once in a while. Sometimes they are not really issues at first, but then they turn out to be issues that leave a computer in several pieces. This usually (only) occurs when Husband decides to "upgrade" something, and while the fix should be simple, it goes slightly awry and takes him 40 times longer to finish than he originally anticipated. The scanned pictures are stored away in the laptop under repair, which Husband advised me not to use unless I really had to.

Hence, eager mockers will need to wait a bit for the pinnacle of my primary school photos, Eighth Grade: Year of the Naturally Enormous Hair. Many of you will be sad to discover that eighth grade ended the Dynasty of Ginormous Glasses because I began wearing contacts. It's unfortunate, too, because not long after my 7th grade photo was snapped, I broke the glasses I wore in that picture. (Long story short: I gave a speech at my friend Rachel's bat mitzvah - although I don't think I wore that sweatshirt/skirt combo, but rather a green dress with black polka dots and a bubble skirt that layered over a straight black skirt which I very badly wish I had a picture of to share, but now I am digressing in my digression - and I took a very deep bow after I was done singing her praises. Unfortunately, during the bow my face smashed into the back of chair and snapped the glasses in half at then nose bridge.) The new glasses I bought were even bigger, but had clear frames. My sister, who is four years younger than me, also wore oversize spectacles in the Sally Jesse Raphael way that was so popular with 3rd graders in those years. (With her permission, I think I need to scan some pictures of Dana in her frames.*)

Anyway, since Husband always eventually successfully finishes the computer projects he begins (once in college he put a new motherboard in his PC, only to discover that the case was too small to contain it and, with his computer geek roommate, devised a solution involving electrical tape and a hammer to get things in), I am sure that my laptop will be running faster than ever by the end of the week. Or 2009. In the meantime, this will give my mom time to catch up and correct my faulty memories.

*Damn, we should start a blog collective to which people can submit photos of themselves in huge glasses. That would be fun. I think I will do so and I'll call it Super '80s Prodigious Eyeglasses X-travaganza (SPEX).

Guantanamo May Be on an Island, But It's No Hawaii

Living in Manhattan is generally great because I don't have to drive anywhere to accomplish daily tasks. This is not such a good thing, however, when it is 27 degrees with a fierce wind. I'm spending most of the day running drugs - er, I mean, errands - so I sort of wish that I had a nice warm car that I could retreat to while I go from store to store. Oh well. It'll only make me appreciate the warm breezes in Hawaii all the more.

Assuming, of course, that I make it to the Aloha State. As I was chatting with Dianne on the phone this morning, I heard the annoying digital beeping of an alarm clock. "What the fuck is that?" I thought, and wandered around the apartment until I traced it to the bulging backpack that Husband packed for the trip. The sound came from somewhere deep inside. "Fuck, I'm going to have to dig through it," I told Dianne.

That's when I saw the orange blinking light. "Aha!" I pulled it out. The alarm was still beeping inside the backpack and I was holding a survivalist flashlight with crank charging mechanism, AM/FM radio, and blinking orange light functions. It occurred to me how fucked up this would look going through airport security if an alarm went off and a light began blinking in the bag.

Cutting to the Chase

For a variety of reasons, I recommed not holding a bris on a very cold day in Chicago. (Insert your own immature shrinkage joke here.) My personal bias against frosty bris events is that I will have to drive to them. Since I don't normally drive, I will forget that cold weather means that ice forms on windshields. Then I will be 10 minutes late to the bris because I didn't budget enough time to scrape the windshield clear.

When I finally did arrive at my friend's parents' apartment for the bris, there was a little sign on the door telling people to leave shoes and boots in the hall. As I removed my non-snow appropriate leather boots, I heard the baby crying. "Shit," I thought. "I'm missing the first bris I was ever invited to." I knocked on the door and discovered that the ceremony was just starting, but no cutting was yet happening. The baby was just crying for no reason. Or maybe it was because he saw the contraption that babies get strapped into for the procedure. I'd cry, too.

Since I arrive late, I hovered in the doorway behind the table that the circumcision was being performed on. The mohl (a rabbi who specializes in foreskin removal, which I possibly spelled wrong) took the baby's pants off. His little socks came off at the the same time, and the mohl put them back on, explaining that he didn't want the baby's feet to be exposed and cold. We all shared a hearty laugh. Then the baby was strapped into the stabilizing contraption. He didn't like this and began crying. More things that I could not see took place, although at one point I noticed a clamp thing. If I had a penis, I'd probably cross my legs at that point. The baby's crying never intensified, so I was surprised when he was declared kosher (not the mohl's words) a few seconds later. Grandpa gave baby a wine soaked cloth to suck on, and soon the kid was peacefully asleep. Happy words were spoken by a non-mohl lady rabbi, the guests sang a happy song in Hebrew which I knew half the words to (they also sing it at the end of Jewish wedding ceremonies), and then the eating commenced.

After hanging around for a while, I left the bris and headed over to Granny's. Since she usually keeps the temperature in her house somewhere in the 80s so that she can hang around in her "diaphonous dusters" (as my mom described them) with no undies on, I brought a t-shirt to change into. I was quite surprised when she answered the door fully clad in a sweatshirt and pants. "I turned the heat down a bit so you wouldn't be too hot," Granny explained as I hugged her. (When I told this to my mom later, she said that I must be my Granny's favorite person in the world, as she turns the heat down and dresses for nobody.)

We had a very pleasant visit, except for when I found out that she leases three telephones from AT&T for $27 a month. The woman struggles with money, and she's throwing away over $300 a year on phone rentals?!?! I felt like she was a victim of elder abuse (who else fucking rents phones?), and made her promise me that she would cancel the lease and return the phones if I bought her ones. Sigh. Then I ate too much chocolate, which was left over from the stash we brought her back from our August 2005 trip to Israel. Although it expired in June 2006, it was still delicious.

Tomorrow morning, I plan to share a fashion epiphany that struck me last night as I was dozing off. (Not long after that, I decided that I needed a snack and nearly died in the kitchen, where I swear my feet froze to the floor, but I digress.) In the afternoon, I'm taking Bubbe to lunch and then to return a down coat that she bought a few weeks ago, which she insists all the feathers came out of after only two wears. (I believe this based on my own coat.) I also hope to pick up a new pair of Dansko clogs. Then I'm going to see my friends Rachel and Jenny for dinner. Sadly, Sister and Sister's Husband will not be coming in from Iowa, as it is supposed to snow like a mad motherfucker. Bah.

Priests Are So Sexy

Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) searched high and low for an appropriate souvenir for me while they were on their honeymoon in Italy. Their original idea was to purchase a fancy Venetian glass figurine of a beaver for me. After learning the Italian word for beaver (castoro), they asked at many shops, and many shop keepers laughed. They learned that castoro can also mean "goatee," which is fascinating, but not helpful to their quest. No one made glass beavers. (Incidentally, they did get a cute glass pussy for Mother in Law...)

Since no glass beavers were to be secured, they bought me the next best thing:



Your eyes do not deceive you. This is the cover photo from a sexy priest calendar.

"We thought this was a Steph-worthy gift," BiL said proudly as he handed me the calendar. SiL beamed.

My jaw hit the ground. Other than stammering, "Damn! This is the most perverse gift I've ever received," over and over again, I was speechless. Well done, BiL and SiL. Well done.

No, No, NO! Not Cosi!

My non-blogging friend Sara (as opposed to my friend Sara who blogs) recently mentioned off hand that Cosi bread is atrociously unhealthy. Not that I go to Cosi often, but every once in awhile I do crave me a nice flatbread sandwich. They give baby carrots on the side, so how bad could it be?

I'm sure you know that questions like, "how bad could it be?" should never be posed because the answer is inevitably "very bad." If you were in my apartment with me when I decided to look up the nutritional information of various Cosi sandwiches, you would stop me, noting, "Ignorance is bliss." Then you would gently pat my hand and we would laugh. So where the fuck were you yesterday afternoon? (I know, I know. I can't really blame anyone for the impending disaster except for myself.)

My favorite Cosi item, the tuna sandwich with excellent cheddar, is nearly one thousand calories. Help me! My eyes are bleeding in horror! (Fortunately, the blood is metaphorical so that I can see to type this.) Dude, if I am going to consume 956 calories and 55 grams of fat from one item, it is going to be from a big, fat slice of cheesecake (the kind with a thin layer of sour cream on top - yum), not a motherfucking tuna sandwich!

This really ruins everything. Pout.

My Eyes are Still Stinging

Based on anecdotal evidence, adults seize upon Halloween as an opportunity to display their "wild" sides. Nationwide, the availability of "sexy" costumes in stores seems to be higher each year, sometimes making it impossible to find anything remotely covering unless you make it yourself. In New York City, however, this unfortunately provides a convenient and unacceptable excuse for individuals to not wear pants/skirts. Or underwear.

I knew I was in for a night when, on my way to a community Halloween party in the East Village, I observed several women whose costumes consisted of shirts. How men's dress shirts with sparkly purses as accessories are costumes is beyond me. I dodged several of these mysteries along with countless "sexy" pirates until I met my friends (one was Mighty Mouse and the other a vampire disco guy) and we went to a gay dive bar where no one really wore costumes. My cronies loved that I was going to a gay bar dressed as a bride.

After I drank a stiff Diet Coke (it was flat), we headed to the party. It was an all day event at a community theater center. Scott and Mark had already been there for a little while before they left for stronger drinks at the bar, and they warned me that a naked man was wandering around the party. I spotted him as soon we entered the lobby. "Oh, shit!" I told my friends upon seeing his extremely furry naked torso. "I know this guy!" He was the naked guy contestant in the Mr. Lower East Side pageant that I attended in October 2005.

The whole night I marveled at the weirdness of recognizing that guy. Many other men were wearing minimal amounts of clothing, but I thought that Naked Guy had the biggest balls to go full monty. After I downed a watery glass of apple juice at the bar, it was time for the costume contest. Who could beat the Naked Guy?

Unfortunately, Naked Guy with Elephantitis of the Scrotum could. When he walked across the stage with his softball-sized nut sac, I realized that I needed to wash my eyes out with soap when I got home to rid myself of the vision. Further, I had a bad feeling I knew him, too. At the same Mr. Lower East Side pageant, the previous years' winner of the title "Best Nut Sac" was a man spoken wonderously of as "Tommy Nut Sac." I suspect that was who I set my eyes on during the costume parade.

Now there's inherently nothing wrong with men who have sacs that are 15 times larger than normal ones, I just don't want to see them live and in person for the most part. (That's what medical history museums are for!) I was fairly repulsed when the guy won for "Best Erotic Costume." A naked man with a giant sac does not equal erotic in my not-especially-selective book. The stiff Diet Coke and weak apple juice just weren't enough to make me lower my not-so-high standards.

Name Change

Remember how I was all against changing my name when I got married? Well, nothing is different there. However, I did discover that my book was assigned an ISBN number, and the author credited with writing the master pizza (as I like to call it) is Susanne Reisman. Check it out on Amazon.com. Houston, we have a big fucking problem.

I'm only freaking out a little bit. OK, that is a lie. I am in full on spazz mode.

Let Sleeping Rabbits Lie

I want to go to bed, but I hate to interrupt Tycho the giant rabbit as he peacefully slumbers on the FAO Schwartz fake bear skin rug under the coffee table.



Gosh darn it, isn't he the cutest enormous white bunny you've ever seen?* Subsequently, he bonded with the rug by spastically licking its ear. Either that or he was eating for crumbs.



This is what happens when Husband is out of town.
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*It seems that the two videos of Tycho that took forever to upload are not appearing here, which is seriously pissing me off. Oh videos, where are you? Why Blogger must you torment me by claiming that you uploaded the files of my adorable pet rabbit and then refusing to let other people see him as he has a bunny dream and then tongues the ear off a fake bear rug? Evil, evil service.

Suzanne, The Busy Beaver*

I forgot to note that the wedding I went to was for one of Husband's co-workers, hence we drove for 5 hours plus with three of his colleagues and sat for another four hours with almost everyone from his office, including the boss man. The boss man is someone I am always nervous around for a variety of reasons. First, he used to have a photo of himself with Karl Rove prominently displayed. Terrifying. Then, I fear that I will say or do something totally inappropriate and make Husband's situation uncomfortable. Remember, I can't even get through a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development without sighing and rolling my eyes. Can you imagine what spending time with someone who admires one of Satan's prime henchman is like for me?

Thus when boss man's very kind wife asked me what I was up to these days and I started talking about my book (for which I have launched an extremely lame temporary blog until I can work with the publisher to get something spiffier and more official), it was a relief. However, that led me to admit that the next travel book I want to do is "Medical History Museums of the United States and the World," which would be absurdly expensive to write given the international travel component and probably find a very limited audience. That audience seems to include boss man, as we wound up avidly discussing medical history for 15 minutes while everyone at the table stared at us. It seems that most people don't like thinking about the horrors of non-modern medicine while they try to eat steak and crab-stuffed shrimp. Ooops.

Anyway, back to beavers. Answers to my long ago posted question (What the fuck do people think they will find when they google "jewish pussy?") continue to trickle in. I found these two responses in my inbox this morning:

It's simple. I am a Jewish man who appreciates Jewish women and want to see Jewish pussy which physicall is no different than any other I suppose except that it is connected to Jewish women. I think it is like any other ethnic, cultural fascination, hence porn site dedicated to Latinas, Blacks, or Indian women. It's the pussy I prefer and I have a hunch it's the same reason for the other hits you've received.

On to the second comment:

I want to see photographs of nice naked Jewish women up close and personal. I like pubic hair and good personal hygiene. My life is empty.

I hate to shatter the illusion, but just because something is labeled "Jewish pussy" doesn't mean the models are actually Jewish. Some probably are, but given the general dearth of Jewish women in the world, I tend to doubt that the vast majority of "Jewish" porn truly features Jews. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's my point: how the fuck do you know what "Jewish" pussy looks like compared to gentile pussy? It's just not possible to tell. (And as I learn more and more about the Jewish Diaspora, it's important to note that not all Jews are white. But I digress.) I did laugh my ass off at that "My life is empty" line. Dude, I write about unshaved snatch and spend time analyzed people's comments about their online Jewish pussy fetishes. What does that say about my life? Oy vey....

Thanks to Des for her comment on the last post for this hilarious title.

Busy, Busy, Busy and Ewwww

Not that other people aren't super busy and finding time to blog, but this weekend was a little bit over the top for me. Yesterday Husband and I left at noon for the wedding of his coworker. It was supposed to take two hours to drive there, but thanks to weather and traffic, we arrived 3 hours and 15 minutes later, just in time to see the wedding party posing for post-ceremony pictures. We killed time at a bar across the street until the reception began at 5 pm.

After four hours of food and fun at the reception, we headed home. This time it took slightly under two hours. However, that means that I spent more time in the car in the lovely dress that I spent too much money on at Filene's Basement than I did at the wedding itself. This is not entirely bad, as it was sort of low cut and I felt self-conscious in it. Still, it was cute. Hopefully I will get to wear it again sometime soon and take a picture in it. In two weeks, I'll be at yet another wedding, but am going to wear something else.

Today, Husband left for a business trip to London and Milan. (While I hate that he will be gone this week, he is giddy that it is another chance for him to accumulate frequent flier miles that we can use for personal travel in the future.) I took the bus to exciting Hellertown, PA, where I met my friend Steph and spent a freezing afternoon at the Dorney Park amusement park. Happily we capped the evening off at Waffle House. Even burning my waffle and putting cheese under the grits so that it melted onto the bowl as much as the grits ("What did you expect?" Steph asked as I grumbled about the stupidity that would lead someone to put cheese on the bottom. "This isn't the South; they don't understand.") could not spoil the deliciousness of the meal.

My bus back to New York was 30 minutes late. It seems that the highway between the first stop and Hellertown was reduced from three lanes to one. When the bus arrived, the driver proudly told me that he "applied some K-Y Jelly to slide through traffic" to get there. Um, that is an image I didn't need. And you probably didn't, either.

A few days ago, I read a blog post somewhere (my brain is beyond fried, so I have no idea where, sorry) about how women want to be taken seriously and not judged solely based on their looks. This statement made a lot of sense to me. Then I read one of the comments, in which the writer begged to differ that women don't want to be objectified. Compelling evidence was presented in the number of plastic surgery procedures conducted on women each year. When I read that, I sighed because I can't really disagree with that point entirely.

Sure, there are a lot of reasons why women undergo plastic surgery. Even I submitted to the knife, although it had nothing to do with how I looked. (Only plastic surgeons do breast reduction procedures and I needed to unload half my chest before my damn shoulders and back caved in from the weight dragging me down in front. I honestly thought I would look worse after the surgery. I'm happy that I was wrong.) Can we really separate out the effects of living in a world that so values feminine beauty and sexiness (demonstrated by only a very small variety of body types) with someone wanting plastic surgery for her own self-esteem? I don't know. For example, there are a number of women I know who chose to get breast surgery after having a baby so that they could look like they did before pregnancy changed their bodies. That doesn't strike me as buying into some beauty myth since they were just trying to return to themselves.

It's hard not to want to look good in a world that places so much value on looking good. While I put about zero effort into my appearance, it doesn't mean that I don't obsess about it, too. I know that I will never have a flat stomach and lean thighs. It is just not my body type, and wrangling myself into a shape that is unnatural for me would mean that I could never eat ice cream, cake, or cheese. No thanks. At the same time, I cringe when I look at my "big" hips in the mirror or when I notice my bulging thighs when I am sitting down. I don't care enough to wear make-up, shave my legs, do my hair, or strut in high heels let alone get plastic surgery, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't want to be considered attractive.

Are there any women out there who don't worry about their looks? Do women care much more about how they look than men? Statistics tell us that increasingly this is not the case. Still, I have to agree with both the blog poster (we want to be judged on our abilities) and the commenter (we want to be objectified). We live in a world that splits women in half. What we want and what we can achieve within its social structures make us schizo. As a result, generally, most women want to be judged for their abilities and objectified. It's fucked up.

$&%#@!

The topic of swearing is on my mind lately. In addition to polishing off my book about unusual things to see and do in NYC (which, in all of its 42,000 or so words, does not include one swear - can you believe it?!?), I'm working on a writing portfolio to submit as part of my graduate writing program applications. It's a story about the (in retrospect) hilarious awfulness of puberty. Not surprisingly, I developed a foul mouth at a young age. Although I was otherwise a wimp, my willingness to say really bad words made me at least a little bit intimidating. Kids build the best defense systems they can. Swearing became an odd badge of pride, and I only got more creative with my cursing over time.

However, in a funny post about swearing by Heather over at BlogHer, she cites a study that finds that women are penalized for swearing. The study found:

The study also points to gender issues and an apparent double standard of men's swearing compared with women's cursing. "Female swearers are often perceived to be of a low moral standing," the researchers noted. Men, on the other hand, can generate reverence from swearing, though they tend to tone down the use of profanity in front of women.

Can you believe that fucking shit? Motherfuckers revere men for their creative use of swearing, but bitches like me get fucked for calling someone a assfuck shitbrain? Low moral standing my ass. And if any cockface thinks that he needs to temper his language for my tender ears, he can suck my big fat dick. If that is not a big steaming pile of maggot infested shit, I don't know what is.

Actually, I think I got away with swearing at work because I look so sweet and innocent. Instead of responding to my inappropriate comments with horror, my co-workers found it amusing that such invective emanated from my little face. By the end of my tenure at my last job, I was completely out of control with the shit that came from my tongue. That was as much the result of my utter frustration as anything else, but I was curious how much shit I could say before anyone called me on it. No one ever told me to tone it down. Interesting.

The Week in Preview

Is October almost halfway over already? Sometimes time crawls by on its hands and knees like a dehydrated person seeking rehydration pills from a crabby pharmacist in a horrid chain pharmacy. Other times, it passes me by like all those assholes who refuse to stop their cars at red lights.

Sorry, I got carried away for a moment there. The point is that October is almost over and that means that this upcoming weekend is my brother-in-law's wedding. In terms of how that affects the hilarious stories that I strive to write for CUSS, I am happy to announce that the whole mispucha (the entire gang, i.e. - my whole family) will be trekking out east for the celebration. Yes, everyone - Mom, Dad, Bubbe, Granny, Sister, and Sister's Husband. (And of course cousin Rebecca will be there too, although she only has to take the train down from her school in Westchester County.) There is no doubt in my mind that stories will be generated. I'll build the anticipation by pointing out that Bubbe has been looking forward to meeting my 13 lb. pet rabbit Tycho for five years, and that she used to raise and cook rabbits when she was a girl in the Old Country.

This week I also hope to complete my second draft of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (I finished the first draft last Wednesday and wound up my pen-and-paper revisions on Friday.) I'm fairly happy with what I've got. The goal is to write something that is fun, amusing, and informatively inspiring, and I think I did a good job with that. Things need to be prettied up, though, before I have to turn it into the publisher on Nov. 1, which will be here before I know it.

To prove how quickly time flies, on Monday morning I'll be going to the grand opening ribbon cutting of an affordable housing development with a child care center. It seems like just yesterday that I had a job in which I provided a small grant for the child care portion, then stood with my friend Maria in a treeless empty lot on a 110 degree day while politicians spent 10 minutes each talking about how their speeches will be short because it is so hot out during the groundbreaking ceremony. Things have changed so quickly. It's amazing.

The Magic Number is 92

My cold is 92% over. When I finally printed a clean list of all the places that are included in the book, I realized that I miscounted how many there were. (Too many side notes all over the sheets threw me off.) There are 100 sites (how coincidentally round!) and as of yesterday, I wrote about 92 of them. I can take the afternoon off with a clean conscience.

My friend Hanah is in town for her brother's wedding. We have been friends since 1990 (not a 92, but close), although we've lived in the same place for only four of those years. Last night as I thought about our friendship, I cracked up as I recalled writing letters to her during my English class while I was a high school senior and she was a freshman in college. Letters! Who writes letters these days? I could not wait to go to college myself and get one of those new-fangled "e-mail" accounts. Given my reliance on email now, those days seem like 92 light-years ago.

This afternoon, Hanah and I plan to wander around the city and sample chocolate, then have tea. How civilized. I can't wait to see her.

One Year Later

One year ago today, at about this time, I packed up the Powerpuff Girl figurines, the pictures of Husband and my sister, and a squishy stress-relief ball shaped like a green paper advertising the Child Care and Adult Food Program, and I left my job at a nonprofit community development financial reinstitution after nearly five years. It took me two years and two previous attempts to quit, but mounting frustration, seething rage, and desperation at working in an agency that took 40 cents of every dollar that I fundraised to cover overhead costs while offering me absolutely zero support took its toll. Every year I received glowing reviews from my direct and indirect bosses about how I continually exceeded expectations and single-handedly oversaw a program to build more child care center for low income kids in New York City, but not once was I ever offered a job promotion or job title that reflected the full amount of work I performed. While my peers and externally partners respected me, I was rewarded with suspicion and wrath from the upper echelons of the agency for not fundraising enough to cover their five-figure bonuses and six-figure salaries. (This is not secret info, by the way: it is all public in the agency's Form 990.)

My bosses liked to tell people that I left to write my book about unusual things to see in do in New York City, and that is partly true. Within 8 months, a small publisher in Nashville bought my book, I published several articles in local newspapers, and began writing a memoir about puberty and other bodily betrayals. Not working for those wretched fucks improved my mood for the first time in years, but I didn't fully escape their tentacles. Since these wonderful accomplishments didn't pay very much and I felt guilty about living off my husband (something I swore from a young age that I would never do), I agreed to consult for a City agency, working closely with my friend who took my old job. Obviously, there has not yet be enough distance for me to get over my experience yet.

Still, today is a day I am celebrating because I took important steps toward a new career. I indulged in a piece of guava bizcocho Dominicano, a traditional yellow cake with frosting so sweet that I actually felt the sugar granules in the neon pink frosting crunching in my teeth. Husband and I then headed out to the Queens County Farm Museum, the last site I plan to visit for my book. (Yay!) We toured a farmhouse that has been on the site since the late 1700s, pet sheep, and wandered around in the seasonal three acre corn maze. The unseasonably warm day of fun was capped off with gyros (pronounced with a hard "g" in Chicago, a soft "g" in New York, and a "y" in Greece).

As we trudged out of the farm, sweaty and full of meat, a family passed us on their way in. Their teenage son was wearing a t-shirt that read, "I (heart) hot moms." Husband and I exchanged glances. "That shirt would not be disturbing if the guy who was wearing it was not 16," Husband remarked.

You can say all that again. Here's to another wacky and weird year of change.

Another Moist Genius

When I woke up yesterday morning, I discovered that my nose exploded down my throat overnight. In a quest for allergy medicine, I headed over to my local pharmacy, Duane Reade. Thanks to the jerks who live in the middle of nowhere and use Sudafed as the principal ingredient in crystal meth, the pills must be kept behind the pharmacy counter. I stepped in line.

As I waited my turn, a guy in his mid-20s asked to speak to the pharmacist. Now, the pharmacist at this place happens to be a crotchety man in his early 60s who is clearly bitter that he is stuck working at Duane Reade. I think he is hilarious. He approached the guy and asked what he needed.

"Do you sell anti-dehydration pills?" the guy asked innocently.

"Yes, and they are called bottles of water. We have them up front in the refrigerated case," the pharmacist snarled in a raspy voice as he stared at the guy as though he recently arrived on Earth from Uranus.

"No," the guy stammered, "I'm looking for anti-dehydration pills." I began to wonder if this guy lived in my building.

"Listen, I've been a pharmacist for longer than you've been alive, and there is only one way to prevent dehydration. It's called drinking fluids. I don't know who told y0ou about these non-existent pills, but suggest you try drinking more water." I think the pharmacist started snickering at this point, but I couldn't tell because I walked away quickly in an effort to not laugh in this poor fool's face myself.

I love people.

Living Among the Deluded (or Stupid)

Until recently, which involves a construction boom and the ongoing construction of thousands of luxury condominiums around the City, 85% of the apartment ownership options in New York were located in cooperative (co-op) buildings. Co-ops are rare outside of NYC, and basically work like this: the building itself is a corporation. Anyone (for example, Husband and myself) who wants to "buy" an unit within the co-op really buys shares of the corporation. Those shares are determined by the location within the building (e.g. - a ground floor apartment in theory has less shares than the penthouse, as it is less desirable to live off the lobby) and size. The buyer of the shares is assigned a proprietary lease for the unit, and pays a monthly maintenance fee to cover the building's costs. The fee is determined dividing the corporation's costs by all of the shares, then multiplying the per share amount by the number of shares for each unit.

Sometimes co-ops will charge a special assessment in addition to the monthly maintenance to cover the costs of capital projects, which brings me to the point of my story. Our building has an enormous amount of deferred maintenance because people didn't have enough money in the past to shoulder the assessment. The elevators are not code compliant, and are years beyond their useful life. Other "small" issues, like fault-line size cracks in concrete also need to be fixed pronto. Hence we received a letter saying that each shareholder will receive an assessment in the upcoming months, payable over a few years, so the building can be made safe.

Here is the part of the story where I rant. Several shareholders went ballistic when they were told that they'd have to shoulder some of the costs of repairing the building they occupy. Last night, an emergency meeting was called to discuss the matter. Issues raised:

Crazy person: Refused to believe that the elevators were dangerous and asked to see the engineering report. When given the report's executive summary, he insisted that he needed to read the full 50 page report to support its conclusion that the elevators exceeded their useful life and were not code compliant.

Selfish asshole*: Stated that he bought his unit 16 years ago when the prices were much lower, and therefore should pay less than the people who bought their units for higher prices in recent years. Also loudly complained that he cannot afford to renovate his kitchen because his kid was in college, and thus did not see the need to pay to make staff areas safe.

Fucking idiot: Howled that she didn't understand why we just couldn't divide the total amount of the repairs evenly between all 120 units in the building, as it was unfair that people with larger shares (i.e. - nicer apartments that are worth more) are charged a higher proportion, which of course is the point of co-op organization.

Oh, how I hate people! (Note: I live in the fucking lobby and never use the elevator, and I am not complaining that I will be paying an extra thousand bucks a month so that the assholes upstairs can use it safely.) In the end, I refrained from killing anyone and instead volunteered to use my dormant skills from my experience working in agencies that finance the rehab of affordable housing for low-income people to help the Board with the projects. The rants will be a-flowin'.

*This guy pissed me off most. First off, he was lucky enough to get a good deal on his large apartment and when he sells it, he will undoubtedly quintuple his profit, even with a real estate crash. Does he plan on holding the price down so that another middle-income family can afford it? No? Then fuck you. Second, the reason the repairs cost so much is that they were not when ten years ago, when the need first arose, because people didn't want to pay for it. This shit does not decrease in price over time. Hence he helped create an even bigger expense by deferring, and using his own logic, should in fact pay a higher share of the cost. I'm not even going to go into how absurd it is that he publicly stated that the building employees deserve to deal with shitty conditions because his poor family can't have a fancy new kitchen. What a fucking asshole.

That's the End of That

Today was certainly an emotional day. I said good-bye to Dr. P as she returned to Florida, and the Mets said good-bye to their fans by losing to Florida in a manner consistent with their track record over the past few weeks. Although I will cheer on my original home team, the Chicago Cubs, as they seek their first World Series victory in 99 years, my heart's not really in it. After they blew the 2004 season in the exact same manner as the Mets just threw this season into the crapper, I decided that 20 years of having my heart crushed was enough, and I stopped following them regularly. Plus, a Cubs championship is definitely a sign of the apocalypse, and despite my intense loathing of the human race, I'm not sure that I am ready for the world to end.

Regardless, I guarantee that the departure of Dr. P and the Mets season shall free up more of my time. I hope to get caught up on reading blogs and on Heroes and CSI. Since baseball is no longer a distraction/obsession, CUSS will return to a normal stories involving personal follies and rants. My whole family will be in town in October for Brother-in-Law's wedding, so expect excellent fodder in late October. Much better than the World Series, indeed.

Riding the Short Bus in Albany

The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is the state agency that oversees the subways and buses in New York City. Most of them live outside of the City and the surrounding suburbs, and the previous head of the MTA had never taken the subway when our former hack Republican governor (let me be clear - he's still a hack and a Republican, just thankfully not governor) appointed him. Now the geniuses in Albany (our state capital) are considering a fare hike for people who use public transportation during peak hours and a discount for those who don't. I think the conversation went something like this when the idea was proposed:

MTA Employee 1: Too many people use the subway during rush hour.

MTA Employee 2: I know! It's weird that all those people in NYC try to go to work between 9 and 10 am. It's not like most jobs start at those hours or anything.

MTA E1: Seriously! I bet we can get people to use public transit later or earlier if we raise the prices during rush hour. Employers don't really care what time people get to work, so this will definitely be an incentive for people to change their schedules.

MTA E2: Yeah! And even if that works and people do use mass transit during off-peak hours, let's not sell discount monthly passes. If you want a transit pass, it's full price no matter when you travel. That way, New Yorkers can just pay higher prices and tourists and other people who are visiting can get discounts!

MTA E1: Great point. I just don't understand why tourists should have to pay regular fares that help sustain the mass transit system. It's not like they live there or anything, so it's no benefit to us folks in Albany when we randomly visit the city. Oh - did I say us? I meant tourists in general. Remember a few years ago when the MTA had a deficit and we gave discounts during the holiday weekends to anyone without a pass?

MTA E2: Ha ha ha. That was great. My family loves shopping in the City for Christmas gifts, but why should we pay for the subway? Just because New York City is the economic engine that supports this entire state doesn't mean that they shouldn't shoulder the full burden of maintaining mass transit - and our roads upstate so that when we go to work during rush hour, it's a comfortable and cheap commute.

What a Bitch!

Last night before we headed off into our separate la-la-lands of peaceful slumber, I told Husband about my plans for today's post over at BlogHer.

"I was going to write about the Isiah Thomas 'bitch' scandal, but I think I am going to expand the topic a bit to discuss the word bitch in general," I said, considering how I'd open the whole thing with my nickname from Steph. (It's Bee, which is short for "bitch.")

"If anyone called you my bitch, I'd be mad," Husband replied. Pause. "Because everyone knows that you're my cunt."

"Aw, that's so so sweet!" I cried and hugged him.

Ain't love grand?

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Yet another fine comment as to what people hope to find when they search for jewish pussy on the internet:

i wanted to learn about jewish pussy. so far, i have been afraid to
find out because they are attached to jewish women.

Husband claims there's good reason to be afraid. Of course, he'll pay for that snarky bit. (Just kidding.)

Today I spent part of the day lost in a literal and metaphorical woodland in upper Manhattan. (Long story, which I will post tomorrow night after I get back from the Mets game. Those fuckers better not fuck up like they did this evening or I'm taking them into the woodshed.)

Using the "C-Word"

Upon opening my New York Times this dreary Monday morning, I was shocked - shocked! - to find the lead editorial titled, "B Is for Bailout, C Is for..."

"No way!" I thought to myself. "Is the Old Gray Lady really going to call the Bush administration cunts?" Because when I see c-word, cunt is absolutely the first word that pops into my mind. Plus, the Bush administration is totally fully of cuntfaces, so this would be a truth-telling unparalleled by any other paper in the counry or even world.

Breathlessly, I skimmed the short piece. Let's see - Bush claiming that although his plan allows 80,000 at-risk homeowners to refinance their loans through the Federal Housing Administration, in addition to the Federal Reserve's recent intervention in financial markets, is not the "b-word" (bailout, not bitch). Whatever. Blah blah blah. Where's the c-word?

Ah, there it is, in the 7th paragraph of the 7 paragraph essay! The op-ed says, "But, if deep down, there is no acknowledgement of a bailout - no 'b-word' - there will be no grappling with the 'c-word,' complicity." Oh. Well, the fine upstanding editors at the Times only stracthed at the surface of the Bush administrations' evil works by using the word complicit, but that's almost as good as calling them cunts. I'll take it.

Paging Planet Earth

It's no secret that I often function as though I am on another planet. However, unlike the folks at The Wall Street Journal, my planet is not Uranus. I'm not sure where my planet is. It is very likely not even in our solar system.

I seem to mentally relocate to the home planet when I haven't slept well in a few days. Oddly enough, when I get anxiety attacks not only do I find up with acid indigestion, but also insomnia. Thus I slept poorly last week, hung out on the home planet, and got confused about all sorts of earthly details, which brings me back to Uranus.

Des pointed out that Uranus is, in fact, still a planet. This confused me, as I was sure that within the last year or so some planet was downgraded from planet status to moon status or the like. It turns out that the degraded planet is Pluto. Uranus is safe! Whew.

After making this crucial mistake and starting rumors about Uranus, I was relieved when the acid/insomnia died down on Friday and I fell asleep at a normal time. My journey back to earth from the home planet was rudely interrupted at 8 AM by enormous noises emanating from the apartment above where my body slumbered peacefully.

My eyes flew open. "What the fuck? Are those assholes moving furniture around at 8 on a Saturday morning?" I thought to myself and looked over at Husband to see if the rumbling/scraping sounds woke him, too. Husband appeared to be unconscious, so I waited a few minutes. Loud banging and dragging sounds continued. It was time to put on some pants and shoes and go upstairs to ask the fuckers what the fuck they were doing moving their fucking furniture so early on a steaming Saturday morning.

Long story short, I was still half-asleep and not entirely mentally there when I rang the doorbell upstairs. A woman in a robe answered. I meant to introduce myself and calmly ask if they were moving furniture and if so, could they please wait another two hours or so, as I really need to get some sleep. Instead, I slurred something like, "What you doin' movin' furnitures around at this hour?"

The women apologized and said her trundle bed was stuck, but she didn't realize how much nois