What's the Frequency Kenneth?

Last Wednesday, I took a closer look at the nail on my big left toe. It had been a bit yellowed for a few weeks, but I thought nothing of it. I hate feet. They are gross even under the best of circumstances, so my toes aren't exactly shining pedicured beauties and the slight discoloration didn't really register.

It turned out that my nail was sort of in the process of falling off. "Hmmm," I though. "I should probably do something about this." I considered ripping it off myself, but wasn't sure how much blood that would entail and how I might, without a toe nail, eventually stop it. So I put a bandage over it and called a podiatrist the next day. They gave me a Friday morning appointment.

The doctor looked at my toe and asked me when I traumatized it. "Huh?" I said. He said that I must have stubbed it at some point, causing the break, which was then allowed a fungus to get in. I wracked my brain. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, amped up. We came up blank. I'd think that something that would cause my toe nail to crack open would be something I might remember, but I guess not. The story of my life these days...

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On a side note, changes are coming to CUSS! I have an awesome person helping me deal with the technical issues that Blogger threw at me a few weeks ago (I can't use their publishing service after March 26 for a variety of reasons), and she's going to be moving CUSS to a WordPress format. CUSS readers (all two or so of you, who I love dearly) will still find the blog at the same URL, cussandotherrants.com, and I think the feeds won't be affected. It'll just be a shiny new look (eventually) and a different way to leave comments.

Anyway, given all the blogs out there and the limited amount of time people have in which to read them, I just want to thank you for reading CUSS. It means a lot to me.

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

Although I cannot be bothered to wash my face on a daily basis,* I am excited to link to my friend's blog, Ask An Esthetician. She is a licensed esthetician who is giving out excellent (free!) advice on beauty, particularly skin care. I know that most women are not slovenly shlubs like me who wander around with uncombed (albeit usually clean) hair, un-moisturized skin, and legs and armpits that make them look like Chewbacca's midget sister, so I thought I'd do a public service promote her blog.

*Despite this gross habit, my skin is pretty clear. I am not sure why this is since in my pre-teens I was a horrid pizza face on the way to scars that would make Norriega look like a beauty queen. My mom insisted that I go to a dermatologist even though I protested, and the antibiotics he prescribed made a huge difference. (Thanks, Mom!)

After years of happy skin, I was covered with cyst-like zits in my early 20s. Another dermatologist gave me drugs, which did not work well, and he said I should consider Acutane as an option. No fucking way was I going on Acutane. In addition to requiring me to take birth control pills (which I was on anyway) and submit to regular pregnancy testing because it is so dangerous to fetal development, and cause hair and skin to fall out in chunks, it could cause people with depressive tendencies to commit suicide. I told him I'd rather be zitty than dead and fleshless.

What We Saw at a Bus Stop in the West Village

Warning: This is likely the most disgusting thing I've ever posted on CUSS...

As Steph and I strolled through the West Village this afternoon, she pointed out all the things that had changed since she moved. One of new arrivals is fancy bus shelters. We walked up to a glass and metal bus structure, and Steph gasped.

"Do you see what I see next to the bench?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

"That's a dildo."

"With shit caked on it, yes."

Four Bad Ideas in No Particular Order

1. My scary bear hat flew off my personage when a big gust of wind overtook me in London on Saturday. It landed in a muddy puddle at the edge of the curb. As I reached out to pluck it up, I realized that a bus was barreling down the road. I wondered if I could grab it before the bus got there. I snatched back my hand with a second to spare. Unfortunately, the bus ran over my poor hat. When the light changed, I picked it up again, sopping and dirty. All's well that ends well on this, as I did not lose my hand and the hat came out of the washing machine and drier as good as new.

2. For my lit class tomorrow, we are reading What Is the What by Dave Eggers. It is an excellent "autobiography" of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. (It also could maybe be about 100 pages shorter, but I still recommend it.) People stared at me while I read it on the subway and bawled.

3 & 4. Last night I defrosted a large plastic container of Daisy Mae's baked beans that I found in the back of my freezer. I plan on eating them tomorrow for lunch. It's double whammy of potentially bad ideas, as I probably should not eat a lot of beans before going to class, and the container has been in the freezer since my book party. My book party rocked the house in August 2008.

Puke

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alli: Causing a Real Shit Storm

Cross-posted at BlogHer:

Filed under "Who Didn't See This Coming?:" The US Federal Drug Administration (FDA) is investigating reports that alli, the only FDA-approved nonprescription weight-loss drug, caused liver damage, according to The Washington Post. (Man, if that sentence wasn't a mouthful, I don't know what is. Except, of course, that people using alli can't have a mouthful because of how alli works, but more on that later.) While there is no conclusive link, more than 30 people using alli and Xenical, its stronger prescription sibling, were hospitalized with liver issues between 1999 and October 2008.

OK, so people using alli (pronounced like "ally" - clever, no?) can really eat a mouthful, just so long as said mouthful doesn't contain too much fat. This is because alli "works" by stopping a person's body from absorbing fat. Anyone remember Olestra and "anal leakage" side effect? Yeah, it's like that. But worse. Basically, if you make a mistake and consume too much fat while using alli, you will essentially shit yourself. I'm sorry, there's no nicer way to say it. What distresses me about alli is that a lot of people (especially women, who alli is primarily marketed towards) are so desperate to be thin (and also continue eating what they want to) that crapping their undies is a better option than, god forbid, being overweight. (And let's not confuse overweight with healthy because they are often very different things. Certainly someone who is thin but uncontrollably poops through her thong is less healthy than someone who is overweight but can control her own bowels. Plus, studies have shown that what people we consider "overweight" are actually healthier than people considered a "healthy weight", but that's another story.)

BlogHer Health and Wellness Contributing Editor Catherine Morgan blogged about alli back in July 2007, noting that 1. FDA approval of the drug concerned her, as many drugs get approval and then are shown to be unsafe; and 2. "Limiting your fat intake per meal WILL facilitate weight loss, even without a pill that gives you diarrhea. She also pointed out that the only way to sustain weight loss is through a healthy diet. For these excellent insights, she was raked over the coals by some commenters. (Several claimed that people who eat too much fat - whether on alli or not - are at fault because they have no willpower or self-restraint. Another person demanded that she present her medical credentials for making such a ridiculous argument. Seriously.)

Although I clearly am irritated that people would attack Catherine's scientific, evidence laden post, I understand why. We live in a world we are pounded day in and day out with messages about body acceptability. We are also bombarded nearly 24-7 with ads selling tasty foods. At the same time, busy schedules, socio-economic pressures, and other issues may preclude people from having access to fresh foods, the time to prepare meals, and ways to exercise. These are not excuses, they are realities. And the reality is that drug manufacturers take advantage of our insecurities by selling us miracle pills to make us thin. Is GlaxoSmithKline, the distributor of alli, any better than a snake oil salesman peddling his wares from his wagon at the turn of the century? No, both sold people easy access to things that were and are just out of reach.

I'm not going to lie: I'm no more immune to the pressure to be thin than anyone else. No matter what I look like, I always think I am fat, except for a period of time about seven years ago. I had been having various digestive issues for almost a year and seeing a gastroenterologist, when one day I came home from work and needed to use the toilet maybe more urgently than I ever did in my entire life. When I was done, I was horrified to notice orange grease floating in the toilet. (As this is a family blog, I won't describe what else was in it.) For the next six months, whatever I ate slid out of me undigested like it was a vat of Olestra. I lost a lot of weight, quickly. And despite the fact that I was becoming nutritionally deprived, smelled from gas, had constant cramps, and my ass hurt from the amount of wiping I needed to do every time I used the bathroom - and I mean every time I sat on a toilet, something very bad came out of me (TMI, I know - sorry) - I liked how I looked. At least I liked how my body looked in a tight pair of jeans. My face looked like a zombie because I was seriously ill.

Many unpleasant tests later (for details, see Part I and Part II, but warning: it involves collection buckets and a refrigerator), no one understood why I naturally produced the as-yet-uninvented-alli, and I was warned to be very careful about how much fat I ate. The bottom line is that not digesting fat is really, really unhealthy. That's why I am not surprised that alli may cause liver damage.

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.

Girl with the Doody Earring

While there are many good things going on lately, I remain frustrated by how the apartment renovation is proceeding (it's moving forward and looks great, but if the contractor changes the plan one more time and then acts as if it was my idea, I will strangle him) and last weekend my bubbe had a stroke while visiting my sister in Iowa. She's fine, but things were very complicated because she is a demanding and irrational person under the best of circumstances, and these were far from it. Hence, quality sleep evaded me every night this week.

During one of my wee hours of the morning awake sessions, I sat on the fancy new toilet, fiddling with my earrings. When I dropped the silver ball that I wear in my cartilage pierce and I heard it clink on the dusty floor, I got down on my hands and knees and searched. I couldn't find it. I figured that it was because I had no sight enhancing apparatus on, so I fetched my glasses from the bedroom. Still nothing.

A sinking feeling occupied the pit of my stomach. I lifted the lid to the toilet and peered in. There sat my earring. This would be no big deal except that I was using the toilet when I dropped my earring. Also, I had recently lost another small earring that I wore in my cartilage pierce in the shower, and a search for a replacement yielded nothing suitable other than the little ball I already owned. (It seems that super small earrings are not in right now, even for little kids.)

I pondered the dilemma for a few seconds. Should I perform a deep (dirty) water rescue? If so, would a rubbing alcohol bath for the recovered treasure be enough to prevent my from contract e. coli through a hole in my ear?

I really did not want to walk around with a hole visible in my ear when I had a job interview, so I took a deep breath and reached in. So far, I'm not suffering any ill effects. Husband, however, may want to think twice before nibbling on my right ear.

Monsters in Baltimore

While in Baltimore on Saturday, I encountered two different types of prehistoric creatures:



These (human-propelled) sea monsters patrolled the waters of the harbor. Since I am very interested in sea monsters, I found them fascinating. I hope that we can try one out ourselves next time we go to Baltimore. (Note that maps of the harbor are inaccurate these days, as none seem to include the sea monsters that reside there.)




At the aquarium, my friend (who works there) let me play with this hissing cockroach before she took it out to the general area and let other kids touch with it. Undoubtedly, if I saw a giant hissing cockroach in my apartment, I would scream, not let it on my hand, and certainly not pet it. As I look at this picture, I want to puke. But I swear at the time it was sort of cute.

I wish they had sea monsters of the non-roach variety at the aquarium!

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.

Buy Stock in Kleenex (or Puffs - Whatever)

The small mound of flesh between my upper lip and the bottom of my nose is raw and red. I work near the American Stock Exchange, and I think if the economy weren't so bad, people would assume I'm a cokehead as I walk to and from work. Or do coke addicts not have red streaks coming out of their noses? (I only know one coke fiend, and I always forget that she is a cokehead because she looks so normal and I like her a lot, but I digress...)

If I'm not mistaken for an avid consumer of white powder, the other alternative is a victim of advanced stage syphilis. OK, I don't know anyone with this condition either, but I have read that it can lead to the suffer's nose rotting off. Parts of my nose look like they could slough off my face at any moment. The irritation is so bad that regular lotion or moisturizer does nothing; I smear Vaseline on my face. The shininess does not help the overall appearance.

The good news is that although I look like a coke addled syphilitic person who shoplifted a Butterball turkey by shoving it down the front of my pants,* I believe that the end if in sight. Only a few more nights of the toxic shot of NyQuil, and I'm on my way back to whatever passes for normal for me. At any rate, I've probably used 400,000 Kleenexes throughout this week-plus ailment, so I'm thinking that a decent investment these days is in soft tissue products. At this point, anything not soft is like rubbing sandpaper on my face, and I figure that all the zillions of other people who are sick right now are coughing up (heh heh) to buy the good stuff.

*This has nothing to do with being ill, and everything to do with looking bad in the nice work pants I am forced to wear to work every day. Oh flattering jeans! How I miss thee!

Special Anonymous Guest Post & Photo

We have been having a very bad, awful week at work. My co-worker and I were glumly walking out to lunch when we both saw this chair, which had been pushed under a counter, probably to hide what was on the seat.



We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.

"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.

"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."

Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!

Sickness Leads to Accusations of Shoplifting

So, other than the facts that my cough is hurting my throat and my constant nose blowing has helped remove the skin around my schnozz and mouth, the worst thing about this little bout with a cold/the flu is that I can't go to the gym. While I was at Alex's house last weekend, her Wii Fit assured me that I was a normal weight (BMI = 24.1), but suggested that maybe I want to get it down to 22.

That sounds about right to me. I look fine in jeans (Lucky Brand jeans are amazingly flattering on me), but damn, when I get dressed for work in dress pants, I could be mistaken for a 6 month pregnant woman. It's to the point where I don't want to go to the grocery store while dressed for work lest I be accused of shoplifting, as I seriously appear to have stuffed a Butterball turkey down the front of my pants.

The ailment has only moderately curbed my appetite, although fortunately the explosive digestive experience I had on Wednesday has not recurred. (I really can't understand why anyone would risk that scary diet pill - Alli - that makes you shit yourself if you eat more than 15 grams of fat in one sitting.) Anyway, enough bellyaching. I need a nap. (And, seriously? Where did January go?!?!)

Intestinal Pneumonia

I discovered that I really like the sound of the words pneumonia and spumoni. There's something pleasing about that "moni" aspect. I also like the Tommy & the Shondelles song "Mony, Mony." Interesting.

So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.

However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)

When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.

Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...

O, My Darlin' Clementine

Last week, Suebob posted a photo of a moldy cantaloupe that she found in her fridge. I showed it to Husband, and he asked me if it was named Archibald. (When his mother was growing up, her British father found a moldy - or mouldy? - cantaloupe in their house, and named it Archibald.)

Then last night, Husband sheepishly approached me while I sat at the computer desk, hiding something behind his back.

"Can you take out some trash?" he asked. (He was in his pajamas, whereas I was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.)

I had a sinking feeling that I knew what he was holding. When I said sure, he whipped out a bag with a moldy clementine. Seriously, seriously, moldy. Before I chucked it, I had to snap a shot:



As I threw it out, I sang it a funeral dirge. Oh my darlin, oh my darlin, o my darlin Clementine/You were lost and gone forever/Oh my darlin Clementine.

Happy Inauguration Day!!!!!

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...

Eruption

There's a mountainous red zit on my forehead, approximately half an inch above my left eyebrow. Since I am in the chin hair plucking phase of my life, I haven't had to deal with real pimples in a few years. (Although there was the unfortunate transition period in which I had both acne and chin hairs. That was evil.) I realized that I forgot how to deal with volcanic zits.

When I first noticed Mt. Krakatoa bursting through the surface of my skin yesterday, I left it alone. I know that is technically what one is supposed to do, but in my zit-covered prime, picking at them seemed far more productive than sitting there, waiting for it to disappear on its own. This morning I remembered that I should poke at it. I grabbed my trusty tweezers and squeezed.

A small glob of pus oozed out. "Oh, yeah. That's how it works," I thought, as memories of zits past haunted me like ghosts visiting Scrooge on Christmas eve. I squeezed harder, not remembering what happens when the molten center of a zit bursts forth. Pus exploded out and hit the mirrored medicine cabinet. Ooops.

Flashback: January 30, 2007

From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.

Resisting Urges

I discovered an individually wrapped string cheese in my backpack. It's been in there for about a week, I think. I seriously considered eating it for a second or two, as cheese is really damn expensive these days and I hate waste, but then I noticed that the hermetically sealed package reads, "KEEP REFRIGERATED." Better judgment prevailed.

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

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.

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakout

My return to school has brought with it the return of my skin problems of yore. I trimmed my 'stache a bit, only to find a potentially mountainous zit hiding under the thin fringe. A quick glance at my cheek or under my nose reveals that the zits are sort of hovering under the surface, waiting for me to make one false move, then BAM! Massive breakouts will ensue.

It would be nice if I could stop stressing about the election, the economy, and the world at large. Also, I'd like to stop second guessing my decision to go back to school in the first place. For the most part, I'm learning a lot and meeting some interesting people. Still, I couldn't help but wonder if I'm just throwing money away, especially when I read Jennifer Wiener's advice to aspiring writers. (Granted, I've only read one of her books - Good in Bed - but I liked it a lot.) She just makes a lot of sense to me.

OK, deep breaths. I went out last night with a few of my classmates, which was fun. No one seemed to think I am a fucktard, so that is encouraging. Tonight I am giving a short presentation in my lit class on Edwidge Danticat, as well as handing in my first literary critique since I wrote a paper about all the menstruation symbolism in Jane Eyre in the fall of 1995. Fingers crossed, and I'm off to wash my face.

Suzanne and the Beanstalk

Once upon a time, in a magical land called New York City, where unlike most of America, people from all around the world live together in relative peace and tolerance, lived a curmudgeonly woman with a heart of gold. Despite her loathing of people in general, Suzanne spent years working to create safer communities and better opportunities for low income children and women. Her reward was burn out and even more crabbiness and cynicism, so she quit to write a fun book about New York City called Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. While this excellent publication entertained many people, it did not contribute very much to her household income, so she continued her work to make the world a better place through consulting.

As Suzanne worked on a project this morning, she knocked over her circa 1981 McDonald's Great Muppet Capers glass (featuring the only Muppet she despises, Miss Piggy). Water spilled everywhere, including under the couch. Grumbling, Suzanne set off to fetch paper towels (incidentally, "I've got some paper towels!" is a favorite line from "The Great Muppet Caper") and mop up the wet mess before her conference call.

As she labored on her knees (not that kind of work that a woman might perform while kneeling, pervert) with a wad of paper towels, she made a discovery. Somewhere from under the depths of the couch popped out a single emerald jelly bean. Suzanne could not remember the last time jelly beans were consumed in her apartment, so she knew immediately that, unlike the Teddy Graham she found under her other couch while moving furniture around on Sunday, that this morsel of food was magic! (This was one of many reasons that she fought an extremely disturbing temptation to eat it. The last thing she needs these days is a beanstalk erupting from her gut like on one the aliens in Alien.)

Suzanne set the magic green jelly bean aside and finished sopping water from the floor. She decided that in the event that Team New George Bush wins the election in November that she will plant it in Central Park. When the beanstalk appears, she will climb it and run away from the cretins who love increasingly fascist rulers who believe that God wants them to build $30 million natural gas pipelines, ban books, and turn the civil service into an ideological gang of bullies.

THE END

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Sweat
Friday was the hottest weather the New York metropolitan area had sweltered from in weeks. (While it is not unusual for early September days to steam from the remains of August's humidity, the last three weeks of August were in the low 80s and clear, so the September heatwave was a slight shock to the system.) Of course, Friday was also the day I had set aside to walk around Queens and map a course for a tour I am leading in the spring for the New York City Transit Museum.

As I trudged from the Socrates Sculpture Garden to the subway to the Louis Armstrong House to Leo's Latticini to the Queens Museum of Art, the sun baked me in my clothes like veggies wrapped in aluminum foil on a grill. Sweat escaped from the brim of my homemade Mets-Cubs fisherman's cap, trickled down my brow, and stung my eyes. My face bathed in its salty wash, providing a fertile environment for zits.

One of my favorite lines in the movie Good Morning, Vietnam was when Robin Williams described the heat in the jungles of 'nam as so bad, one can do "a little crotch pot cookin'." By that description, I made a feast on Friday. My underwear was so soaked through with sweat that I felt like I just took a swim in the ocean while fully clothed.

Blood
After my stop at the Queens Museum of Art, I headed over to visit my friend Flo and meet her newborn baby, Joey. Despite my foul condition, Flo and her husband not only admitted me to their air conditioned apartment, but also allowed me to sit on their leather sofa. Joey peacefully slept as Flo described her efforts to bring him into the world.

Poor Flo was in labor for 36 hours before doctors gave in and performed a c-section. Unfortunately by that point, Joey was already in the birth canal, so pulling him out was a challenge. Flo said it felt like the OB was sitting on her chest while he tried extracting the baby.

"I need leverage," he yelled at the resident. "Go find another attending!"

A few minutes after she department, Joey finally popped out. Flo waited until Joey cried, held him a few minutes, and then slept for hours. She says it was worth it all.

I am never having a baby.

Tears
I stayed with Flo's family for 45 minutes before I departed for my next errands. My underwear was still sopping when I arrived at school to pick up a packet of reading for my lit class (free! I still can't believe it!), printed out another student's work for my workshop, and refilled my water bottle. Then I headed over to Grand Central Station to meet Husband in Connecticut, from where we would drive to Massachusetts for Alex's son's 5th birthday party on Saturday. My underwear was just drying out as the train pulled into Stamford.

After a delightful dinner at IHOP and some quick shopping for a birthday card, we motored up to the hotel in MA. When I finally fell into the shower at 10 pm, I cried tears of joy. Never have I been in such need of bathing or clean underwear.

The Scary Future in My Bathroom

Yesterday I tsked tsked about the state of the United States in the twilight of the Bush administration. Not long after that, I was confronted by an even scarier situation: the state of my toilet. For as much as I dread being spied on by the FBI (and what a fucking waste of precious limited resources that will be), the possibility that my toilet is losing flushing power far more dramatically affects my daily life.

Husband and I are heavy toilet users. For the first five or so years that we resided at this apartment, our industrial-type toilet (it has no tank) dealt very effectively with the digestive abuse we hurled upon it. Then last year, I noticed a change. After I flushed and the water settled, wisps of toilet paper drifted back up from the pipe, like ghosts haunting the bowl. Even the most basic uses of the toilet required an after-flush to send the restless toilet paper souls back to their watery graves. Still, the hardier matter went away and didn't reappear.

The only slightly distressing situation changed to worrisome yesterday morning, when I made a large deposit in the toilet bank. I flushed before I even wiped, knowing that the teller could barely handle the load as it was. The water swept it down to the vault, but as I threw in my deposit slip, a chunk of my change reappeared.

"Oh shit," I appropriately swore, and flushed again. The toilet paper and poo went away and stayed that way, which was good. I'm hoping the condition of my toilet doesn't deteriorate further, but I fear for the future.

A Piece of Free Advice

Chasing half of a can of Reddi Whip down with a slice of colby jack cheese is not a pleasing combination for the stomach. Drinking raspberry diet Snapple iced tea is only going to make it worse. As delicious and tempting as this "meal" sounds, trust me on this.

Want to Crap Through Your Vagina? Activia Can Help!

I've been meaning to blog about this for ages - and I'm sure I am not the first nor will I be the last - but what the fuck is with those scary Activia commercials? First Jamie Lee tells me that if I want "better digestion," I should eat Activia yogurt. But what is "better digestion?" Does it loosen up a constipated brick or plug up up a leaky diarrhea faucet? Does adding Activia's special cultures to my gut make my farts not smell like a small furry animal crawled up my ass, died, and is decomposing up there? If so, that would be great! (And I'd make Husband eat enormous quantities of Activia...) I need details, people!

However, I suspect that there are no details because no one would eat Activia if they knew exactly how the "better digestion" works. This suspicion is fueled by the terrifying diagram that follows friendly Jamie Lee. A very fit torso appears on screen. Suddenly, little green circles gather excitedly, bumping off each other like some physics experience with atoms flying all over the place. Then, they coalesce into a big green arrow that points down. Well, what might be down there?

That's when it hits me that the ad is suggesting that "better digestion" happens when you shit through your vagina instead of anus. (Why else would the arrow point toward the cooter? It's not like this is some "educational" film for 12 year old girls that hints ever so politely that one day, blood might come out from down there.) If that is the case, I will stay far the fuck away from "better digestion." I've got enough problems without worrying about shit in my cooch. Nasty.

Cheap and Fast, Free and Slow, Dirty and Gross

My visit with my bestest friend Julie is over. She dropped me off at the bus stop, which for only $2.60 whisked me to the airport. Speeding down a highway in a public bus is always a bit unnerving. Speeding down a highway in a public bus while the driver talks on his cell phone is fucking terrifying. At least I only spent $2.60 to risk my life. Yeesh.

Fortunately, the Pittsburgh airport is such a civilized spot of tranquility that they offer free wi-fi! This is especially good as my flight may or may not be delayed. The woman at the check in counter told me that it was delayed, but the fancy electronic signs at the gate claim that it is ON TIME in glowing red letter. Since I believe that the sign is lying, I am glad that I can at least spend some time with my friend Blogger while I wait. Also, it may take the entire length of the delay to publish this post, as the free wi-fi is slower than molasses in January. (One of my favorite lines from Romancing the Stone, which was my favorite movie when I was 10 or so, which is about how old I was when I met Julie. Funny how these things work out.)

It will be nice to get home eventually and wash my hair. Julie and I somehow neglected to shower for the entire length of my visit. The grease accumulation on my hair is fast and furious. Since Julie also looks like she's been living on the street the last few days, we made quite a pair as we walked around campus to return her graduation attire and drop off some library books. I'm sort of surprised that they let me into the airport. Maybe I just slid through security's theoretical hands like a greased pig. Oink, oink.

Proper Storage of the Juices Extracted from Grapes

At the wine tasting birthday party I attended last Saturday, the sommelier was very clear about the proper way to store wine: away from heat. Of course, this is logical, but Husband and I have kept our collection of extremely inexpensive wine (no bottle under $12!), underneath a excellent turquoise leather chair that we obtained at a street sale for $25. This chair is right next to the radiator that pumps out large quantities of steamy, hot air from approximately October to May. One day we may get around to installing the $10 wall wine rack we bought at Ikea in January, so I wanted to preserve the moment.

What is important to me about our current system for storing the juice extracted from grapes is that it is almost identical to that implemented by my parents when I was growing up. We always bought gallon cans of generic grape juice (white label with black stencils reading "GRAPE JUICE"). These cans were then carefully lined up against the kitchen wall, underneath the table. Inevitably, several cans were stacked next to the heating vent. My sister and I swear that those batches of juice were extra-pungent.

Continuing family tradition is important. Just as I am sad that my parents no longer buy large cans of generic grape juice and store them next to the heat, I will miss our heated wine cellar in New York. As for visitors to my home, until we break with tradition, I suggest carefully inquiring as to the storage status of the bottle if I offer you a glass of wine.

Eggplant Parmesan and Roses

Probably it is unfair to blame my day's woes on the microwaved eggplant parmesan I consumed last night for dinner, but life isn't fair, so the dish is taking the fall. I thought it tasted a little funky, but honestly, eggplant always sort of tastes not quite right to me, so I ate it all without a second thought. Before I went to bed, my stomach began feeling uncomfortable. Not hurting or queasy, but weird. Hence I didn't fall asleep until after 2 am, although I suppose I used my time well by reading a Rolling Stones article about Britney Spears.

This morning, I was queasy, although I suspected it could be from the thought of getting out of bed or the residual effects of reading about Britney as much as anything substantial. I ate me some cereal, drank some delightful English breakfast tea with milk, and hustled off to teach my budgeting class. I thought I successfully passed as an alert and cheerful instructor until someone commented on how tired I looked. The good news is I then admitted that I might have eaten something that didn't agree with me, and so when I got a horrific taste in my mouth, no one minded that I chewed gum. Plus, another person offered me a Tums, and that was a big help.

After the class was over, I took advantage of the sunny day and walked the two or so miles home. It struck me as odd that so many people were carrying roses. Later, I became outright annoyed at the number of bodegas that put buckets of flowers out all over the sidewalk, narrowing the space available for walking and impeding my progress. It was only when I passed a bake stand at the farmer's market on 66th Street and saw the heart-shaped chocolate brownies with dyed red coconut shreds that I understood what was going on: VD infects the city once again.

Appropriately Uncouth

When I called the unsurance company's intermediary a few days ago to supply them with the information they needed to reconsider approving a bilateral breast MRI, I was sitting on the porcelain throne taking an enormous dump. I figured it perfectly expressed my feelings on the matter, even if the woman on the other end (who actually wound up being very nice) had no idea what I was up to. It turns out that only my doctor can tell them what age I was at my first period, how I was at my first birth, what my ethnicity is, and what my prior pathology reports have concluded. Seems a lay person is not knowledgeable about these things about herself.

Since my doctor is an asshole who won't take five minutes to call it in, I am shit out of luck. See? The whole situation stinks.

Deep, Dark Secret #423: Uncontrollable Cravings

Food and eating are often on my mind. I hate cooking, but I love food. All kinds of food, from cheese grits at Waffle House to fancy fish at Le Bernadin, are equally valued by my mostly undiscriminating taste buds. From street food to gourmet, all I require to enjoy what I am eating is that it be yummy.

Thus when Suebob wrote up an observation she made at work about food and eating, I was aghast at the situation. To wit:

I was at an all-day work meeting and a box of See's Candy was being passed around.

The woman next to me carefully selected a piece and took a bite.

"Oh, my God, that's good!" she moaned.

She then put the other half of the piece on a napkin, where it stayed until the meeting was over 4 hours later.

She never ate the other half.

I don't get this at all. First off, just reading the post made me want.chocolate.right.now. My salivary glands went into overdrive. All I could think about was what kind of filling the piece of candy had. (I don't know why I assumed it did, but there you go - strawberry creme? caramel? coconut? I'm generally not so crazy about coconut, but sometimes it hits the right note...)

Next, just as most of the other people who left comments on the post did, I wondered who the hell takes a bite of a piece of candy, exclaims how magnificent it is, and doesn't finish it? I don't even take bites of chocolates like that. I shove the whole thing in my mouth, and if it is not good for some bizarre reason, I spit it out because I am infantile. Then I grab another one. And if it was good, I have to fight with myself not to eat more than one. (Or two. Or three.)

Now I will admit something completely repulsive, which may or may not distract you from the morally vacuous admission I will make next. To avoid eating too much of something good at home, I often throw a portion of the food away. However, there are times when I want it back so badly that I actually retrieve it from the trash. I'm not so depraved as to do so if there are nasty things in the garbage, but if the item I want is on the top of the pile, maybe on a clean-ish napkin, I may find myself eating it. Seriously.

Anyway, as I was eating dinner last night (an Amy's Organic Indian tofu and spinach wrap - yum!), I read the day's newspaper. An article in The New York TImes reported on a current case against a guy who is accused of brutally beating his stepdaughter to death a few years ago. The whole thing is a horrific tragedy, and it shook the city to its roots when it happened. So I'm reading this sad article and it mentions that it has commonly been reported that the guy beat the girl to death for eating a yogurt without his permission, but in fact, the snack item that triggered her murder was probably a container of Jell-O pudding. Immediately, I intensely craved pudding. Chocolate, vanilla, tapioca, rice pudding. The desire to eat pudding haunted me for the rest of the night.

Sick, isn't it? Cravings are scary. It's a good thing I never plan to be pregnant. I can't imagine what those types of cravings would do to me, given my current level of patheticness.

I'm Bugged

Sometimes I suspect that I am under electronic surveillance, but when I say that I am bugged, usually I mean that something is annoying the shit out of me. This is not infrequent, especially when I read or hear the news. However, this morning as I was reading the op-ed section of the New York Times at my dining room table, I was bugged in a far less typical manner.

A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.

Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?

"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.

I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!

Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.

Saturday Afternoon Picture Show

I'm feeling much better today, so I'll share semi-gross photos. Yay.

Last weekend, my cousin and I indulged in a vat of Monster Cookie Dough. Monster Cookies are basically oatmeal, peanut butter, and generic M&Ms. It tends to be delicious. However, this batch of dough went through an unfortunate defrost-refreeze-defrost process that caused it to look like the results of the shit bucket test ( see Part I and Part II for more details and no pictures) I took a few years ago in attempt to figure out what was wrong with my digestive system.
Although it seems like I am about to eagerly eat diarrhea, I think I look pretty fucking adorable in this picture. It's so rare that I am happy with photos of me.

As for my latest bodily failure, here's my broken tooth:*

It was finally fixed on Wednesday by my hot dentist's significantly less hot dentist father. At least the snaggletooth Jewish white trash look is gone.

*For the record, it did not break as a result of eating the generic M&Ms in the Monster Cookie dough. It broke for the 4th time in three years because my mouth is too little and when I clench my teeth when I am pissed off or merely eat, it seems to put too much stress on the little guy from the bigger tooth above it.

Bad Taste

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

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

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

Trouble

Sister and I pose proudly, falsely advertising in the little study/storage closet in my parents' basement. Sister was rummaging for items she could use in her classroom when she starts teaching 1st grade at the end of the summer.

She asked me not to touch her should, which has ringworm (which I now know is a fungus, thanks to Suebob). Just in case you have never had the chance to ogle ringworm, the kid also has ringworm on her lower, lower back.
Tasty.

Laundry Room Crotch Eating

As per Steph's request, here is the Ricola underpants story.

After I graduated from college, Husband and I moved in together. We couldn't afford anything because he still had a semester of school to go (I graduated a year early thanks to a shitload of AP credits; he graduated a semester early) and I was planning to attend law school. (I dropped out on my third day. Long story, but one of the best decisions I ever made.) We managed to secure ourselves an illegal sublet of a ground floor maid's quarters in a fancy schmancy building on Central Park West. It was 200 square feet (260 including the oddly large bathroom that I kept my Ikea wardrobe in because there was no other space), and had no stove or oven, but it was safe, clean, in our price range (a thousand smackeroos a month), had doormen, and 3 blocks from the law school I dropped out of. (Ooops.)

To get to the apartment, you went into the stairwell that led to the basement. Then you walked by the stairs to a door on the back wall marked "Private." Behind the door was a narrow long hallway with four rooms, three of which were connected to form our living space. (The fourth was a tiny room used for an "office" by the freak who owned a massive condo upstairs. He'd come in and out at all hours, and initially proposed using our bathroom, to which I adamantly said no to, and fortunately he relented, or I would not have rented the place.) It was an odd situation, to say the least. The building staff definitely wondering what our deal was, as we clearly did not fit in with the other tenants and lived in a stairwell. We lived there for three years.

I'm sure it was no surprise to the staff when I had my laundry incident. Steph's building didn't have a laundry room, so she often came over to do laundry with me in my building. One day, I pulled a pair of underwear out of the drier. Something was stuck to the crotch.

"What the fuck is this?" I wondered aloud, peering at it closely and poking at it. It was hard. I smelled it. "Smells medicinal… maybe I left a Ricola in a pocket and it melted onto my granny undies."

It was feasible. I had just recovered from a cold. "There's only one way to know for sure," I said and then I licked the object.

"You know," Steph said through fits of laughter as she picked herself up from the floor, "the security camera is pointed right at you. I'm sure the guys at the front desk are enjoying watching you eat out the crotch of my underwear."

I shrugged. "They probably expect nothing less from me."

Stay tuned for the story of the Midwest road trip, Sister, and my undies, as per Dr. P's request.

One More Highlight

I passed by this statue in an alleyway. The first thing I thought was, "Who farted?" Then I laughed and laughed.

Jewish White Trash and Kleenex

Instead of keeping a Kleenex box on my nightstand like a normal person, I took a cue from my dear old mom and decided that I can just stick a few tissues in the waistband of my pajamas for when I need to blow my nose. (Note: Jewish White Trash do not sully their pretty sometimes - surgically altered noses - with generic tissue. It's only Kleenex or Puffs for us!) In my case, I don't have room on my nightstand for something useful like Kleenex because it is all cluttered up with junk like hair accessories that I no longer use because my hair is short and has been for over a year, a box with bills and pay stubs, and other assorted crap. To be fair, I do have actual items of meaningfulness to a slumbering person, such as an alarm clock and my glasses case and asthma medicines on the nightstand as well. Sometimes those are knocked off in the middle of the night because my nightstand sits immediately next to my bed, of which I sleep on the edge and thrash around.

Last night as we were falling asleep, I asked Husband for some Kleenex.

"Why don't you have any on your nightstand?" he murmured, annoying that I bother him as he drifted into la la land.

I tried to snort with disgust at the very concept, but instead choked on a mouth full of viscous mucus.

"If tucking Kleenex into the waistband of my pajamas is good enough for my mom, it's good enough for me!"

"Whatever. Good night."

Unfortunately, I found that my pajama waistband is not tight enough to retain the Kleenex, so I began tucking them into the elastic top of my granny undies. Every time I woke up to use the bathroom, I'd forget they were there and then my stock would fall into the toilet. At least we have a little shelf with snot rags (as my friend J says) right next to the toilet so I could de-snot and re-stock.

Good times.

Mmmm... Delicious

Nothing tastier than a Jelly Belly booger.

Enjoy your Friday.

PS - Because I am a bad person sometimes, I used this picture for an online analysis of my puss to see what celebs I most resemble. Sadly, Natalie Merchant, Tori Amos, Raoul Bova (I have no idea who this is), Anita Mui, Julie Andrews, Diana Rigg, Alessandra Ambrosio (nope, not her either), and Tom Sizemore (!) all look like me with a yellow Jelly Belly in my nose. Ha ha ha. It hurts to laugh so much.

Gross Confession Time

My left foot falls asleep when I am on the toilet for a long time. This is a weird development, and I am not sure what to do about it, as sometimes I require being on the toilet for a long time. On the other hand, sometimes I am sitting atop the throne for longer than necessary because I am checking my email or blogging. Yep. You read that right – I take my laptop to the bathroom with me. A woman's gotta maximize her limited time. I see nothing wrong with this, although you may want to think twice about borrowing my laptop when I see you at BlogHer 07. (You are going, right? And guys, you are invited.)

Cheers! Now Duck!

While Mara gives her kid medicine and changes her diaper and Sara naps, I thought I'd share my barfing adventures. After Sara and I arrived at the airport, we sat down for a quick bite. We were cahtting so animatedly that we nearly missed boarding the flight! Once we were on it, however, we learned that it was dealyed, and we chatted more. Our plan was to eat a second dinner, take an Ambien, and then sleep for the rest of the night. That was a good plan in theory.

I've taken a sleeping pill on a plane once before. It did not make me sleep. Instead, it gave me restless leg syndrome and some surreal out-of-body experiences. But it was over the counter, so I thought maybe a prescription pill would be better. After the restless leg syndrome and out of body experiences, I did seem to sleep.

I woke up as I projectile vomited all over myself. Normally, I would snap into action and do something about the viscous orange-brown goo that I had on my pants, socks, pillow, and Sara's blanket, but thanks to the Ambien, I could not focus. I beeped the flight attendant. They helped me get up and I stumbled into the bathroom and barfed more. Then I crawled over Sara somwhow and blacked out. When I woke up, I had a giant garbage bag to barf in and a fancy business class pillow. Sara had a nice fluffy duvet from first class. I felt awful. I drank water. I threw it up. Not cool.

Anyway, after throwing up in a plant at the immigration check, I conceded that perhaps we should take a cab to Mara's, not the tube. She gave us tea and then I took a nap. Now I feel a bit better, but still not 100%.

I don't think the Ambien caused my projectile vomit-o-rama, but prevented me from thinking clearly. I will stay away from these substances in the future.

Count Me Out of Civilized Society

Husband is the best man in a wedding this afternoon. I was planning to wear a cute pink and green strapless cocktail dress to the wedding, but I noticed that my leg hair was clearly visible through my white tights. I then considered wearing a pair of funky black flowy pants things, but then I didn’t want them to drag in the slush that is dogging the streets of New York these days.

“Why don’t you just shave your legs?” Rebecca asked.

“What! Are you crazy?” I replied, aghast at the sacrilegious suggestion.

I settled on a black dress so that I could wear black tights. As I mentioned all this to Husband, he brought up the fine product now available to men through www.shaveeverywhere.com.

“Damn, that was a funny ad,” he chuckled.

We joked about the “optical inch” for a few minutes, when it suddenly occurred to me. If people distinguish themselves from other mere animals by our grooming habits, then it is actually a sign of civilization that both genders are increasingly spending time removing our fur. Hence, I am utterly uncivilized.

“Yes, that’s true,” Husband admitted cheerfully. “If you were more civilized, you would also use a fork and knife while you eat. Your sister has the same issue!”

I hate using knives as much as I hate shaving. Using a fork is sufficient to split apart whatever food I plan to ingest. Why make another utensil dirty if it doesn’t need to be? Sure, if my food actually requires a knife, I am happy to make use of it. But generally, a gentle nudge off the side of the fork is perfect force and sharpness to break off a bite size nugget of food. Or sometimes I gnaw on things.

Civilization is overrated, anyway.

Just Because I'm Paranoid...

It is super cold again in New York today, with winds making the temperatures feel no warmer than the single digits. (Yes, people in the Midwest and the really northern parts of the US and Canada, I know I am being a wuss. Stop snickering.) As I sit shivering at my dining room table in my two sweaters (one an acrylic turtleneck and the other a cashmere one that I got on sale at Macy’s for $30), pants, tights, knee socks, and boots, my mind has returned to the delightful product I mentioned yesterday known as The Body Groomer.

Body hair on days like today is good. It’s another little layer of warmth. I don’t fully understand the link between body hair and historical environment, as it seems far less clear cut than skin color and environment (blazing hot sun=darker skin to prevent skin cancer; not so much sunlight=lighter skin so that Vitamin D can be absorbed more easily), but it seems to make sense that people with Eastern European heritage are typically a bit hairier than others because it is fucking cold there in the winter. Although that would make one think that Scandinavians would be human polar bears and Greeks and Indians would be, I don’t know, sleek seals or something, and it doesn’t seem to work that way, but I digress.

Back to the Body Groomer. At first, I was excited in my cynical way because it pleased me that men increasingly feel the pressure that women do to look one way to be considered acceptable. Norelco finally woke up and realized that it could increase its profits by exploiting the other 50% of the population. Ha! It’s about time. (I know, I know - an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Blah blah blah.) This morning I worried that Norelco’s clever little ad campaign at www.shaveeverywhere.com isn’t really about the “optical inch” at all. What if it is really about women like me?

Bear with me here. I think hairy men are fine. (Of course, I think hairy women are find, too.) One of the things that I like about hairy men is that they are even hairier slobs than I am, so I can still feel “feminine” in comparison. What if men were no longer hairy? Then I would really feel gross and weird. I’d have to start shaving, at least my legs and pits. And I’d be colder than ever. It would really suck.

It seems like the men’s grooming movement is not really going to solve any problems. I will still laugh at it though. I figure at the rate things are going, global warming will do away with us silly humans or even sooner, the US will be involved in a war in Iran as well as Iraq, and may get bombed back into the stone ages anyway. On the bright side, I learned from the human evolution exhibit in the Natural History Museum that body hair was quite stylish back then…

Forget Washing Hands, I Need My Mind Washed Out with Soap

I saw some former beloved co-workers in the evening, and naturally the subject of Anna Nicole's untimely demise was a topic of conversation. I speculated that she passed out and was smothered by her ginormous silicone breasts when she couldn't life her head out of her oppressive cleavage. Then my friend who I regard as the older brother I never had piped up. "Isn't her dead son the father of her new baby?" he asked earnestly.

Sure this is how horrible, awful rumors get started, but wouldn't that be totally disturbing if it randomly turns out to be the case?

I Made It

Smooth sailing all the way back. The nice thing about buying gas in Connecticut is that you can just stick the nozzle in the tank and it will fill automatically. You can do that in Illinois, too, but not New York or Massachusetts, so I was quite shocked the first time I tried to fill a gas tank in either of those states. Anyway, I irresponsibily ran inside and emptied my tank while Fred's was being filled. The sad part is that I could have saved a lot of money if cars could run on natural gas. I ate a lot of food that triggers my natural gas production cycle over the last few days and could have powered my ride back to NYC if someone had figured out a way to harness this type of sort of environmentally friendlier, albeit toxic in its own way, fuel alternative.

I had a wonderful time visiting Alex, but it's also nice to be home. Tycho seems pleased to see me. I'm excited for my new assignments at Bugaboo Magazine tomorrow. Yay.

Wine is Overrated

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

The saying, “If you assume something, it makes an ass of you and me,” is very applicable in this situation. I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.