Always: Chapter 1

For the most boring first chapter of a young adult novel in the history of young adult novels, read Chapter 1 of my first novel, "Always." I can only excuse myself by noting that I was probably only 13 or 14 when I wrote this. Also, it sort of gets better.

Note that the description of the house in the novel is suspiciously similar to that of my parents' house... Oh, the cringe-inducing hilarity!

Discoveries and New Projects

First, the important things - here are pictures of Marcus from my visit to my parents' house this weekend:With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.

Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!

When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.

My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.

New Mottoes

During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:

It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.

While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.

Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.

More to Love

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


Here we are in July 2009:


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

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

New and Improved

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

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


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


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

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

Pneumonia Ice Cream

"How are you?" my dad asked me when I spoke to him on the phone earlier.

"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.

"Oh, do you have a cold?"

"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"

"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"

This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.

"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)

"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."

I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.

Sunday Spazz Sessions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slipper When Wet

"Watch out when you go in the shower," my mom said to my sister on Saturday morning. "The tub is slippery."

"Duh! That's how tubs are!"

"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."

That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.

For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.

Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.

What's Fucking Cookin' in the Windy City

Despite foreboding reports from CNN that due to weather conditions, yesterday was one of the worst days to travel, my flight not only took off on time, but also landed early. The flight was smooth. I was even upgraded to a nice comfy seat!

Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.

In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.

"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.

"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.

Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.

The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.

One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:

Patti Blagojevich -- who publicly used her first lady platform to promote food allergy awareness, treatment of lazy eye and a children's book club -- secretly was recorded directing a deputy governor speaking with her husband "to hold up that f- - - - - - Cubs s- - - . . . . f- - - them," according to the complaint.

Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!

The Hubris! The Hubris!

Assuming that I do not get messed up by a blizzard (an actual one, not the political one), I will be in the Chicago area this afternoon for a weekend visit with my family. Initially, Husband was to join me on Friday afternoon, and my sister and her hubby were to arrive on Friday night. However, Husband canceled due to a potential storm at work, and Dana and Ryan nixed their plans out of fear of potential weather conditions. So that leaves little old me.

Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**

Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.

*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.

New Title

Starting sometime in June, I will officially be known as Aunt Suzanne to my sister's baby! I am so, so, so, so excited. I am also really sad that my sister lives so far away.

My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.

"What's this?"

"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.

"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"

Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.

As Seen on TV

The phone rang at ten to midnight. When the answering machine picked up before I did, my mom's voice filled the living room.

"Nothing to worry about. But I was excited and wanted to tell you..."

I picked up the phone and cut her off. "Hi. What's up?"

"Oh, your dad and I were watching some weird channel on cable that plays home videos. The one on TV was of the hot dog eating contest, and we saw Scott [brother-in-law] and then we saw you!"

"That must be the South Street Seaport qualifying round in 2005," I laughed. I'm sure this was extra exciting to watch on their new-ish flat panel TV. I ate 6.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, earning me the unofficial title of Best Female Eater in the South Street Seaport Qualifying Round. (The only other woman, a bailiff, could only choke down five hot dogs.) More impressive, I stood next to Eric "Badlands" Booker, a champion eater who sprayed me with bits of wet bun as he consumed his winning quantity of food. If it played in HD, I bet they would have seen that.

My mom told me that the voice over gave all of the non-famous eaters fake names. I was named as June, but I forgot the fake last name. I also forgot the name given to Scott, but he was described as "Blah Blah, a future shingles sufferer," which I found odd and creepy.

The funny thing is that this is not the first time I have been randomly spotted on TV eating hot dogs. The same summer I entered the South Street Seaport contest, I also ate at the West (East?) Hartford, CT qualifier. MTV used that event as part of their documentary, "Real Life: I'm a Competitive Eater." Since I stood near celebrity eater Tim "Eater X" Janus, I made it into the show.

I "retired" from competitive eating attempts that same summer. It seems that my method of eating, which I called the rabbit method because it involved constant nibbling down of food, was not only ineffective, but that the absolute elastic capacity of my stomach is 6.5 hot dogs. While I managed to consume Sno Caps after the Connecticut attempt, I did not do so well after the Seaport, and decided that it was not worth branching out into other foods. Since the party's over for me, it's nice to know that both of my attempts to break into competitive eating are well documented, even if not in my own name.

$1,000 Per Plate Obama Fundraiser in Wilmette Not at My Parents' House

According to the New York Times, Sen. Hillary Clinton "appeared at a $1,000-per-plate dessert reception on Sunday at a home in Wilmette, Ill." When I thought about the likelihood of the event hosted in my parents dining room with people hitting their heads on the poorly centered and too low chandelier, I could not stop laughing. I figured that guests would admire the unicorn on a heart shaped plaque hanging on the living room wall that I painted years ago at the Snoop Shop. Other news sources confirmed that my parents were not holding out on me and hosting secret fundraisers by identifying the host as Kevin Conlon. (I tried to remember if I knew anyone with that last name, but I don't think I do.) Man, would I be pissed if my parents really did host something like that and didn't invite me!

Incidentally, if Hillary Clinton had followed the advice that I psychically offered her in 2000, she would possibly be the presidential nominee instead of Obama. At the time, Illinois had a douche bag conservative senator with two years left on his term. He did not plan to run again. I suggested that Hillary move back to her the fine state of her youth and wait a bit to run for his seat, but nope. Like me, the lady did not want to go back home once she saw the glittering lights of New York. Instead, she moved here, became a Yankees fan (boo! hiss! for God's sake, any self-respecting Cubs' fan would know that they should adopt the Mets as their NY home team, which I think reflects her character, but I digress...), ran for Senate, and won. Fine, but had she gone home, Barack Obama would not have run for the open Illinois seat (or at least not won it in all likelihood), thus preventing him from gaining national prominence.

And the rest is history. Go Obama.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Yesterday I emailed a reminder about my book party on Saturday. This morning I received the following response from my mother:

I'm sorry, but we can't make it. We have better ways to spend our time.

I querried her as to whether that included interior decorating. Stay tuned.

Seeing the Light (For Mom)

While I visited my parents a few weeks ago, my mom mentioned that my dad recently broke one of those newfangled long-lasting light bulbs. Not knowing that there is a special way to dispose of those bulbs, he just threw everything out. Not long after that, the Village of Wilmette sent residents a special kit to use in the event that one of those light bulbs break. My mom freaked.

"There's mercury in the living room!" she fretted as I sat with her at the kitchen table.

"So?"

"So what if..." then listed a long stream of very unlikely detrimental effects to women of childbearing age who actually want children, i.e. - my sister.

"Um, I think you are overthinking this. It's not that big a deal."

"That's what so-and-so said at work," she replied, clearly not believing either of us.

This is why I am so excited that florescent light bulb disposal kits were included in the BlogHer Conference goodie bags. Alex even generously donated hers to me to pass on to my mom. So, mom, when you come to see my in NYC in a few weeks, leave extra space in your suitcase for your light bulb safety kits.

Conversations with My Mom

While watching the Cubs lose to the White Sox on Saturday:
"I think I'm constipated," I said.

"So are the Cubs," my mom replied.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"They don't have any runs!" she beamed.

I went to ask my mom something while she was sitting in the kitchen, staring at her calendar:
"I think you have a milk mustache," I said, noticing a thin white line above her lips.

"No, that Mylanta," she laughed.

Little snippets of conversation with my mom seem to be a good way to begin July's blogging (and fill up what is my 1,600th post). I'm hoping that July will be full of fun and excitement. I'm at my parent's house for the first week, then the BlogHer conference is in the middle of the month, and I'm spending the last week with Husband and 8 gazillion friends at a house we rented in upstate New York. See? Fun. What I am not going to do is obsess over grad school. (No, I didn't hear anything.) Right? Right.

I'm all up for hanging out in San Francisco with bloggers and friends and friends who are bloggers. Not only will I be hosting the Feminism & Gender meet up room, but also the Travel blogging one. Yay! And I'm hoping that things work out and Off the Beaten (Subway) Track debuts at the conference. Then it comes out for everyone. (I really hope people like it.) Yes, lots of fun, little anxiety.

The Treasure of My Parents' Couch

The first sentence in the personal statement I included with my MFA applications was a lie. I wrote that I never planned to become a writer. (My memory only appears to go back to 7th grade, when, during my bat mitzvah speech, I asked God to provide me with a scholarship to Northwestern University so that I could later go to law school.) However, a document freshly unearthed from my parents' couch last night provided evidence to the contrary.

Among the videos and CDs that my parents stored on their couch was a free promotional Kellogg's cereal promotional clipboard/folder that I received in 1987 at a Cubs game. The clipboard/folder formerly resided in my bedroom, and I have no idea how it wound up on the couch, but when my sister pitched a fit and irrationally insisted on clearing the videos and CDs off the couch so people could sit on it, I noticed it.

Inside, I found several sheets of lined paper containing a story titled, "A Treaser [sic] Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted to Be In Professional Baseball." In my list of "a million different things" I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, "First of all, I want to be an author, second an advertiser, third a baseball umpire." More important, the original story illustrates that I did not, in fact, recently learn the magic of dialog. The ten page story, written in pencil, is chock full of dialog.

As soon as I get home, I will scan this hilarious story and post it on CUSS. (Dana and I damn near busted a gut laughing at it.) When I do, it will prove that:
1. I was a gifted 11 year old.
2. I have become dumber in my old age.
3. I am only now relearning writing skills I began developing over 20 years ago.

Fascinating.

Home is Where the Mess - Er, I Mean Heart - Is

When I stepped into my parents' house yesterday for the first time since December, I sensed something was different. A quick scan of the kitchen revealed a bald spot on the wall where the phone used to hang and cover a missing patch of maroon and navy flowered wallpaper. The phone sat on the kitchen table. A splitter jutted out of the phone's previous home, with one wire leading to the kitchen table, and the other snaking around the corner into the living room.

Then I remembered that my parents received a flat panel TV as a 35th wedding anniversary gift from my bubbe. My sister reported from a previous visit home that the TV required a land line connection for some reason. This was my parents' elegant solution.

Moving into the living room, I observed the new TV proudly gracing the top of a classy new glass TV stand. My mom's shrine to our family (framed photos from important family events, primarily but not limited to my sisters' and my weddings) took up the lower two shelves. The Shrine was arranged very well, with all pictures visible.

I flopped down on the couch. It took me a few minutes to notice that the other arm of the rust colored L-shaped sofa was covered with videos that used to occupy the cabinet in the old entertainment unit. I smiled, thinking about how the blue chenille thrift store couch that forms an L with the fading black fabric Ikea couch in my apartment is currently covered in old magazines and papers.

Two lessons: Like mother, like daughter; and, it's nice to be home.

There's No Place Like Home, or Surrender Dorothy!

Taking off for the fourth weekend in a row (which is fun, but exhausting), and heading over to my parents' house in Chicago this afternoon. The Reisman clan shall be celebrating Bubbe's 85th birthday party on Sunday at a Russian restaurant. My dad ordered two bottles of vodka for the event.

"Only the cousins will drink it," he told me on the phone on Tuesday, "and this way they'll still be able to stand up straight when the leave." I could sense his satisfaction.

"Except that if they have only two bottles of vodka, they won't even be tipsy," I noted. These relatives drink a lot of vodka at celebrations; their tolerance level probably exceeds what would kill a normal person.

Other weekend activities include seeing my friend Rachel, her partner, and their adorable daughter on Friday; going to the new Indiana Jones flick on Saturday afternoon (so excited!!! And unlike NYC, theaters in Chicago actually have matinée prices, so it was a bargain to pre-buy tickets); and eating grotesque quantities of BBQ shipped overnight from Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis. (When we went on a family outing to Graceland last year, Neely's was the highlight of the trip. It was probably the best meal I've ever eaten.)

Plenty of hijinks to follow.

Learning to Be a Compassionate Conservative

For my 7th grade social studies enrichment project, I devised a board game about homelessness. The game was inspired by an article I read in People magazine about four or five people and how they became homeless. Using only their real life stories, people went around the board and tried to find a permanent place to live. I even cut out the people's pictures from the magazine and made them into the men.

After playing the game for a little while, several of my fellow "gifted" classmates became frustrated by all the bad luck that happened on each turn. Just when they thought they were making progress, there would be some set back, again, based on the real life stories told in the article.

"How do you win?" one guy demanded to know.

I frowned. "I don't think it's possible."

"This is the dumbest game ever," he sneered. "I quit."

And that is the type of "compassionate" conservatism that pervaded the community I grew up in. People refused to believe that not everyone was born into an advantaged situation, and thus if they were homeless, it was their fault. Plus, if only someone worked hard enough, they would be fine.

Granted, we were only in junior high, so I can't entirely fault my classmates for their naivety. At the same time, I seemed able to grasp the concept and as one of the dumbest smart people in my school, I barely was admitted into the gifted program, so I'm not sure why the "best and the brightest" were unable to wrap their little minds around the idea that society really screws some people. Now might be a good time to point out that Donald Rumsfeld grew up in that area, so perhaps it is a collective willful stupidity that only a few of us are fortunate enough to avoid.

And, with that little commentary, I am off to get an offensively expensive hair cut.

Setting the Medical Community Straight

"Suzanne, listen," Bubbe intoned when I called her this evening to see how she felt after her routine cataract surgery yesterday, "the doctor told me that I got diabetes from depression when Michael died."

Michael was my grandpa. "No, Bubbe. Depression doesn't cause diabetes," I explained.

"Yes! That's what the doctor told me. That's how your dad and I got diabetes."

"Um, I think you may have misunderstood what he was saying," I suggested.

"No, he told me this."

"Depression does not cause diabetes," I insisted.

"No? Well maybe the doctor doesn't know this," she said. I pictured the look of smug satisfaction on her wrinkled face, and gave in.

"Whatever you say."

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.

In Which I Spazz Out

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

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

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

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

Thirteen and a Half Years

Summer 1994

December 2007

Suzanne, the Snowperson

Motherfucker, it is cold in Chicago. In fact, I'm not a snowperson, although there is snow all over the place. (Apparantly, it snowed about 6-9 inches yesterday and last night. Somehow I missed this and neglected to bring snow boots. Sigh.) It is so damn cold here that I am an icicle person. Now my outside matches my cold heart. Ha! I kid. But seriously, folks, it's damn cold.

Tomorrow is a jam-packed day, so I suspect that I will not be able to blog until later at night. In addition to bringing you a detailed report of the first bris I am attending in my 31 11/12th years, I will also carry the humanism/feminism conversation over to BlogHer. Does the excitement never end? I thought not.

I Mugged You and Now I'm Fleeing Town

For those of you who responded to my NaBloPoMo post on Nov. 30, I sent you a mug.* Instead of watching your pocket, keep an eye on the mail for it. I mugged some of you for your birthday, others for the holidays, and everyone else in some sort of pathetic attempt to reward/bribe people to be my friend and read my blog. So sue me.

I'm heading to my parents' house this afternoon, although I expect massive weather-related delays and general chaos at the airport. My time at home will be spent: shopping for a treadmill to replace th one ruined when my parents' basement flooded in August; attending a bris (my first - expect a good post on that one!); hanging out with Granny; shopping for new clogs with Bubbe; dining with my friends Rachel and Jenny; and generally spending time with my parents, sister, and brother-in-law. Plans also call for an updated picture of me in that hideous white peasant blouse that I wore all the time in 1994. While I was at the gym yesterday, I also decided it would be fun to re-read the stories I wrote when I was in 5th grade and post the best one(s) on CUSS.

Yes, stay tuned for lots of unshaved excitement.


*Country Mouse: If you would like one, please email me and let me know where I can send it.

Last Chance Before December

When I was a wee lass growing up on the "wrong" side of the Edens Expressway in Wilmette, IL, my dad had a t-shirt that puzzled me. It had a picture of a cartoon women who (according to my partly unreliable memory) was scantily clad and had big titties sitting on a bale of hay with a piece of hay in her teeth. Above her, it read, "Last chance before the freeway." My dad also had a t-shirt with McDonald's golden arch logo that parodied the fast food purveyor. It read, "Marijuana: Over 5 Billion Stoned."

Of course, these memories have nothing to do with NaBloPoMo, a scheme to encourage people to blog at least once every day in November, but as today is Nov. 30 and thus the last day of NaBloPoMo, it's people's last chance to create posts and backdate them if they didn't make the daily postings. In my case, pretty much post at least once every day, every month anyway. However, as I decided to enjoy myself in London over Thanksgiving weekend and not pay the outrageous internet connection fee at my hotel, November happens to be the one month I didn't post every day. Some may say I lose, but I say I win. Dude, I got to go to London!!!

I tried to offer a prize for those who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, but the organizer never responded to either of my emails. I guess it's OK for others to offer their blog merchandise, but not offensive little old me. However, if you are a CUSS reader who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, email me (my email is on the right side of the blog), and you can have any short sleeve t-shirt or mug from the CUSS store. If more than one person is a NaBloPoMo champ, I'll do some sort of random drawing at the end of next week. Just because the official NaBloPoMo people rejected me doesn't mean I shouldn't try and make good on my offer. Holiday spirit and all that shit.

Back to growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this last day of November brings the news that former member of the House of Representatives Henry Hyde from Illinois died. Rep. Hyde did everything he could to ensure that low income women had few options for terminating pregnancies by blocking federal Medicaid funds from paying for the procedure. On the other hand, at least he was slightly less hypocritical than his anti-family, pro-forced-childbirth colleagues, as Hyde supported the federal Child Care and Development Block Grant. This important money helped low income parents pay for safe places for their kids to stay while they worked or went to school. I won't call it even, but at least he tried to help families even as he coerced them into living by his religious beliefs.

The Boob Tube

Back in my house that my parents requested that I no longer refer to as "Jewish white trash," we used to have a small B&W TV in the kitchen. It sat on the china hutch behind my dad's chair at our cramped kitchen table until I was about 7 or 8. (The generic canned grape juice and fruit punch was stored under the table next to my dad's feet and the heating vent.) I nearly late for the bus every morning because I sat, my eyes glazed over at the "woody Woodpecker" cartoons that blared at me while cereal dripped out of my mouth due to the trance induced by toy commercials. This was not acceptable, according to my mom. Further, my mom decided that watching quality programs like "Tic Tac Dough" and "Joker's Wild" were not better than family discussions. The TV was whisked away. (She was wrong, of course. Much dinner table talk revolved around whether there were boogers in the Kool Aid, as my sister maintained, or not.)

Sources (i.e. - my mom) also claim that in my youth, I used to watch an enormous amount of cartoons on Saturday morning and ask for every damn toy that was advertised. The answer was always, "No." Eventually I stopped being a brat, but I didn't stop watching the cartoon lineup. While I could barely get my little ass out of bed for school during the week, every Sat. morning I woke up at 6:30 like clockwork so that I could begin my day of leisure with the craptastic show known as "Zoobilee Zoo." (Sometimes I even got up earlier and stared at the colored bars that dominated the screen before the station went back on the air. Man, that was a long time ago when stations didn't have 24/7 programming.) To be fair, I acknowledged that this show was shit. However, I did not want to miss risking "Gummy Bears," which I think was on at 7:00, followed by "Snorks," "Smurfs" (totally the best, although the presence of only one girl Smurf puzzled my burgeoning feminist mind), "Foofur," and god only knows what else. Whatever live action shows came on interested me not a whit.

Through the November Blog Exchange, my friends Alex and Amy Jo are having a civil debate about whether or not kids should watch TV. While I turned out fine (sort of, anyway), I think I embody the downsides of both of their arguments. I am so proud.

Much Appreciation

Despite all my bluster and bravado, I've been having a tough few weeks for a variety of personal reasons. I hit a big nasty low yesterday night, and I couldn't sleep. When I went to check my email, I got this message in conjunction with an article I wrote at The Panelist, Breast Cancer for Fun and Profit:

You are my new hero!... Thank you!!!

Whoever you are, debutaunt, this meant more to me right now than you know. Thank you.

And thanks to everyone else who has been a good friend to me lately, whether online or in person or both. There's nothing horrible happening in my life or anything to worry about, but I especially appreciate your friendship these days. You rock. Also, I have been cheering myself up considerably by reviewing all of the nice pictures I posted and things I wrote about my parents' house. Even though my affectionate mockery of their house annoys my dad to no end, thinking about the non-pretentious home I grew up in and the lovely wacky people who reside(d) in it is making me feel very good right now. Yay.

The Seventh Deadly Sin

Rarely does pride come after a flood, but the Reisman family frequently defies conventional wisdom.

"I think we have the more trash than anyone in the neighborhood!" my mom reported to me breathlessly yesterday when she described their clean up efforts.

In chimed my dad, "It covers the entire front lawn!"

See? Jewish white trash like us can be #1 at something in the upper-middle class neighborhoods in which we dwell.

I'm off to catch an express bus to the Creedmoor Psychiatric Center in Queens, which has an art gallery full of residents' work.

In the Dark

Every Wednesday night around 8:30, I call my parents. A set time ensures that we check in with one another despite busy schedules, and is a tradition turns 13 on August 28, when I moved to New York for college, although the day and time has changed many times over the years. Of course, if something important comes up between our time to talk, we just call each other. I assumed that included natural disasters.

Turns out that there was a huge storm that hit the Chicago area on Thursday night. My parents assumed that the devastation would make the national news and that I would see it, so they didn't bother calling me and were slightly surprised when I didn't call them to see how they were. However, I don't watch TV news so I had no idea what was going on or if it even made the news here in New York at all. I did notice an article in Friday's New York Times about flooding in the Midwest, but a quick skim of the information revealed only flooding in Ohio and Indiana, so I moved on.

On Thursday, I tried calling my friend Rachel to wish her a happy birthday, and found it odd that a recorded message saying that all circuits were busy came on. When I tired her again yesterday, the phone was still out, so I rang her cellphone. She was in the process of digging out her flooded basement and still had no electricity. I decided to call my folks. The phone was also out, so I worriedly called my dad's cellphone. They were out at their monthly Couple's Club event, but cheerfully informed me that their power was still out and the basement filled with 12-15 inches of water and mud.

They are fine, but I don't think I've felt more useless or father away since I moved here.

Camping in My Mom's Underwear

My mom ordered new Lollipop underwear in the mail. One package of undies is a size 10 and the other is a size 11. Here's what this means in terms of my mom, who is proudly holding up her new size 11 acquisition.

Forget jogging shorts. These are so big compared to her that a family of four could use it as a tent while she is wearing them.

"But I don't want my circulation cut off," my mom explained when Des and I laughed and laughed at their nonsensicalness for a person of her size. "They are not big."

"Look at the picture!" I said, handing her the digital camera.

"OH! I guess these are a little big. This really gives it a different perspective." The sense of wonder in her voice made us laugh harder, and she joined us. "Well, after I put them in the dryer they'll shrink right up."

Good luck with that.

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.

Some Things Never Change, Some Things Go Down the Toilet

Sister spent a good portion of the afternoon yesterday cleaning out a storage closet in the basement that formerly served as our dad's office. Not only does the room - a walled off section of the basement - contain toys that we have not used in years, but it also has records from our educational careers. Every report card, including ones from Sunday and Hebrew schools, was saved. My dad began compiling dossiers with the material.

My dossier contained a psychological report from testing that I underwent on June 3, 1983 and June 10, 1983. I was in first grade, and my mom and I cannot figure out why I was referred for testing. (My best guess is because I developed serious asthma that year and nearly died.) What fascinates me are the following findings:

[Suzanne] appears to be a sensitive, aesthetic child who also demonstrates issues with power and control... who is experiencing very little difficulty in terms of her own perception of her behavior, intelligence, school functioning, personal appearance, popularity, happiness and satisfaction, as well as perceived level of anxiety. It appears that Suzanne has a very positive self-concept and that she is experiencing herself in very positive and instrumental terms.

Yay! Go young me. Too bad all that disappeared a few years later when puberty hit like a tons of bricks, never to be recovered again.

In this [mother-daughter] relationship, it appears that Suzanne could be experienced as oppositional, negative and determined to seek her own way even if it is at her expense and contrary to even her own best interests. At times, it appears that Suzanne views herself as having carried a power struggle to such extremes that she has ruined things for herself... She does appear to perceive herself as capable of winning these power struggles and when she does so she may even give in to her mother's original demands because she may even, in her heart, agree with these demands. Her power struggles may include highly manipulative and effective methods which at times may be highly dramatic (e.g. running away).

It scares me that even at 7.5 years old, I was doing things that I do today. Except that I'll engage in battles of wills with just about anybody, not merely my poor mom. In the end, though, my evaluation said that, "She appears to enjoy her home life and views it as a great source of protection and contentment." Very true today as well.

Speaking of enjoying home life, in the ride to my grandmother's party last night (which I only wish I had the foresight to podcast), we discussed teddy bears, butter biscuits, and beavers. This is Granny's lingo for breasts, vaginas, and fur coats.

My Mother's Daughter

My mom sent me an email last night:

Got a big kick out of your Memphis blogs. Could you tell Ev (a responder to your Gritz Synagogue blog) to read my response to her inquiry? Also, tell JustaGirl that her 'cue sense is right on target!

Love, mom

Ev is one of two fantastic writers at Nowhere, IL, a blog I savor only in part for its frequent write ups on tractors. The comment my mom referred to was this:

We're totally jealous of your trip to memphis. It's only 3 hours from our house, and we talk about going all the time, but we haven't done it yet.

I want to see Graceland, and feel the power that is Elvis. I want to see the Sun records studio and listen to blues music on Beale Street, and have a seedy liason with a cheap whore (okay...it mught be my cheap whore, but after a few beers, it's all good.).

Next time call first and we'll go too. Does your mom like dykes?

My mom responded:

To Ev,

I like anything that helps the environment by conserving water.

I have a very clear mental picture of my mom sitting in the basement in sweatpants and a blue navy baggy cardigan, slightly hunched over the keyboard hunting and pecking the letters to type this out. She is also chuckling maniacally. Just like I do when I say or write something that I find particularly clever and/or amusing.

Graceland

Graceland was very cool and lots of fun. In random order:

The pool room, with walls and ceiling covered in fabric.

Elvis's furry bed, complete with mirrors and imbedded stereo.

The infamous Jungle Room! The green shag carpeting also covered the walls of the stairs leading from the room to the basement.

The den, complete with three TVs because Elvis heard that Lyndon Johnson watched all three news programs at the same time and thought it was a good idea. (The TVs were too hard to photograph, so I just captured the yellow and navy essence of the room and part of the freaky monky statue on the mirrored table.)

The living room and music room. I rather liked the stained glass.

"I don't understand why people think the rooms are cheesy," my mom declared.

"Ha ha ha ha ha," I laughed.

"No seriously, why do people find this tacky?"

"Maybe because it looks like your house?" Sister suggested.

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.

Toilets Do Not Get Much Grosser Than This

Don't say I didn't warn you with the title.When John's camera broke on the first day of the trip (how badly does that suck?), he began using Rachel's camera to take pictures for both of them. On Saturday, Rachel gave me a CD burned with pictures from her camera. This was one of them. I have no idea what on earth is in that toilet. I'm just impressed that whatever restroom this was taken in even had a toilet.

Also, upon further study, I noticed that not only does this toilet have wings, but the seat and lid are also almost the same color as the one in my parents' bathroom in the basement. This should not make me laugh, but it does. Maybe I will get fired from my consulting job for cackling and blogging. (One can only hope...)

You're Wearing What?!?!

Ever since I returned from India six weeks ago, I have been eagerly anticipating our group reunion. It was every bit as delightful and fun as I hoped it would be. I debuted my newly altered punjabi dress, which I wore with a dark pair of jeans. Sundar (beautiful)! Many compliments were tossed my way. I basked.

After the reunion, I went to dinner with my parents, both grannies, and my aunts. The family also liked the punjabi.

"What is that pretty thing you are wearing?" Granny asked when we got back to my parents' house after dinner.

"It's a punjabi dress," I told her.

"A what?" she squawked.

"A punjabi dress."

"Oh, you're wearing a poon?" she asked innocently.

And on that note, I'm heading back to New York on Sunday afternoon.

Sizzle, Sizzle

Ah, there's nothing like the sound of my brain frying in my skull. I woke up this morning, set up my laptop on the kitchen table(on its new excellent chill pad), discovered that the WiFi didn't work on it for no reason I could discern, and thus have spent the day crunching numbers for my child care policy consulting gig, saving them on a USB memory stick, then running downstairs to the family computer in the basement to email reports. Really, the number crunching alone is the heat and the annoying set up is the frying pan.

Adding to the fun, my parents' house is freezing and there's no food in the house. Well, there are 6 apples, one pear, a bunch of bananas, eggs, 1.5 pieces of turkey, a loaf of wheat bread, and 200 pieces (or so it seems, anyway) of Kraft American cheese. I made myself a hot turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch and huddled by the oven for warmth.

Tonight I am dining with my mom and grandma, so that should yield conversational nuggets of gold.

Good and Very Bad Deals

So I went to remove my contacts lenses from my tired eyeballs at 10:37 pm CST. That is when I discovered that the bottle of contact lense solution that I thought I packed was saline nasal spray. If I were in NYC and ran out of sight enhancing juice, I would merely wak to the nearest 24 hour Duane Reade pharmacy three blocks up the street. In the 'burbs of Chicago, I have to borrow my parents car and drive for five minutes to the nearest 24 hour Walgreens and hope I don't fall asleep while driving and kill anyone. I never worry about falling asleep while I walk somewhere, and if I did, I doubt anyone except possibly me would die as a result. And did I mention that gas is $3.57 a gallon here? No, I didn't think I did.

The good news is that when I got to Walgreens I actually remembered that I wanted a powder brush so that I could actually use the $30 container of face powder that I bought at Sephora last week. (I already returned the $38 brush that I also bought.) Walgreens offered a powder brush of dubious quality for $3.99. I'll take it! How often will I use it anyway? (Although is it a little fucked up that I plan to apply expensive powder with some brush made of walrus whiskers or whatever from China?) The kicker is that if I bought one cheap ass brush, I could get another for free! I debated for a few minutes whether I wanted another eyeshadow brush (the one I have is at least 20 years old and probably full of deadly germs) or a blush brush that I could use for the new bronzer I also got at Sephora? I opted for the blush brush. I figured my eyeshadow brush hasn't given me any infections in the ten times I've used it in the past three years, so I'm probably good to go at least another decade with it. I spent so much time staring at make-up applicating tools that I almost forgot to grab the fucking contact lense solution that dragged my ass out of the house and forced me to drive on a car full of $3.57 per gallon gas to Walgreens in the first place. The free brush would make it worth it if it was something that I would use frequently, which I won't, but it's almost a fair trade.

Anyway, on my way home, I reflected on my recent decision not to apply to Columbia for an MFA. Given the price tag, my mom was on the right path - MFA does stand for "Motherfucking Atrocity" in this case. Then it hit me that my freakin' Masters in Public Administration (and Policy) degree from Columbia ran me about 25 fat Gs per year when I attended that fine institution of learning almost 10 years ago. Now it is 32,000 big ones and change. May I once again mention that gas is $3.57 per gallon here? Inflation is a bitch.

Insolence

After my dad picked me up from the airport this morning, we ran an errand and then headed to my bubby's swank apartment in senior citizen housing. It is on the 12th floor and overlooks Lake Michigan. If it were a condo, it would undoubtedly cost several hundred thousand buckeroos. Instead, it is highly subsidized by us taxpayers. I think she pays about $400 a month for a decent-size one bedroom with a million dollar view. I'm only slightly jealous.

For the first 30 minutes we were there, she stuffed our faces and talked to us. Then her pals arrived and she held court at her dining table in Russian. I speak better Hindi than I do Russian (reminder: I know about 14 Hindi words), so needless to say, I felt neglected, although also relieved. As long as she was being rude, I figured it would be OK to be rude right back and read my book. ("Nature Girl" by Carl Hiaason. I love Hiaason, but this was definitely not among his best work. It did nicely pass the time, however.) Damn, I am a surly little bitch.

Later, I had dinner with my parents and Rachel and her partner and kid. Their kid is so fucking adorable. Especially with ice cream all over her face. (Hey, I don't have to wash her clothes later, so it is easy to laugh. Her folks are good peeps and didn't seem to perterbed either.) Rachel told us an amusing story about chaperoning the prom last spring. The principal's wife was relating a disaster that unfolded at her sister's wedding on a hot day. It seems that the icing on the cake melted, and the sister freaked out. The prinicpal's wife (doesn't that sound like a character in Canterbury Tales?) told her sister to calm down because the day was not about icing. It was about dick. Dick as in "Dick, the man her sister was marrying," but as she repeated the line over and over again, all the teachers sitting at the table turned red from the effort to not laugh outloud. Rachel even had to kick someone under the table to stop him from giggling.

Maybe my bubby tells hilarious stories like this when she sits around and guffaws with her friends in Russian.

Some Personal History

I wasn't even close to being po' when I grew up, but I didn't exactly sit in the lap of luxury either. I like to describe my family as Jewish white trash. My parents had respectable middle class career paths at some point in their lives; they just sort of never made it all the way to the finish line. They did, however, work hard and save money and buy a dumpy (but comfortable) house in a very wealthy suburban community of Chicago where other people paid enormous sums of property taxes to ensure that their kids got the best education possible while also claiming that the amount of money spent on kids doesn't really make a difference so that they didn't need to pay for underprivileged kids outside of the community to have a fair shot. I guess kids like me were all the charity they could handle.

In my suburban community, being smart and cultured was highly desirable. All the popular kids were smart, even the girls. I am undoubtedly scarred because I was kept out of the smart kid enrichment programs for years because, I am convinced, I was not wealthy. (Also I was not a good standardized test taker, but that is another story.) Worse, my friend the Sauce, who became my BFF when she moved onto my less-than-desirable block when we were in 4th grade, was labeled as "average" (slang in the community for "slow") because she is half Dominican. The Sauce is probably one of the smartest people I know, but that is also another story.

People in my school went on fabulous vacations to Rome and the Bahamas and wherever people with money take their families. When I was seven, I drove with my dad, mom, grandpa, bubbe, and sister for several days squeezed in a Cutlass Supreme (I think) to Toronto for a family friends' function. Along the way, we stopped to see other family friends in South Haven, MI. We also went a few times to some Jewish resorts that smelled like mold in South Haven. After saving up for years, my parents took us to visit our great aunt and uncle in Burbank, which of course meant we got to go to Disneyland. (This is the infamous trip where we got to take a picture with Dennis Franz, which is taped to the living room wall in my parents' house to this day.) When I was going into 8th grade, we drove down to Florida where we stopped at a motel that had blankets that I swore smelled like vomit and I noticed a condom dispenser for the first time in a dirty gas station bathroom in Georgia.

Hence, nothing in my life hinted at the life I'd be leading today. Instead, all of this caused me to develop a seething rage at the injustices of the world and a naïve but well-intentioned belief that I could do something about them. I planned to be a public interest lawyer and struggle to make ends meet while I tried to pay off my law school debts on my piddling salary. I never expected to travel, although I hoped very much to visit England one day. (I've always been a secret Anglophile.)

Then I went to NYU. I was invited to join a program for smart people that allowed us to travel over winter break. I went to Italy and Germany. It was very cool having a passport, although I thought I'd probably never need it again. I also met Husband at NYU, who had decided early on in life that he loved money and would someday be rich. Weirdly enough, we turned out to be perfect for each other and fell madly in love.

Husband pursued his dreams of riches. I dropped out of law school on my third day. Husband worked in finance. I got a Master's in Public Administration and Policy and had an unexpectedly well-paying career (for my age and my field, anyway) as a child care facilities development and finance guru.

I also began traveling, both for work and for pleasure. The girl who never thought that she would leave English-speaking parts of North America went to the Czech Republic (to visit a friend of Husband's outside of Prague) with an unintended stop in Amsterdam on the way (long story), London, Buenos Aires, Paris, Israel, Zurich, Florence, Rome, the Dominican Republic, several Caribbean Islands on a[n ill-advised] cruise, and most recently and amazingly, India. Domestically, for work this girl went to San Francisco (multiple times), LA, Sacramento, DC, Portland OR, Atlanta, and thrilling Columbia MD. For fun, I went to Boston, DC, Philly, Cleveland, Miami, San Jose CA, and glamorous Iowa City. It's been quite the whirlwind.

Never in a million years would I have thought that this would be my life. I am one lucky ass bitch.

The Welcome Committee

Finally, I boarded a flight that left Chicago and arrived in New York. As the plane taxied to its gate at JFK, I checked my voicemail messages. Relief rapidly became roiling frustration as I listened to a message from the car service company. It seems that I communicate better with my 14 mangled Hindi words to people who speak limited English than I do to my Husband of 6.5 years, as, despite repeatedly telling him I was on a 2:20 pm flight to JFK, he arranged for a car service to pick me up at LaGuardia.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" I said loudly. The guy across the aisle from me on the plane stared at me.

I called the dispatcher and she was very nice. She said she'd send a car to JFK and he'd be there in 10 minutes. I began to tell her it would take me a bit longer than that to get to the pick up area, but my call waiting began beeping and my "low battery" signal went off at the same time. I answered the call waiting, and spoke to Husband for four seconds before my cell phone died. At that point, I considered how satisfying it would be to throw it on the floor and stomp it to a million pieces, but despite decided that the answer would be "highly," I put it back in my pocket. I really miss my StarTac.

Some small mishaps happened in finding the car and then discovering that neither I nor the driver know how to get to in-law's house from JFK, but it all worked out and I arrived around 7:00 and Husband, Mother-in-Law, Rebecca, and my friend who I invited to a Passover Seder that I almost didn't make it to came out to greet me. I barely ate anything at dinner, though, because my stomach was in the early stages of revolt. It felt really great to see everyone.

On the way home, my digestive track kicked up into full welcome home mode, and upon arriving at my apartment, I made a mad dash for the bathroom. Although I was about to shit my pants, I stopped dead in my tracks when I turned the bathroom light on.What the fuck? The hamster that used to run the wheel in my brain definitely died early that day, so I stood still, mouth agape, trying to process what happened to my toilet. A few moments later, the new hamster sent by the temp agency arrived, and the wheel spun again. A not-too-distant memory of a conversation I had with Husband while I was in India replayed in my head.

"Hey, I'm thinking of getting a new toilet seat," Husband said. "Any particular kind you want?"

"Not the cushiony kind," I replied. "Those split quickly."

"I was thinking that, too. Also, I'm not getting another wooden one," he piped in. I loved out wooden toilet seat (it had been a dream come true when we got it upon moving in almost five years ago, I shit you not), but knew he was right. Thanks to the crappy plumbing in the building which resulted in geyser sprays emanating from the toilet bowl, the toilet seat had starting rotting.

"Plastic it is," I agreed.

Now that I was faced with our new plastic toilet seat, I was not actually sure that I could bring myself to use it. But nature called – rather urgently, in fact – and I found my ass plopped down on quarters suspended in Lucite. We completely outdid my parents in Jewish white trashiness with this one.

Welcome home, Suzanne.

An Overview

Ignore the less-than-flattering photo of me modeling one of my very favorite childhood toys, my koala puppet Fuzzy Wuzzy, who has clearly seen better days and looks like I stuck my arm up the ass of some road kill with scary orange eyes. The real point of this picture is the excellent view of my parents' house. And my parents' asked me to not post any pictures of their house again after this. (However, if you come to the BlogHer Conference in Chicago this summer, perhaps I can arrange for a personal tour. I have connections.)

Anyway, I am sitting on the new recliner. Sister is sitting next to me on the old recliner with the holes in the cushion that are covered by a hideous croched blanket my Bubbe made. (She always picks questionable color combinations for her knitting.) The old recliner was supposed to be thrown away when the new one was obtained, but was not for some reason that had to do with my Bubbe insisting that we keep it although she does not live there. Whatever. At least there is plenty of seating for everyone, and a good range of choices between the rust-colored sofa, the blue recliner, and the brown leather recliner with blue, purple and white blanket.

Behind the chairs is the coat closet with only one bright blue folding door remaining. Next to that is the stairs. Notice the smoke detector with the lid hanging open. At the top of the stairs, barely visible, is a gazillion gallon humidifier that broke at least 10 years ago. Laundry is sometimes plopped on it, although for now there is a broken black & white TV hidden in the darkness.

One modern amenity visible in the kitchen is my parents' spiffy new oven. Hurray! (See parents? I ended this on a very nice note.)

Watch Your Head: In the Dining Room

I love the utterly ridiculous chandelier in my parents' dining room. Not only is the ceiling way to low for such a pretentious item, but it is not centered in the room. Remember, I am slightly over five feet tall, and even I am at risk of beheading by that thing. I did really really love the chandelier as a kid, though. I thought it was extremely glamorous and I was impressed that it had flame-shaped light bulbs.

Other notable features of the dining room: The cereal collection on the chair in the corner. Below that chair, barely visible, is my mom's bag of bags. It is a huge plastic bag that contains plastic bags of varying size. (I am not mocking the bag of bags. I actually have several of them in my own apartment. I don't know why, but I am obsessed with finding just the exact size for an object when I need a bag. It drives me crazy to use a bag that is unnecessarily large.)

The china hutch next to the Chair of Cereal contains real china. I've also always loved their pattern. It's just classy and simple. (One wonders what it is doing at our house...) Oh, but it also contains a plastic plate my sister made as a kid. Plus lots of random glassware and hideous crystal candy dishes that my Bubbe foisted upon us. (With more to come, as she is soon moving and cleaning house. Oy vey.) Also, the top of the china hutch is stocked with office supplies and what appears to be some sort of paper bug crawling up the wall. I have no idea what the fuck that is.

The buffet is chock full of papers and gym shoes, like all buffets. No need to say more. And, folks, is the dining room at my folks house. Soon we shall visit the kitchen, a tiny preview of the wallpaper can be obtained from this picture by looking past the very bright blue folding door. (Cue scary music.)
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As an aside, the hat I am wearing in this picture is my third scary bear hat, although the ears are hidden by the chandelier. (The first died a sad death, the second was lost.) I am most displeased to report that I lost my third scary bear hat last Tuesday. It was last seen tied around my neck. When I got off the subway and reached back to put it on, there was nothing there. If you know any place to get Scary Bear Hat the 4th, I will gladly take any guidance.