Stike Out for Choice!

Others might make jokes about "striking out a life" (which I find really funny, by the way, because my gallows humor on this topic is so finely honed; another good one might be about alleys), but I am participating in an abortion access bowl-a-thon in April. Seriously.

"But Suzanne," Dear Reader may be thinking, "abortion is legal. How can it not be accessible?"

Yes, that's what I used to think, too. Then I found out that 87% of counties in the US have no abortion providers. This affects approximately 1/3 of American women. The lack of providers increases exponentially for women who need abortions after 16 weeks.* These women are forced to travel long distances, sometimes as many as hundreds of miles, to get the medical services they need.

Add it up: there's the cost of the procedure (not covered by Medicare in 32 states; although those lucky enough to have private health insurance are covered by many policies for now), the cost of transportation, and potentially the cost of a motel if the person has to stay overnight. Since 50% of women who get abortions already have children, there's the cost of child care, too.

While abortion may be legal, it is only really accessible to women who live in certain geographic regions and/or those who have financial resources.* So, I join the abortion access bowl-a-thonin an attempt to keep pins, not women, in (back) alleys. Um, or something like that.

*There are many reasons for why that may happen.
**Just like other health care! How nuts is that?!?!

The Tipping Point

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

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

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

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

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

Bless the Internet!

Not long ago, I wrote about my mother's love of fruit cake (concluding that it takes one to know one), but I didn't mention that as she told me her tale of fruit cakeless woe on the phone, I plopped my ass down in front of the computer and ordered one online for her birthday. (I didn't want to spoil the surprise in case she read my blog before it arrived.) My blog friend Pamela kindly suggested a good online fruit cake source, but I had already secretly ordered from Hickory Farms. I believe that I will make online fruit cake ordering a new tradition. Next year: Pamela's suggestion, Collins Street Bakery. I love their history.

After I accomplished the fruit cake mission, I turned to the internet for some research. I was asked to contribute an article to an almanac about New York City. My assigned topic was a forgotten crime spree from the 1950s. The New York Times archives offered me articles from those days that gave me all the information I needed to complete my story. No microfiche! Hurray!

With the internet, is there ever a reason to leave home except to go to the gym, see people, or travel? (And the travel can be 100% planned through the internet!) I can do research, order gifts, and arrange for food to be brought to my doorstep. If only I could harness the power of the internet to work from home.

I love you, internet....

My Mom's a Fruit Cake

"I've had a really hard time finding fruit cake at the store in the last few years," my mom told me on the phone last night.

"Um, that is because no one except you buys fruit cake," I explained.

She ignored me. "Fruit cake is the unfair butt of many jokes. It is delicious! Grandma likes it, too."

It takes one to know one.

No Exaggeration

The intersection of 23rd and 6th Avenue is the only one I've ever passed through in Manhattan which not only has the standard "Walk/Don't Walk" lights to indicate when to cross the street, but also emits noises like a cuckoo clock. (Every intersection I encountered in downtown Oakland, Ca, on the other hand, makes noises.) This Manhattan intersection is different from the others because there is an institute for the blind on W. 23rd Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. (While I think it is great that the City made one intersection easier for blind people, I always wondered what happened if they came from the west side as opposed to east, but I digress.)

As I walked from work to school this evening, I crossed through the noise-emitting intersection. I continued south on 6th Avenue, and as I approached the doors of the Burlington Coat Factory, I nearly fell over. Leaving the shop was a blind man. He held his walking stick and emerged slowly from the store's double doors. Behind him, with her hand on his shoulder, was a blind woman, also gripping a red and white walking stick. Following her was another woman. She placed her hand on the middle woman's shoulder, and grasped a walking stick.

Wow, I thought as they turned left and made their way to the corner. It's the blind leading the blind leading the blind. You really do see everything in New York City.

A Deadly Sin

In the last two days, I read four things* that lead me to a deadly sin. Oh, envy! How it rears its big ugly head up and makes me covet the talents of others. As I said to two of the writers, "It's like penis envy, only real.**" Yes, I want their tools. Maybe this is also a violation of a commandment, too - do not covet thy neighbor's literary skills.

*Two stories at school; The Scenic Route by Binnie Kirschenbaum; and a blog post by AV Flox about jizz as an anti-depressant whose conclusion I disagree with, but loved the writing anyway. Unlike the prior sentence, which is a good example of very bad writing.
**Sorry Freud, but I'm not buying your sexist crap. He'd probably like the study about how precious pearls of cum prevent women from being depressed that Flox wrote so well about...

The Republican in My Apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Hear the Secrets that You Keep

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

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

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

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

Yeah, junior high just sucks.

Burned

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


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

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



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

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

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

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

"Yes," he said with no hesitation.

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


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

Turkey in the Pants

As per the heeelarious Shonda's request, here is evidence of my fear that I will be stopped at a grocery store for attempting to shoplift a turkey by stuffing it down the front of my pants:

Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.

Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."

For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.

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!

Furry Beaver

I went to the gym yesterday morning. One of the TVs in the room had the Today show on. It was right in my line of vision. The teletype was on and I half-watched without sound while running on a treadmill. A woman brought some animals onto the stage, and Kathie Lee and some giantess reacted to each one as if I were a serial killer on the loose. I rolled my eyes.

Then, it happened. The animal lady's assistant carried an enormous brown beaver out. It was adorable, although understandably terrified of the women poking at it with a stick of celery and kept trying to escape. "Damn, that beaver is large and furry!" I said to myself and cracked up. "I want to touch that soft beaver!"

Unfortunately, I almost fell off the machine at that point, so I missed one of the women's comments, looking up just in time to see Kathie Lee wrinkling her little button nose and the teletype reading, "No, this is just the way beavers smell."

Trust me, my furry beaver was no better after a six mile run. Heh heh.

The Heat is On

In New York City, landlords either blast the heat so that the old people in the building don't complain and the other tenants sweat their balls off, or they are slumlords who provide no heat at all and tenants are forced to use ovens and space heaters to keep warm. I am fortunate enough to live in a building that provides heat, albeit way too much heat. Generally, I keep the radiators turned off and even an icicle like me is toasty.

This morning I had to open the valve on the radiators. Even Tycho seems to be cold. (Serves him right for shedding like a maniac in November, although I can't entirely blame him for not knowing it is the cold season since the apartment is usually hot.) As I write this, it's four degrees warmer in the Chicago area than in New York (34 degrees - above freezing! - versus 30.) Freezing temperatures were also reported in Georgia. (Stay warm, Eddie! And by the way, your son's Beetle is my dream car.)

Speaking of heat, it seems that the stupid Democrats in Congress are re-warming up to that assfuck Lieberman. They should be freezing that douche nozzle back to Connecticut. I guess they think they need him because in Minnesota, usually one of the coldest places in the nation, a hand recount of the 2.9 million ballots cast is underway. Convicted criminal Ted Stevens lost his bid for re-election in Alaska (as I said to a friend yesterday, I love when Americans do the right thing by small margins), so that's a plus even though I'm not sure I want the Dems to have a super majority.

Also in hot news, the winner of the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant was (drum roll, please) Tokyo Circus! Not who I wanted, but he's certainly deserving of the title. The man did splits on a stage covered with beer and who know what other fluids wearing only a g-string pouch-y thing. Major kudos. I am glad that the audience has higher standards than I do, as I tend to vote for the cutest guy who is willing to show his balls. I'm a sucker for attractive male nudity. (Yes, I'm talking about the tour guide guy again, lecherous hag that I am.)

And that's my report on the temperature.

My Furry Beaver Gets Around: BlogHer Beaver Shots Now Online!

No less than a 100% rip off of Suebob's popular red stapler series, I decided to bring my furry little beaver to the 2008 BlogHer conference and have her pose with my blogging friends. Brilliant! Except that I forgot my camera. Fortunately, Alex lent me hers, so I wandered around the conference on Friday, asking people to take a beaver shot. Then I forgot to upload the pictures from Alex's camera. Until Thursday night...

Without further ado, I present: My Beaver at BlogHer 08. Feel free to tag yourself if you have a beaver shot. (I figure some people may not want to be identified for web search purposes, so I leave it up to the individual in the photo to tag herself. Please do not tag any beaver shot unless you are in it. It's pretty bad when a prospective employer googles someone and comes up with a link to her beaver shot...)


Someone (Mar, I think) suggested that Bev the Beaver do a tour, which I think would be fun. People who want to be in a picture with my beaver would email me (or leave a comment), I'd generate a list with people's addresses, then send Bev and the list to the first person on the list. That person would take a picture with my beaver and post it, then send Bev to the next person on the list and so forth, until Bev is sent home to me. Anyone interested?

I Love the Nightlife

I also love to boogie, but that is another story. This post is about how wild the nightlife is in the Catskills. In the past week, I saw:

• wild turkey


• deer


• gopher


• opossum


• skunk


• hawk (or possibly falcon)


• rabbit (although I saw more of those critters when I visited my parents earlier in July in the 'burbs of Chicago)


• toad


• frog


• what I think were red lizards of some sort, crushed on the road

Further, I encountered more spiders and moths than I've seen in the previous two years combined. Add in the beetles, crickets, and UFIs (unidentified flying insects), and it was a total free for all. While it was all exciting, I'm very relieved to again be in the tame confines of my New York City apartment this evening.

Pecans, Almonds, and Pistachios

Things are kind of nuts here right now. (Ha!) Not only is Susanne Reisman still a co-author of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track in some venues (although, thankfully, the freeloader has been dropped from most listings), but now Suzanne Reizman is also on the wait list at New School. We'll see how that goes.

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.

Belated Earth Day Plea for Bush Conservation

Yesterday Count Mockula sent me a link to a pair of "Stop Deforestation" knickers. Those Brits are so cheeky! (Ha ha.) Unfortunately, at $2 to the £1, these undies would deforest my wallet. (Even without the awful exchange rate, I am way too cheap to buy $25 underwear, even if they are adorable and "crack" me up. Oh, me with the puns - my fake mustache is quaking with laughter...)

Gnus (Not News)

I still have no news on the MFA thing, so I thought I'd post a picture of gnus instead. Until I searched for a photo of gnus, I didn't realize what strange-looking beasts they are. Supposedly, all decisions at New School will be made by April 15, so perhaps I shall soon have some news to go along with the gnus. I better get in, as I have some great ideas for my candy bra picture, and the deal is that I only eat a candy bra if I get into a creative writing program.

Even My Sentences are Running!

There's a Mars bar waiting for me on my kitchen counter. It's been waiting patiently for me since I brought it back with me from London on March 23. I decided that I would eat it when I know whether or not I will be attending an MFA program in the fall. The Mars bar is getting lonely.

I'd like to know what is going on for the fall, and to eat this delicious, chocolatey, caramel treat. (British Mars bars kick the asses of the American version. They are more like a super extra smooth and tasty 3 Musketeers, which is my favorite American mass market candy bra. Mars bars are even better than 3 Musketeers.) However, somehow between my eating trip to London, my non-stop snacking thanks to anxiety, and my lax attendance at the gym (coupled with lazy workouts when I did manage to roll myself there), I am not fitting into my clothes very well. As in, pants are mad tight, and shirts clearly highlight my pot belly.

This all brings me to The Biggest Loser, which is an oddly compelling reality show about extremely overweight people trying to lose weight. Last week, the first time I tuned in this entire season (although there were only 3 left - better late than never!), people were sobbing their eyes out when they had to vote someone out for merely gaining a pound. (He lost over 100!) It was touching and weirdly inspiring. Not as inspiring as when Alex came to visit me recently, got me to run outside for the first time in forever, and then invited me to take part in a team triathlon with her (I'll run, she'll swim, and her friend will bike - playing on all our strengths), but uplifting enough for me to write a run-on sentence.

Some Shit You May or May Not Know

Although I am a mouthy bitch, I have a strange fear about losing friends if I don't comply with their requests. I'm not talking about requests to do anything illegal - say, like do drugs (nope, I don't hang out with people who try to pressure me into dope!) - but little things like fill out a meme on random things about me. So here goes, but I'm not tagging anyone at the end.

1. I had two brilliant ideas this week. Seriously, that is amazing!

2. My first brilliant idea was to get a koala tattoo on my cooter, thus creating a natural bush-y environment for the little critter to hide. I really like saying, "Koala in the bush!"

3. Brilliant idea numero dos is to edit an anthology of essays about getting your period. I think this will make for excellent reading, and it is very important to me to find a wide range of experiences: people who are young; people who are not so young; people who got their period when they were young (before age 12 or 13); people who got their period when they were older (after age 15); people who were poor; people who are not hetero; people who are not white; people of different religions; people with non-traditional family structures; etc. I'm working with Alex Elliot to set up a website to officially collect submissions, and I'm also crafting a proposal for publishers. That is how motherfucking serious I am about this. It's my next book project.

4. My first book project resulted, three years after conception (sort of like an elephant gestating, but longer and with more typos) in Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. It's a travelogue/guidebook to wacky and unusual things in New York City. When it comes out this summer, hopefully without typos, I am going to have a book party. All my blog readers are invited.*

5. I thought my second book would be Medical History Museums of the United States and the World because I love medical history museums and saying the title (and making a sweeping hand gesture) makes me laugh almost as much as saying, "Koala in the bush!" Many people felt that there would be an extremely limited audience for a book on medical history museums, though. Then I got a better idea anyway (see fact #3), so I'll wait a little longer for this one.

6. Insomnia plagues me periodically. Hence I am writing this post at 2 am, which may explain why it is so slap-happy.

7. In January, I will seek a part-time job in community development. It is my sincerest hope that I don't let myself be guilt-tripped into working on child care policy. I am weak, though.

8. Speaking of guilt, I admit to loving the most craptastic show on Tv, CSI:Miami. It amuses me so much that I named my non-existant koala in the bush Horatio after the main character. Horatio is campily played by David Caruso, who I truly adored on NYPD Blue, which is one of my all-time favorite shows.

I may actually fall asleep after writing this. Hooray!

Trick or Treat?

I adore Halloween. Even when I worked at a regular job, I wore a costume (my traditional German dirndl) to work on the holiday. Needless to say (but I will), none of my other co-workers dressed unusually those days.

For the vast majority of women, however, a milder version of dressing up for Halloween takes place every single day when they put on their faces before leaving the house. I'm not saying that make-up is bad or people shouldn't wear it as it obviously helps a lot of women feel better about themselves, but it is in many ways no less a mask than a dirndl is a piece of clothing. I am too cheap and lazy to care if I look like shit.

So it is funny that on the eve of Halloween, I found myself in a Sephora cosmetics Emporium in Times Square. (A double horror!) My friend and I were walking home from dinner and as we passed the store, she remembered that she needed a lip pencil sharpener and asked me if I minded stopping. I am always up for an adventure (yes, I consider entering a make-up shop) so inside we went. While I marveled at the tremendous variety of appearance-approving tools and tricks, I noticed a sale rack. And like a seven year old in a goblin costume, I dug through the bins for goodies. Since I can't resist cheap shit and "deals," I bought a $2 lip gloss stick and $4 sparkly eye shadow.

I tested my new face out when I got home. The lip gloss was a little darker than I thought it would be, making me look like a drank a glass of fresh frothy blood. The eye shadow was the perfect accoutrement to sitting on the couch and watching DVR'd episodes of the delightfully craptastic CSI:Miami. I washed the magic off before I went to sleep at 3 AM. As the soap threatened to get into my eyes, I thought about how parents punish kids for using dirty language by washing their mouths out with soap. Could one also wash their eyes out with soap after viewing less pleasant images, like pictures of Paris Hilton? Interesting.

Happy Halloween. Hopefully your day will not include any costumes so horrible that you'll want to wash your eyes out with soap.

Shit I Almost Forgot

As I was catching up on blog reading (something I forgot to mention in my previous post that I am behind in that is stressing me out), Alex's recap of BlogHer Day Two reminded me that I failed to pimp my blog. I tried. I tried really hard, even coming up with an awesome tagline thanks to Karrie ("Because life is hairy" - ha! that kills me), but only succeeded in temporarily removing my sidebar. Next year, I am going to physically pimp my blog MTV-style by covering it in pink fur and added diamond-encrusted wheels. It could be a crafts workshop or something. Tricking my laptop out is far more achievable than fixing my blog template, as the most important thing I learned during the pimping session is that Blogger does not want you to fuck with their preset templates and makes it damn near impossible for a fiddler like me to do so. So it goes.

The other shit I almost to forgot to mention was the most ludicrous bumper sticker I ever laid eyes on. Now, I've some some puzzling bumper stickers in my 31.5 years on this earth. (Most recently, those tend to say things like "Bush/Cheney 2004," but I digress.) This bumper sticker said, "If you are tailing* gonna ride my ass, pull my hair." What the fuck does that mean? I do not get it at all, but in the absence of context, I assume it is in support of unshaved snatch. Or something. If anyone has a clue, please share. (What's weirder is that I saw this car near the airport, then a few days later saw the same Sphinx car near my parents' abode. What are the odds of that?)

My final pearl of wisdom/nugget of wit that I felt the internets needed to hear involves Husband. My dad, Granny, and I were on our way back from breakfast (in which both Bubbe and Granny shockingly behaved well and did not traumatize Super Des, so now I hope she does not think that I make all up all my crazy stories about them - I do have other witnesses, just in case, some who are not related to me by blood or marriage) and we were discussing the impending nuptials of Brother-in-Law and Future Sister-in-Law, for which the whole mispuchah (that's clan to you non-Yiddish speakers) will be journeying to the New York City area. I mentioned that FSIL will be 30 in March, but BIL is only gonna be 27 in May.

"Oh, he's a cradle robber!" Granny squealed in delight.

"So is Suzanne," Dad said. "What are you, seven months older than Husband?"

"It's true," I admitted. "I was a baby wise to the ways of the world before he even opened his newborn eyes."

Damn, I crack myself up.

*Thank you, Missy, for your correction.

Sticky Fingers

Recently, I was reminiscing with someone at a party about the early days of the internet. When I went off to pursue my bright future at NYU way back in 1994, the internet barely existed. Checking email was possible for the masses with limited understanding of technology (aka "magic" or "sorcery")through AOL, CompuServe, and Prodigy, two out of three which didn't make it past those heady early days. College students with access to computers could use some sort of complicated system known as PINE to link up to text-based email and possibly even the "internet."

(Side story: Husband recently went to a 10 year anniversary celebration of an investing club that he helped found while an undergrad. At the event, current students pulled up the clubs first website, designed by Husband. His chest puffed with pride.

"I did that!" he thought.

Then the students pulled up the current website, and projected it side-by-side with Husband's creation.

"Look at this!" they snorted derisively with laughter.

Husband sulked. "It was great for its time!")

Anyway, one of the great things about PINE was that you could "finger" people. While fingering people sounds full of illicit fun, really it meant that you typed FINGER then someone's email exchange, and the system magically told you where that person was currently logged in! Such as, "sreis = cubicle 2, 3rd North." The precision! If only the FBI or CIA had such intricate location services, perhaps we could have verified Saddam's spider hole months before snitches gave him up. (Or figured out that there were no WMD over there. Oh wait - most of us already knew that.)

Sniggering aside, we marveled at fingering others, the sophisticated stalking tool of 1994. Of course, it was utterly useless if the person you wanted to find was not logged into the system, but then you could amuse yourself by typing a vague FINGER and getting a list of everyone currently logged in! Sometimes, that was a whopping 36 people. Craziness.

Deep Sea Spear Fishing and Other Metaphoric Overkill

Where to even begin? Setting aside the idea that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," let's focus on the realities of this fine ad sent to me by the hilarious SJ of I, Asshole. I am impressed that between the "before" and "after" shots of the clam, it loudly proclaims "RARIIP." To me, that says, "This is going to hurt like a mad motherfucker," and that is true. (Thanks to the one accidental bikini wax I had, I know this for a fact.) Hence, the hairless clam in the "after" shot is "singing" like a suspect being tortured during interrogation.

As for the statement that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," I have to disagree. There are plenty of people in the world – male and female – who can deal with the fact that grown women have pubic hair, and some of us happen to not want to hear/experience "RARIIP" anywhere near our pooties. (Even thinking about it makes me cross my legs.) I realize that not all women agree with me when it comes to cooch style, and that's fine. But don't be insisting that every single potential clam eater finds naturally hairy clams gross. It is a lie, propaganda from the beauty industry. There's something for everyone. We don't all need to be the same neatly smooth Venus to get action or love.

However, this did get me thinking: if no one likes a bearded clam, is it not also true that no one likes a mustached gherkin? Shouldn't the beauty industry begin targeting men to remind them that their curlies also get in the way? I once had a debate with a total moron on someone else's blog in which he suggested that women who don't wax/shave don't deserve his services. I asked him if he waxed/shaved his pubic hair, and he indignantly insisted that he didn't need to because no one's mouth would be near his bush. I dropped the subject then because it is clear that this man has only received very bad blow jobs for his entire life and has no idea that more than the tip of a dick can be involved. (As I write this, his other completely insane insistence – that circumcised men never experience sexual pleasure, which he based entirely on his own experience, which he somehow compared to that of non-circumcised men – makes a lot of sense. The man obviously has no concept.)

No more beating around the bush (har dee har har)! If bearded clams are gross, so are mustached gherkins. What's good for the goose is also good for the gander, who, to completely kill the metaphor, should both be plucked free, although that probably would not be good for either goose or gander, as they need their downy coats. Just like me.

So Sari!

OK, I do apologize for that terrrible pun. I only wore a sari once. It was to Dr. H's sister's wedding, back in May 1999. Another friend, Future Dr. S (yeah, I seem to have many friends of the medical persuasion, don't I?), took Dr. P and I home with her and her mom gussied us up in her finest saris. This was way before I was obsessed with India and all things Indian, but I loved it. I'm sure I looked like a big white goober (Future Dr. S's mom pinned the sari onto me so that it wouldn't fall off at any inopportune times), but I felt utterly glamorous. Clearly, that was my first clue that I needed to reclaim the lost Desi within me.

Losin' It

Losin' It was on of Tom Cruises' first hit movies, or something like that, wedged right between The Outsiders and Risky Business. To me, though, "losin' it" is a near daily occurrence, although the "it" that gets lost varies tremendously.

Often times "it" is my temper or tenuous grip on sanity. Other days it is an object, like a water bottle I'm carrying with me, which I put down for a second to look at something, then wander away and 15 minutes later, realize that I lost it somewhere. Today, "it" was the last week's edition of New York Magazine, which had a very interesting feature on books, writing, and MFA programs. I read it on the train back to New York from New Haven, and after I read the main feature, I realized that I enjoyed the rest of the magazine immensely, too. Unfortunately, I lost it after I debarked in Harlem, sweated buckets on the walk to the subway, and noticed a Dunkin' Donuts. At DD, I bought a mango pineapple smoothie. Sometime between slurping down the icy beverage and entering the subway station and refilling my MetroCard, I dropped the magazine. I didn't notice until I was getting on the subway and it occurred to me that I wanted to finish reading some article.

What was I doing on the train from New Haven in the first place? Well, that is the main thing that I lost today. I helped Dr. P pack up her UHaul for Stage 1 of her moving process, which involves dropping her shit off at her parents' house in Connecticut. (Long story.) Despite being ridden with cold germs, I asked her if she wanted company on her drive north before we embark on a much longer drive south in two weeks. She dropped me off at the train station to go back to NYC, which is where I then lost my magazine. But of course, I had already lost something much more important today when one of my closest friends - someone I think of as a sister - moved away.

Oh.My.God.

"Oh my God" is one of those phrases that requires context. In some settings, it expresses indignation or irritation. In others, it conveys mortification or embarrassment. It can also be used to show different types of excitement, if you get my drift.

While I say, "Oh my God," frequently in all ways, yesterday the link between "Oh my God" as please-ground-open-and-swallow-me-this-minute and heavy breathing formed in my mind. I was working on my book about the trials and tribulations of growing up, and began a chapter on sexual awakening. As I wrote about the time I asked my mom how babies were made when I was in fourth grade, I was immediately transported back in time…. (Cue flashback/excerpt.)

I turned to my mom for enlightenment. Every fall and spring, we had a "girl's night out" where she took me shopping for new clothes for the upcoming season, as I generally outgrew everything from the prior year. It was just the two of us, my dad staying home with my sister. In the fateful year of the bra, I decided to revisit the whole where babies come from issue while were shopping for t-shirts and shorts that I could stuff my roly poly figure into without looking obscene.

Really, though, by the spring of 1986, did any kids still ask their parents where babies come from? No! Most had enough common sense to learn about it in less embarrassing ways: from older kids or by digging through the library for books like, "Where Did I Come From?" Kids who were even nerdier than me might have waited an extra year and figured this shit out in the "sex ed lite" we were given in 5th grade, with the boys herded off to one room with the male junior high teachers and the girls shuttled into another, so we could learn about wet dreams, periods, and where babies come from. (Some kids probably learned about sex by reading their dad's stashes of porn mags, but I'd argue that this does not actually teach anyone where babies come from, so it doesn't count.) The point is, I am the only fourth grader dorky enough to decide to ask my mom.

Closing time was approaching at Old Orchard mall, and my mom and I walked toward one last shop before the clock struck 9:00, and I turned into an unclothed pumpkin for the summer. The April air was cool on my face. I appreciated that it would be hard to see my face in the dark. The time was right. I took a deep breath.

"Mom," I said began nervously, then spat out the rest, "How are babies made?"
I grabbed her hand and held it tightly once the words escaped my lips, but I could not look at her.

She grabbed my hand back just as tightly, maybe out of surprise that I asked, but definitely uncomfortable. "The parents have sex," she replied in a straightforward manner. "The husband places the penis in the wife's vagina."

Oh my GOD! What was I thinking, asking her this? I wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and die of embarrassment. No wonder my other friends preferred to hear crazy stories from other kids. I had to play it cool, though.
"Oh, OK." I said. Maybe I asked some follow up questions, but if I did, I blocked them out of my memory for good reason.

For the rest of the day, I was mortified. Last night, I told Husband about what a freak I was and asked how he found out how babies were made.

"Did you ask either of your parents?" I inquired.

He laughed. "No! I'm not a fool! I waited to learn about it in school. It wasn't a burning question."

Um, thanks. Here's my question to you, Dear Reader – how did you find out how babies were made?

Living La Virtual Vida Barbie? Loca!

As I recently confessed, I was not always an unshaved, misanthropic feminist. Nope. Back in the day, I was a fat nerd hiding from the onset of puberty and playing with my Barbies while the other 4th graders at my school experimented with dating and read stolen copies of their dads' Playboy magazines. Sure, my Barbies were horny gals out for some action with my one Ken doll, but isn't that more innocent than me being a horny 10 year old looking for ass? I think so. The point is, I loved Barbie.

Hence it is ironic that I was sent by Bugaboo magazine yesterday to cover the global launch of Mattel's new Barbie product, Barbie girls. I admit that I was eager to see what sort of sexist stew they had concocted to feed our kids. I wasn't disappointed, at least in the sense that they lived up to my lowest expectations. From the press release (which I am pleased to note they distributed on USB ports):

NEW YORK CITY (April 26, 2007) –Today, Mattel unveiled the next generation of fashion doll play with Barbie Girls™, an unparalleled, hybrid play experience that blends fashion, music and an online virtual world. Representing the true evolution of what today’s girl loves and opening the door to how tomorrow’s girl will play, Barbie Girls™ fuses the best of virtual and real life for a fresh, new experience. At launch this week, Barbie Girls™ first comes to life via www.BarbieGirls.com, the first global, virtual online world designed exclusively for girls. At BarbieGirls.com girls can create their own virtual character, design their own “room,” shop at the mall, play games, hang out and chat live with other girls. In July, Barbie Girls™ will take shape in the real world with a sleek, handheld, 4 ½ -inch portable device that serves as a music player and fashion statement-in-one, while also unlocking new content within BarbieGirls.com.

According to the Chief Barbie Girl's presentation at the launch, girls today love music, shopping, and being online. A group of hired minions – er, I mean "real girls" – stood around shouting out their agreement at this statement, and as Chief Barbie Girl walked us through the virtual world that is supposed to represent tomorrow's girl, they kept whooping their approval at all the "cute outfits and cute accessories and cute pets" that a girl can virtually acquire by watching "movies" (aka commercials) on the Pepto pink site. (OK, I probably shouldn't criticize the color, but CUSS's Pepto is irony, damn it!) The games offered on the site, which also help a girl earn virtual dollars which she can then spend on clothes and furniture, involve painting digital fingernails and giving Ken a makeover. I detected nothing game-like in this.

The point of all this is that Mattel either believes that girls only care about shopping, fashion, and looking good while hanging out with friends online, or they are reminding girls that obviously this is what they should care about. Even the virtual park is for hanging out, not for playing soccer or running or anything sporty. Need I mention that the Barbie girl avatars look like Bratz, but without the thongs? Oy. As for the Barbie girls MP3 player, well, Barbie's finally an official 'Pod person. (Ha! I kill me.)

Of course, I will write a nice little blurb about the product in Bugaboo. My interviews with minions – er, I mean "real girls" – (ages 10 and 11) will appear at BlogHer in early May. (They made me want to poke my eyes out in despair for the future.) At least they don't spell "girls" with a "z," right? Also, they had some great fucking food at the launch. Not that real Barbie girls eat mini sandwiches with cheese (the horror!), but I put the Barbie-as-surrogate-Suzanne away a long time ago, so I stuffed my face most unceremoniously.

No Child (Care Policy Career) Left Behind and Other Minor Successful Failures

While I claim to have left my previous life as an expert in child care policy behind, two articles that I wrote about child care reveal the lie. If you want to know why I believe that investments in quality early childhood education is the best rate of return an investor will ever see, check out my article at The Panelist. (The Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis armed me with the facts to make such a bold assertion.) If you want to read a wonkish discussion that I hosted and edited about the future of child care in New York City, read my ”City Conversation” at City Limits Weekly.

It just doesn’t get any more exciting than this. Oh wait. I lied again. In the next few days, my seven pages of fluff and pandering on the wonderful things that luxury condos offer families will be available in Bugaboo Magazine, where I am an intern. Fortunately, that is followed by seven pages of me rambling on about what I like about several neighborhoods in the City, even if it is slightly sullied by the parameters I had to work within. Plus a nice blurb about the new evolution exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, which my joke comparing Joan Rivers to Lucy the 3 million year old skeleton was cut, but I still like the article anyway. And that’s not all, folks! March’s Bugaboo also brings two tiny travel promos, one a luxury resort in St. Lucia and one over the top kid-friendly resort in Orlando.

Yes, it’s been a busy and bipolar little time leading up to this. (Perhaps this explains my second bout of insomnia in three days?) Now, if only it will lead to magazines wanting to print my essays about having a breast reduction (satire), my family background (drama), my failed tenure as a sex columnist in college (irony), and my visit to the fertility specialist although I don’t want to get pregnant (satire, irony, & drama). Anyone?

Go Us, Go Bears

Yesterday morning I went over to Sara’s, she put some foundation on me so that I did not look like a flesh easting zombie on camera, as well as some eye shadow, blush, lipstick and eyebrow smoother-downer, and it was very nice, but subtle. We then headed over to the Waldorf Astoria to meet Bruce Isacson, who has a bit part in the movie Outbreak, which I never saw, but he looked really familiar. It turns out that he does lots of commercials and only took the part in Outbreak because “Rene’s a good friend.” (Yes, that would be Rene Russo.)

Anyway, we interviewed for over an hour, and thanks to Sara’s skill with cosmetics, we both looked very cute on camera. We spoke eloquently and passionately about how abortion is legal but not accessible for low income women, and how wrong that is. I only rolled my eyes once, and was bitchy once. I was quite proud of myself.

I came home and went to the gym. When I began sweating and wiped me face, I noticed there was makeup all over the towel, which pissed me off because I hate when the towels at the gym are dirty. Then I realized that I was the disgusting slob responsible for the foundation smears on the white towel, as I forgot I had makeup on and did not wash my face before getting on the treadmill. Oooops.

At any rate, it was all washed off by the time I had a lovely evening with Dr. P and Future Sister-in-Law. First we went to a bar and met up with staff from The Panelist, who had gone to see a documentary about Ralph Nader, which I didn’t join them for because I went to have a late lunch with a friend in Harlem after I went to the gym. (It was delicious. If you are in NYC, you must eat at Amy Ruth’s, which is awesomely good soul food.) At the bar, I drank an amaretto sour, which I am not supposed to do because of my low carb diet, but I also should not have eaten a five grain waffle, candied yams, cheesy grits, macaroni and cheese, and fired okra at lunch, either, so what the fuck?

I am hot almost as often as I drink, which is to say almost never. Part of the reason I don’t drink is that I don’t like the taste of most alcohol. Part of the reason is that the only drinks I do like even the slightest bit are sweet and loaded with calories, and quite frankly, I’d rather eat pastries if I am going to consume so many calories. The other part of the reason is that alcohol sometimes gives me an indescribably weird sensation I call “hot butt,” in which my innards get really hot and feel funky. Last night, not only did I get hot butt, but I began sweating profusely. Within half an hour, I swear I sweat through my underwear. I was dying. Still, I managed to be friendly and socialize with people I didn’t know, so I am quite proud of myself for that. (I am really shy and quiet in these situations.)

At the point where I thought I might drown myself in sweat, Future Sister-in-Law and Dr. P wanted to leave and get dinner anyway, so we took off. When we got outside, I returned to my normal state of freezing within minutes. (My sopping undies were most uncomfortable and did not help keep me warm in the frigid air as we walked two blocks to a restaurant.) We ate at the Cornelia Street Café, a French bistro in its 30th year. I ate many more things I should not have, including half of a chocolate bread pudding, which was so good that I think it was actually manna from heaven.

I am shocked that I did not gett horrendous gas last night and thus far have not exploded in one my shit geysers. Just to push my luck, later tonight, Husband, Dr. P, FSIL, Brother-in-Law, and I shall join a crowd of other jolly football fans and watch the Super Bowl at Sara’s on her flat screen HD TV. More food that I should not eat will be consumed in large quantities, but damn – GO BEARS!!!! The last time I watched the Bears in the Super Bowl I was the dork in the picture in the post below. I went to my friend Tracey’s house and we played Barbies while the game was on. (Did games started much earlier in the day back then, or is it just my faulty memory?) After the half-time, we didn’t bother watching the game much but concentrated on own game, making the one Ken doll rush all the Barbies until he reached the end zone with one of them. Ha!

Just Wait 20 Years or So, Kiddo

“Oooh, what’s this?” little me was thinking to myself while I patted Grandpa Ruby’s beard. “Good thing I don’t have one of these scruffy patched on my chin.” Ha! What an innocent fool I was as a child.

I’ve written about my potential career as the bearded lady in a circus before (Being the Bearded Lady at the Sideshow Might be Fun (Maybe?) and the connection between airplane bathrooms and chin hairs), but seeing this picture reminded me that my interest chin hair seems to have begun quite some time ago. How sad is it that I now pat my own damn chin that way, looking for stray hairs that need plucking, lest I reveal my status as a freak she-male to the world unintentionally? (As opposed to through these writings on chin hairs, where I intentionally alert people to my masculine afflictions.)

(Warning: this paragraph is full of cheesy puns.) I know that I am not the only one out there struggling to keep my chin up in the face of this assault on my feminine image. Many, many of my friends – all of us in our mid- to late 20s and 30s – who are obsessive chinnie chin chin pluckers. There’s a market that is ripe for the plucking (heh!) that, shockingly, the beauty industry has yet to exploit. Think about it: when’s the last time you saw an ad for laser hair removal for chin hair? Probably, uh, never. Sure, lasering off crotch, leg, and pit hair? Back and chest chair? Ads everywhere. You can’t open a damn magazine without some naked oiled body builder and airbrushed seductress leering at your figuratively hairy ass from the pages. “Oh, you may shave or even wax,” they smirk at you, “but our cootie and pit hairs will never grow back. Ever! Mwa ha ha ha.”

Yet the one place that it would truly be useful to get laser hair removal is my chin. I am 99.99% confident that female soul patches are never suddenly going to become stylish, but no model is showing off her hairless, oiled chin. Why is that? Damn beauty industry is so busy creating ridiculous insecurities in people (we are mammals, which by definition are warm blooded, produce milk, and have hair, although I often wonder about some people and warm blooded status) while ignoring the ones that would be useful to exploit. Fuckers.

And that does it for today’s look back at my childhood and tenuously related rant about why I hate society.