When Worlds Collide

When I moved to New York City from the 'burbs of Chicago 15 years ago, one of the biggest adjustments I had to make was the lack of Walgreen's. NYC had plenty of pharmacies/drug store chains to choose from - Duane Reade (as ubiquitous in NYC as Walgreen's is in Chicago), CVS, Rite Aid, the one that was on 8th Street between Broadway and University whose name I am blanking on but that no longer exists, etc. - but I thought Walgreen's had a better variety of random products than any of them. Whenever I went out to Long Island, I rejoiced in the Walgreen's near the train station that served Husband's parents' town.

Over time, however, I adjusted. Duane Reade, still annoying in general, spruced itself up a bit as it expanded its presence. (At one point, it seemed like the only commercial space left in the City would be bank branches, Starbuckses, and Duane Reades.) I adapted to its overpriced merchandise, surly cashiers, and long lines. They introduced a card in which you got points for every dollar you spent, and they rounded up, which made me feel a bit better about paying $2 for a Diet Coke that the corner bodega might sell for between $1.25 (if I'm lucky) and $1.75. Once you get a $100, you get $5 off your next purchase. I love bribes.

So, when I got Husband's email this morning that informed me that Walgreen's acquired Duane Reade, I was shocked. Even more shocked than by the fact that the New York Times finally posted what was rumored to be such a scandalous story about Gov. Patterson that he'd immediately be forced to resign and it turned out to be boring. I mean, Walgreen's taking over Duane Reade? This is craziness! I can't decide if I am excited or horrified.

For now, Walgreen's is keeping the Duane Reade name, but it will be really weird if they replace it and there's no more Duane Reade in NYC. I wonder if this is revenge for Macy's buying Marshall Field's and then changing the name, an affront to the civic pride and identities of Chicagoans everywhere. Huh. Maybe I've uncovered a diabolical plot. Now that Duane Reade is threatened, I feel very defensive of it, even though I fucking hate that store (other than the bribes). Interesting.

End of an Era

When I wanted to start a blog in 2005, I selected Blogger because it was easy. I didn't need fancy templates or design features. I just wanted a little home on the internet for my rants against shaved snatch.

For the most part, this has worked well. Not long after I started blogging, I decided to get a domain name and host for my work. This was partly because cussandotherrants.blogspot.com was a reallllllly long URL. The transition was not without any pain. The blogspot URL was supposed to link visitors to the new URL, but after a few weeks someone hacked the blogspot URL because it was not quite programmed right. This sucked, but was not awful.

This afternoon, Blogger sent an email to the 0.5% of Blogger users who use FTP to upload their blog to a non-Blogger hosted site. They said that as of the end of March, we can't do that any more. People with custom domains would need to transfer to their custom domain services. This means no more cussandotherrants.com. It also means that Google is my host. I understood their reasons, but I still fell into the fetal position and rocked back and forth.

Once I uncurled myself and got up off the metaphorical floor, I realized that maybe this was OK. I pondered the issue on my walk home from work. Sure, now is the worst timing to have to change CUSS to another platform, but it could use a good overhaul. There's no way I could pull this off myself under even the best of circumstances (i.e. - not working full time and writing a thesis). However, people spend money on their hobbies, and so far, blogging has been a pretty cheap one. It's time to invest in it.

So, anyone know a good web designer? I'm pretty excited to work with someone to take CUSS to a new level.

Ground Rules

Some time ago, I mentioned that when I was bored at a staff meeting in ye olden days, I decided to figure out which letter I would pick if I was forced to eat foods that only began with one letter for the rest of my life. After listing foods under each letter of the alphabet, I determined that C was the best option for me. Two main reasons: cheese and chocolate. Two secondary reasons: cookies and cake. S was a close second.

The problem with my system was that the rules were too loose. If someone picked S, would seafood count? How about sauteed mushrooms? Very tricky.

I gave this more thought this weekend when I said that if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be bureks. My friend's husband pointed out that bureks don't start with a C. Although I could have pointed out that this is a different challenge, I said I could eat cheese bureks, which are the best kind anyway.

This morning on the subway I refine the criteria to avoid cheating. The way it works is that if someone asks you what you are eating, and the answer makes sense, then it counts. For example, if someone chose F as her food, then went into a restaurant that had a fish special, she could order it if there was just one fish dish. It won't matter if it's salmon, cod, or trout. Her companion would say, "Hey, what are you getting?" and she'd say, "The fish." But no one goes into a restaurant and orders seafood. (Well, unless it is a seafood platter, so there's even wiggle room there.) If the category is too broad, it doesn't count. Specific brand names are OK, though. So I chose M and ate a Mars Bar, that would be OK, even if generically speaking it is a candy bar. (Which brings me back to why C is still the best option.)

Those are my rules, and I'm sticking to them!

Chopped Liver

At work on Friday, someone turned to one of my co-workers and said that she was the only person in the development department who was not sick. "Congratulations," he said.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" I shouted from across the room.

He blushed. "Oh, sorry. But really, why chopped liver? Have you ever eaten it? It's delicious! I don't understand that phrase at all."

"It's true that chopped liver is good," my other co-worker cut in. "But you know how when you have a party and you put out chopped liver, chips and dip, crudites, and crackers and cheese?* At the end of the night, the only thing that is still left is the chopped liver."

Chopped liver may be fabulous, but it is still less popular than other items. There's a stigma to it. I thought that is the greatest explanation for the "What am I, chopped liver?" expression ever.

*My answer is no, I do not know any parties in which people put out chopped liver, but I guess I do not hang out with the right crowd.

Knowledge

Years before I went back to school to study the craft of writing,* I spent scads of money to study social welfare policy and public administration at Columbia. Early on in the program, I realized that I went back when I was way too young, but I resolved to learn what I could. I discovered that I really liked statistics. This was a huge surprise.

My last semester at school, I enrolled in a poverty research class. Students paired up and selected a topic to investigate. We then we given national databases, which we ran many numbers over the course of the semester to support or disprove our thesis. It was exciting.

The topic I chose was whether children living in households with two adults had outcomes that matched those of children living in households with married parents. I pictured grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and other family members offering the same support that a spouse might (or might not) give, thus enabling children to live in more stable environments. My partner and I ran a gazillion multivariate regressions, basic stats like averages, and a fancy-schmancy time-hazard regression to see if this was true.

It was not. According to data from the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth, children from married households had better outcomes than those from two adult households, who in turn were better off as adults than children from single parent homes. I was crushed. Did this not mean that horrid policies put forth by right wing nutjobs were correct? That people really should rush off to get married (assuming they have the right, but that's another story), come hell or high water?

As I moped about my findings, my wise professor opened my eyes. He pointed out that the data may not support my theory, but that the social environment in which we live does not provide the same benefits to unmarried people. Perhaps if I recommended that we implement policies that support different types of households rather than continue to punish them for not conforming to a conservative view of family life, then the outcomes would improve.

I hadn't really considered that it was possible to take a "bad" finding and turn it into a tool for advocacy. This changed the way I interpreted studies and all sorts of news reports. Cool.

*Seriously, just typing "to study the craft of writing" cracks me up. I had hoped to learn how to write a book with a plot and characters. Instead, I discovered that I am not "literary" and my writing will never be literary, because my brain does not think that way. While this discovery caused enormous angst last year, I am OK with it now. I'll just admire people who write really beautiful sentences and go about my business trying to entertain people with a serviceable story. Which is not to say that I did not learn anything, because I learned a lot. But anyway...

NYC Marathon

Today is the New York City Marathon. In honor of the event, in which I am qualified to participate in any way, shape, or form, I carbo loaded yesterday. This involved eating three large, frosted Halloween cookies over the course of the day. I also ate some roasted corn purchased at a farm stand in eastern Long Island. Then I consumed many at least seven Tootsie Rolls and one Tootsie Pop, five mini Kit Kats, and one mini Twizzlers. At lunch I downed a lobster roll in an amazing buttery brioche roll, accompanied by salty chips and fresh guacamole. Capping off my day of marathon prep, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and matzo ball soup for dinner.

When I arose this morning, basking in my free extra hour of sleep, I was ready to hit the treadmill. The plan was to run as far as I could in 35 minutes. The gym had the marathon on TV. Although the women ran at double my plodding pace (a 5:47 mile versus my 11:00 one), I felt like I matched them stride for stride as they streaked across the TV. Since I had no sinus meltdown, shoulder pain, or intestinal cramps during my run, I felt like a champion. Wooooo hooo!

Now I'm pondering the upcoming year. I'll be 35 years old at the end of December. When I was in third grade, I had to be rushed to the emergency room after I ran the 880 dash at school and was the first girl to finish, coming in third overall. Twenty years ago, I could barely walk a mile in 30 minutes. At the age of 25 and in the best shape I'll ever be in, I could run a 9:13 mile. So it's been a spotty record, but I'm proud of it. I think I'd like to run a race sometime in 2010 to celebrate my birthday. Not a marathon, but maybe a 10k or 15k. Anyone want to join me? We can plod along together (or you can leave me in your dust if you run faster. I won't be offended.)

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.

Memoir, Fiction, and Balls vs. Testicles in Literature

I read Frank Conroy's memoir Stop-Time for my lit seminar on Wednesday. What's good about it is the writing. Conroy doesn't tell his story in a linear fashion, and at times switches to the present tense. I just tried both of these techniques for a story that I handed in last week which will be workshopped on Monday, so it is nice to have another successful model to learn from. (I patterned my work on A Feather on the Breath of God by Sigrid Nunez.)

During a break from the meandering class discussion, a friend calculated that we pay $125 an hour for our classes. We resumed class. After a ten minute debate on Conroy's use of the word "balls," which our professor defended by saying, "Balls is a great word," I thought about other uses I had for $20.84 I spent for that. Not that I disagree that balls is a great word or really minded talking about whether Conroy should have used "testicles" instead of balls, but still. That's a lot of money for something I talk about for free all the time.

Speaking of balls, I posted four more chapters of Always. Chapter 9 is one of my favorites so far, and Chapter 10 (not to be confused with Chapter 10*, as I had two chapter tens) is one of the most gag-inducing. The similes flow in Chapter 11 most impressively. I actually learned a lot from myself from twenty years ago while typing up this work.

The Point

Author Binnie Kirshenbaum spoke at school on Monday night. She read from her latest book, The Scenic Route, which was hilarious and also troubling. During the Q&A, she relayed an anecdote that got Maurice* in a frenzy. Kirshenbaum said that she was telling her husband a story one day, and as usual, she went into a digression that she thought provided important context for the story.

"Get to the point," her husband interrupted her.

"What do you mean, 'get to the point?'" she asked him. "There is no point. I'm telling you a story to entertain you."

After I stopped laughing, I thought about what that meant for me. One of the things we are always talking about at school is what the point of our work is, the "so what?" that gets people to read something. When people ask me what my point is, 99% of the time I have no answer. I just want to tell a story. Maybe, if the story is told well, that's all the point that one needs.

Speaking of pointless, more chapters of the young adult novel I wrote when I was in 8th grade are ready to entertain (and I use that word loosely in this situation) at Always.

*Maurice is the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.

A Revelation on this Historic Date, 09/09/09

Just as on 08/08/08, 07/07/07, 06/06/06, and so forth, I expect nothing epic to happen today. However, I did pass a fruit and veggie vendor on the street who sold figs for the rock bottom price of $2.50 per box. The grocery store a few blocks away is $3.99 a box, at best. I bought two.

As I inhaled the unwashed fruit while walking home, I realized that the perfect meal is figs that are overripe, almost to the point of rotting, and blue cheese. I could eat that every day. Unfortunately, figs do not start with the letter "c." A few years ago while bored, I calculated that if I could only eat foods that begin with one letter, "c" was the best option. It includes chocolate, cake, cookies, cheese, and a host of other things that I enjoy. (I think "s" was a close runner-up.)

My 09/09/09 revelation about figs throws everything into question. My only hope is cheating, as Calimyrna figs start with "c," but really, my love is Black Mission figs. So it goes. At least I can eat the Calimyrna figs with cheese.

Invisible Stigmata*

During class last night, I spaced out a bit while the very intellectual professor recited a history of first person narratives from Roman times to today. What made me think about St. Catherine of Sienna is beyond me. The mind works in mysterious ways.

Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.

Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.

*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.

American as Apple Pie

Until this morning, I struggled to understand why so many (white) Americans are seething about the plan to offer health care benefits to all Americans. I thought about a photo, showing an older white man screaming at Sen. Arlen Specter (who looked like he just ate something that left a very bad taste in his mouth, which cracked me up, but that's another point) that ran last week on the cover of The New York Times. The enraged man shouted, "One day, God is going to stand before you and he's going to judge you!"

This morning, however, when I looked at a NYT headline that announced that the public option would likely be dropped from whatever plan passes, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain), dropped the seed he was eating and jumped on his wheel. Really, is not America founded on the idea that some people have rights, and they will protect those rights and do everything they can to prevent others from obtaining them? Those self-righteous colonists, shouting at King George, were essentially the same angry white men who then turned around and made sure that women, people of color, and white men without property could not vote or hold public office. In addition, a good portion of the public could not go to school, work in certain fields, marry who they pleased, observe their religion without being harassed, or in the most extreme cases, be considered human beings. They said Jews could not serve in the Continental Army (although they were happy to get Jewish money to pay for it, while insisting that Jews were unpatriotic for not serving in the army). Etc, etc.

The real problem with America is that it is utterly un-American to believe that all people are equal. When people fight to preserve a system that benefits only a few at the expense of others, they are upholding the true American way. There may be better opportunity here for people than in many other places in the world, but really, that's just saying how truly awful many places in the world are. And how wonderful it is that there are so many un-American Americans who want to extend rights and freedoms to all.

The Gift of Fear

One of the discussions I attended at BlogHer was about understanding your audience. (Obligatory self-deprecating joke here: Since I sat next to Maren at the panel, I had direct access to understanding what approximately 25% of my audience enjoys about CUSS.) I asked Twanna Hines from Funky Brown Chick about how she deals with creepy readers, and she recommended a book called, "The Gift of Fear," which basically advocates for listening to your gut instincts when assessing potential threats.

I have yet to check the book out (I'm still working my way through "The Liar's Club," which reminds me that I should update the quote about Republicans that I paraphrased on Wednesday), but it became relevant on Tuesday during a subway ride. As usual, I sat on the train, spacing out. A slightly homeless-looking guy got on the train a few stops before mine and plopped down next to me. I paid no attention.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him fidgeting. I turned my head slightly. He was manhandling a pair of scissors and the corners of his mouth were turned up into a strange grin. Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) went ballistic, and thoughts shot through my head:
-OH MY GOD! Those scissors look sharp.
-I should move. He could stab me, and my reflexes are very slow.
-If I get up to move, will it enrage him, thus encouraging him to stab me?
-Maybe I should sit really still.
-No, you should move. ASAP.

I stood up and glided toward the door. He didn't look up. I breathed a sigh of relief, but continued observing him from afar. At the next stop, I changed cars. As far as I know, he didn't subsequently stab anyone, but better safe than sorry.

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.)

The Best Seat in the House

I realized that at the end of our renovation project, the bathroom will easily be the nicest room in our apartment. That makes the toilet - smiley face lid and all - officially the best seat in the house! Which makes me want to install a small flat panel TV on the wall opposite the throne, right behind the door. How awesome would that be?!?!

--------

Since I was frantically trying to find an outfit to the wedding I went to yesterday that didn't make me look matronly, I didn't have a chance to look into the photo editing software that everyone has thus far recommended. I hope to do that this afternoon. A bif thanks for the great suggestions!

The Stressed Out Tante

Between the unexpected early arrival of my adorable nephew, school wrapping up for the year, and my job implosion, things have been rather hectic lately. While I am very happy that my nephew is here and healthy, the other things thrill me significantly less. I realized that the only thing worse than a job that goes awry is not having a job at all. I sort of figured this out last semester, but it is really hitting home now. I can't say that I like working in general, but I definitely enjoy being employed and feeling like a productive member of society. I forget how closely my sense of self-worth is tied to my work. Bah.

On a more positive note, I just love this picture of me and Marcus:


On Friday, I am flying into Chicago, seeing my friend, her partner, and their kids (an almost four year old and two month old twins), then my parents are picking me for for a roadtrip to Iowa with Bubbe. Fortunately, Dana's friend from high school will also be with us, so I think Bubbe will tone it down a bit.

The reason for the return trip to Iowa? Dana's baby shower is on Saturday, and Marcus will be the guest of honor. I can't wait!

It Only Looks Alarming

"I need to burp Marcus," Dana said before she did this:

I had no idea that burping a newborn looked like you were strangling it. "Wow, I hope that the child welfare authorities never see you do this," I exclaimed.

Although it does look like he is being murdered, and the picture is blurry, I sort of like it because you can really see his little face and how much he looks like my sister.

And that's it for the baby pictures for now.

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

Now That's Talent

As the express train raced through the subway tunnel this morning, I watched the Canal Street station pass by in a choppy blur. Then I turned my attention to my fellow commuters. A woman with dyed blond hair applied thick black lines with a sharp eyeliner pencil to her lower lid, monitoring her progress in a hand mirror. Satisfied, she capped the pencil, dropped it in her bag, and pulled out mascara. Done with that, eyebrow liner emerged.

I was impressed. I can barely apply eyeliner and mascara evenly when I standing on solid ground. If I were on a bumpy train, no doubt I'd poke my eyes out. I'd then be forced, a la Odysseus Oedipus,* to wonder the streets of Manhattan with my eyes tangled in my beard. OK, my beard is not yet that bushy, but if I don't keep up with the plucking, it could be.

Actually, that's one thing I probably am talented enough to pull off - plucking chin hairs on a subway train. Yeah, I'm bragging.

*Thanks, Rebecca. That's what I meant. Stupid Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) let me down again!!!

Something Not Funny Happened Part Way Through the Writing Program

My goal was to attend an MFA program to better understand the craft behind writing a book, then to write a hilarious account of the horrors and indignities that I suffered through during puberty. My writing sample (or portfolio or whatever the fuck they call it) was an uproarious account of my first bra shopping experience and adjusting to having boobs. This culminated in the absurd experience of a breast reduction at the age of 22. I had a whole draft chapter on my first period and then what happened when I stopped getting it at all at age 17. Funny shit.

The problem is that as I've been studying literature, I find myself writing not so funny stories about the Holocaust and my family, the prejudiced community in which I was raised, and how direct and indirect discrimination impacted my decision to pursue a career in social justice. Sure, sometimes I am able to throw in a good joke about my bubbe's tuchus (that's butt in Yiddish), as my grandfather used a wicked sense of humor to deflect the pain of losing his family in the Holocaust (a tactic I also employ when I talk about subjects that are difficult for me, even if I can't compare what he experienced to anything I did), but I'm finding myself scribbling all sorts of serious little stories. It's both cathartic and distressing to explore these topics.

I hope that as I progress and develop my voice, I can strike a balance between the serious and the hilarious. Writing. Harumph....

Is Being a "Dumb Fuck" a Metaphor?

Classes start again on Monday. My goal for the semester is to incorporate metaphors and similes into my writing. I noticed that the writing that we studied in my lit class last semester tended to make liberal use of these literary tools, so I think I should make a strong effort to add more in my stories.

I use metaphors and similes all the time in real life. They just happen to be rather foul. My favorite metaphor was when I described the pieces of toilet paper that resurfaces after flushing the crapper as ghosts haunting their watery graves. I think that is a beautiful image. Also, the idea of romanticizing un-flushed used toilet paper makes me laugh my ass off, like a clown high on nitrous oxide. (OK, that is a scary simile. Clowns are the devils of the circus.) Somehow, though, I suspect that many of the people in my program will find it infantile, so I need to work on developing appropriate metaphors and similes.

Unfortunately, I also love mixed metaphors. That's due to my adoration of hyperbole, another feature of my writing that is less than lauded by literary types. Whatever. If patience is an old lady in a rocking chair waiting for death to relieve her of the excitement of watching paint dry, act like a bull in a china shop. Or something like that.

Resisting Urges

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

Run, Suzanne, Run!

Somehow, my brother-in-law convinced Husband and me to sign up to run a 15K race with him in December. I'm not quite as concerned about my ability to run over 9 miles (not that I have done so before) as I am about running 9 miles in freezing December. As Husband pointed out, though, if it's cold we don't have to go.

Prior to this past Saturday, the last time I ran over a mile was when I went to visit Dr. P in Florida in early October. It was hot and humid and we walked a few times, so I was a bit concerned about my diminishing capacity for running. On Saturday, I hit Central Park and ran the outer loop. Husband told me that the distance of that run is 10K (6.4 miles), so I was pleased (and rather surprised) when I clocked in at 66 minutes. I walked up one giant hill, and stopped a for a minute to fill my water bottle at a drinking fountain. A few days later, Husband realized that the track is actually only a tad bit over 6 miles. Ooops. Still, I remain pleased with myself, given the crappy shape I let myself fall into.

Saturday's run also reminded me how much I enjoyed running off my tension and anger. A few years ago, I regularly ran and always felt much better after doing so. Since I was crabby about last night's class, I figured that a long run at the gym would be good. And, assuming that I can move my legs later tonight and/or tomorrow, it was! Even when that twat Sarah Palin showed up on TV and said that she has faith in Obama as commander in chief as long as he understand that terrorists are out there to get us, I remained cheerful as my short legs pumped up and down on the treadmill.

Running. If it doesn't give you shin splints, screw up your knees, or otherwise cause your body to fall apart, it's great! Better than data analysis!

Digging Deep

"What does this mean to you? Dig deeper!

Numerous people in my workshop wrote this comment on my story about developing breasts and being tormented by their ginormous size and then undergoing breast reduction surgery (if they bothered to give me back my paper at all, which one person did not, but that is another story). It vexes me because in many cases I don't say what the situation means because it means (or meant) nothing.

For example, I talk about how breasts have not worked out so well for the women on my maternal side. My granny is a short women who walks around stooped over, maybe partially from the two watermelons stuck to her chest. On the other hand, my mom is a woman of average height with a very small frame who had two small boobs until she lost one to cancer when I was 4 years old. The people in my class wanted to know what I thought about her scarred chest when I was growing up, and the honest answer is that I didn't. It was just a fact of life that I accepted. My mom had cancer. They had to cut off one of her boobs. The end.*

The point is that this made me realize two things. First, I am not a deep person. I really do often accept things for their surface explanation. This is not entirely true, as I also analyze certain things that happen until I've beaten the dead horse to a bloody mixed metaphor, but still - I'm shallow. The second thing is that I am lazy. I'm probably not as shallow as I claim (see dead horse metaphor), but digging deep means extra work and maybe even painful revelations, and I'm not going there. Sometimes I just want to tell a funny story. Why look for the underlying pathos just to make the story more literary? It's all very distressing to think about.

*Now you know the truth, so if I ever do write a best-selling book about puberty and there are paragraphs describing how I didn't want to get boobs because I was scared of cancer and blah blah blah, you can all go to the tabloids and say that I am a liar just like James Frey. And then I will have to lie and say that I had recovered memories in the process of writing the book and blah blah blah and it will all be very scandalous. If you do sell me out, I hope that the tabloids pay you good money. Then you can take me out for afternoon tea and we can laugh about it.

Master of the Stairs

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but yesterday morning, the sky opened up in New York City and it rained on the Upper West Side like a mad motherfucker. And it was chilly. I looked outside and thought, "Nah."

Still, I needed to get some sort of exercise, so I suited up and hit the stairs. My building has 15 floors. When I reached 15, panting, shaking, and sweating, I heard the rain falling harder than ever. Looking up, I saw a skylight and another flight of stairs that led to the roof. I climbed to the top, triumphant.

On the way down, my left knee reminded me that climbing real stairs is a lot harder on the joints and knobs than the StairMaster. "Shut the fuck up, you whiner," I told it. "We have work to do." It somewhat complied with my demand, and we tromped back up 16 flights once we hit the bottom.

Other than learning what a fabulous workout I can get for free in my building,* I discovered that people use the landings to store a lot of stuff. On the 3rd floor, there is a broken trampoline with a paper taped to it, reading: "This belongs to #3G." Other landings offered bikes for children of various ages, construction materials, and a map of the world (still depicting the USSR) mounted on posterboard. It is nice to know that there are other hoarders in this building.

*I can't move my calves this morning.

Is Sarah Palin a C Word? A Scholarly Consideration of the Issue

On one of the many sites on which I've been devouring political discussions lately, a self-identified PUMA* was irritated that no one decried an Obama supporter who wore a t-shirt that read "Sarah Palin is a cunt" to a recent rally. To which my first thought was, "Well, she is a cunt, so why would I get my knickers in a bunch?" Then I felt a little bad, since I would probably be furious if someone wore a shirt like that with Hillary Clinton's name. Except that HRC is not really a cunt, so that's why I would be so irate. (Bill Clinton, however, is another story.)

Perhaps, I wondered, was I being unfair because I loathe Sarah Palin's evil social policies? Only an impartial and wise source could settle the matter for me. I whipped out my trusty slang dictionary, Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oaths, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphor, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters (2nd Revised Edition) by Richard A. Spears. ("College lingo?" Seriously?) It read:

cunt (see also c*nt, c**t, c***,****,----) 1. the female genitals, specifically the vagina. [said to be from Latin CUNNUS (q.v.)] 2. women considered sexually. 3. copulation [in numerous spellings since the 1300s] The word was banned from print in much of the British Empire until the middle of this century, and it is the most elaborately avoided word in the English language. There are numerous dimunitives: CUNNICLE, CUNTKIN, CUNTLET, CUNNY. Avoidances are: INEFFABLE, MONOSYLLABLE, NAME-IT-NOT, NAMELESS. Disguises are: GRUMBLE AND GRUNT, SHARP AND BLUNT, SIR BERKLEY HUNT, TENUC, UNTCAY. See MONOSYLLABLE for additional synonyms. 4. a rotten fellow; a low, slimy man. [colloquial, 1800s-pres.] 5. to intromit the penis. [attested in a limerick, late 1800s] See also DECUNT.

Whew! That didn't entirely clear the matter up for me, but I believe that she meets definitions 1 (she is certainly interested enough in what comes out of other women's vaginas, anyway), 3 and 5 (she is totally going to screw us if she gets into the VP's office). Hence, Sarah Palin is, in fact, a cunt, and the t-shirt is accurate. Perhaps, however, anti-Palinites might want to wear shirts reading, "Sarah Palin is a monosyllable" to confuse her supporters and avoid controversy. (Plus, "monosyllable" is a great double-entendre in this case.)

Wasn't this fun? Not only did I learn interesting facts about my grandmother's favorite word (I love that she hates the word "fuck," but will cheerfully spew out a word that is otherwise "the most elaborately avoided word in the English language"), but also that I run against popular sentiment in my embrace of the word cunt.


*A group of the Clinton supporters who are possibly the sorest losers in political history.

My Next Next Book

Upon the successful publication of Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!, I plan to pen a nonfiction tome entitled The Three-Fifths Compromise is Fucking Bullshit. I will expound upon the unfair and undue influence that this heinous policy accorded the South by denying that slaves were actual human beings, yet allowing them to be counted for the purposes of political representation. Once the Founding Fathers committed this egregious blunder, they set the pattern for the nation to be screwed for eternity.

The Danger of Eating Too Many Cupcakes

In fewer than 12 hours, I consumed approximately four cupcakes on Thursday and Friday. I believe that the enormous amount of buttercream frosting that I absorbed in that short time frame negatively impacted my ability to think. It is a little known fact (because I just made it up) that large amounts of frosting can clog the brain's pathways, causing a cupcake abuser to harp on an irrational fear that the selection on an unqualified running mate (and this is from the crazy conservative Murdoch-owned rag, The NY Post!) would guarantee a Republican victory in November. (In reality, this victory is ensured by rampant cheating by tampering with voting machines, providing an inadequate number of machines in Democratic strongholds, and disqualifying voters for arbitrary reasons.)

Fortunately, once I ingested some protein and broke up the frosting block, I realized my silliness. While I visit my friend in DC this weekend, I will be sure to eat properly so that this does not happen again. Very important lesson learned.

Conventions and Orientations

Twenty years ago, I sat home and watched the Republican convention on TV every day. I was annoyed that there was nothing else on the boob tube to entertain me as I worked on a Strawberry Shortcake latch hook rug. (This is not to say that I did not find the programming interesting. In fact, it hooked - hardee har har, no pun intended - me onto politics.) Today, I'm disturbed by how little of the political conventions are televised on non-cable channels. I hope people really do get their information from other reliable sources. (Or maybe everyone has cable and is glued to news programming.)

Twenty years ago, I thought that I would be a lawyer who would defend abused children when I grew up. Last night, I went to the orientation for the writing program I will attend for the next two years. It was a semi-familiar late-August event for me, as it is my third graduate program in 11 years. (I attended Fordham University Law School for two days in 1997 before acting on the realization that my childhood ambition for my adulthood was not my young adulthood ambition; I went on to receive a Masters in Public Administration with a concentration in social welfare policy from Columbia University in 2000.) My friend Kim is also attending the MFA program at New School, so I felt a little less pressure. Still, it is scary meeting new people and trying new things. After 11 years working in public service, this writing thing is very new territory.

The good news is that everyone I spoke with was friendly and interesting. While I expected people to ask me who my literary idols are (to which I would be forced to admit are Carl Hiaason, Stephen King, and Lemony Snicket) and then snub me for my low brow tastes, no such incident occurred. I even was one of the last people to leave the post-orientation social event. This is not to say that there aren't people who immediately annoyed the crap out of me (I wouldn't be me otherwise!), but really, people were awesome. I far less nervous now, and so excited to start on Tuesday.

The Fisher Poet's Wisdom

Instead of producing work for my consulting contract, I spent my day thus far: researching Sen. Evan Bayh's voting record on abortion (mostly pro-choice, but voted for that stupid "partial birth abortion ban," which bans a procedure that does not exist and instead endangers the lives of pregnant women who need a late term abortion to save their own lives); answering and generating email; pondering why the fuck I listened to that stupid doctor and agreed to get another MMR vaccine (rather than have my blood drawn and examined for anti-bodies) when I knew damn well that it is a two round deal and one would not suffice and now have to go back and get another one in September unless I can prove that I was vaccinated 32 years ago; exploring how to extract my medical records from previous institutions of learning (NYU said no way; Columbia has a form to fill out and will send my immunization documents to New School - yay!) so that I don't have to get another useless vaccine; attempting to pay my tuition at New School, which is harder than it sounds since they have yet to bill me; and writing a post for BlogHer on whether penises are heat seeking missiles which explains why people think men are unable to not cheat on their partners (answer: no). In addition to this important work, I read some blogs.

On The Cowboy Chronicles, Shonda mentions that fishing is an important part of her hubby's country life. She shared this brilliant bons mots:

To quote one of these angling poets, "I told my son noodling is just like dating. If you stick your hand in a dark hole, it might come out smelling a little fishy."

Once I stopped guffawing, I thought it was a good reminder that no matter how little I want to think about the longevity of charter school facilities, I could be doing far less appetizing tasks. No more dilly-dallying.

Rats!

On the plane ride back from BlogHer, I read a fascinating book about the history of rats in New York City, Rats by Robert Sullivan. The best parts of the book were the historical anecdotes and facts about rats. Also, the few gross-o things I learned (i.e. - if the rat population grows too large to support itself, the furry beady-eyed beasts turn to cannibalism) and squeamish close encounters with rats were great. Less interesting was the author's observations of and ruminations about some rats in an alley in downtown New York, which got me thinking about types of nonfiction writing.

Last week after my writing class, I spoke to the instructor about my desire to attend an MFA program in the fall. He felt that I demonstrated excellent progress in class, but that my writing was not literary, but more journalistic. He described it as "magazine-y," and pointed out that in the prior week I described a couple using the word yuppie. "Yuppie is a label," he said. "It doesn't mean anything."

My additional assignment for this week is to take a page of an article in Vanity Fair and a page from New York, circle all the adjectives, copy it, and bring it to class. I began working on it on my way to the conference, only to discover that what I thought would be obvious isn't so. Sure, I know that an adjective describes a noun, but in reading these articles, I'm having a hard time determining how certain words are being used. Perhaps this is the point of the exercise. Or perhaps I am dumb. In any event, as I read Rats, I tried to determine whether the parts of the book I liked were literary or journalistic. (Answer: Don't know yet. Still trying to understand what makes something "magazine-y" versus "literary.")

So much to learn, so little time. Of one thing in which I am certain: if a rat ever swam up through my toilet bowl, as is known to happen because they are strong swimmers (I was going to say Olympic, but maybe that's magazine-y?), and poked its whiskered nose out, I'd have a heart attack.

Bus Ride Reminds Me Why America is Good

Husband and I had a 6 AM flight back to New York this morning, so we rose at 3:40 to get ready to leave. (Incidentally, my dad rose at 3:30 so he could drive us, although we repeatedly offered to call a cab. That's the kind of person he is. Thanks, Dad!) We got a few hours of sleep since we departed from the wedding we came to Chicago to attend around 10 pm. (As for the wedding, we had a blast.)

The point is, by the time I got into LaGuardia, I was on the verge of turning into Crankypants McBitch. I waited 20 minutes for the public bus to Manhattan, as did an increasingly large crowd of travelers eager to get into town for a mere $2. When the first bus arrived, it was already full from the previous terminals. A few minutes later, a mostly empty second bus was swarmed. I decided to take a different bus through Queens to the subway.

Of course, as soon as I boarded, I regretted my decision. I forgot how many local stops are on that route, plus it seemed that hordes of direct buses were descending on the airport, ready for a return trip to Manhattan. Bah! I seethed at my stupidity, glaring at each of the 9,000 or so people who got on and off the bus at every other fucking corner.

Then a funny thing happened. I noticed how diverse the bus's riders were. As we drove through Queens toward Jackson Heights, old Italian men, young Ecuadorian women, a middle-aged Indian couple, and countless other individuals of various ethnic groups joined me on a quiet bus ride. We passed restaurants selling all types of cuisine, shops with saris, and Asian grocery stores. I stared out the window at the teeming masses of humanity peacefully sharing the sidewalks.

Soon, I felt really good. I'm so lucky to live in New York. It's a city where we welcome people from all over the world, ride buses and subways together, and break bread next to one another. How could I be pissy? I relaxed, and three subways (shortcuts, I swear) and 30 minutes later, I was home petting my rabbit, who is adopted from upstate New York.

The Butch is Back!

That Elton John! He knows me so well!

In a recent conversation about hair cuts and short hair, someone (and I'll be damned if I remember who) told me that she accidentally wound up with a Caesar cut back when George Clooney was sporting the look. I could almost relate, as I spent nine months in 2006 and a small part of 2007 wandering around with a cut so short I resembled a 12 year old boy. (Twice my brother-in-law approached some kid, thinking he was me.) When I finally figured out that this was not the look I really wanted, I swore that I would keep my short hair on the longer side of short. Mostly that has gone very well.

Then, yesterday. I tried a new salon for a variety of reasons. When I left, I noticed that my hair was pretty darn short, but I filed it in the cabinet all the way at the back of my head because it looked cute. Husband took a picture of me that night, which I meant to post today, but he took the camera to work with him, so no photos today. (I wore my Sweet Corn Festival t-shirt in solidarity with Mar and my sister, who both live in flooded Iowa City.) I think I knew that when I took a shower today I would return to my 12 year old boy look, although this time a 12 year old boy with a Caesar.

No more short, short cuts. I swear.

Our Shack

My friend Sara showed me her apartment this afternoon. When she bought it in December (January?), I saw it then, and when the renovations began a few weeks later, I saw it then, too, but there was no kitchen any more. Today, it was gorgeous, complete with a kitchen full of appliances and cabinets, a built-in entertainment system in the living room, and nicely painted bedrooms. She even has new, matching furniture. My very brown eyes turned green.

My apartment, on the other hand, is filled with junk. We've owned it for over five years now, and still only managed to paint the living room and bathroom. Husband and I furnished the space through a combination of Ikea, secondhand shops, and cast off items rescued from trash piles on the street. (I swear we recently contemplated bringing from a broken piano thrown out by a synagogue.) Our bedroom TV stand is a computer desk that broke 7 years ago when we moved it into our previous apartment. Husband's nightstand is a microwave cart that became obsolete after friends' gave us a hutch they no longer needed in their dining room. My writing desk is our former dining table. (Our new dining table is actually very nice, and we got it for a great price at Macy's.) We have two worn out couches in the living room, and two used purple leather armchairs that the prior owner's cats clawed. Need I go on?

Generally, I love our eclectic style. Today, though, I thought about how nice it would be to live somewhere that a normal 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career might find acceptable. Then I remembered that although I may be a 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career, I am not normal, nor is Husband. I also recalled that I am too cheap to pay for nice things. (Not that they cannot be acquired through sales), and how much I would miss the turquoise armchair stashed in a corner of our oddly-shaped dining room. My desire to acquire matching furnishings diminished, and I felt better about living in a hovel.

New Rule #1,284 (aka The "There is no crying in baseball" Rule)

After The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver made me tear up on the subway yesterday afternoon while on my way to a (useless) meeting, I hereby institute the following rule for myself:

I will not read anything other than:

A) magazines;
B) thrillers (like Bangkok 8);
C) amusing capers (anything by Carl Hiaasen, although his last book reeked worse than a body decomposing on a 105 degree day in the Everglades);
D) satires; and/or
E) politically witty tomes (like Sarah Vowell or Beth Lisick) if:

1) I slept less than 6 hours the previous night;
2) I have not seen Husband in more than 24 hours; and/or
3) I am using some mode of public transportation, such as a subway or airplane.

This rule shall be invoked to prevent embarrassing episodes of me bawling (in public) because I am emotionally overwrought, and the book that I am reading (or the movie I am viewing) took a dramatic turn that breaks my over-feeling heart. Yes, yes. I am all about pretending to be stone cold, what with all my ranting "mothering this" or "cunt-face ass-eater that," but it is all a facade. The reality is that underneath my mean, mocking, hard exterior, I am the biggest fucking softie on the planet. These devastating books and movies (for example, the love story between Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) fucking impact me. I'm a wreck for hours after a book/movie gives me a truly earned sob (not like those manipulative pap movies - The Other Sisiter, anyone? - that Steph so dearly loves but bring "a fucking tear to my eye").

So this new rule is for the good of my mental state, as well as my public image. And don't you fucking forget it, motherfucker. Now I'm off to the Kleenex box and/or Husband's t-shirt to wipe my nose.

Something's Fishy in Here

A good general rule of thumb is to be wary of "fresh fish" in areas in that are not near bodies of water (other than polluted rivers). Disregarding this nugget of wisdom on Saturday, Steph, Husband, and I headed to a sushi restaurant for lunch at the King of Prussia Mall. Right in the entryway was a large fish tank:



I had a difficult time using Husband's camera phone, so in case the contents of the tank are not obvious from this blurry shot, I'll enumerate: those ain't fish. The tank is instead filled with empty bottles of alcohol. (This had no bearing on my poor camera skills, by the way.) Despite this glaring warning to turn back, we asked for a table for three. Here's Steph eagerly awaiting her bento box:



Isn't she adorable? Miraculously, none of us got food poisoning, and somehow the sushi was even OK tasting.

While waiting for my fishy meal, I did some math. I learned about the King of Prussia Mall and decided I must visit this enormous paean to shopping someday when I was approximately 16 years old and working at Chiron Publications. (A bookstore that seems to no longer be there frequently special ordered exciting titles like In the Ever After or Uncursing the Dark for customers, and I processed the orders.) Currently, I am 32. This means that it took me exactly half of my life to achieve my goal and go to this mall. I don't know if that is impressive or pathetic, but I can't say that I felt I accomplished anything important on my trip. It was fun, though.

Re-Thinking My Incompetence, Or Other People Suck Much Worse Than Me

Every time I go to perform my glorified clerical duties at my newish job, I wonder what the hell happened to me.

In January 2002, I began a new job in which I planned a program to bring capital and technical assistance to community groups and early childhood programs around the City. When I was hired for that job, I wondered what the fuck the agency was thinking in bringing on a 25 year old to do this work. Then I remembered that I had three years of experience in that niche field, which was more or less three years more than any other likely candidate, so it made sense. Long story short, I fucked some shit up along the way, but mostly did a very good job developing and implementing the program before I burned out due to challenges to my sanity that were both internal (like money being stolen from my program and used for another, but I'm not still bitter or anything...) and external (like early childhood education is public priority #1,209,988, if that...) to the office.

In the olden days of my rough and tumble child care work, I often felt like an incompetent fool. Not the most incompetent fool around (I encountered enough people who made me wonder how they managed to tie their shoes, let alone do any work), but still a person who had a lot of things to learn. I tried to absorb as much as I could from mentors and colleagues. I also tried to acknowledge to myself that I was good at some stuff, although I semi-failed at that task.

Which brings me to the present day. As I sort through the clusterfuck of a mess of a data collection project, I realize that I may still make mistakes, but damn, compared to my predecessor, I am a model of competence, efficiency, and common sense. I even tell funny jokes (usually to myself, as I tend to work alone) while I fix shit. Go me and my non-profit management skill set! Now, if only that would help me get into an MFA program. (Still no word and hence, no Mars bar eating.)

It's For the Best

As I re-read my blog post from yesterday, it occurred to me that whenever I was rejected by my top choice educational program, it always winds up being to my benefit in the long run. Had I attended NYU's law school, I likely would be a lawyer today. If I hadn't talked Columbia into taking me off the waitlist for the MPA program, I would've gone to NYU, had no debt from grad school (or very minimal debt), and been tapped into a much stronger and connected alumni network. So while my rejection from Hunter stings, I am looking at the positive side of it. It clearly was not meant to be.

Now we'll see if my tarot card reading was right. She strongly felt that I would be attending New School in the fall, and while I woulod be very overwhelmed at first, it would ultimately be a good fit for me. (Of course, she also thought I would get into Hunter, but the vibes from New School were stronger. We all know how Hunter worked out...) Hopefully, I'll get some notice yea or nay from them this week.

In the meantime, back to my exciting data entry and database management work. Thank goodness for mind-numbing repetitive tasks, right?

And I Thought I Am Tall

Recently, I discovered that my brother-in-law's wife is shorter than I am. This discovery engendered a minor identity crisis because I have always been the shortest person in my in-law family. All these years, I thought I was short, but really, I am a tall short person. How distressing to live with such self-delusion for so long!

Anyway, while on holiday with my sister and her husband, I encountered two objects that made me feel slightly better about my situation.


This literal giant was housed near the giant penis armor of Henry VIII. (That made me feel small, too, by the way. Maybe I should pay more attention to all those spam emails I receive with offers to help me grow my penis larger...) Even with my hiking shoes, my head only floats a bit above the 5 foot mark.


Further, when a chocolate rabbit at Herrod's is about my height, what's to complain about? If Dana were not leaning in to take a bite, I think they'd be about the same height. I could literally eat my height (if not weight) in chocolate. Yum.

My Daytime TV Diet

So Des reports that she subsists on a steady diet of game shows while she is unemployed. While I wait for people to call me back on the various projects that I am working on, I devised the following menu of non-online entertainment:

America's Next Top Model reruns on VH1 and MTV

Project Runway reruns on Bravo

America's Best Dance Crew reruns on MTV

From these fine programs, I learn many things. First, Husband's assertion that fashion designers are misogynists is obvious from watching the shit that the designers produce and judges fawn over on Project Runway. The leading designer, Christian, is a young punk who fails every challenge that requires him to work with a real woman (i.e. - a woman who lost weight; a teenage girl) instead of a 9 foot tall model who weighs 84.5 pounds. Even when he doing his "best" work, I stare at it and wonder why any person on earth would wear something that fucked up and weird. I guess fashion is about making women look like fools and idiots.

On America's Next Top Model, I learned that Tyra Banks is hilarious. I also discovered that I will never be a model for several reasons that go beyond my 5'1" frame that carries 125 pounds. My biggest challenge is distinguishing expressions. Tyra is always demonstrating the difference between something like "smiling eyes" and "mysterious eyes," but they look the same to little old me. Further, even if I had the body, looks, and skills, I doubt I could put on the ridiculous outfits that designers create without severe mockery and snickering.

Thanks to America's Best Dance Crew, I discovered that I do not use complementary expressions like, "That is sick!" or "That's tight!," nearly enough. I also saw that my roller skating and gymnastics skills could be developed more. There are no wider social implications from this show, as far as I can tell. It's just fun.

Who says that television is not educational?

Passing on the Stuffing

At a party yesterday, a friend explained how she passed the time at work by researching on the internet how paraplegic men have sex. (Seriously, how on earth did people kill time at work before the internet?) She learned that men with some blood flow to their penises can engage in a practice called stuffing. Stuffing is exactly what it sounds like: cram it in, and hope that there will be some reaction to the action. Sometimes this works; others, there's just some raw genitals at the end.

Before I even discovered stuffing had a name, I realized that I was metaphorically familiar with the practice. For the last few years, I've been trying to forge a career based on it. Each time a job came along that didn't really excite me, I tried to make the pieces fit and hoped that I'd get some satisfaction from it. There were times when he work made me satisfied, but generally I felt tired and sore from the effort.

Last week, the always insightful Maria Niles wrote a post on BlogHer about the benefits of closing doors. The post hit me. How long have I said that I didn't want to work on child care policy any more, only to take every job that came my way because I feared that I would never work again? Too long. If I was serious, I'd need to really close the door on my child care policy career. It would be scary, but it didn't have to be permanent; I could always walk through it again in the future. My skills won't go anywhere, but I'll never fully explore my other options until I move on.

Two days after I had my epiphany, I went to have my fortune read. The tarot card reader told me that I am surrounded by opportunity, but my biggest obstacle to success is myself.

"You like things to happen in a linear fashion," Katie noted, "and the way things are happening now makes you feel insecure. You have to let go to get ahead."

On Friday, when I got a call and email about a consulting job with the city, my first impulse was to take it. What else am I doing now except trying to get pictures for my book about unusual New York, writing an article for Just Cause, blogging at BlogHer, and finishing up an article about termination for an encyclopedia of sex? If I didn't take the job, I could be homeless, starving, and unloved because Husband would get mad that I didn't work. My heart raced. I was standing in front of the door. All I had to do was call the lady at the city back and make the arrangements.

That's when I decided that I didn't want to be stuffed any more. I took Katie's words to heart, and took a deep breath. Husband would not drop me because I said no to a job to which I had reservations. In my mind, I quietly shut the child care door. It felt good.

Letter to My Body - Sort Of

On Valentine's Day, I kicked off BlogHer's Letter to My Body initiative. The Town Crier kicked off Phase II to the project with a wonderful perspective on infertility. As I've mentioned before, I have polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), which would make it difficult for me to get knocked up if I should ever lose my remaining shreds of sanity and decide that I want to have a baby. Clearly, the infertility problem doesn't keep me up at night. The delightful other symptoms of PCOS are another story.

While reading other women's letters over the past two weeks, I nearly bust a gut laughing when One Fat Momma wrote:

I know I complain about getting zits and blackheads even though you are pushing 30, but secretly? I like picking at them, so it’s not such a hardship. I’m probably jinxing myself by saying this, but sometimes I like to live dangerously.

Because seriously? That's how I feel about my chin hairs. Damn, I hate them, but they sure are fun to pick at. When I have insomnia, de-bearding myself makes for an excellent way to pass time. There's something oddly cathartic about plucking hairs. It's certainly better than my nervous habit of peeling away all the flesh on my cuticles.

Still, when I notice the coarse black hairs on my chinny chin chin, it is upsetting. The extra androgens that cause them - and my slightly-elevated-level of insulin - are not cool. They fuck with my moods pretty badly. I would very much like it if these competing hormones would go away, but I guess this is the one body I got, so I'll deal with it. Plus, there's the added incentive that body snatching aliens probably aren't into bearded chicks, so I got that going for me.

Anyway, 'twas a long day, which explains my late post. I taught my last budgeting class at the local university in the morning, then ran around like an idiot in the afternoon. I also gave in to my curiosity and had my Tarot cards read. It was very interesting, and the cards said lots of nice things. I don't know how much I really believe these things, but it made me feel less anxious. The occult is a fantastic deal for therapy. Long live witches!

Nonstick Cookware and My Sister's Birthday

Was there ever a better invention than nonstick cookware? I think not. I swore that the frying pan I got as a wedding gift was nonstick. Still, even after I sprayed it up with Pam, things tended to stick, especially in the last year or so. (To be fair, the pan came into my life in the summer of 2000, so even if it was nonstick at one point, it probably wore off.)

While at Ikea recently, I invested $6 in two new frying pans. I had no real expectations that these new pans would revolutionize my egg cooking experience, but damn! When the Teflon works, making scrambled egg substitute (97% real egg, plus lots of yellow food dye) is an entirely different ballgame. I can't wait to buy some 100% real eggs and fry them up.

This has changed my whole outlook on cooking. OK, that's a lie, but it does make cleaning up after I cook eggs much easier. I'm sure that all you cooks are laughing your asses off, but this is huge to me. Huge! (And probably explains why, although Meloukhia left me excellent advice and instructions on how to make my own Greek yogurt, I am likely to continue throwing away money at the grocery store, although I very much appreciate her attempt to help me.)

Speaking of exciting news, today is my sister's 28th birthday. Happy Birthday, Chooch! It must be nice having a three day weekend over which to celebrate. I wish I could be there, except for the snow and cold....

Birthplace of Democracy

When I voted in Tuesday's primary, I felt like I did my part for democracy, rather than what we've had for the past two presidential administrations, which is democrazy. While I believe that Sen. Clinton's health plan is superior to Sen. Obama's, I also think that Clinton is a candidate I don't entirely trust. Of course, she's far better than any of the Republican candidates and I will do everything I can to make sure she is our next president if she is the Democratic nominee, but today I cast my vote for Obama. I think he would make a fine president.

However, if in November, we do somehow wind up with another four years of Republican theocracy (theocrazy?) and fiscal corruption, I am moving to an island in Greece. Why an island in Greece? I wish I could say it is because I want to return the roots of Western civilization or something profound like that, but the truth is that I am obsessed with Greek yogurt. Until my friend Mara introduced me to it in early December, I had no idea that yogurt could be so thick and rich. Not to harp on my pudding obsession, but seriously, Greek yogurt is like yogurt pudding. To live among a people who produce such amazing yogurt would be an honor.

Also, I really love feta cheese. This actually makes a lot of sense because I am a Capricorn (aka The Goat), and as the nutty talk show host Mike said to me this summer, "Beavers suckle beavers; sheep suckle sheep. Why should babies drink formula?" Of course, that sentence just me laugh at the time, but now I see its truth: as a human goat, I obviously prefer items made from goat milk. (There's an extremely icky path we can also go down here about making cheese from human milk, but let's not.)

Not understanding Greek is going to be a large obstacle for me, but really, when learning any foreign language, it's all Greek to me. (yuk yuk.) I'll fit right in amongst the furry goats and hairy people anyway. While my dream of living on a goat farm in Greece is tempting, if not extremely smelly, I really do hope that it does not come to fruition. Let's go Obama! It's time for change in the US.

Periods, and Anger, and Cookies - Oh My!

It's true that my food cravings are worse when I'm on the rag or about to be hanging with Aunt Flo. This is probably why I've wanting pudding so badly for the last four days. Also, I suspect it is why I became utterly enraged at something someone wrote on Friday. Usually, I'd probably be angry about it, but not fixate on the statement to the point where I could not focus on anything else.

While I was sputtering about on Friday, I noticed that I was ravenously hungry. Suddenly, it dawned on me that being really angry seems to make need to eat. It probably explains why I ate non-stop for the last year or so that I worked at my former employer. I was furious all the time. It apparently takes a lot of energy to sustain that level of anger. Who woulda thunk?

Regardless of my level of fury, I ate an enormous quantity of junk this weekend. Breakfast was cookies and a granola bar. While in Pennsylvania with Steph, I had an afternoon lunch tea. Then meatballs at Ikea. Then breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel. (For the record, the grits at Cracker Barrel are probably made from the same recipe as the gruel fed to Oliver Twist, but damn if the blackberry cobbler is not the tastiest confection this side of the Mason Dixon line.) When I got home, I had a cookie "midnight snack." All I ate on Sunday morning were cookies and string cheese.

Anyway, I was completely amused on Sunday afternoon on my way back from the gym when I saw the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked in front of the Jewish Community Center. I ran to get my camera, but by the time I got back outside, it was pulling away.Still, I think it is pretty funny to see the Weinermobile cruising up the streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs. Yum....

Sunday Blahs

It's Sunday. That means I am tired for no good reason and under-motivated. However, it is also my assigned day to post at BlogHer, so I wrote up a rambling essay on how child care workers are completely screwed by our dysfunctional American society that needs women to work but insists that they are bad mothers if they work.

On another note of American dysfunction, I received a nice letter yesterday from my unsurance company with a detailed explanation of why they rejected my bilateral breast MRI. It turns out that my doctor is a lazy son of a bitch who neglected to submit very basic information such as: the age of my first menstrual period, my age at first live birth, the number of previous breast biopsies including the pathology and my ethnicity. Perhaps this information would make no difference at all, but it certainly is not hard to submit. There are 45 days in which this information can be submitted for consideration. I shall call the unsurance company myself tomorrow. Then I will search for a new doctor. Bah.

Otherwise, Husband and I had a delightful Saturday. We visited Dianne and her precocious daughter and fun husband for the day. Steph also joined us for good eating at a hibachi grill place and two rounds of bowling. We raced back to the City to join Dr. H for her 30th birthday bash, which was fun. (Dianne's birthday was this past Thursday, so happy belated birthday to her!)

Maybe my lethargy is explained by a Diet Coke, cake, cookie, and Jelly Belly hangover? My hard partying ways are catching up to me...

We Apologize for the Delay in Awkward Photos

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

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

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

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

Rich People Stink

Hello from the Admirals Club in Dallas-Ft. Worth, where I am waiting out a two hour layover before boarding the flight to Honolulu. One of the many benefits of traveling with Husband is that I get to observe (and experience) the lifestyle of fancy-schmancy business travelers and the wealthy. What I discovered is that these people stink. Literally. (Proverbially, the top 2% live rather nicely, as the convenient free internet stands in the Admirals Club demonstrates.)

The flight to Dallas-Ft. Worth had two classes: first and coach. On that type of flight first class is really more like regular business class, but the hoity-toity have to accept it and sit amongst the hundred thousandaires or be forced to sit in the back with the riff-raff (where I belong). Anyway, not long into the flight, I used the bathroom. It was not smelling very fresh, even at that point. However, when I went back an hour or so later, I nearly fucking passed out it was so damn rank. I wondered who stuffed the dead body into the tiny room and how it managed to decompose so quickly. When I needed to pee again not long before landing time, I decided to wait it out, figuring there'd be a nice potty in the Admirals Club.

I was only half correct. The fixtures were very upscale, but the two stalls had the distinct odor of fresh diarrhea. (Sure that made me laugh when I typed it, but I wanted to cry in the bathroom while I emptied my very full bladder.) As a person with an on and off digestive ailment, I understand that sometimes you can't help where you have an explosion. However, I am starting to wonder if all the expensive food consumed by the upper class leads to more stink bombs in toilets.

Anyway, other than spilling orange juice all over Husband's seat and iPod during the flight, that's about it for now. Good times ahead.

Actually, I just looked out the window and a large fire appears to be ranging on the tarmac. Scary. More to come.

Sweet December

I'm finishing out 2007 at home in New York, at my parents' house (get ready for grandmother stories next week), back home in New York, and then in Hawaii and Oahu. In that time I will also finish my grad school applications, take the GRE, and watch hours and hours of Hunter on DVD. (Man, the guest stars from season one - Frances McDormand, Drian Dennehy, Ed O'Neil, and Dennis Franz, for example - rock my world.)

Not only am I fortunate enough to have a semi-easy end to my year, but I am lucky to see December 1st at all. As I have complained many times, drivers in the city seem to believe that red lights do not require them to stop their vehicles. They just cruise right through, even after pedestrians get the cheerful "walk" light and venture into the crosswalk. As I mentioned on Ev's post about hitting a deer (excerpt: "As I was standing on the brake, fishtailing towards a ditch, watching the deer's head and neck fly over the roof of my truck while the front half and the back half of the torso broke apart at the ribs, and I was thinking, 'Huh! I never would have expected it to do that!'"), I was nearly run down by a shiny new BMW that neglected to follow traffic laws. I was eating a Trader Joe's 100 Calorie pack of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and I hurled one at the car as he narrowly missed my toes. I smashed against the front passenger side window with a satisfying, if small, noise and shattered into a million pieces. (That's when I realized I should carry little paintballs in my pocket with me from now on...) The other guy crossing the street while I was agreed with me that drivers are fucking maniacs.

Another disturbance in the balance of the world happened when I read that The Red Balloon is being re-released. I cannot explain why that fucking movie vexes me so much, but it was always 34 minutes of hell when they forced us to watch it in grammar school. Every damn year. For reasons that are beyond me, my beloved Entertainment Weekly gave it a grade of A. Tarnation!

You're a Woman Now, so Demand to Read about It

Since Husband is in San Francisco for work (poor dude got back from London on Sunday night and took off for the West Coast bright and early on Monday morning), he doesn't need the car to drive to his office in Connecticut. I decided that I will take advantage of the availability of our automobile (which I always think of as his since his work pays for it and I never drive it for a variety of reasons, the primary one being that I hate driving and fear the maniacal NYC traffic) and motor up to see Alex. We plan to work out more details for my idea to put together an anthology of first/early period stories, tentatively titled Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!.

Not long after I first conceived of the need for an anthology of this nature, I emailed my friend who also served as my agent for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track and told him about it. Oddly, he was not nearly as enthused about the idea as I was:

I've read a few proposals for this very idea for an anthology and think it is a tough one. The problem is 1) to put an anthology together for sale you need some pretty big names, or at least recognizable. 2) the subject matter for most people is a bit squeamish, even for girls. I had two female interns read the proposals and both did not like... I could be wrong, so if you're passionate about it, sell me on it.

My initial reaction to his response was not constructive ("Well, those female interns are obviously cunt-face bitches who read shit like Devil Wears Prada while staggering around in their pointy-toes stilettoes getting snatch waxes, so they wouldn't know a good idea if it hit them in their Sephora-made-up faces."), but then I buckled down and realized that what my friend was saying is that I need to show that girls aren't squeamish about their first periods because the topic is fucking funny in retrospect. I think the outpouring of interest that is still emerging on my original blog post is a good indication that people do want a book like this.

Anyway, the goal is to come up with a framework for proposal submissions, a plan for compensation, and a website that organizes the whole thing. In the meantime, the more I hear from people who are interested in reading a book of funny essays about the early days of getting a period, the better. (For an example of the types of writing that would be in the book, see 1980 was an interesting year by Jessica.) The first battle in the war for this book is to demonstrate that it is a commercially viable product.

Call for Submissions. Period.*

Brilliance is inspiring. Two days ago, I read a very funny/mortifying story by Jessica, who is hilarious, about how she learned how to use tampons. It occurred to me that many of us delightful women bloggers have shared these "my first period" stories with the wide world of the web at some point. I love reading them. Everyone has a different experience, and yet they are so easy to relate to and universal in their own horrifying ways. It's good stuff.

As I tried to leave a comment for Jessica about how much I enjoyed reliving her painful adolescence (fucking Blogger ate it), it dawned on me: we should put together a book of essays about getting our periods. Or about coping with getting our periods, as some of the better stories don't involve that first fateful day of doom. Maybe a book like this already exists since it's not exactly an original concept. (A quick search on Amazon for books about menstruation yielded only treacly guides for girls and anthropological and cultural studies and criticism, but not fun essay books. I jaunted over to Barnes & Noble and saw nothing on the topic, either.) Even if it does, we can spin the book as the first book of essays about getting our periods written by non-famous blogging women. (How can any publisher resist?)

If this idea interests you, speak up and I will investigate how to get this off the ground. Since I love reading all your blogs (and the writing of my non-blogging friends, several of whom I think would come up with really awesome essays), I know this will be great. If not as a book (for which you'd get paid for your contribution!), then maybe we can have one of those blogging carnival things that always happen but I don't understand at all. We'll call it Bloody Bloggers Day or something.

*Apologies for leaving out the two or so men who read CUSS. Maybe you can write a funny essay about your first nocturnal emission or something equally embarrassing. Actually, that would be an awesome book/blog day, too...

Koala in the Bush

After I watched Des get the awesome tattoo across her shoulder last month, my desire for a tattoo of my own increased to new levels. Tattoos are so cool! Des and I discussed my interest in a tattoo later that afternoon, and I confessed that I was still reluctant to go under the pen for two reasons: the permanency of tattoos and my irrational fear that I will not be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery although I do not believe in God and think that cemeteries are a waste of land. However, if I ever did get a tattoo, I thought I would want a koala bear, since it is an animal I relate to. (Koalas are sweet and cuddly looking, but in actuality, they are vicious little assholes.)

A few weeks later, Des posted this picture of a koala on my infrequently used MySpace page:

She noted, "Can't you see the evil gleam in his eye?" Seriously, the critter is perfect, and it inspired a suitably ridiculous and excruciatingly painful plan.

One day, I will get my snatch waxed. After it heals a bit, I will get the koala tattooed on my crotch. Then my pubic hair will grow back, hiding Horatio (that's what I named the koala) in the bush. Oh man, just thinking about that makes me laugh. (And wince.*)

*Have no fear, any parental figure who reads this. The odds of me carrying out my brilliant scheme of personal decoration are negligible. But I do like thinking about it.

File Under "Accomplished" - A Photo Story

(Incidentally, this little photo story will give a fair tour of the mess that is my living room. I only mocked my parents' house in the past because I could completely relate to it.)

My writing desk was my dining table for years. Then we got a new one, but instead of throwing this table out, I moved it into the living room to use as my writing table. Initially, this was very good. Then my writing table became my dumping table. (FYI - My friend Dianne painted that portrait of the CUSS logo for me. Isn't she awesome?) Not much writing is done at my writing desk as a result. After months of writing at the fancy new dining room table, thinking if I could just put my files somewhere, I could use the writing table as a table instead of storage unit, it occurred to me that I could buy a filing cabinet. Two weeks later, I ordered one from Staples.

It arrived yesterday in a tidy box. I committed to building the filing cabinet on Friday morning. Here I am hard at work in the middle of my living room. Husband was working from home, and he was so amused he decided to take a picture. (Note the hideous purple leather chairs that he insisted on buying from Craig's List. The blue sofa came from a thrift store. Our temporary second rabbit, Jacques, chewed a whole on the corner of the puffy top which is covered by Husband's green blanket that he got for college in 1994. At the front of the room, behind the gate, is Tycho the Giant Rabbit's apartment.)

About an hour and one minorly major fuck up (I forgot to put in the bottom on one of the drawers before I attached all the sides - oops), the file cabinet stands complete. What a jolly laugh I shall have if it is not large enough.

My (Not So) Dumb Ass

Since the book is done for now, I am turning my attention to my applications for graduate creative writing programs. Yes, I am psyched that I wrote a guidebook/travelogue, but next I want to write something with a plot and characters and all that jazz. To do that, I gotta learn more about writing and shit.

One of the schools I am applying to requires the GRE, which I never took. (When I hustled off to policy school, the places I applied to took my LSAT score, sparing me the agony of learning GRE math.) The admissions decisions are not really based on test scores, but I still need to do well enough that the university at large agrees to let me enroll in the case that I am admitted to a writing program. I bought a study book from Kaplan and took my diagnostic exam this morning. For the 12 math questions, I basically guessed on every one. I managed to get half correct. The verbal portion went much better, although not the results were not sterling at 75% correct. I did unusually poorly in reading comprehension, so I'll chalk that up to a fluke. More studying to come.

I also learned this morning that Nov. 29 is officially recognized by the United Nations as the International Day of Solidarity With the Palestinian People. Fuck that. The same New York Times article mentions that "711,000 left Israel-controlled territory in 1948 and 1949" and in 1948, "856,000 Jewish residents left Arab countries." The World Jewish Congress submitted a memo to the United Nations Economic and Security Council in 1948about the danger facing Jews in the Middle East in response to a 1947 draft law composed by the Arab League "that called for measures to be taken against Jews living in Arab countries" including "imprisonment, confiscation of assets and forced induction into Arab armies" as well as beatings, officially incited violence, and programs. However, the memo was buried by the Lebanese ambassador and president of the council.

I don't need a good GRE score to understand how unfair and biased the world is.