5,479 Days, But Who's Counting?

A little over 15 years ago, I rang Husband at his dorm room. I told him that I had something that I wanted to ask him. Before I got to my question, we spoke for two hours.* Then I said that I hoped to see a film over the weekend, and was wondering if he would like to join me. He said yes.

So, on Feb. 23, 1995, I met Husband in the lobby of his dorm and we walked to the East Village Cinemas to see "Pulp Fiction." I wore a pair of rainbow striped stockings, a turquoise skirt, and a black tunic-y thing with orange embroidery at the neck and sleeves. And blue Doc Martens. I was nervous that Husband didn't know that I meant to ask him out on a date, but when he paid for the tickets, I thought he knew.

After the movie, we went to a cafe and drank the worst hot chocolate I've ever had foisted upon me. It was like the staff dropped a Hals into it and let it dissolve. We laughed about how nasty it was. When we left, I forgot my ear muffs. Husband asked if I wanted to go back and look for them, but I said, "No, they are diarrhea brown. I'll just get a new pair." He thought this was hilarious.

He walked me back to my dorm, and we stood in a light drizzle for another two hours, talking. When we finally parted around 4 am, he hugged me good night. I've been on cloud nine ever since.

*And how my roommates, who were trying to sleep in our one room dorm cell, did not punch me in the face (as I deserved) is beyond me. I sat right next to one of my roommate's beds as I obliviously chatted away.

What's the Frequency Kenneth?

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

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

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

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

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

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

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

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

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

30 Rock

Tomorrow I will be interviewed about my book by AnneLise Sorensen for her weekly travel segment on NBC. I owe this exciting opportunity to Julie Ross Godar, who is friends with AnneLise and suggested that she contact me.

Barring any last minutes changes in studio availability, I'm meeting AnneLise during my lunch hour at - drum roll, trumpet blast, gong bang, whatever other large noise - 30 Rockefeller Center! Yes, 30 Rock! Man, oh man, I am so excited.

At the same time, I am scared shitless. Not to be interviewed - I'm psyched about that - but to appear on HDTV. AnneLise suggested that I will be fine if I wear "just a little more make up than usual." Ha ha ha ha! Oh, if only she knew. That means I will look like a zombie with a little lip gloss* and mascara. Sigh.

*That, however, is not like dressing up a pig in lipstick.

There's Goes That

I decided in October to grow my hair a little longer. The guy who cuts my hair said that he'd cut it so it would grow back in stages. I loved it. I actually decided to keep it medium short, and went in for a trim this morning.

"Hey, I just want a little trim," I told my stylist.

"Sure," he said. Then he went outside to check out the traffic situation because there was a lot of honking. A few minutes later, he ran out to move his car before it got a ticket.

With all that disruption, he seemed to forget what I wanted because I am sitting here at my keyboard 90 minutes later with really short hair, depressed and wanting a paper bag to put over my head because not only is it shorter than I wanted, but it also is not that great. There are worse things in the world, but it's really frustrating to think that I'm right back to where I was two months ago, except worse because he didn't even cut it in a way that will grow back nicely.

Swish

If I were a cat wearing corduroy pants, no one would need to tie a bell around my neck to warn the little animals that I was coming. The swishing sound that my pants make when my thighs rub together as I walk would alert them to my presence. Meow.

No matter what I weighed or looked like, "chub rub" (a term I learned from my friend Alex Elliot) has always bothered me. I can't wear skirts without putting something (tights, shorts, whatever) between my bare flesh, otherwise my legs are red and burning within a few hours. Warm up pants are even noisier than corduroys. SWISH!

Now that I've got that out in the open, I'm off to pluck out my chin hairs. Such is life.

On the First Night of Hanukkah Someone Threw Up on My Face

Actually, it only looks like a cat threw up a yarn hairball on my face. In reality, Husband found this crochet sleeping mask on etsy. He said it made him laugh so hard that it was worth the few bucks.

He also gave me an awesome Snoopy watch that was advertised on eBay as "for girls." What it meant was "for giants." It was even too big on him. I love it, though. I'll just buy a new band. Fortunately, he assured me that it was very cheap.

The sweater I am wearing in the picture was a Hanukkah gift from him many years ago. When he first gave it to me I hated wearing turtle necks. However, it soon became my favorite sweater. It's shrunk a bit, and I am fearful that it may not make it through this season.

Incidentally, I gave Husband a Kindle last night. At least I didn't sell my hair to buy him a watch fob only to discover that he sold his watch to buy me fancy combs. Love is all you need.

Happy Hanukkah!

Survey on Grooming Habits

I found the following message in my in-box:

Schlesinger Associates is currently looking for females to participate in a paid online discussion on the topic of Razors from September 23-27. For this study we'll ship you a Creative Vado Pocket Video Camera (yours to keep upon completion) to record and post your responses to a secure website. It'll only take you 20-30 minutes each day for a total of about 90 minutes of your time, all from the comfort of your home! At the completion of the study, you'll receive $65 in compensation, in addition to the video camera.

Normally, I wouldn't bother responding to a focus group that pays less than $100, but the free video camera made up for the low pay. OK, that's a lie. I really, really, really, really wanted to talk about shaving. Honestly, I couldn't wait to fill the market researchers' ears with my insane rants about the tyranny of the blade. Plus the opportunity to film myself shaving struck me as hilarious. I might have done a focus group like this for free.

I took the qualification online survey. The last question was, "How often do you shave your legs?" Options were (I'm paraphrasing here, except for options a, d, and e):

a) six or more times per week
b) something less than six but more than once
c) once a week
d) once a month
e) less than once a month
f) I never shave my legs

I debated how to answer. If I average my shaving over the course of a year, it probably comes to about once a month, so that's what I chose. I sort of wanted to pick a, though. The next screen said sorry, but I did not qualify. What a lost opportunity!

When Then is Better Than Now

When I first posted the link to the WSJ article, the photos had yet to be posted. I may have been an enormous nerd in 4th grade, but now I am a woman who needs a better hairstyle and more sleep. Damn. And my friend Sara checked my make-up and everything before I met the photog. ("You look sort of like Rachel Maddow," my other Sara friend said, trying to be positive. Dude, Rachel Maddow may be awesome, but I do not want to look like her.)

The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.

Helmet Head

During the monsoon that drenched the east coast on Saturday, Husband and I joined Alex Elliot and her family at the Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester. My expectations were low, but it turned out to be pretty awesome. Husband photographed me in this stylish helmet:

If only I could wear it when the Wall Street Journal photographer comes to take my picture tomorrow. Better that type of helmet head than the kind that my hair is likely to whip itself into tomorrow.

Unicorns

I passed by a boutique the other day, and in the window was a fabulous white dress with a unicorn spewing pink squiggly lines out of its horn:



Later, I called to ask how much the dress cost.

"It is $420," the woman replied.

"Oh."

"Shall I check to see if we have it in your size?"

"Um... no, that's OK. Thanks." I hung up fast.

Then Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, fired up his run. Perhaps I could find it online cheaper? I stopped by the store to check out the brand. The unicorn dress is made by a company called Death by Drone. Intriguing...

When I looked it up online, I discovered that the dress I covet is named, "Evil Eye Through the Garden of Suffocation." Now I was a little scared. I also discovered that it is also $420 on the Death by Drone website.

Even if it cute, and even if there is a blazing red jewel in the eye of the unicorn, that seems like a lot of money for a silkscreened cotton dress. But what do I know? Maybe I should splurge and go for it. Right. After that, I can feed my pet unicorn a bowl of gold and we can frolic under rainbows together. Harumph.

The Non-Guide to the BlogHer Conference

It's that time of the year, when the BlogHer conference is just around the corner, and people freak out and worry obsessively: what to wear, what if no one wants to talk to me, etc. etc. It's also that time of the year when "experienced" BlogHer attendees write posts and guides to BlogHer to sooth newbie's fears. Here's my non-contribution to this literary tradition:

Forget all the soothing internet back-patting that's going on: you are right to freak out. It will probably be overwhelming. But it will also be fine, and you will be excited to come back again. And again. And again.

My first BlogHer conference was in San Jose in 2006. Before I went, I feared that I would wind up in a corner eating cheese by myself. (This is what happens to me at pretty much every conference I go to, so I didn't think that BlogHer would be different.) And that's almost exactly what happened, except I didn't eat cheese in the corner by myself. I ate cookies. Lots of cookies. I also spoke to some cool people, and I met my blog heroine, Suebob. Suebob even went out to dinner with me, off-site. I was sure after that she would never want to talk to me again, but not only did we keep in touch and hang out at subsequent conferences, I even visited her at her lovely home, and we shall be roommates at the conference this summer. See? It all worked out. (And what did I wear? I think I wore a different pro-choice t-shirt every day. I had a reason, but I can't remember it. I also wore jeans and some weird gym shoes that were supposed to help work out my legs.)

In 2007, my several friends joined me at the Chicago conference. Just knowing that Count Mockula, Alex Elliot, and Super Des were there, and thus I would not eat cheese (or cookies) by myself in a corner, made me more confident and relaxed. As I result, I talked to more people. This was good. (And what did I wear? I can't remember. Probably jeans and t-shirts. During the ice breaker, some idiot bitch asked me if I was a lesbian, and when I said no, she sneered at me and pointed to my CUSS logo shirt and said that I "project" lesbian. Whatver.)

The following year, Count Mockula had a baby (totally awesome) and didn't come to the conference in San Francisco. Des did not attend, either. Alex and I roomed together again, and I spent the entire conference hanging out in the bookstore, chatting various people up, except for the session I attended on not having children. Maybe I went to another session or two involving other things, and I attempted to attend one of the infamous swag parties, but fled the noise and crowds promptly. The important part is that I had oodles of fun, and I got to sign my book, which rocked. (And what did I wear? More t-shirts and jeans, although I gussied up a bit for the book signing and wore a silk-y shirt with jeans.)

Now we are back to my hometown this year. Alex can't attend, but I shall be rooming with Mar, a newbie, and the aforementioned goddess Suebob. I will attend parties and a session or two and hang out. I will eat unhealthy foods, possibly by myself, but more likely with others because I've done this before and I know more people. I will do another book signing (this time, during Friday's cocktail reception) and have lots of fun. Yay!
(And what will I wear? Yes, t-shirts and jeans...)

Marcus Is Home!

Here he is with Uncle Suzanne. Oh, I mean Tante Suzanne. (We think that the people at the hospital thought I was a boy. On Thursday, there was a crotchety weird old guy standing outside the entrance to my apartment building. As I passed by him, he muttered, "What are you looking at, young man? You better look away or there's gonna be trouble!" I was not sure if he was talking to me or this 12 year old boy who was walking the other direction.)

I Found...

At the end of last year, I found and rescued an abandoned pirate near Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco:



This was before the whole incident with the pirates kidnapping the American ship captain, of course, but my pirate doesn't seem to exhibit any such hostilities. He just guards the treasures (paperclips, tape, scissors, etc.) I keep on my desk.

Then, in March, I found and rescued a wood fish in Carroll Gardens, where my friend lives in Brooklyn:



Yesterday, I found Jesus! OK, I found a wood tile Jesus and saints wood tile bracelet (like the one below, but a little different - my icons are blurrier, which made it impossible to photograph) on the sidewalk just a few doors down from my apartment:



Once I spotted it, I dove and snapped it up, not that any one else was in the area competing with me for it. I have coveted a bracelet like this for a long time. I think it is cool, but Husband would not be pleased if I spent his hard earned cash (or my own, for that matter) on such a Christian item. I am very excited to wear it about town. I hope that it is a sign that good luck is coming my way.

Another Day of Life*

Job hunt. Run errands. Go to gym. Attend to last class of the semester. Coo over adorable baby picture:



Dana, my sister, is on the left, her friend is holding Marcus, and I'm in - er, I mean, on - the right, in my Jody Davis jersey. Heh.

*Also the title of a very interesting book I read this semester by Ryszard Kapuscinski about the civil war that engulfed Angola when the Portuguese withdrew in 1975.

Off the Beaten (Subway) Track: The Tour

The debut walking tour for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track was a smashing success! It was organized by the New York City Transit Museum, and all 30 slots sold out. The motley crew of explorers journeyed with me to the Socrates Sculpture Park, past a dental studio that displays weird dentures in its window, into the Cathedral of St. Demetrios to see the saint's ankle bone, through the Louis Armstrong House Museum, and onto the Queens Museum of Art. In between, we stopped at the Euro Market, at a pizza place, and at the Lemon King of Corona for refreshments. (The tour was blurbed in Time Out New York, too!!!)

Husband took many photos, including this one of me proudly leading the troops across the street:


I wore a ridiculous wide brimmed hat with a big red flower on it so that people could spot my short head in a crowd:


Plus my hat kept the sun off my ghostly face during the 88 degree day. It's the same hat I wore throughout my trip to India two years ago. I bought it when I was in high school, thinking it was the height of style. Now it is my touring hat. I still believe it is the epitome of fashion.

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!!!

True Age

According to one of those online "true age" quizzes, I am 28. (Or maybe it said 29 - I can't remember, which is a sign of how accurate the quiz is, isn't it?) My "true age" was determined through a series of questions about my height, weight, some moderate exercises, lifestyle (smoking, drinking, drugging), and a few actual health-related questions about asthma and family history with diabetes and hypertension. Since I am the most boring person on the planet, the lifestyle questions clearly brought my age down.

Perhaps a more reliable true age quiz would ask whether anxiety caused me to peel the flesh off my cuticles, if I had mysterious ailments, and at what age I was told to wear reading glasses with my contacts. Because that last question's answer? Would be 33 year old. Yep. The eye doctor told me yesterday that my eyeballs were straining to focus and I should wear reading glasses in the afternoons.

My plan is to get the crotchitiest, most elderly looking pair I can find at the pharmacy, then partner them with some hideous chain. Then it will be obvious that my true age is 77. Gah. At least March 2009 will finally end in about 28 minutes.

There's a Sea Monster in My Sink! Eeeeek!

Husband and I went shopping for new fixtures for our bathroom today, and I had to share this:



(Apologies for the poor quality of the picture.) This is a sea monster sink. On one hand, it is the coolest sink ever. I cannot stop laughing. On the other hand, seriously - it is a faucet shaped like a giant fish with little critter handles. People pay money for this not as a joke? I mean, I would totally love this sink, but only so I could tell guests to use my sea monster sink because it would be so hilarious, and because I love sea monsters, as one of my first blog posts attested. But seriously!

schmoozer, loser

6:52 pm
Greetings from the corner of a fancy awards dinner! When I was invited to the event last week, I was excited. What a great opportunity to meet people, I thought. Of course, I forgot how bad I am at schmoozing.

I also appear to be one of four women not wearing stilettos. The fact that I am decked out in neon green wellies is probably not making me a more enticing person to network with, either. But it is slushy and cold, dammit! What else should I wear?

Ok, off to my table, where hopefully my host will not be embarrassed by me. At least I left my bear hat and backpack at the coat check...

Update from home: Once I joined my table, all was well. No one seemed at all disturbed at what I thought passed for "festive attire," as the invitation specified. Lots of cool reproductive rights and social justice types to chat with, plus the woman I sat next to graduated from my high school in 1987. Everyone rocked! I am very glad that I attended, and thankful to my host for thinking of me.

Nosiness

My nose is frequently cold.* Usually to warm it up, I press my face into Husband's neck. This tends to amuse him, but he worries about me when he's not around, so for Hanukkah he gave me a custom knit nose warmer in Mets team colors:

Very awesome! He's so clever, that Husband of mine.

Hope everyone's holidays were full of warmth!

*As are my fingers and toes. The extremities could use a little more blood circulation, I think.

Evil Bastards at Ann Taylor

Dear Bastards at Ann Taylor:

First, Husband told me that you are systemically screwing your best salespeople (i.e. - highest commission earners) by refusing to give them hours. When I heard that, I swore I would not shop at your store, even if your petites tend to fit me better than any other brand. In solidarity with the women working at the store, I pledged to look like a slob in ill-fitting clothes.

I forgot about my pledge when I went to your website today. My eyes lit up like eight candles on a menorah at the words "take an additional 30% off." I saw a very cute dress on sale that I thought I might look nice in. Then I discovered that not only are you fucking your salepeople, but you are cheating short people. Because the dress is inexplicably not on sale in petite. If I could reach up to your face, Ann Taylor, I would spit in it.

In conclusion, thank you for ripping off those of us who are torso-challenged. It stopped me from shopping at your store and supporting your evil labor practices. Please bend down extra low and kiss my ass.

Sincerely,
Suzanne

Hat Trick

As a lifelong Cub fan (although I believe that I swore them off last year, like any girl whose sweetheart repeatedly lets her down, I never really meant it), I am excited that my team is going to the playoffs yet again this year. In celebration, I cracked out my Cubs cap, so nicely modeled by Theo. The hat was a giveaway at a game I went to in 1985. Until a few days ago, I called it my lucky hat, but then I realized that in the 23 years I owned it, the Cubs have never even advanced to the World Series. Instead, the hat brings luck to the opposition team. (Which is why I wore to school last night - the Mets need to win some games so they can join the Cubs in the playoffs, where I am sad to admit, they will be handed their asses and sent home, but still. Both my home teams in the playoffs would be awesome!)

Anyway, the hat is in a sorry state after two decades and three years. I attributed the filth to dirt and sweat from 23 years of rooting for my team, but yesterday it occurred to me that what really caused the grime are 23 years of dashed hopes and broken dreams. Maybe this year will be different.

Freshest Faces

I found the following email in my inbox:

MySpace has teamed up with Ford Models for the Next Fresh Faces contest, and you could be the newest

Well, if they are using "fresh" in the context of being loud and "sassy," and/or speaking like a trucker on a cocaine bender, then absolutely I could be the Next Fresh Face. That would be rather exciting, not to mention a nice way to finance my expensive MFA program. However, if they mean "fresh" as in vibrant, new, and youthful, I think they should not send out mass emails.

Speaking of the MFA program, yesterday there was a party for all the first years to get to know one another. I believe that I was a little bit too much me and may have overwhelmed several students that I had thus far fooled into thinking I was a nice and sweet person. Husband further reinforced my "nutjob" status when he met up with me and my band of new friends wearing an obviously fake bushy black mustache. Of course, this cracked me up and made me wish that I wore a fake mustache, too. I look damn good with a fake mustache, as evidenced below.

Maybe I should submit this photo to the Freshest Faces contest...

Five Things I'm Loving

1. Husband somehow wound up on John McCain's mailing list. The man is a lifelong, committed Democrat. He is never going to give money to a douche bag like McCain. Every time I find an envelope from the McCain campaign in our mail box, I think of the money they wasted sending him materials. The return envelope is one of those "No postage necessary if mailed in the United States" deals. Would it not be awesome to wrap it around a brick and send it back? Mwa ha ha ha ha.

2. Going back to school at an "older" age. When I went for my MPA, I was only 22. I didn't feel confident enough to speak up on certain issues or challenge others, so I didn't say anything. This time around, I am just as eager to learn, but I'm also not willing to sit on my opinion. Plus, I care not a whit about grades. I just want to do my best and see what happens. It's liberating.

3. My pink John Fluevog boots. And the fact that I did not pay anything near $305 for them a few years ago. (I bought them on clearance, although now I'm shitting myself at what it will cost to replace them some day.)

4. On a perfect sunny day in the mid-70s, I hopped the subway to see St. Demetrios' ankle bone. (First I went to the dentist, though. No cavaties!)

5. The good people I continue to meet in person and online.

Eco Chic or Homeless? And Life Repeats Itself

Whenever I visit my parents, I slip into a sweatshirt I bought at Venture (a Wal-Mart-type chain store in Chicago) in 1990. It has six little lessons about saving the planet with Peanuts characters doing their part. As we prepared to leave for the Taste of Chicago yesterday morning, my sister worried that it would be chilly downtown and she didn't have a jacket.

"You can wear my sweatshirt," I offered.

Dana wrinkled her nose. "No way! That thing is hideous!"

"What? What do you mean? This shirt is awesome! It's about the environment!"

Husband and Dana sighed, and tag team trashed my sweatshirt. "It's filthy," Husband said, pointing out 18 years of accumulated stains.

"It was cool in 1990," Dana sneered.

"You look homeless in it!" they said and nodded at each other.

"It's eco chic!" I insisted.

We decided to take a picture and let the blogosphere decide:

What do you think?

Regardless, Dana left the sweatshirt behind, and it turned out that she didn't need it anyway, as it was warm and sunny. Perfect weather for sharing copious amounts of food at the Taste. This included: cumin-dusted fries with mango chutney; mascarpone gelato; a banana and pork dumpling (Husband loved it; I nearly puked); breakfast pizza; regular pizza; and frozen toffee cheesecake dipped in chocolate on a stick.

After we had our fill, we went to visit Bubbe at her apartment. From there, it was birthday dinner at the Olive Garden for Granny. (Happy 85th!!!) My aunt present Husband with an early 32nd birthday present. She randomly bought him a red teddy bear named Husband, put it is a plastic skull that yelled, "Trick or Treat!" when you pop the cranium, and presented it to him. Unfortunately, he had to give the skull back.

Independence Day was capped off with a musical. My favorite musical, which I think I first saw 16 years ago and dozens of times until it closed in June 2000, is "Co-Ed Prison Sluts." It re-opened yesterday for a limited run, so I felt very fortunate to catch it. Dana and her hubby are as big fans as I, so we sang along and generally had a great time despite a slightly shaky cast.

Ah, reliving the 1990s!

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.

The Mad Hatter

As an American Jew with Eastern European origins, I am pretty damn pale. I also have very dark hair on my arms and legs (if I don't shave the gams, which usually don't, but did recently so I could wear a skirt to work), not to mention my pits and nether regions, and increasingly, my chinny chin chin. I decided that the dark hair is nature's way of protecting me from the sun. Other people have pigment and melanin, I have lots of dark hair for the rays to penetrate before giving me skin cancer. It's almost ingenious, except that I do not really have enough hair on my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and back to wander about uncovered without endangering my supple and youthful skin. (Uh huh.) So it's either sunscreen, which I hate on my face because I swear I constantly feel it, or a large hat.

After discovering yesterday that wandering around the Upper West Side does looking like Little Bo Peep in a wide brim straw hat with black ribbons that tie under my chin does not deter people from asking me for directions (perhaps if I had taken Missy's suggestion and ate the strawberries in my cooler/"basket" while walking around and sweating profusely, that would make me scarier, not that I mind if people ask me for directions), I wore a different hat this morning. I figured that the good people of the south Bronx are significantly more likely to mock me while I walk down the street to work than the batty old ladies wearing similar hats in my neighborhood. My blue fisherman-style hat (reversible to orange!) is also ridiculous, but it does have the Mets logo on it since I got it free last year at a Mets game. The orange side (which I never wear facing out - I'm a winter, and I learned in the modeling class that I took at the community center when I was in 4th grade that winters should never, ever wear orange!) also has a gas company logo, but on the blue side, I glued a Cubs patch over the Gulf patch so that I could show my dual team love. It's awesome.

Anyway, by the time I arrived at work, I was a sweaty mess, and I was sure that I would have a vile case of hat head that would be hard do fix once the sweat dried into a hair-spray like substance. I immediately ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to fix things up. To my surprise, my hair actually looked better than it did before I put the hat on and left my apartment. Go figure.

The Crazy Lady on the Street

Because I wanted to save $2 by not taking the bus 16 blocks to Whole Foods, I walked. This was OK for the way down, which mainly involved carrying my water bottle and the little cooler I planned to put my frozen goods in so that they would not cook on my way back home. I also stopped at the post office and picked up a flat rate priority mail box for some shoes that I am selling on eBay.

My return trip was a bit more complicated. By removed the frozen chicken & apple sausages I purchased from the bulky outer box (they are also in plastic bags), I fit all three packages into the cooler. I then removed the pound of ripe red strawberries from the plastic container and put them in one of those plastic veggie bags. They then nicely fit in the cooler as well. The spinach, red onion, blueberry, and goat cheese side salad, however, was just big enough that the cooler would not close all the way. So I took Tycho's carrots (complete with green tops - his favorite part) out of their plastic veggie bag, put the salad in it so that leaks would be somewhat contained, and threw it in my mini backpack. Then I took off with the flat box tucked into my left armpit and under my left arm, the water bottle in my left hand, and the carrots balanced on the cooler, which I held in my right hand.

Even without the wide brimmed straw hat that ties under my chin with black ribbon - necessary on a slightly windy and blazingly sunny day like today, but making me look like a deranged version of Little Bo Peep - I would have looked like one of those homeless people wandering around with their random possessions. At least I didn't wear my hot pink sunglasses with mirrored lenses a la the '80s.

Before I was even half way home, a rivulet of sweat that began on my upper, upper thigh reached my ankle, and the carrot tops wilted. This did not stop a normal looking woman from asking me if I knew where Bed, Bath, and Beyond was located. (I did, and pointed it out to her.) Perhaps her own good judgment was affected by the heat.

The Anti-"Sex and the City" Meme

This week's entire Entertainment Weekly is completely dedicated to Sex and the City. While many women whom I hold in high regard absolutely adore that show, I could never bring myself to watch it. (First of all, I didn't have HBO when it was on, so even if I wanted to watch it, that was an obstacle.) I do love the idea that the show revolves around four female friends sharing their lives and supporting one another, but the fashion obsessions revolt me.

Spending $750 on a pair of stiletto heels just seems morally wrong. Not only because I can't fathom throwing away that kind of money on a freaking pair of shoes, but also it would just be more practical for me to pay a hit man $750 to break my ankles than to do so by wearing absurdly uncomfortable and dangerous shoes. The bags, hats, scarves, and whatever else was slavishly fawned over by the press and certain fans - just, ugh.

So, as the Sex and the City Movie comes to theaters near you and there is no escape from its press coverage, I present a meme for feisty, spirited women who share our lives and support one another, yet are also slovenly and/or miserly (or is it practical?):

What's the cheapest pair of shoes you own?: Not counting some flip flops that I bought at a Walgreen's in Florida a few years ago after my regular shoes ate holes in the back of my feet, the cheapest pair of shoes I own are children's Keds that are designed to look like saddle shoes. I think they were $25, which is actually sort of expensive.

What's your favorite piece of jewelry, if you own any?: When I was 16, I bought myself a Venus (the female symbol) from the NOW catalog. I wear it every day, except once in a while when I go to a wedding or something and put on some crappy sparkly necklace that I bought at Claire's Boutique.

What's your favorite t-shirt?: At this point, I have three favorites - my red "I [Heart] Pro-Choice NY" t, my lavender "Bush is a Tush" t, and my high school lacrosse team t-shirt.

If you could wear jeans every day, would you? Yes, except for days when it is the high 60s or low 70s and sunny with a very light breeze when I want to wear a knee-length skirt with tights and my awesome John Fluevog knee high boots.

Do you comb your hair every day? Well, if it happens to look nice when you wake up, why mess with a good good thing?

As with any meme, I can't wait to see how you respond.

In Which I Get Crafty

Recently Husband asked me to be a bit more active in maintaining our apartment when I am not working. Initially, I resented this request because I hate feeling like an unemployed loser and I detest housework, but it is really only fair. If he's out earning 97% of our income*, I should contribute in other ways.

A few days ago, I vacuumed. Today, instead of spending my entire morning reading MFA blogs and unnecessarily stressing myself out about whether or not I will get into an MFA program, I decided to be productive. We bought some fabric for a new curtain for our kitchen window at Ikea a few weeks ago, and I thought I should work on getting it up.

This was a bad idea for several reasons. First, when I woke up, I discovered that I slept on my neck funny, and it has been hurting all day. Standing on a step ladder and holding up a ginormous ream of fabric to try and measure out what I need for the window only made it worse. Second, I had to meet someone for lunch to discuss a potential consulting project, so starting a big production an hour before I had to leave was asking for disaster. Fortunately, my lunch date moved our appointment back by 30 minutes, I didn't rush out with pins all over the kitchen.

Anyway, here's how it stands:

Normally there's more light in our kitchen in the afternoon, but it's a snowy-rainy day, so it's pretty dark outside in general. (In case you worried that I live in some sort of dungeon...) I'm pretty pleased with my initial work given that I can't cut or sew straight. OK, so it's not exactly sewn yet, just pinned up. (I don't have a machine, so I'll hand sew it up eventually.) Still, I'm proud of my new red and white hippopotamus curtains. I can't wait until Husband sees them.

*Although he will always out earn me, and he never, ever lords that over me. When I do work consistently, he does not ask me to do extra housework, and on top of that, he does the vast majority of our laundry, anyway. Of course, 97% of the laundry is his, but that's another story.

Success Begins with a Good Foundation (Garment)

Broken ribs due to a too tight bra are not on my to do list, so I took the bad bras that I bought last week back to the store yesterday for an exchange. It seems that bras are supposed to be very tight to be supportive, and according to the saleslady who assisted me, the reason that my boobs start to pop out under my bra when I raise my arms is because the band is too loose, and thus I am not getting enough support. Still, I pointed out, at least I could move. She said she'd find me something that was supportive, but not a straight-jacket, and set off to check the stock.

Now, I was a bit mortified when she returned with an orthopedic bra. It looked like a cross between an ace bandage (which is sort of how I pictured my first bra would be when my mom dragged me bra shopping twenty or so years ago) and some sort of bullet proof vest. To make matters worse, it closes in the front, so when I put it on, it was like shimmying into a vest or jacket, and it hung around my shoulder sort of like how gun holsters do until I finally snapped it shut. Fortunately, it doesn't look so haggish when it is finally in place:

Keep in mind that this model is way more buxum than I, but it still looks nice on me. Anyway, even if it made me look like a 90 year old woman, I wouldn't care. This is the most comfortable bra I have ever worn. It rocks the house. At $62, it is expensive, but worth every penny. Spanx, the people who made gut-sucker-in pantyhose and girdles, are somehow responsible for this delightful tit support.

If the Bra Doesn't Fit, Don't Buy It

My faith in the ancient cult of bra fitting saleswomen is shattered. The sole reason I went to the Town Shop is because it reminded me of Schwartz's lingerie shop. My mom always took me to buy bras at Schwartz's because the salesladies there are trained in the art of fitting bras. The Town Shop has the same set up as Schwartz, in which some woman measures the customer, shows her some bras from the boxes behind the counter in which they are kept, then brings stuff to her in a fitting room, and finally adjusts and tugs the products once they are donned in a final fit test.

I went through the process (minus the measuring) when buying two bras to replace two of mine that were branapped. I thought one of he bras was too tight, but the saleswoman, who was my age, insisted that there was plenty of room.

"If you can stick your hand under the back, it's too big," she said, criticizing me for wearing bras that were too loose.

I figured that she was a bra expert, and that the bra would stretch a bit, so I purchased it. However, when I wore it yesterday, it was so tight that it left red marks all over my back in the shape of the bra. The receipt clearly states that bras must be unworn and have the tags on to be returned, but since I bought mine based on the recommendation of their staff and could only tell by wearing it that it was wrong, I am hoping that they will exchange it for a product that actually supports and uplifts without also squeezing my rib cage like an angry octopus.

Either way, the age of the wise bra fitter is over for me, although I did watch two episodes of How to Look Good Naked on Lifetime (yes, I am admitting that I stooped low enough to watch that crap channel, although this show is awesome and worth it), and the show has a "bra whisperer" who helps women find their best tit supporting garment. It almost restored my faith.

Oh, the Glamor

My plan to get work as a dead body on Law & Order was temporarily set aside last week when I got a consulting job and also began teaching a course at the city university. I finally picked up my headshots on Thursday afternoon. I've never liked looking at pictures of myself, so I actually dreaded getting them. At the photographer's studio, I was given an envelope with a CD-ROM of all 36 pictures, an 8x10 sheet with all 36 pictures printed on them, and an 8x10 headshot which was selected for me as the best. This is it. It's not bad, although it does crack me up that my right eyebrow is a bushy mess. I'm probably the only woman who walked into that studio without getting her eyebrows waxed or threaded first. Shapely eyebrows are an obsession here.

The next step in the process is to bring ten copies of my headshot to the agency with a copy of my "acting resume" stapled onto the back of each one. I worked on my "acting resume" on Monday during my Amtrak ride from Sacramento to Richmond. It consists of the agency contact information; my name; my contact information; my height, weight, eye color, hair color, and clothing sizes; a list of skills that I have (like ice skating); and my education. Not it does not include any experience section, as I have none. I like the fact that my skills might enable me to play an ice skater in the background of a movie before I work my way up to dead body.

I'll probably drop the CD off at a photo shop this afternoon and hopefully take the materials in to the agency on Friday. Then I'm back to sitting around and waiting for calls to work. Sort of like with my quest for regular jobs, but this time also based on my looks. Fantastic.

Job Hunting and Celeb Spotting

People depress me. It just boggles my mind how much other people love telling me that they are not judgmental, it's just that we all should live our lives according to their values and beliefs. Right.

I'm not having a great day over in dark, rainy, gray, and cold New York City. My quest for semi-meaningful part-time employment that is not child care policy is not yielding many results. My drop dead date is late March before I crawl back to the child care policy field and beg for a job. I feel like if I do that, though, I'll never break free from the industry.

Anyway, on my way home from a temp agency "screening," I walked past Bryant Park. Being the clueless woman I am, I had no idea that it was fashion week. (Somehow, it always seems like there is some fashion event going on in Bryant Park, though.) A bunch of photographers and reporters were bunched up outside the big tent in which the shows go on (damn, fashion truly is a circus, now that I think about it...), so I paused to see what the deal was. Tyra Banks emerged through the crowd. I must say she looked stunning.

Merely spotting a celeb of Tyra's wattage was not enough to brighten my day, unfortunately. If the Weinermobile would show up near my apartment again, that would be appreciated. Who isn't cheered up by the sight of an orange and yellow hot dog vehicle parked across the street?

In with the New

Surprise, surprise! The upgrades on my laptop are still not complete, and poor Husband doesn't understand what went wrong. It seems that the laptop is actually slower as a result of his "fixes." I feel bad for him, though. He tries so hard, and he looked so defeated last night.

Since this means I can't access my 8th grade portraits, I'll put up a picture of my new haircut:

Wait. That's not me. That's Ursa, the villain from Superman II. My bad. Our hair styles are so similar that it's easy to see why I was confused. See for yourself:

I mean, really, had she also posed in front of the shower curtain in my bathroom and I wore freaky shirts with the sleeves slit open and put my little sideburn-thingy flat against my face like the stylist told me too, we'd be practically indistinguishable from one another!

All joking aside, I like this new cut. It's kinda sleek, no?

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).

The Junior High Years

I am proud to present grades 5-7. Eighth grade has three separate pictures (what being a graduation year and all), so I'll deal with that separately.



From left to right:

Ah, fourth grade. The year the shit really hit the fan. I started junior high, meaning the day began earlier, there was no playground at "recess," and we didn't get Halloween, winter holiday, or Valentine's Day parties. Puberty sneaked up on me, practically incapacitating me with depression and punishing me with acne. (See: spot on cheek.) I ate a lot to drown my misery and escaped in books. That fugly dress, which for some reason I thought was awesomely puritanical (seriously, I thought Pilgrims might have worn something like it and thus thought it was cool - I went through a weird Puritan obsession at that age, which now strikes me as sort of fitting given what I was going through) didn't fit me much longer after the picture was taken. Fourth grade was also the first year that my chronic absences from school resulted in poor performance. When I earned a 49% on a long division test, it was the first time I flat out failed something. The only good thing about that year is that my friend Julie moved into a house on my block. I met her on April Fool's Day, which if you know her and her family, is very fitting. She's my oldest friend.

The middle picture is from 6th grade. (I couldn't locate a picture from 5th grade, but I'll quickly describe it: fat face, big ugly blue glasses - like in 6th grade and 7th grade- black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt, black stirrup pants. You wouldn't have seen the pants, anyway. Overall, 5th grade was a non-entity year, so you're not missing much.) Other than the weird dorky smile, I think this is cute. I lost a lot of weight the summer before 6th grade by riding my bike everywhere with Julie and restricting myself to a diet of Cocoa Pebbles and carrots. I'm not sure how I came up with that nutrition plan. Thanks to the weight loss, I bought some better clothes (it was the first time I could wear jeans since 3rd grade). I would totally wear that outfit today if I had it. Sixth grade was a pretty good year, although if you take a look at my forehead, you'll see that the zit plague was in full force. I met my friend Rachel at Hebrew school; she's my second oldest friend today. Rachel gave me a measure of self-confidence. That year, I also became interested in The Enemy (aka boys). I had a lot of fun and, as previously noted, some cool clothes that upon which I reflect fondly, like the outfit in the picture.

Finally, here I am in 7th grade. Oy vey. The hair! The zitty forehead! The glasses! The bad make-up application, which is the exact technique I use today! The sweatshirt had a pink skirt to match the collar, and I wore the outfit to a few bar/bat mitzvahs. I loved that fucking sweatshirt. Who knows why? Seventh grade was an adequate year, so there's nothing else to say.

Tomorrow: 8th grade - the year my hair was so big (naturally; I didn't tease it) that it didn't fit in the picture.

The Early Years

When I visited my parents in early December, I gathered up photos that best document my primary school years. Partly inspired by Suebob, who has been scanning her childhood and family photos into her Flickr account, I planned to scan them as soon as I returned to New York. Of course, I didn't get around to it before I left for Hawaii, as I was rather busy finishing my MFA applications and watching the first season of Hunter on DVD. Anyway, I decided it was now or never because who knows how busy I'll be once I get more consulting gigs/a part-time job, so between catching up on what is happening in Des's dramatically changing life, planning my February class, and seeking other paying opportunities, I invested some quality time with my $35 Canon scanner from Staples. That's right - it's school picture days here at CUSS!



From left to right:
The first photo is me in kindergarten. Seriously fucking adorable, right?

In the middle, I am in second grade. No, I didn't skip first grade. (In fact, the classist fucks who ran my schools wouldn't even let me be in the highest level reading group, even though I thought I should be. Us Jewish white trash kids clearly don't belong with the really smart kids, but the slightly smart kids, but I digress.) There's no photo of me from first grade because I couldn't find any wallet size pictures from that year. Honestly, it's for the best because I looked like shit. If memory serves me correct (and if it doesn't, my mom will let you know in the comments), I just got out of a multi-day hospital stay from my first asthma attack. It was scary shit. As for second grade, I had a fight with my mom that morning because I really wanted to wear this cute outfit that my great aunt and uncle brought me when they came to visit us from California. It had a red and white striped skirt and a red tank top. It was cold that day, so my mom wouldn't let me go to school in a tank top. I insisted on wearing this yellow Lemon Meringue sweatshirt with the red and white striped skirt. I thought I looked like a cheerleader. Yeah. My mom let me win the battle, perhaps understanding that I was providing fodder for mocking myself some 25 years later. At any rate, I am sad that you can't see the skirt. Let's not comment on the puckery eyes or buck teeth. I was just a kid, damn it, although I sort of see why I later wound up with braces instead of only a retainer to fix my overbite.

The last picture is from third grade. I think I am pretty damn adorable again. For some reason, I remember deciding that morning that I must not show any teeth when I smiled. I don't even think I was conscious of the buck tooth look, but maybe I was. The shirt had a cute matching pink shirt and I wore these sweet maroon Mary Janes. I'd totally wear shoes like that today.

Stay tuned for the upcoming horror show: the junior high years. (No, I didn't skip fourth and fifth grade, either. My school was fucking evil and retarded in more ways than one. To make space for an early childhood center in the elementary school, they moved fourth and fifth grade to the junior school. Trust me, this sucked about as bad as sounds. By the time my sister was in fourth grade four years after me, the school realized that this plan fucked kids up and moved the lower grades back to the elementary school where they belong and remodeled the junior high to house an early childhood wing, which from my current professional view, is far less ideal than keeping the very young children also at the elementary school but still works out OK enough. Blah blah blah.

The Power Suit and Cut

It's been awhile since I wore my black suit. However, since there was an open house tonight for the graduate program that I will teach a course in, I thought I should gussy it up a bit more than usual. Coincidentally, I also had an appointment for a hair cut in the morning. I thought that I'd look extra respectable.

It never works that way, does it? The hairdresser cut my hair too short and put so much goop in it that I could gagged on the fragrant smell of my hair as I walked down the street, even several hours later. No one should be able to smell themselves when they are outside in NYC unless something is very wrong. (I think she gooped it up extra hard because I told her that I never use "product." Maybe she thought she could put a month's worth on all at once and it would last.) Worse, the style started off as a sassy pixie-ish look but by the end of the day was a smelly, hard flat blob. I think you see where this is going.

Anyway, I put on my black suit and decided that Pat Robertson could've used my photo to illustrate his brilliant line that feminism "encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians." I'm sure the people at Jesus is Savior (grammatically incorrect tag line: "Feminism is Evil! Beware of the feminists, many are lesbians!") would agree. I even put on a pink shirt to try and "soften" my look so that men wouldn't protect their crotches on impulse as I walked by. It didn't help.

Unfortunately, my severe new look did not stop people from asking stupid and inane questions during the event. One women wanted to know how the Children's Program Administrative Credential differed from the Child Development Associate (CDA) credential. The program director explained that the CDA is for teachers, but this program is for directors who manage programs.

"Well, how is that different than the CDA?" the audience member asked in a belligerent tone.

"This program is for leaders of organizations or those who will be leaders. The CDA is for teachers in the classroom," the director patiently replied.

"Yeah? And what is the difference?" Audience Bitch sneered, as if the director was an idiot. She then proceeded to talk to the woman sitting behind her for the rest of the presentation. I wanted to go over there and tell her to get the fuck out. You know that this cuntface is going to wind up in my class.

But I digress. Of course, my hair will grow back by the time I assume my Adjunct Lecturer (!) position in a month, so perhaps my students will think I am a twelve year old boy in a power suit instead of a seething, corporate, man-hating killer.

The Apple of My Eye

(Note: Husband's reflection is visible in the mirrored lenses of my fudiculous '80s sunglasses as Kilauea Crater steams behind me.)

Thirteen and a Half Years

Summer 1994

December 2007

Last Chance Before December

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

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

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

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

Has Anybody Seen My Bra?

While dressing this afternoon, I realized that the bra I wanted to wear under my Red Stapler t-shirt was not in my undies drawer. As I dug through piles of cheap cotton underwear, other bras, and ratty slips, it occurred to me that I haven't seen the particular bra in some time. Was it lost in the laundry? Did I leave it somewhere when I went on a trip? When the hell was the last time I wore that thing?

Since I doubt putting a picture on the back of a milk carton (Have you seen me? 34 B beige bra with little bows on it. Missing since sometime in 2007. If found, contact the Center for Misplaced and Runaway Lingerie) will lead to my bra's discovery, I am going to have to replace it. Unfortunately, it seems that the price has increased dramatically since I bought it two years ago. Harumph.

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.

Who's Fat?

(Cue the Wierd Al music.)

When I was in 5th grade, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal came to my school (Marie Murphy Jr. High, a regular public school for upper-middle class, upper class and Jewish White trash kids from the community, not a Catholic school although everyone thinks it is based on the name) and interviewed a batch of us girls about weight. I was so tubby that jeans would not fit me; I wore pink or purple sweatpants all the time. My mom, however, was super thin (always has been) and often after washing her jeans found that she could only zip them while lying down and using pliers. I mentioned this to the reporter. It appeared in the article as, "One girl's mother even uses pliers to zip up her jeans."

My mom read that and beamed. "Look Suzanne, someone else's mother needs pliers to close her jeans!"

I looked her square in the eye and replied, "Uh mom? That's you."

(End song. Thanks to Opiate for the Masses for inspiring this memory and sharing session.)

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.

And a Good Time Was Had by All...

Yesterday was Brother-in-Law's wedding, which is why I've been MIA online this weekend. Here I am in my bridesmaid costume:



Have no fear: Sister and Mom asked me what the hell I was thinking with the earrings, so I took them off and wore my regular little studs. The maid of honor did my make-up for me, using the crap that I bought a few months ago when I was interviewed for a documentary about abortion. Is it not amazing? I love that it subtlety brightens my crabby sourpuss. (And although Husband and I are pictured together elsewhere on the internet, I cropped him out of this picture. He looked very handsome in his best man tux, though.)

Anyway, my whole family (minus poor Granny, who was not able to come at the last minute due to health issues - wah! it would have been ever more fun with her) came out and we had a blast at the wedding. Sister and Sister's Husband went back to Iowa today. My mom, dad, and bubbe are in my living room as I type this. More tomorrow after they leave.

Kiss and Make-Up

Suebob wrote a very insightful essay about forgiveness, which ends with in a typically Suebobian perfect fashion that left me chuckling and nodding in recognition. Forgiveness is not one of my strong suits. A long time ago, people told me that I should find out what I am good at and focus on those things. Turns out that I am excellent at holding grudges. Not long after I read Suebob's post about forgiveness, Steph called.

"You know what's crazy?" she asked me, and then not waiting for an answer, she went on. "MySpace had a survey and one question it asked was about how many people you hate. Lots of people answered that they don't hate anyone because it's too much effort."

"Yeah? Well, they are lying," I replied.

"Seriously," Steph said, "It takes much more effort to try and not hate people."

"Amen to that," I laughed.

I thought about this all as I was trying to sleep earlier this evening, and failing miserably. I have a gig tomorrow to do a workshop, and for no reason at all, I kept fixating on how much more respectable I'd look if I wore a little make-up so that I didn't appear to be the living dead. On the other hand, I'm no better at doing my face than I am at the live-and-let-live philosophy of life, so I suppose I fail on both ends of the kiss and make up spectrum. So it goes.

Saturday Afternoon Picture Show

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

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

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

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

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

Suzanne Reisman, Swimsuit Model, Takes a Stand

A few months ago, I launched a lame protest against the unattainable beauty standard set by the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. I was way too wussy to actually pose in my underwear, though, so I made a duct tape version of myself. Duct Tape Suzanne didn't really capture all my bulges, but she did a good enough job demonstrating that people with B cups don't explode out of bras.

Recently, a number of airbrushing incidents have come to light. Catherine Morgan put a nice photo montage of some of the incidents on her blog; Rita Arens described the photoshopping of young pageant girls on BlogHer, and D Listed puts up tons of photos on his site. The Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition contains women airbrushed to the hilt.

With all the airbrushing out there, I wonder why models are even needed any more. Magazines and the fashion industry could save tons of money by hiring shlubs like me at a low rate, then painting a new face or body on the picture. That said, I am also increasingly pissed at the bullshit that is out there. Other than the Dove Real Beauty campaign, which depicts "normal" women of a variety of body types and ages in order to sell lotion, there are very few depictions of just us regular ladies. Fuck that. Let's start the "Normal Woman Photo Campaign." Here's what I look like in my new Gottex Blue bathing suit:



Am I mortified at how chubby I look? Yes, but it is me. I shouldn't feel ashamed at not being perfect. I'm not going to any more, either. Join the Swimsuit Brigade and stand up for normal women. Post a picture of yourself online in your swimsuit. Don't put yourself down. You look fabulous. Models don't speak for us, and airbrushed ones even less so. Let's represent.

A Hair Raising Experience

During a walking tour of haunted Ocean City, my cell phone rang. It was the creepiest part of the tour, as the guide was telling us about how the poltergeist on the second floor of the blinding yellow building we stood in front of was so evil that a psychic refused to enter the building, but I noticed that it was Future Sister in Law, who never calls me, so I got nervous. What if Brother-in-Law never made it home after he left the beach house this afternoon? I decided to take the call.

"Hi!" FSIL said chipperly. "I was just wondering if you planned to do your own hair for our wedding or if you wanted it done at the salon I checked out this weekend."

This was truly a scarier question than the unanswered one about the milk bucket full of random women's hair that the current owner of the haunted building discovered behind a bricked over back part of the structure when he knocked it down to expand his antique store.

"Um, that depends," I replied. "When you say 'do your hair,' I assume that means more than comb it? Because that's about all I can handle."

"Well, some of the girls with longer hair will get it blown out or put into updo's," was FSIL's non-response response. I think she didn't want to offend me by suggesting that the thought of me doing my own hair was a terrifying prospect, as I'd be the fugly bridesmaid who ruined all the pictures.

"Yeah, even though I have no hair to style, just make an appointment for me," I said.

By then, all the hairs were standing up on my arms. I'd almost rather brave the evil spirits haunting the scariest building in Ocean City than trust a New Jersey hair stylist to make me look normal. (Remember Bon Jovi? He's from New Jersey. His songs may be bitchin', but the dude embodies bad Jersey hair.) Almost.

Need Paper Panties?

If you are in the market for new cotton underwear that feels like paper, have I got a recommendation for you! Last week, I bought a six pack of variety solid color and heinous patterned Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton hispter underwear. My suspicions should have been raised when I saw that they were only $4.99 plus came with two bonus pairs in white. Instead, I was excited that I was getting such a deal.

After opening the package and feeling the thin rough "fabric" of each pair of undies, I realized that anyone who wears these with a waxed or shaved snatch is in danger of getting a paper cut on her cooter. Ouch. I also discovered that although the packaging clearly read "HIPSTER" when describing the cut, I received eight pairs of super low rise bikini briefs.

According to pictures of Fruit of the Loom Hipster undies sold through various internet purveyors, I am missing about 50% of the underwear. While the raspberry color is lovely, the narrowly cut ass is going to creep into my ample buttocks every time I wear them, thus putting me at risk for ass paper cuts. (I still think poon paper cuts would suck worse, but either is pretty awful.)

I washed them and they softened up a bit, so now they are the consistency of high quality stationary versus printer paper. I am committed to wearing each pair once and then throwing them out. Harumph.

Nice to Meet You, Too

For those of you lamenting not attending the BlogHer conference, you may have missed a great breakfast with awesome people, but you also escaped the "Speed Dating" ice breaker. All 750 or so conference attendees formed two circles around the ballroom at Navy Pier and we rotated around, greeting each other.

This was fine enough until I met The Branding Consultant.

"Hi, I'm Suzanne!" I chirped, but really screamed because I was trying to be heard over 750 other chatting people. "Here's my blog sticker."

"Hi, I'm The Blogging Consultant," yelled The Blogging Consultant in my face so I could hear her. She looked at my sticker. "You project 'Radical Lesbian!'"

"What?" I was shocked. "That's not what I am trying to project. Good thing I am going to your workshop." I think she then told me that my blog title and hair signaled that I am a radical lesbian. "Of course, I love radical lesbians, but that is not how I am trying to portray myself. I hope I don't have to change my blog logo because I really like it."

She said something that was probably important that I didn't hear and then it was time to change partners. Oh well. There are definitely far more misleading (and worse) ways to portray myself than as a radical dyke; she could have thought I was a Republican!

Die, Evil Trends! Die Already!

I’m on a crazy spree today. It was set off when I noticed a pair of flip flops on sale for "only $19.99" on the back of an Eddie Bauer catalog. (Remeber when flip flops cost $1.99 in the crap aisle of the local pharmacy and were pieces of shitty foam and plastic meant to be worn to the beach or pool? I miss those days.) You can ignore it if you want to. Here are my cardinal sins in women’s “professional” attire:

1. “Dress” shorts. I don’t give a rat’s ass if your shorts are tailored and made of fancy materials. They are still fucking shorts. They don’t belong at work unless you work in a place where it is generally considered OK to wear shorts anyway, so why bother wearing tailored ones?

2.“Dressy” flip flops. I don’t care if flip flops have the fucking Hope Diamond glued on them, they are fucking flip flops. Unless you work in the recreation industry, why on earth does anyone think that flip flops are appropriate for work? I see men wearing flip flops to casual events all the time. I do not see them wearing them to the office or formal occasions, like weddings. Men seem to have figured out that flip flops are not, in fact, shoes, even when they come with neat arch supports and gold braid.

Really, ladies. Could we act any more unprofessional? You want bare legs and/or toes in summer? Fine, wear a skirt. Ever heard of sandals? (You know, things with soles and at least some structure. Not the super strappy ones.) Sometimes I think that women will never be equal in the work place because at heart, we don’t really want it. Who the fuck can take a person wearing shorts or flip flops to work seriously? You can’t even bother getting dressed, and shorts look utterly ridiculous with suit jackets because they are shorts. Wear them to the damn beach or pool or park with your foofy flip flops.

Whew. Lots of rage radiating out of me, but I sure feel better now. Smile.

Update: I want to clarify. I don't care what people wear to work as long as they dress within reason. That means if men are expected to wear suits or shirts, pants, and shoes at a work place, I expect that women would also be expected to wear the same type of clothing. If no one is expected to dress nicely, then I don't care what women wear. (Except that I hate flip flops anyway. Just a personal thing.) The point is, if we want to be respected and taken seriously, we need to look the part at least a little bit.

Fans of a Hairy Situation

Last night during a minor fit of insomnia, I discovered that CUSS is referenced on an English language French chat room dedicated to the sexiness of hairy women. (The person who linked to CUSS was a little disappointed that I don't write more about unshaved snatch, but recommended it nonetheless. Whoever you are, email me for stickers!) This discovery amused me to no end, although it did not help me sleep.

On a related note, it is hot as balls here in New York, and I considered shaving my pits and legs so that I can wear a sleeveless dress to my consulting gig without looking "unprofessional." The folks who like us furry ladies will be happy to know that I didn't get around to it. They will also be disappointed that I will refrain from exposing myself to the general public as a result.

This also reminds me that Dr. P suggested that we use the pool in her complex while I was helping her move. I didn't pack my bathing suit and board shorts (which go down to my knees, thank you) as I didn't think we'd have time for frolicking (I turned out to be right, sort of). Dr. P said I could borrow one of hers. To which I refrained from reminding her that her neighbors might go blind if I were to go out in public in a normal suit, and I didn't think we had five hours to spare so I could make myself more presentable to the general American public.

There's no point to this post. I just felt like I should write something about not shaving. Hope the random anecdotes entertained at least a bit.

Va Bene!

I am told that "va bene" means "very good" in Italian, and that is how life is right now. Husband and I left Florence this morning and took the train to Milan. When we arrived, I discovered that he had forgone earning points at the Westin so that I may experience the wonder that is the Four Seasons Milano. All I can say is, holy shit. (I so do not belong here, although entering the hotel with my Ferragamo shopping bag - free from the reception I attended on Thursday - fooled people into thinking that I am the right type of person for the Four Seasons. Little did they know that the bag held a wood toy, Husband's jacket, and a bottle of hand santizer.) But don't take my word for it. Here are pictures of my room:There are two bathrooms: one has the shower and bath in it, the other is next to the dressing area and contains the toilet and bidet. Both rooms have sinks with full counters. Va bene indeed.Once we unpacked, Husband and I headed over to Santa Maria della Grazie, the church that has Leonardo's The Last Supper. Unfortunately, we did not get the notice that we had to reserve a spot at the table (so to speak) one month in advance. The church only lets in 25 people at a time to see the work at a pre-assigned time, and it is sold out until July. Oooops. We did stop in the church to catch a glimpse of Saint Catherine's cloak.For a 350 year old garment, I think it has held up pretty well. St. Catherine is my favorite saint because when her wealthy family tried to marry her against her will, she suddenly developed "invisible stigmata" and was spared the wedding. Instead, she was sent to a convent, which is what she wanted all along. Now that is fucking clever.

From the church, we wandered over to a museum and saw some good and some awful art. Then we walked over to the local synagogue, which was built in 1890. More walking, then dinner and gelato before retiring to the hotel. It was very nice to spend time touring with Husband. He has a slew of meetings tomorrow, so I am off to see as many churches with nutty objects (ossuaries, relics, etc.) and art as I can cram in. He hates going to churches, whereas I am fascinated by these things. It's supposed to rain, which will be most displeasing, but I will soldier on.