It Was Smashing

On Friday afternoon, I took the train up to Stamford, CT, where Husband works. He picked me up at the train station in Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and we motored up to Massachusetts for our godson's 2nd birthday celebration extravaganza. Since we took off around 2 pm, we beat most of the traffic, and were able to enjoy a delightful evening with my friend Alex, her husband Big Giraffe, and their two kids.

The party was set to begin at 11 am on Sat., so we offered to help out and pick up a few last minute items. First on our list was balloons. Around 9:30, Husband and I headed over to the local party store, parked Fred, and picked out a ginormous Winnie the Pooh mylar balloon and a dozen regular ones. The party store was a bit of a madhouse, so it took a few minutes for them to take our order, and we were told to return around 10:15. We paid and headed out for our next item, which was ice.

When I approached the passenger door of Fred, I thought, "Hmmm... that's odd. Why is there glass all over the front seat?" Just as my brain was slowly processing the message my eyeballs sent in, Husband said, "SHIT! Someone fucking smashed my window and stole the GPS."


Indeed, it was true. Clearly, we would not be bringing the balloons and ice to the party.

Cutting a long story short, we filed a police report and drove Fred to an auto glass repair shop. Fortunately, the good folks there were able to fix Fred that day, and 10 hours later as we drove back to NYC in the pouring rain, we were nice and dry in the car.

Why Am I Flying Off this Treadmill?

One of my many (albeit minor) fears is that as I run on the treadmill, I will slip and somehow get sucked off. I could only imagine how incredibly painful, not to mention embarrassing, it would be as I landed on my head, knee, arm or whatever while all the pretty people at my gym just continued jogging away, pretending not to notice the klutz in the shlubby outfit. Until last night.

As usual, I approached the treadmill from slightly to the side. I looked over my shoulder to tell Husband something as I stepped onto the belt, and then I was confused. Why was I falling? Why did I fall on my arm and leg again as I tried to stand up? And damn, where was the skin that used to cover my elbow? Help! I made some sort of pathetic noises and the treadmill sucked me down. The woman on the treadmill in front of me turned around as Husband ran over and turned the treadmill off.

No, I didn't turn it on. Some motherfucker just left it running. Of course, I should have looked before I got on it, but generally I don't expect the machine to be going. "Who the fuck left this one?" I muttered. (OK, it wasn't a mutter, but more of a loud growl that everyone around me could hear.) The woman on the treadmill in front of me turned back to her machine very quickly. Uh huh. I got your number, lady.

For the record, it hurts like fuck when you fall over and over again on a treadmill. I think this must have been worse than a regular fall, since I probably would not have tried to stand up again if I knew the damn thing was on and would just throw me back down. And yes, from now on I will make very certain that the machine I step on it not already in motion. My new bruises from the incident are shaping up nicely, though.

Shit that Pisses Me Off

A quick list of shit that is vexing me:

Al Qaeda Warrior Uses Internet to Rally Women - According to the NY Times, a woman who benefits from the freedom's the west offers her - and who absorbed the lessons of feminism and demands to be heard - is blogging for jihad against the hand that feeds her. My favorite part is how she refuses to believe women in Afghanistan that the Taliban regime discriminated against them. When I read things like this, I just despair for humanity. Dealing with ignorance is one thing. Dealing with willful, crazy ignorance is another, and impossible. You can't reason with people like this.

People still are using interest-only mortgages to buy homes that they clearly cannot afford. In the past two weeks, I reviewed two applications to buy apartments in my co-op that were so far out of the buyers' budgets that I could only laugh hysterically. Yet there they were, acting as if there is no mortgage gimmick crisis going on in the nation. In fact, why shouldn't they get to live in places that are completely above their means? Waiting until you can actually afford something is so old-fashioned. You only live once, so who cares if you take down the responsible fuddy-duddies like me when you default?

The Minnesota Supreme Court screwed the child care industry by redefining what it means to be a nonprofit organization. Of course, their reason was faulty and lacked any knowledge of the economics of child care, which is a classic example of a market failure. Anyone who wants to be depressed can read my explanation of the pathetic situation ("Why Child Care is a Non-Profit Enterprise, Sliding Fee Scales Be Damned") at Just Cause.

Bah. Later I'll write about how I eyed a puddle of vomit on the subway platform like vomit.

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

April Fool's: One Day Late or Just a Shitty Morning?

I am supposed to be having a meeting this very second. However, the guy who is supposed to meet with me is not here. Where can he be?

The phone on my desk says, "Message for you." Perhaps he left me a message about the meeting? If that is the case, though, I'll not know, as no one in this office knows the voicemail password to my extension or how to reset it.

Maybe he emailed me. That would be rational, except that as of last week, I was still using my predecessor's email and that is what he would email me at. This week, the account was disabled, but I have no access to my email account because my computer, which appears to be circa 1999 (sorry Prince - no partying like it is), resets its setting every day, so until the guy who can put me back on the networks shows up, I can't check my email. Not that my meetee would email me there, anyway.

Also, it might be good that he isn't here. Since I lose my network settings every time I log off, I have no access to the shared drive, which is where the material we are to meet about is stored.

Happiness is a grassroots organization.

The Thorn is Out

When I applied to law school in 1996, the process was pretty straight forward. If you did well on the LSAT, had a decent GPA, and proved to be the slightest bit interesting, you were getting in somewhere. I applied to four schools, and was accepted to two second tier programs with scholarships, and waitlisted at two top tier schools. At the end of the day, I was glad that I did not get into my top choice program, as I suspect I would have felt compelled to finish law school and begin a miserable career as an attorney.

In 1997, when I applied to public administration programs, I knew that schools preferred people with some work experience. I hoped that my single year would be enough to get me through the doors of the two programs to which I applied. Immediately, I was accepted at one school and given a scholarship. The program I preferred to go to waitlisted me. Although I ultimately was accepted, I hated that the program was more business-focused than public service oriented, which struck me as odd for a public administration and policy school. I worked while I schooled, finished my two years there, and began a miserable career as a child care policy expert.

Given my history with graduate education, I am not sure why I expected it to be different this time. If anything, the admissions qualifications are even murkier: demonstrate talent. What the fuck does that mean? I tried my best, and sent my writing sample to two programs, knowing that only six people are admitted at one of them.

I knew that I didn't make the cut at Hunter when I didn't get a call in February (hence all my blather about silent bad news), but I didn't have an official rejection, either. At first, I just wanted it to be over with. The longer I lived in limbo, the more I knew that rejection would hurt. This morning, I sent an email to the program director, noting that I understood that the six spots were filled, but if something opened up in the late spring or summer, I would love it if they would consider me. She emailed me back a few hours later and said that she would keep me in mind.

Imagine my surprise when I found my rejection letter from the program in the mail when I got home from work. I realize that suggesting that they eat shit is inappropriate, but I sort of can't help but think it anyway. Fuckers.

Hippos Lurk, But So Does Happiness

After my trip to the Bung Hole wine bar yesterday, I figured that I was due for some good news today. Initially, I was disappointed. Returning to work, I discovered that my the grant that my new employer uses to fund my position was revoked while I was gone last week. There's a chance that the funder will be convinced to give it back to them, but I won't know until tomorrow or Thursday. Cool.

When I got home from work this evening, there was still no word from either graduate program that I applied to. However, my answering machine did contain the best news possible: Monkey Girl said that Count Mockula had her baby in the wee hours of the morning! Both mom and baby are doing well. (And MG: I can't find your number, so can you email it to me or call me back?) Yay!

My advice to Zadie is to stay away from hippos. Although they look very peaceful lying around in pools of mud, they can suddenly creep up and tip your canoe. Or at the very last, scare the crap out of you with their bad teeth, which makes me think of that hilarious shark from the Strange Wilderness commercial.

The Picture Says It All

After losing my planned post for BlogHer yesterday, which was infuriating (I re-wrote it and posted it today), my fucking piece of shit laptop lost an article that I worked on for almost four hours this most delightful afternoon. This was partially my fault, as I forgot to save it as another document after I downloaded it, but I did save it about 400 times while I worked on it, so I'm not sure why it never showed up in the temp file.


That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. As for the restaurant, I am curious who would eat at a place with such a name. Fascinating.

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.

Tits are Expensive

Back in November, I discovered that one of my bras went missing. It was very disconcerting, and not in the least because replacing it would cost me $68. I grit my teeth, chalked up my loss, and vowed to guard its fraternal twin (the missing bra was white; the remaining one beige) carefully.

So it was with enormous regret that I realized this week that my remaining fancy bra also disappeared. What the fuck? Where are these bras going? I looked everywhere: in the laundry, under my bed, on my rocking chair, in suitcases, in my undies drawer, and it was the same damn thing. The bra was gone without a trace. (Man, that would be a good episode of Without a Trace, watching Anthony LaPaglia and co. chase down missing items of clothing.)

Now that I lost another good bra, I had to buy replacements. I moseyed over to the old lady bra shop near my apartment. The type of place where the salespeople have been measuring women for bras since the bra was invented. Not only did I nearly faint from the sticker price - $142!!!!! - but I also was displeased to learn that I required a larger cup size.* Breasts certainly come at a high price, my friends.

*Interestingly, the bra I wore while shopping was deemed to fit perfectly, and I bought that one around the same time as the ones gone missing. It seems the manufacturer is making their boobie supports smaller rather than "Leon getting larger."**

**A hilarious quote from Airplane. I do not actually refer to my boobs as Leon, although now that I made this joke, I may begin to do so.

Suzanne on the Verge

When it comes to applying to school, I am very organized and I start early. Thus way back in October, I requested transcripts from my undergraduate school and my graduate school be sent to the MFA programs I decided to apply to. Much to my surprise, my undergraduate school - which was/is notorious for not giving a shit about students - had a very convenient online form to fill out to request a transcript. I then printed a copy and faxed in my signature. At every step along the way, I received an email confirming they received my request. Very nice!

My snooty Ivy League grad school, however, will only allow alumni to mail transcript requests or ask for them in person. I trekked up to their office, and while not exactly convenient, they seemed to take care of it immediately. Still, I was a little nervous because the chick processed my form without a date on it, so I called back a few weeks later. The guy on the phone confirmed that the transcripts were sent. Excellent.

It took me a few weeks longer to finish the rest of the applications, as I had to submit a writing sample and personal statement, and I wanted to send in the best work I could. By mid-December, I had a portfolio that I felt proud of, and I sent the rest of the application in. Then I heard nothing from wither school. You see where this is going...

Yesterday was the deadline for one of the programs. I called the admissions office in early January upon my return from Hawaii to verify that the application was complete. The woman told me that she could not check, but that I would get something in the mail indicating if anything was missing. Days went by and I heard nothing. Then on Sat., Jan 12 - a whopping three days before the fucking deadline - I get a letter in the mail. The letter is dated Jan. 7 and the envelop postmarked Jan. 11. Said letter tells me to look up my application online, so I do. And guess what is missing? That's right - my motherfucking grad school transcript.

Now I am an anxious basket case. Monday morning rolls and I call the admissions office, offering to personally bring in the transcripts in an envelop that afternoon. She says that's fine and that I have until the end of the week, but the director of the program emphasized that they cannot look at your application until the admissions office deems it complete, so I want it complete. In fact, I wanted it complete three fucking weeks ago, which is why I finished it and submitted it a month early.

Anyway, then I get a call for a good week-long gig, which I have to leave early so I can run around for the fucking transcript. I deliver it to the receptionist at 4:15 pm. She opens the envelop and stamps the materials as received. I hover around, waiting for her to enter the fucking things into the system, but she does not. I stammer things nervously and leave. I toss and turn last night, keeping Husband awake until I evacuate for the couch. I cross my fingers.

Two days later, the information has not been recorded and my application is still incomplete. I decided to email the program director and explain what happened, and hope like hell that they will evaluate my application. If this does not work, you can all visit me in prison because I am going to fucking kill someone in that admissions office.

I See Eye Fungus

On Thursday at my new eye doctor's office, I noticed a sign taped onto the paper towel dispenser as I was washing my hands in the bathroom. It said in large bold print to discontinue using Bausch & Lomb ReNu with MoistureLoc contact lens solution immediately as it can cause eye fungus and thus was recalled. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "I wonder what I use." I made a mental note to check when I got home, then promptly forgot about it because that's what happens with 97% of my mental notes.

As I was putting in my lenses yesterday morning, the note resurface on my mind's desk top. I took a gander at the 4 oz. bottle sitting on my nightstand. ReNu with MoistureLoc. Same with an unopened travel-size bottle. Shit. (Incidentally, both also expired in Jan. 2007. Oops.) I rummaged through the other free travel-size bottles of solution provided by my former eye doctor. The remaining four were other brands, although one expired in April 2007.

Two things scare me about this discovery. The first is that the products were apparently recalled in May 2006, and this was the first I heard anything about it. (Thanks, former eye doctor, for looking out for your patients.) The second thing that scares me is that I actually sat there for a few minutes debating whether I should throw the recalled products out. My internal debate:

Me: Damn, these are recalled! I'm lucky that I didn't get an eye fungus! I better throw the two bottles out ASAP.
Cheap Bastard Me: What? One of those bottles is half full and the other one isn't even opened! How can you waste this stuff!?!? Sure, you have another 4.5 more travel-sized bottles of perfectly good other contact lens solution, but you might actually need to go buy more since the new eye doc doesn't give out free bottles!
Me: (Hesitates.) Good point, but these expired last year anyway and I'm not pushing my luck. (Reaches for bad bottles.)
CBM: Nooooooo!

Anyway, I battled CBM and won. The recalled products are in the trash. I am proud to announce that I am now using the bottle of contact lens solution that expired in April 2007.

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

While in the cab back to my apartment from the airport, I noticed that I unconsciously began picking my cuticles. It took less than an hour for me to be back to "real" life before my anxiety set in. What kind of new job could I get this year? Will I ever find a job that I will like again? Would I be accepted into an MFA program? When am I going to get cracking on developing a curriculum for two classes on budgeting that I am teaching in January and February and why didn't I start before I left? It didn't help that when I turned my cell phone on after debarking, I found a voicemail from a small local policy magazine waiting for me. What did I think of all the closures of publicly funded child care centers that had been announced recently? This is what I worked on over the summer as a consultant, but the last thing I want to do right now is think about it.

It seems that my "real" life stresses me the fuck out. Contrast this to my last two weeks away. None of my fingers were bloody from my anxious cuticle shredding. I barely thought about whether I would get into an MFA program or not, and while I did fret a little bit about planning a curriculum and getting a job, it wasn't nearly as intense as it is now. It's hard to stress when there are giant sea turtles swimming near me or when I'm concentrating on climbing to the top of Diamond Head Crater and soaking in the majestic views.

Husband and I spent our last day of vacation freedom in Hawaii with a snorkel trip and a visit to the 'Iolani Palace. The snorkel trip was fantastic. We climbed onto a catamaran from a sandy beach (no rocks to slip on or sea urchins to worry about, although we heard some jelly fish washed up onto a different section of the beach), then rode out for ten minutes to a section known as turtle canyon. Armed with floatation devices, we climbed down the boat ladder into warm enough water and had an amazing view of tons of schools of fish as we swam among them. ("Swim" is a very strong word in my case. It was more like dog paddled and splashed around to propel myself in a direction.) For the last 15 minutes of the hour in the water, big and bigger sea turtles swam both below us and on the surface. We emerged exhilarated.

The Palace was fascinating. We learned about the last Hawaiian monarchs work to modernize the country while preserving the unique Hawaiian culture. Unfortunately, an evil cabal of US businessmen overthrew the popularly supported rulers, and from then on, Hawaii lost its independent status. It was incredibly moving to stand in the Palace room used to imprison Queen Lili'uokalani for years. Like at Pearl Harbor, I was reminded of the fallacy of the American myth: justice and fairness only triumph sometimes.

Back at home, Husband and I watched Barak Obama win the Democratic Iowa Caucus. Maybe, like the sea turtles, fairness and justice will persevere in the sea of history. (OK, that was hokey, but I'm trying to find a way to tie everything together and wrap it up.)

Suzanne, the Snowperson

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

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

A Taxing Situation

Someone's gotta pay for the Iraq War, and it sure as hell isn't going to be the uber-wealthy. Instead, they get special tax cuts for being so special. I mean, everyone knows that God shows His favorites by making them rich, so it would just be totally wrong to make them pay for God's blessings. It would be punishing them for things that weren't their fault, you know?

The working poor can only pay through indirect means, like cutting programs that help them make ends meet. Check. Still, we need more money to pay for the Goldy tax cuts and Iraq War. OK, squeezing the middle class will shake out a few more pennies. Who does that leave? Oh, the self-employed! Yay!

Seriously, I don't mind paying my fair share in taxes. As a person who has seen the benefits of an excellent public education, tax write-offs on owning a home, and other general good fortune, I believe it is my responsibility to support the same opportunities for other people. My commitment extends, however, to all classes. It strikes me as insanely unfair that I am for some reason paying a higher share of my earnings than people who made 10 or even 100 times more than I did. Last night I calculated how much I managed to eke out this year (and was impressed that my high priced consulting gigs yielded about 30G! Go me!) and then Husband informed me that 60% of that is going to taxes because of FICA.*

I understand that people like Paris Hilton need their hard earned money in ways that I don't, and that their valuable contributions to society's entertainment via porn tapes leaked to the internet completely dwarf anything I might be doing. But is it not a little fucked up that their tax rate is about half of mine? I guess I'll need to screw some little people over so that I may earn God's favor and exempt myself from taxes. Better luck to us all next year.

*Our income disparity does not help my situation. Hello, marriage tax penalty, which gives me a double whammy!

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!

No, No, NO! Not Cosi!

My non-blogging friend Sara (as opposed to my friend Sara who blogs) recently mentioned off hand that Cosi bread is atrociously unhealthy. Not that I go to Cosi often, but every once in awhile I do crave me a nice flatbread sandwich. They give baby carrots on the side, so how bad could it be?

I'm sure you know that questions like, "how bad could it be?" should never be posed because the answer is inevitably "very bad." If you were in my apartment with me when I decided to look up the nutritional information of various Cosi sandwiches, you would stop me, noting, "Ignorance is bliss." Then you would gently pat my hand and we would laugh. So where the fuck were you yesterday afternoon? (I know, I know. I can't really blame anyone for the impending disaster except for myself.)

My favorite Cosi item, the tuna sandwich with excellent cheddar, is nearly one thousand calories. Help me! My eyes are bleeding in horror! (Fortunately, the blood is metaphorical so that I can see to type this.) Dude, if I am going to consume 956 calories and 55 grams of fat from one item, it is going to be from a big, fat slice of cheesecake (the kind with a thin layer of sour cream on top - yum), not a motherfucking tuna sandwich!

This really ruins everything. Pout.

Come Ride the Roller Coaster with Me!

This afternoon I spoke to the publisher about some changes that need to be made to the book's description on Amazon.com, including the fact that my name is incorrect. It'll all be fixed, he assures me then asks what I think of the book's cover.

"Um, I haven't seen it," I point out.

"Oh! I'll send it to you then. I think you'll like it," he cheerfully responds.

A few hours later, I find a very cool .jpg in my email in-box. My name is correct! The cover rocks hard! I rejoice. Steph comes over for dinner and I show it to her. She agrees that it is bitchin.' I print a copy to gloat over for when I get home.

More hours later, Husband arrives back from his business trip. I show him the picture on the computer. He also agrees that it kicks ass. I pick up the print out of the picture. Suddenly, I am speechless. The fucking title is wrong. Sighing, I email the publisher about the mistake. In my in-box is a comment from some sharp-eyed anonymous person left on CUSS. This person notes that the Amazon.com blurb is riddled with typos that I didn't previously notice.

Grrrr.....

Name Change

Remember how I was all against changing my name when I got married? Well, nothing is different there. However, I did discover that my book was assigned an ISBN number, and the author credited with writing the master pizza (as I like to call it) is Susanne Reisman. Check it out on Amazon.com. Houston, we have a big fucking problem.

I'm only freaking out a little bit. OK, that is a lie. I am in full on spazz mode.

$&%#@!

The topic of swearing is on my mind lately. In addition to polishing off my book about unusual things to see and do in NYC (which, in all of its 42,000 or so words, does not include one swear - can you believe it?!?), I'm working on a writing portfolio to submit as part of my graduate writing program applications. It's a story about the (in retrospect) hilarious awfulness of puberty. Not surprisingly, I developed a foul mouth at a young age. Although I was otherwise a wimp, my willingness to say really bad words made me at least a little bit intimidating. Kids build the best defense systems they can. Swearing became an odd badge of pride, and I only got more creative with my cursing over time.

However, in a funny post about swearing by Heather over at BlogHer, she cites a study that finds that women are penalized for swearing. The study found:

The study also points to gender issues and an apparent double standard of men's swearing compared with women's cursing. "Female swearers are often perceived to be of a low moral standing," the researchers noted. Men, on the other hand, can generate reverence from swearing, though they tend to tone down the use of profanity in front of women.

Can you believe that fucking shit? Motherfuckers revere men for their creative use of swearing, but bitches like me get fucked for calling someone a assfuck shitbrain? Low moral standing my ass. And if any cockface thinks that he needs to temper his language for my tender ears, he can suck my big fat dick. If that is not a big steaming pile of maggot infested shit, I don't know what is.

Actually, I think I got away with swearing at work because I look so sweet and innocent. Instead of responding to my inappropriate comments with horror, my co-workers found it amusing that such invective emanated from my little face. By the end of my tenure at my last job, I was completely out of control with the shit that came from my tongue. That was as much the result of my utter frustration as anything else, but I was curious how much shit I could say before anyone called me on it. No one ever told me to tone it down. Interesting.

That's the End of That

Today was certainly an emotional day. I said good-bye to Dr. P as she returned to Florida, and the Mets said good-bye to their fans by losing to Florida in a manner consistent with their track record over the past few weeks. Although I will cheer on my original home team, the Chicago Cubs, as they seek their first World Series victory in 99 years, my heart's not really in it. After they blew the 2004 season in the exact same manner as the Mets just threw this season into the crapper, I decided that 20 years of having my heart crushed was enough, and I stopped following them regularly. Plus, a Cubs championship is definitely a sign of the apocalypse, and despite my intense loathing of the human race, I'm not sure that I am ready for the world to end.

Regardless, I guarantee that the departure of Dr. P and the Mets season shall free up more of my time. I hope to get caught up on reading blogs and on Heroes and CSI. Since baseball is no longer a distraction/obsession, CUSS will return to a normal stories involving personal follies and rants. My whole family will be in town in October for Brother-in-Law's wedding, so expect excellent fodder in late October. Much better than the World Series, indeed.

Onto the Field

It was a weekend of sports, and it was a weekend of losses. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets blow their first game against Philadelphia thanks to lazy and sloppy play. We did, however, get a kick out of the free fake mustaches distributed to 20,000 extremely lucky fans in honor of Keith Hernandez, former Mets player and cokehead, and current TV announcer who sometimes talks with food in his mouth. Saturday, we attended the game in person to encourage them. Other than the free cute hats that were given to a lucky group of 25,000 fans and the quality time I spent with Husband and the in-laws, I would say it was not the best use of my time. Sitting in a windy, shady part of the stadium, I froze my ass off as the Mets once again played like shit. Finally, on Sunday, I witnessed the Giants suck ass, although at least the seats we had (second row behind the 20 yard line on the Giants' side) were excellent and I got a free useless calendar that I threw out immediately. Also, being at the Giants game prevented me from watching the Mets play worse than your local Little League team, so that was some avoided aggravation. Good times.

This weekend also saw a personal kick-off to the GRE season. To apply to the Hunter College MFA program, I must face my nemesis. I did answered 125 questions from the verbal portion (I haven't faced my biggest challenge yet, which is the quantitative section) and did mostly OK. I played the antonyms section like the Mets, though. It's bit hard to identify the correct antonym when I don't recognize the word at all. Out of 30 words, I didn't even have the foggiest idea what 15 of them meant. I guessed well on one of those. Yeah.

Still Not Sunny

As far as I can tell from my small dining room window that looks into a courtyard and has a small slice of sky available for analyzing, it is not sunny today. (My dining room window has almost the only vantage point for weather analytics, as my street-facing bedroom and living room windows are shrouded under scaffolding that's been up for at least a year already, and my kitchen window looks mostly into the building across the courtyard. It's a good thing that my childhood was spent living in darkness - Husband freaks out at the lack of good natural and artificial lighting whenever we visit my parents - preparing me for City life.) I wanted it to be sunny today so that I could really enjoy my visit to the UN Sculpture Garden, where a bull elephant statue with a 2 foot long penis resides.

Also not improving my mood was the research I just did for an article about single women, subprime lending, and mortgage foreclosures that I posted on BlogHer. It should be obvious that women are going to get especially fucked up the ass by the mortgage default crisis, but I haven't seen much about it. However, there is ample evidence that single women, along with non-white and low income people, were railroaded into subprime loans. Yeah, you can buy your dream in America, but it's temporary and will cost you everything in the long run. Bah.

I need to eat ice cream and/or cookies today.

I Am Motherfucking Pissed Off

Damn. Here we had a nice successful week at the beach. When we arrived at the house we rented, I thought it was not as clean as it was when we rented it the previous year. Some of the dishes still had food on it, a friend stepped on a very sharp earring while barefoot in one of the bedrooms that we didn't wind up using, and there was an ant infestation. We called to report the ants because we didn't want the next family to stay there to have the same welcome party we did. I think that was very considerate of us. Otherwise, I mentioned that the house was a bit dirty, but said it was not a big deal. These things happen. Before we left, we mopped the kitchen floors several times, took out the trash and replaced the garbage bags, wiped down the table, and vacuumed throughly. I felt good about leaving the place in better shape than we found it.

Imagine my surprise when Husband called me this morning to report that they are keeping our security deposit because we left the house in shambles. Supposedly, we moved all the furniture around and left such a huge mess that they had to hire a cleaning service. We left the house at 7 am in spic and span condition. In fact, I cringed thinking about the fact that I would have to repeat the cleaning process in my own apartment this week, and how ironic it is that I clean more on vacation than I do in my daily life. (I hate cleaning.)

We followed the landlord's directions to a T: clean up, then leave the keys in the house, and the doors unlocked. Perhaps between the time we left and the time the next legitimate people arrived, someone else used the house? Is that my fault that the landlords tell us to leave the fucking door open? Why on earth would we rearrange the furniture, of all things? Is it not odd that we left the top floor in perfect condition, but a pig sty on the bottom floor, most accessible to any asshole who felt like wandering in after we left? And we didn't have any problems last year, so why would we suddenly become gross slobs?

I see a bitter dispute coming. In the meantime, I am going to storm off to a meeting.

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.

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.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

You know what happens when I spend 11 days in Chicago, mostly hanging out? I get behind. Very behind. I am behind in:

1. My consulting job, although I began that at the end of April and those fuckers have yet to pay me (my last invoice-y thing was rejected for "not having enough verbs") and I am getting to the point where I am not going to do things for them until I see a fucking check;

2. My book, which I have no excuse for since I had lots of notes to turn into melodious paragraphs and I (unsuccessfully) shopped for bathing suits and new underwear and ran around cemeteries with my mom instead, as that was more fun;

3. My ridiculous online travel writing class, whose start date I misunderstood and tuned in for the first online chat last Wednesday, only to find that the first chat is tomorrow and I can't "attend" because I am supposed to go to this Police concert with Husband, Steph, and Stupid McFuck (Husband's high school friend who votes Republican against his own economic interests) and Dr. P is also arriving for one night only (although that has nothing to do with my ability to log into class); and

4. A freelance article I hoped to finish about the complex but loving relationship that exists between me, Husband, and my long-time companion, Theo Roosevelt Reisman (my teddy bear), but I didn't write the last paragraph because I spent the afternoon with my friends Rachel and Jenny and their adorable genius 2 year old daughter.

Seriously, I'm not stressing out or anything and freaking instead of watching the Mets game with Husband, who I have not seen in 9 days, or petting Tycho Bunnae, who I last pet 11 days ago. Not at all. (Maniacal laughter.)

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.

The Gathering of the BlogHers

Those of you not traveling to Chicago for BlogHer need not be jealous. There was an announcement on the news that the kitchen in the Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier was just closed by the Health Department for vermin. Guess where us hungry bloggers will be meeting and eating? Gonna be interesting, that's for sure.

On the other hand, Chicago has plenty of great eats. Des, Alex, Count Mockula and I plan to eat deep dish pizza on Friday night. I have almost convinced my parents to come downtown and join us. That's right! If you'll be in Chicago and want to eat pizza with me, you can meet the people who produced me. Many of you are members of the Mom Reisman fan club, and this is your big chance!

Before all this happens, however, my mom and I are heading over to the infamous Graceland Cemetery to spend a few hours today. Many of Chicago's biggest names currently reside there, and the cemetery plays a fairly interesting role in one of my favorite books, The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. (It is an amazing book about the 1893 World's Fair and America's first known serial killer.)

On an unrelated note, but something that is irritating me to no end, I am reminded once again that I should not bother going to concerts. Generally I don't like live musis, as I like to hear songs the way that I know them by heart from CDs, MP3s, or the radio. Still, every five years or so, I am compelled to attend a concert. I went to see Madonna in 2001, and Prince in 2003 (or so). Hated both concerts. This year, I was super psyched to get tickets to see The Police on Aug. 1. Of course, then it turns out that Dr. P will be in town that night, which means that I will be anxious for the concert to end so I can see her. On top of that, I signed up for an eight week online course on travel writing. The first lecture was tonight at 10 PM EST. I completely misunderstood and thought that meant the first online chat was also tonight. No, stupid me. The first fucking chat is on - you guessed it - Aug. 1. So now I am going to miss that unless I miss the concert, and look like an irresponsible idiot. I don't want to miss the concert, as Danger Doll said it rocked the house when she saw it in her home state a few weeks ago, although I fear that I will hate it anyway because I am a dorky loser like that and something will probably upset my conservative musical tastes, most likely a poor rendition of "Roxanne." I am totally stressing over this, which is ridiculous.

Out of curiosity, at this point would you go to the concert or find someone else to take your ticket? (And, as an aside to the aside, if you live in NYC, we have an extra ticket regardless of whether I flake out or not.)

Staten Island: A Borough from Another Planet

I spent the day exploring some of the more intruguing sites that Staten Island has to offer. This is research for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York City (more on that later). For those of you unfamiliar with New York's outer boroughs, Staten Island is the borough that is really a suburban wasteland of guido Republican Yankee fans masquerading as a part of the city. Still, I completely enjoyed my time on this island of mystery and intrigue. I went to a ridiculous science museum that displayed petrified rabbit turds in a matchbox, a lesbian Victorian era photographer's house, the craziest grotto shrine I have ever witnessed (and that is saying a lot), a museum dedicated to bolstering the case of Antonio Meucci as the true inventor of the telephone (I went in thinking they'd be crackpots, I left cursing that theiving Bell), and finally a labrynth at a Moravian church. Good times.

The thing that truly blew my mind, though, was when I got on a public bus and asked the driver if he stopped at Hodges Pl. (I knew the route went by it, but it was my way of passively asking him to alert me when we got there, a very common practice among NYC bus riders.)

He looked me in the eye. "I don't know the names of the streets this bus stops at."

"Excuse me? You don't know where this bus stops?"

"I only know it goes down Victory Boulevard," he said and smiled.

Now that scares the crap out of me way more than the Staten Island Ferry crowd.

Hell is Just Around the Corner, I Think

It's not just the state of the world which makes me think that hell is just around the corner. (No, if it were solely politics and such, it would be clear that we already live in some outer ring of hell.) A few weeks ago, I said it was hot here. I was wrong. Not a clue as to what I was talking about. Because it is so fucking hot here right now that I swear the dry hairs on my legs could serve as tinder and spontaneously burst into flames in my jeans. That would suck.

In order to prevent barbecuing myself, I was forced into drastic measures. I acknowledged that I could not wear jeans without making myself swoon. Then, I shaved my legs. I figured if they could become inflamed in my pants, I probably was not much safer with them exposed to the elements. Because it is that fucking hot out.