BOMB and Explosion

My friend Mark and I went to check out Brooklyn's Other Museum of Brooklyn (BOMB) after work this evening. (If you visit the website, note that the BOMB we went to and the BOMB depicted are different buildings. BOMB moves with the real estate market.) It is open every Tuesday from 7 - 9 pm.

The new BOMB is in a building that is not heated or necessarily finished. As I went up the staircase, I was slightly fearful that I would plunge through the boards. It was sturdy, though. When we were upstairs, the curator, Scott, offered us beers. When I said I don't drink, he sweetly said he also had cranberry juice and various flavored seltzers.

Basically, BOMB is a museum dedicated to promoting the historic preservation of Admiral's Row, which is a set of buildings in the Brooklyn Navy Yard that the Mayor's office wants to tear down, and a place for the curator to store things that he rescues from the trash. Here's what Mark and I saw (apologies for the blurry pics - I used my BlackBerry phone):

If you squint really hard at the upper right, you can make out a canister used during Prohibition to make alcohol. The twisty spigot is wrapped around a gumball machine. Near the furnace to the right, sort of behind the fireplace, is a long black cylinder which is a rusted out sewage pipe. The window shade is pulled back by a paper mache puppet that looks out the window and admires the neighborhood.

The bathroom counter is covered with items that Scott, the curator of BOMB, found on the beach. This includes a femur, many pieces of broken china, coins, and rocks.

This portion of the wall was part of a church steeple in the 1800s. I love it. Yes, that is a cow skull hanging in the center of it. The Disgruntled Cow uses Scott to express her displeasure at how the Mayor milks the City dry. The object with wheels is a racing car from 1920 that reminds me of a go-kart.

This torpedo used to hang outside the museum. I sort of like it in the niche at the top of the staircase.



Mark and Scott are far more knowledgeable about Brooklyn than I can ever hope to be, so I mostly listened to them chat as my feet went numb from cold. Scott gave us all kinds of goodies to take home. Of course, I loved every second of my visit.

The explosion on the subway ride home, though, was terrifying. As we sped through the tunnel, a passenger with a wispy white goatee suddenly blew up at another rider. He jumped in the man's face and bellowed, "Why are you staring at me? Get your eyes off me! Do you have a problem with me. I said stop looking at me. Are you sweet for me, huh? Are you a homo? DO you want me to shove something up your ass? Fuck you!"

A few months ago, someone was randomly stabbed on the subway under very similar circumstances, and even though I was at the other end of the car, my heart thundered away. The other passengers watched the scene unfold and looked nervous, but only I changed cars when the train stopped. The man who was harassed got off, whether it was his stop or not. I hadn't been that nervous on the train since I was caught in the middle of a fight during rush hour and a guy broke a glass bottle and brandished it at someone.

Blizzard!

As of this middle of the night writing, New York City is expected to get up to 14 inches of snow. Husband and I had tickets to a Michael Jackson tribute show put on by my favorite cover band production house, The Loser's Lounge. Before I left, I spoke with my family (via Skype - I feel so tech savvy, years after the fact...), and they suggested we stay in.

"Dudes, this is NYC!" I assured them. "The subway will be no problem."

This was accurate. The subway came and got us there in a timely fashion.* It was actually nice to wander around as snow came down. The sidewalks and street were quiet, devoid of traffic. The show rocked. We had tea afterward, then journeyed through the blizzard home.

Anyway, the show was one reason why I hadn't made plans to travel home this weekend. (Another reason is that my in-laws were supposed to come to our place in the afternoon and have a belated Hanukkah celebration, but that was canceled due to said blizzard. The main reason, though, is that I'm exhausted from school and work and writing and just needed to sit around and rest.) My sister and nephew are at my parents' house this weekend, and I really wanted to go. Now I'm relieved that I didn't make plans. Even if I got out last night or this morning, I can't imagine being able to get back in time for work on Monday.

All that got me thinking about the passengers who are stranded at airports around the country due to the storm. I felt bad for them. Then I read an article on CNN.com that noted that Greyhound canceled 300 routes from New England to Jacksonville, FL, stranding lots and lots of people at Greyhound bus terminals. The Red Cross has been called for assistance. Yeah, that is one of my worst nightmares.

*This will no longer be possible in the spring. Thanks to gross mismanagement of the Metropolitan Transit Authority under 12 years of Republican "leadership,"** major service cuts are to be implemented.
**Although Husband points out that if Democrats were in control, the situation would be just as bad because the state is so fucking corrupt.

Naming Names: A Cautionary Tale

The number one rule of blogging is not to use people's names unless they tell you it is OK. Generally, I follow this rule religiously. Some of my friends and family are identified by their real names; others get fake ones. If I link to a blog, I use the blogger's blog name, which may be different from his or her non-blogging name.

So I have no idea what I was thinking back in February, when I wrote a post about why I hate Valentine's Day. Not only did I use the real names of guys I knew in high school, but I lost my mind completely and also put in their last names. Perhaps this was due to a carb deficit, as I was in Phase I of the South Beach Diet, and Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) was unable to perform at the minimal level he usually offers. Whatever the reason, not cool.

Even less cool is how this came to my attention. The gentleman now referred to as Mr. X was displeased that I shared this story. It seems his in-laws and maybe also fantasy football league googled his name and then mocked him, although I don't see why he was mockable - I'm the total fucking shit in the story. Whatever, he was not amused. I felt awful and took his name out, but we all know the problem with the internet - once it is out there, it's not entirely erasable.

I sincerely hope that this will not cause Mr. X any more grief. It was incredibly bad judgment on my part.

Greetings from Pittsburgh, Part 3

Actually, the greetings are from Corapolis, PA in a hotel room about 10 minutes from the airport. The ground stop at LaGuardia was extended and extended and extended, so at 10:30, the plane unloaded its human cargo. We were given vouchers for a very clean Marriott near the airport.

The problem is that the hotel has only two shuttles, which run every 30 minutes. I need to be at the airport at 7 AM for my 8:25 flight. Since each shuttle only seats about 10 people, I am getting up at 4:30 to be sure to be there. If I miss it, there are no other flights available to New York until Tuesday. I really do not want to rent a car and drive home....

Speaking of missing things, I will not be back in time for my interview at 11:00.

Greetings from Pittsburgh!

BlogHer was a trip and a half. I laughed and laughed with my
roommates, Suebob and Maren. I romped with Count Mockula, her mom,
and her genius toddler daughter. I wore a paper bag hat, sat in the
bathtub of the Presidential Suite in the Sheraton, and ate a
cheeseburger at the CheeseburgHer party. I socialized with
Sassymonkey, Denise, LaurieWrites, Heather Clisby, Megan Smith, Major
Bedhead, Amber Rhea, Pam Mandel, Sarah and the Goon Squad, Average
Jane, Liz Henry, and other exceptional women. Updated to add the Graces: Mitchell and Davis, who made my lunch on Sat. one of the highlights of the conference.) I wanted to meet
Nordette Adams, and failed. I collected swag. I ate Mars Bars,
courtesy of Sassymonkey. I dined at Gino's East of Chicago with Liz
Rizzo, Virginia DeBolt, Laurie Kingston, my parents, the
aforementioned roommates, and Count Mockula clan. And on and on.
(Oh, yeah. I attended some panels and also did a book signing.)

So I am tired. I want to get to my furnitureless, dust-infested
apartment (except for the bedroom, which has almost all of the
remaining furniture and boxes, but not so much dust at my last time of
residency). I want to prepare my bag and outfit for an interview I
have tomorrow morning. Then I'd like to sleep in my bed, which has
dirty sheets because we haven't changed them since construction began,
but this kind of dirty sheet smells like Husband, who is in Vegas
nowe, and makes me happy. And I want to prepare for my interview
tomorrow. (Noted twice, not out of senility, but to emphasize
importance.)

Instead, I am sitting in an airplane in Pittsburgh. The flight was
scheduled to arrive in NYC twenty minutes ago. Planes are not allowed
to land at LaGuardia right now due to a storm, so we flew in circles,
slowly progressing east, until we ran out of gas. (Like me, but no
refueling in sight!)

It could be worse. I could still be at O'Hare. And at least I have
six Mars Bars in my bag. And a Vosges chocolate bacon bar (thanks,
Suebob!). Plus, BlogHer will be in NYC next year. Yay!

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Double Tongued

For dinner last night, Granny took Bubbe, Mom, Dad, and me to dinner at a Jewish deli called The Bagel. I sat sandwiched between the grandmothers, and found myself surrounded by tongue. Granny ordered the boiled tongue, while Bubbe opted for pickled tongue.

Before I departed for Chicago, I was supposed to buy a train ticket to visit my sister and nephew in Iowa. Shit hit the fan and splattered far and wide last week, though, so I didn't have a chance to do so until Friday night/Saturday morning at 12:30 AM. "Train sold out," flashed at my across the monitor when I put in my online request. Fuck - that left me with Greyhound.

My six hour Greyhound odyssey will begin at 11:45 am on Tuesday. I think I will try and dehydrate myself in advance so I won't need to use the on board facilities. I will also not have another mint milkshake (as I did with my friend and her four year old daughter when I arrived yesterday), as that left me with an angry digestive system.

The only plus side is that I'm curious what the Greyhound bus station in Chicago is like these days. My only reference point is from Adventures in Babysitting, when teenage Brenda (Penelope Ann Miller) runs away from her lux suburban home and then changes her mind and calls her friend Kris (Chris? either way, Elisabeth Shue) to pick her up before her parents find out what she planned. Hijinx ensue, including a homeless woman stealing Brenda's glasses, leading Brenda to wander around with blurry vision and pick up a furry little beast that she thinks is a kitten but is actually a jumbo sewer rat. Oh, the hilarity!

At any rate, the Greyhound station featured in the film was torn down and a new one built on the Near West Side. I also have not been to the Near West Side in eons, and am curious what that formerly extremely crime-infested neighborhood is like these days. Yeah. I'll hope that my contact lenses don't pop out of my eyes, and if they do, I will avoid touching anything that looks furry. (Given how bad my vision is, that would be pretty much anything.)

Mini Disasters that Add Up to Laughs

Witness arrived in movie theaters when I was nine years old. I thought it looked like one of the scariest movies ever. If memory serves me correctly (and it usually doesn't), it also received complementary reviews as a suspenseful film.

Husband and I watched it on Saturday night. Let me just throw this aphorism out there: Any time there is a 20+ year build up to something, the odds are high that it will disappoint. Damn, that was one crappy movie. The plot makes almost no sense, the action is limited, the score involves some weird synth/organ droning, and there is about as much suspense as watching Jell-O set. Still, Harrison Ford is smoking hot in it. Holy shit, that made the movie almost worth it. (So as not to be sexist, I noticed that Kelly McGillis is gorgeous.)

Then on Sunday, Husband, my friend Sara #1, and I loaded ourselves into Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and headed to New Jersey. My goal was to return two shirts that I purchased on Nordstrom online to an actual store so that I could find replacements that fit. As we neared the luxury mall in Paramus, I thought it odd that the parking lot was empty. It was almost 2:00 in the afternoon - prime weekend shopping time. Was the recession really so bad that people didn't even hang out in malls in Jersey any more? Terrifying thought.

My economic fears were soon replaced by annoyance. Husband drove around some orange cones that blocked parts of the parking lot and pulled up to the doors of Nordstrom. "Sundays: Closed," I read aloud. So the whole freaking mall was closed. How fucking un-American is it to close a mall on Sunday? Seriously! We tried another nearby mall, only to find it closed as well. That's when we realized that Paramus, NJ is the most unpatriotic town in the US: no retail stores are open on Sundays, which we assumed is by law. The horror! The horror!

Yesterday

My last day as a 32 year old began with a three mile run at the hotel gym. From there, Husband and I headed over to Culver City to meet Liz and tour the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I read about the museum several years ago on Roadside America, and I though that there would be no better way to spend a few hours before turning 33 than finally visiting it.

Oh.Dear.God. The museum was probably the nuttiest, creepiest, and weirdest place I have ever been. I almost felt guilty for asking Liz to join us. I'll sum it up by saying that at one point I was certain that the exhibits were actually created by people who sat around thinking up fake exhibits they could develop from scratch, but I subsequently realized that it was all real. The exhibits ranged from deranged letters sent to scientists at Mt. Wilson Observatory to oil portraits of the dogs who went into space with Russian cosmonauts. There was also a display of disintegrating die, an exhibit on superstitions in a pitch black room, holographic images of various things, a section on items from trailer parks, ethnographic studies of cat's cradles, and a room dedicated to the singer M. Delani. The museum was approximately 2 degrees. This made the free tea and cookies served in a cute Russian-esque room (the tea was even made in a samovar!) extra enticing, which made me worry a little bit about cyanide poisining. Perhaps our stuffed bodies would be part of a future exhibit?

After the museum, we stopped into the Center for Interpretative Land Use, which was totally awesome. All of my urban planning nerd friends would love it. There was a wonderful slide show on the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The Center was also very well heated, which was critical to thawing out our feet.

Husband and I parted ways with Liz, and headed into Hollywood to meet my friend Norma, a former co-worker, and her husband for dinner and a night of comedy. On the way, we made a quick stop at La Brea Tar Pits. I was most impressessed with the vending machines. Not only did they take credit cards, but a 20 ounce bottle of pop was only a dollar. One dollar!!! That's the best deal I've gotten in ages. A 12 ounce can of Diet Coke runs me a buck in NYC, and here I got a 20 oz. bottle! I'm certain that this was the best tasting Coke Zero that ever graced my lips. Bargains are so refreshing.

Anyway, we wandered around Hollywood a bit before dinner at Loteria. Norma had described the restaurant to me as the "newest, freshest, and bestest" Mexican cuisine in the city, and it lived up to its promise. The meal was delicious, the company was fantastic, and the comedy at the Improv was side splitting. It was great seeing Norma and meeting her hubby. They put together an excellent evening.

Today, after breakfast at IHOP (just as exciting to me as Loteria), we are meeting up with the always wonderful Red Stapler for continued good times. I can't wait.

Happy birthday to me!

Come Light My Menorah

My original intent was to blog about how frustrated I am that Husband and I did not get to go to visit our friends Alex and her family yesterday due to adverse weather conditions. Alex's older son had told me that they were making a cake in honor of my birthday and that he specially picked out green frosting, which Alex apologized for (as green frosting is kind of not delicious) but I found it hilarious. We were all so looking forward to it, but then the snows came and the roads were bad and Husband and I grudgingly decided that we didn't want to risk it. Boo.

Instead, we sat around on Friday night and Saturday watching the first season of The Wire on DVD. Husband and I requested the box set from my parents for Hanukkah, and holy fuck, this show is just as brilliant as all the critics said it was. One episode had a five minute scene where two cops looking into an old murder re-create the scene and just say, "Fuck," or "Motherfucker," but with different tones that express exactly what they are thinking. I felt like I was being handled by geniuses. We are about halfway through the 13 episodes.

Then when I wrote the title for this post, I realized how many aspects of Hanukkah lend themselves to sleazy come-ons and double entendres. Like, "Hey, is that a dreidel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Or, "Wow, that shamus* could light my wick any time!" Or "Why don't you smear some apple sauce on my latke,** big boy." OK, that last one is stupid, but it makes me laugh.

Happy Hanukkah!

*The middle candle in the menorah, which sits higher than the other candles and is lit first and then used to light the other ones.
**Potato pancake

The Road to Hell is Paved with Spontaneity

In a burst of sentimentality this past weekend, I decided that I should search for bargain airfares and visit Dr. P this weekend in Florida. Given the price of fuel and other cost issues with airlines, I did not expect to find anything. I was shocked when US Airways offered me something for less than I would spend on an advance purchase from New York to Chicago. Remember, just because something doesn't cost a lot in terms of money, it can really add up in other ways. Yes, there are connecting flights in my travel plan.

"Big deal," I thought to myself. "An hour and change should be more than enough."

Silly me! When US Airways informed travels at the exact time that our plane was supposed to land at LaGuardia for my first flight to Philadelphia that it had just left North Carolina, I was screwed. Had someone mentioned the delay earlier, I could have switched to another flight. But it was too late. Long story short, the plane touched down in Philly five hours after I left my apartment that morning, just as my connection left on time for Ft. Lauderdale. Then I learned that the next flight was not for 2.5 more hours. And of course that one was already delayed.

Had I thought about this, I would have booked the ticket from Philly in the first place. (It takes, at most, 2.5 hours on public transportation to get to the Philly airport from NYC.) All the delays meant that I missed the fucking debate last night, which I had been looking forward to viewing for weeks. Argh! I'm hoping to catch it online while Dr. P is at work today. What did people think of it?

Last Minute Mini Debacles

I leave for BlogHer tomorrow at 6 am. My writing class takes place tonight from 7 - 10 pm, and I have a million little things to do before that. So of course today would be the day that my little backpack rips.

I use my beloved little backpack like other women use purses. It carries my wallet, keys, subway card, business cards, birth control pills, two kinds of lip balm that I never use, gum, scrap paper, two pens, a pencil, a mirror, subway map, Excederin, Advil, a fold out map of Manhattan, and lately, a copy of my book (just in case - you never know who you'll run into who might want to order it for their chain store, right?). My little bag has been with me for several years now, so I suppose it is only fair that it decided it was ready to retire. Still, it's hard to adjust to a new bag while running off to a networking conference on the other side of the country, assuming I even find a replacement this afternoon. Sob. Oh, little bag, I shall miss you.

Also, a minor last minute change involves make up. It seems that I need to bring some. Fortunately, I can just toss it in my carry on suitcase, which is mostly empty anyway. Regardless, the need for cosmetics makes me nervous.

Average Jane and I had a nice exchange this morning about how excited we are for the conference this year. Then I went to the BlogHer site and read a post about abortion that actually asked, "Why is a woman with so little self-respect as to have sex without commitment to be admired?" By the time I finished reading, I was shaking with anger. I am pretty fucking committed, what with having only one sexual partner in my whole life, and being with him for over 13 years, 8 of those of which we've been married. What the fuck does that have to do with abortion? What I believe it means is that sex for purposes other than procreation is wrong. Go one step further, the only reason to marry is to procreate. It was so judgmental and vile that I am trembling with anger again as I write this. Now I fear (slightly) that I will spend a good portion of my time trying to avoid this woman, which sucks. No one should go to a networking conference with the advanced knowledge that other participants think they are the moral equivalent of toxic waste, which is clearly what this woman thinks of me and anyone like me. Sigh.

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.

Husband's Giant(s) Super (Bowl) Adventure

Husband took this picture of me on Saturday afternoon while we hung out in Pennsylvania with Steph.
For those of you who know that Husband planned to be in Arizona this weekend for the Super Bowl, you may wonder what the fuck he is doing taking pictures of me in the back seat of Steph's car as we whiz down the highway towards Ikea. Here's the whole story. Since I am not capable of making a long story short, bear with me. I'll start at the beginning....

At the end of the regular football season, Husband won a small bundle of funds from a football pool. This small amount had already been spent in about 40 ways when the Giants came out of nowhere to clinch a spot in the Super Bowl. Husband took these two miracles as a sign that he was meant to see the Giants in the Super Bowl, and he made arrangement to go to Phoenix with his buddy Stupid McFuck (who earned this affectionate nickname from me because he is a Republican although their fiscal policies have screwed his family). Since Stupid McFuck is supporting his parents because the Republicans do not believe in unemployment or disability payments, he did not have the money to go, but Husband wanted to share his good fortune, so he paid for all the tickets.

All the tickets, however, did not include tickets to the actual game. The plan was to book a flight to Arizona and a hotel room. By the time Husband did this, there were no flights to Phoenix that we reasonably priced, so he bought two to Tucson, which is about two hours away. This worked out well because the only hotel rooms available in Phoenix were $650 per night, with a three night minimum, at the Motel 6. I am not exaggerating. That was the cheapest he found, and it was the Motel 6. Fortunately, there were many hotel rooms in Tucson, so Husband used his hotel points to secure free lodging at a Sheraton.

Once the travel and hotel were secured, Husband set about scoring tickets. He bought a parking pass for $100 (double the face value) on eBay. He was willing to spend up to $1,500 per ticket to go to the game. Entry tickets, however, remained way out of reach, with asking prices well over $2,000 on StubHub and other online outlets. Colleagues who also have undergone such insane endeavors to watch their team in persona the Super Bowl had told him, though, not to fret. In their experience, the odds were very good that he could get two tickets in his price range when he got there, as people would be desperate to unload what they had left at the last minute. (And they'd still make a handsome profit.)

Friday came. Husband woke up and discovered that his flight to Dallas (where he would connect to Tucson) was canceled. He called the special Executive Platinum members number and the airline booked him on a flight to Chicago, where he would connect to Tucson. A few hours later, he left for the airport.

All hell broke loose at LaGuardia. As there were over 6 inches of snow in Chicago, every flight out there was delayed - except the one he and Stupid McFuck were on. That flight was set to leave on time. Unfortunately, as the plane unloaded passengers from the previous flight, it caught on fire. Needless to say, it was canceled.

Husband booked it to the Admiral's Club. The nice people there put them on stand by for the next flight out. As they headed over to the gate for that flight, they heard their names called. The tickets went through, and they even had two first class seats! They high-fived (or at least in my mind, I picture them doing so). Super Bowl, here they come!

Cutting to the end, when they went to board, the gate agent informed them that their tickets were revoked so that some crew could get to Chicago. Dejected, the guys gave up and went home. (Good thing he didn't pay thousands of dollars for tickets on StubHub!) As a result, Husband joined me on my day of fun with Steph on Sat. and took this picture.

Today we shall watch the Super Bowl at our friends' apartment. Go Giants!

Ouch

Here are some pictures from my Christmas Eve sea urchin mishap:

This is the two mile trail husband and I hiked down to get to the Capt. Cook Monument and the bay that is known for excellent snorkeling. It is full of loose rocks and over its course, descends 1,300 feet to the water.

The Monument stands in British soil! I thought this was very cool. Given its remote access location, however, it is not so well-maintained.

Although it hurt like a motherfucker, here I am calmly awaiting medical evacuation. Note the completely hideous sunglasses that I bought at Urban Outfitters the day before I left for the trip. They are fudiculous, which is my new term for fucking ridiculous. (Maybe the sea urchin attacked me because it was so offended by my bad taste?)

A close up shot of my injuries doesn't do the damage justice. (A random tour guide/registered nurse plucked out the sea urchin spines that hadn't broken off already before I thought to document the experience. (It's a fuckload scarier to look at when there are long thin sticks poking out of the skin.) The big ink blobs and blood smears cover up all the individual barbs. There are 24 barbs in my heel and six on the side of my foot, plus about seven more near my big toe and four more near my little toe. While I still feel that a helicopter was a bit excessive, there was no way I could climb back up the trail.

All's well that ends well... sort of. Most of the ink from the sea urchin is gone from my foot (but not all), I can put on my shoes again, and here I am posing cheerfully in the lovely lobby of our hotel in O'ahu.

What Time Is It?

December 27 not only marks my birthday, but also that of French scientist Louis Pasteur (you know - he made milk safe to drink through pasteurization and also invented the cure for rabies) and my favorite wooden puppet named after feces. That's right, kids! My mom told me that "The Howdy Doody Show" debuted on Dec. 27, 1947. How cool is that?

Today Elizabeth and Al showed Husband and I around O'ahu's infamous North Shore. Unfortunately it rained all day and the waves were not too big, so there weren't too many surfers out. We did watch some hearty souls giving it their all and also ate amazing hamburgers and shaved ice. Elizabeth showed me where the kid sister attended school in Blue Crush, an awesomely cheesy fun chick surfing movie that I adore.

In other news, my foot is feeling a little better, but not great. (I'll post some pictures later.) I gave up hope that I'll be able to do much hiking on Diamondhead, so I am sad about that. As for my insect bites, I decided that they must be some sort of tape worm nests, as they seem to intensify in itchiness whenever I am hungry. The good news there is that I don't think any new welts developed today.

Tomorrow Husband booked us on some sort of flying machine that I think Leonardo da Vinci invented. Assuming that we don't fly too close to the sun and crash into the ocean, we will stop at the Dole Plantation afterwards. They boast the world's largest maze (100,000 square feet), although some place in Ireland recently topped them. Assuming my foot is OK and it is not pouring rain, we'll wander the pineapple hedgerow.

How I Got an Unintended Tattoo as a Souvenir (aka When Sea Urchins Attack)

So... I didn't plan to log on again until later this week, but then again, I also didn't plan to fall off of a slippery rock and land on a very angry sea urchin, which showed its displeasure by lodging dozens of barbed spines into the bottom of my right foot and toes on my left tootsie, rendering me unable to walk without lots o' pain. (Wow, that was a long sentence.)

To save a couple hundred bucks, Husband and I decided to hike a two mile trail that descends 1300 feet to the Capt. Cook Monument instead of booking a snorkeling excursion. (We also were excited for the hike.) Everything began hunky dory. We found the trail (an abandoned dirt road) easily and handled the rocky trail well. It took about 90 minutes to reach the beach, which was already crowded with kayaks and boat tours. As we stripped off our sweaty pants and t-shirts to our bathing suits, we overheard a kayak guide tell his clients that he was a registered nurse. I asked him the best way into the water, and he suggested walking down the lava rocks.

The problem with the lava rocks, I discovered, is that the ones in the water are covered with moss or whatever and slippery as fuck. As I attempted to gingerly step into the water, I slipped off the rock. My feet got caught on a very rocky bottom and my water shoes came off. Then I felt a horrific stinging. I managed to pull myself onto the dry rock pile and discovered many spines sticking out of my feet.

Long story short, Husband went to look for the nurse guide and I crawled onto shore. Clearly there was no way I could walk back up the trail, so I called 911. After an extremely surreal conversation (the dispatcher didn't entirely believe where I was or how I got there, but this could partially be because I claimed stepped on a sea anonomae while I was SCUBA diving), she said she'd send a rescue crew. Then the nurse tour guide appeared and used his first aid kit to pick the remaining spines out of my feet. He said that there is nothing I could do about the barbs, which are made of calcium, and would remain in my skin until they were absorbed. I mentioned that I called 911 and he said the Coast Guard boat shouldn't be too long.

We sat around a while longer and then a Coast Guard guy called me on my cell phone to explain where the helicopter would pick me up. Yes. Helicopter. Seriously. For reasons I cannot understand, they decided to send a helicopter. I explained that I only needed help getting out and probably a helicopter was excessive, but he said that's what they decided to send. This involved hiking back a little ways on the path, which was not fun.

Even less cool, there was no room for Husband. The poor man had to hike two miles uphill alone after I was evacuated. I felt like crap about the whole thing. First, I ruin his chance to snorkel by falling on a sea urchin. Then, he has to hike back alone to meet me in the hospital. And it started to rain. Oy.

So, long story long, I was choppered out and met by an ambulance. I repeatedly told the rescue and EMT guys how mortified I was that they had to waste their time and resources just because I couldn't hike back. The EMT guys were not only cheerful, but adorable, and told me that they were glad I needed help since they were bored. At the hospital, I soaked my feet in vinegar. Husband eventually arrived, and I was relieved that he got off the trail safely. A doctor came in and took a cursory look at my many punctures and barbs and told me I had no infection. I was also told that the ink from the spine may never go away completely, hence my potential new series of tattoos.

That was my last day in Hawaii. Hopefully, the guy at my hotel who told me that the pain goes away in a few days will be right because otherwise the rest of the trip is going to suck for poor Husband since I can't hike until the pain is a little less, which is very upsetting.

Merry Christmas! (Mele Kalikemaka!)

A Free Yogurt Parfait Might Shut Me Up

As long as I am in a pissy mood, I thought I should finally let McDonald's know about my little experience in their fine eating establishment. Alex called them and complained, and the owner called her back to apologize. However, they didn't offer her any free shit, which annoys me. I provided my insight to McD's HQ through their fine website:

While visiting Ocean City, I was very happy to learn that McDonald's offered reliable wifi for a very affordable cost. I am enrolled in an online class, so it was critical that I found a place in which I could get online and participate. The prior Sat. night, I stopped into the McDonald's and the manager assured me that the restaurant was open until 1 am. My class was from 10-11 PM, so this was perfect.

I returned on Aug. 8, bought a Diet Coke, and asked the cashier until what time the restaurant was open, just to verify before I paid for my wifi. She said she was not sure, which surprised me. How can an employee not know the store's hours? I prodded, and asked if it would be open until 11.

"Yes, 11, at least," she replied.

I sat down and paid for my wifi. At 10:20ish, a very surly woman yelled at me and my friends.

"You have to get out of here in 15 minutes," she snarled.

I was confused. I told her that I had been told that the restaurant was open until 11 pm at least.

"Well, I am the night shift manager," she snarled, "and I decide what time we close. And I decided that we close in 15 minutes."

I tried pointing out that I paid for my wifi and needed to be online for a class. She told me that she didn't care and that I now needed to be out of there in five minutes. I asked if this was standard procedure to randomly close the restaurant and she said that it was when she decided it was.

Needless to say, I was outraged by the lack of standards that this McDonald's has. Not only was this woman incredibly nasty to me and my friends, but she also treated the other employees poorly, yelling in their faces for what appeared to be minor infractions. Worse, the restaurant itself was disgusting. The floors were greasy, as if mopped with leftover from the fryer and smelled like ketchup. I stayed far away from McDonald's for the rest of my time in Ocean City, and hope that this is not a reflection of how McDonald's operates in other areas.

I'll share the response, if I get any.

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.

Sizzle, Sizzle

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

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

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

The Welcome Committee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Plastic it is," I agreed.

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

Welcome home, Suzanne.

Woman on the Verge

I'm sitting in O'Hare. I should be landing at LaGuardia now, but I am still being punished for my greedy attempt to have it all (extra time in India, time with my family, and time with my in-laws). Thus my flight was all on track to go, and then it was delayed by 15 minutes. No biggie.

Then my flight was delayed by an hour. Then another hour. I craftily identified a flight that was leaving for JFK that actually had a plane and crew here. I was first on the stand by list. I was pleased. Then the motherfuckers canceled the flight to LaGuardia. And suddenly 8 people who have higher status than I do were in front of me for stand by. I began losing it. By the time the plane was loaded and I was fucking next to get off the stand by list, the airline decided that although there were seats left, the plane was too heavy given the weather conditions to take anyone else. So for the 675,922 in three days, I found myself bawling.

I always get emotionally screwy after a good/intense trip. It's just time for me to go home and see Husband. I was so looking forward to having a nice Passover with my other family, Rebecca, and my friend who I invited. Normally, I become a crabby wenchy bitch when things like this disappoint me, but my little fuel tank is low and I am running on fumes here. Fumes make me cry.

Anyway, at least I got internet access in the airport. I'm looking forward to catching up on all the blogs I've missed for the last 9 days or so.