The Lucy Stone League

My writing class is fabulous. The assignment for this week is to write a profile of the worst boss I ever had. (In prior weeks, we were assigned to write a piece about something we didn't want anyone to know and a piece in which each paragraph begins with the phrase, "I remember..." We get two pages in which to express ourselves, and working within very specific parameters is helping me in many ways.) The instructor gave us an example of an excellent profile, a story called "Mazie." It was written by the infamous New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell in 1940, and is about a woman who works at a movie theater on the Bowery. To say she is a total character is an understatement.

At one point in the piece, Mazie talks about meeting Fannie Hurst and being suspicious of her because she didn't want to appear in Hurst's writing. I'd never heard of Fannie Hurst before, so I looked her up online. (Sorry mom, I don't have any encyclopedias sitting around the apartment, although I know this is your preferred method of research.) Hurst was a well-known novelist in the 1920s and 1930s. Even better, she was a member of the Lucy Stone League, an organization that fought for women to be able to keep their maiden names after they got married and use them legally. (Motto: "My name is the symbol for my identity and must not be lost." I get shivers down my spine reading that.)

Is this not the coolest thing ever? Now, I acknowledge that a woman's maiden name is really her father's family name, indicating that you are your dad's property (thus a boy is also his dad's property) and thus changing your name at marriage just signals that another man now owns you. To some women, it is important to take their husbands' names, and who am I to tell them otherwise? If that's what you want, good for you. But, I felt very strongly associated with the name I was given at birth. Suzanne Reisman is me. So I didn't change my name, and happily, most people didn't bat an eyelash. (And those who did received swift tongue lashings from me that made them sorry they said anything. Stupid fucks.)

I just love picturing these strong, smart, sassy women in the 1920s sitting around in their little fur stoles and chapeaus agitating for their rights. Even better, it turns out that the League is again active today, and fights for equal rights! I'm totally joining up. It's just amazing what unexpected things you can learn while taking a class, isn't it?

Happy New Year!

Normally, I hate New Year's Eve. For the past few years, I would feel hope and excitement for what was to come, only to realize that nothing magically changes just because it is a new year. We still had the same buttfuck for a president, I still had the same job, and things just rolled along. Even though I knew that change happens as it comes, not on a schedule, I was still depressed for the first few weeks of January.

Today I am more positive. I know that nothing will be different in the next few hours, but there is so much to look forward to this year. My book will be coming out, I'll have a new job, and maybe I'll even be starting an MFA program. A number of my dear friends recently had or are having children in 2008, and it makes me smile to think about being Aunt Suzanne.

This past year brought many excellent developments for me, too. My sister, who had been trying to find a teaching job in Iowa for five years, finally was hired to teach first grade and is thriving. (Even better, kids at a troubled school are lucky enough to have her as their teacher.) Some of my friends had babies, and others became pregnant. My friends who have kids already have wonderful families. Almost my whole family was able to come east and celebrate my brother-in-law's wedding with my in-law family. I was not only able to see my family in Chicago a few times this year, but I traveled around the world. And, of course, my book about unusual things to see and do in my beloved New York City finally found a publisher after I'd worked on the concept for almost three years. I doubt that 2008 will top any of this, but that's OK. There's new and interesting things coming our way.

Here's to a year free of sea urchins and full of unshaved snatch! (Translation: I hope that everyone has a healthy and happy new year!)

It's "The Most Wonderful Time" of a "Wonderful Year"

While showering this afternoon, I stood for a few moments in the hot steam and reflected on my 2007. Damn, it was one hell of a year. From travel to getting a book deal to having awesome friends and family, I am pretty sure that I'll never be able to top it, although there is plenty to look forward to in 2008, like when the book actually comes out.

I've been a stress basket for the last few weeks, but now that my MFA applications are complete, I feel better. This past Friday, I pursued a lead for a potentially kick ass job for next year. (I'll know more about that tomorrow afternoon.) At 6 am on Wednesday, I'll be on a plane heading to the Aloha State. Yup, as of this moment, I am sitting pretty.

Even though there are a million little errands to run and ends to tidy up before I leave (including a marathon leg shaving session, since the gams have gotten furry over the past few months), for once, I am not riddled with anxiety. It's great.

Driving Me Crazy

My drive up to Alex's house yesterday was mostly uneventful. The worst part was driving in the area near the city. It's a little absurd when I am driving 70 in a 45 mile zone and people give me dirty looks as they pass me in the left lane.

Alex and I made excellent progress on organizing an official call for submission for Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!. Her husband (aka Big Giraffe) will put up a website for submissions in the next few weeks. I'm pretty gosh darn tootin' excited.

I'm also exhausted. I don't know how people spend a full day with kids and don't fall asleep by 4 pm or need to be institutionalized. Just pretending to be a squirrel for five minutes this morning left me out of breath and in need of a nap. All you parents out there - and teachers - are amazing.

2 Years of CUSS!

With all the excitement that is going on these days with the book, applying to writing programs, and the imminent arrival of my family for Brother-in-Law's nuptials, I nearly forgot that today is the two year anniversary of the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants. Two years ago today, I was a frustrated, dissatisfied do-gooder on the way to meet another do-gooder friend for French onion soup. My day had been particularly distressing, as was often the case with my former career, and I found myself sitting on the subway seething over an ad for bikini waxing. Moments later, I formulated a plan: instead of stabbing people, I needed a blog to vent, and it needed a catchy title. Somehow the whole CUSS acronym popped into my feral mind and I knew that I found a way to salvation.

I disembarked from the subway and ran to tell my friend about it. The bar we were meeting at gave crayons to patrons (how perfect is that?) and I drew a little diagram on my placemat outlining the CUSS credo. When I got home a few hours later, I posted my very first blog entry.

Since then, I've loosened my no-waxed/shaved-snatch stance a bit because I met so many awesome women who explained to me why they preferred trimming, waxing, or shaving their cooters. None of them did it because some cretins think that pubic hair automatically makes women dirty or smelly, so who the hell was I to tell them how to deal with their boxes? Understanding other people - this is what I consider progress. I'm glad that CUSS opened me up to new ideas, not only about landing strips, but on a wide spread (heh heh) range of topics. It led me to meet so many awesome people who I am proud to call friends.

Now I'm getting all choked up. The truth is that I'd probably blog whether people read my blog or not because I discovered that I find writing to be fun and therapeutic. However, it would be far less meaningful if it wasn't for the select segment of the blogging community in which I've become a part. Here's to the next two years.

Little Lad's Basket

Speaking of perverts, there's a fascinating little restaurant in the basement of a huge office building just off Wall Street. It's run by Seventh Day Adventists and is vegan. Since the place has no meat or dairy, it attracts a people-watching worthy mix of Jews who keep kosher, Muslims, Hindus, hippies, and weirdos like me. The buffet is a mere $3.99 for all the food you can fit into a Styrofoam plate and bowl. Baked goods, granola, and amazing popcorn (made with "herbs" that are addictive) are also sold for your home eating pleasure.

The restaurant is called Little Lad's Basket, which my friend Sara (not Farf-Sara, but another Jewess pal of mine) decided made it sound like a place that former Rep. Mark Foley* would enjoy visiting. Many moons have passed since I last ate there, but I decided to chow down before I went onto the American Numismatic Museum and tour the future home of the new-and-improved Museum of American Financial History. Although I have no idea exactly what I ate, it prepared me will to go look at money and homages to capitalism.

We** should go there sometime. It'll be fun.

*Remember him? He was the homophobic Republican who "championed" children who was caught hitting on a teenage page.
**This means any CUSS reader/vegan who lives in NYC (ahem, Des) or will be visiting.

Suzanne and Husband as Simpsons 'Toons

The Happy Couple

(Thanks to Suebob for the idea.)

Old School

The sun is shining and the weather is warm here in New York City. Finally, after bringing my roller skates (actually, my sister's roller skates because she took mine with her to Iowa) from my parents' house in Chicago to New York in January, I could lace them onto my feet and glide over the pathways of Central Park. It would be glorious!

Except that I haven't rolled skated outside in about 15 years. And there are a lot of hills in Central Park. Plus, while the pavement if not as bad as the scary roads in India, it isn't exactly smooth going. And I forgot how to break. And now that I am old, I am scared of falling. Not even five minutes into my skate, I was pretty sure I was going to fall and crack my head open and die. At the very least, I was sure that I was going to wind up in a full body cast.

Central Park actually has an area that is frequented by old school roller skaters. As I clomped in the grass down a hill along the lower loop road, I decided that it behooved me to head over there. It turned out there was some fundraiser going on in the main area where the skaters congregate, but some folks were skating it up on a flatter side path. I spent my time relearning the tricks of the trade (like stopping) as Led Zepplin played on my iPod. (If I were truly old school, I'd have my GE walkman thing that played cassettes. The cassette door fell off of it years ago in one of the last times I skated outside and tripped on a rock and went flying. It still worked though. Ah, those were the days when they built things to last, I tell ya.) Within 30 minutes I had some of my groove back.

Not that I didn't nearly fall and crack my head open a few times, but it was not terrifying and thus fun. I am excited to go back next weekend.

The Kindness of Strangers

It's not often that I have occasion to gawk at something really awesome that a perfect stranger does. Usually my jaw drops in disgust/annoyance/rage at people's rudeness/stupidity/asinine-ness. So it was an extra level of surprised delight that we discovered at dinner last night that the guy sitting at the table next to us in the restaurant randomly picked up our tab when he paid his own.

When I say "we," I mean Dr. H, Dr. P, Dr. P's friend Dr. A, Husband, Brother-in-Law, Future Sister-in-Law, Big O, and me. We had a big, delicious Cuban meal with lots of appetizers. The table next to us consisted of a party of three. They drank at least two bottles of wine. I actually worried at a few points that we were being too loud and annoying them. I guess not.

Upon learning that our check had been paid, we were amazed at how nice a perfect stranger could be. Unfortunately, they were long gone by then, and for the second Friday in a row, I didn't thank people who had taken care of me. Whoever you are (and at one point I semi-irrationally decided the man was Francis Ford Coppola), we send many thanks your way and feel humbled. Now it is our turn to do something good for someone.