The Census is Coming! The Census is Coming!

A white envelope waited for me when I checked the mail last night. In huge letters it said, "United States Census 2010." Excitement surged through my veins. Ooooh! The Census! Not only do I love filling out questionnaires (seriously), but I love helping New York get its fair share of resources.

I ran back into the apartment. "We got the Census form!" I told Husband, waving the slim envelope triumphantly in the air.

"Are you sure? It could just be a letter telling us that the Census is coming."

"Oh." Suddenly the tiny envelope made more sense. I ripped it open. It was a letter. In bold letters, it said, "About one week from now, you will receive a 2010 Census form in the mail."

Fine. I got all excited again. "The Census is coming! The Census is coming!"

I sort of hope that my enthusiasm for the Census will not be matched by people who live in states that don't believe in government services or civil liberties. I don't want them getting their fair share of representation if they are going to use it to deprive me of my fair share of rights. I'm just sayin'....

International Women's Day Was Yesterday

Basically, I have no idea what is going on outside of my little sphere of work and thesis writing. I thought today was March 8th, which is International Women's Day, and was all excited to write about it. I understand now that March 8th was actually yesterday. I'm going to say some shit anyway.

I wrote a post for BlogHer about 30 Woman Making History, a campaign by the Woman's Media Center to highlight, yes, 30 women making history while also raising some dough to employ women to write about news and politics. Good idea. I picked five women that I thought were making history (Shada [Shatha] Nasser, Eveline Shen, Sindiwe Magona, Shirley Rodriguez Remeneski, and Alysa Stanton). Links for more info on each awesome woman is in my post at BlogHer if you want to know more, and yes, that's my way of getting people to click over there. Whatever.

Today I read a post over at another awesome woman's blog, Suebob's Red Stapler. She quoted a not awesome woman blogger who said that equality is stupid because it is about fairness and we all know that life isn't fair. "Fuck that!" was essentially Suebob's reaction, echoed by all the excellent people who left comments on it.

One comment in particular stood out: "Vagina's are wasted on some people I swear." This was written by Thordora, who totally made my day.

And now, back to my day.

Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

Heads Up!

For a nanosecond, I wanted to scream when I stepped onto the subway on Tuesday morning. In a seat between two disinterested women lay a disembodied head, face down. Its black hair stood up at odd angles, and its brown neck was evenly sawed off from a torso.

I quickly realized that the reason that the women were so nonchalant about this horror was that it was a severed mannequin's head. Further inspection lead me to notice that the mannequin's little bud nose rested on a cosmetology magazine. The head seemed to belong to the woman on its right, who thoughtfully gave it its own seat so that actual humans had to stand.

At 42nd Street, the woman gathered her shopping bags, scooped up the head and magazine, and exited the train. I sat down in the seat formerly occupied by the lifeless head. I love living in New York City.

Heaping Piles of Seething Rage of Steaming Anger

Two years ago, my friend Sara and I were interviewed for documentary on abortion. I even put on make up and shit so that I would not look like a fetus-eating zombie on film, hence making the pro-choice side of what we were assured was a "balanced" look at the abortion debate look bad. Nope. I wanted to represent!

I never heard back from the motherfuckers. Not even, "Thanks Suzanne. It was nice of you to take time out to help us make a shitty documentary that no one will see." So when I discovered that the filmmakers actually did come up with something - and it is a scripted "dramamentary" about abortion in which the pretty blond white girl is treated like shit by nasty nurses in an abortion clinic and thus of course have her baby and all is good and - deep breath; this is an angry run on sentence/rant, sorry - the black girl who is raped and comes to NYC to have her abortion is saved by the nice white woman who hosts her through the Haven Coalition (which I was, at the time I was interviewed, the co-head of), I was mad fucking pissed. These douches could at least have had the courtesy to email me and let me know their shitty "unbiased" film (featuring a really cuddly 22 week old fetus in utero) that I helped them with was coming out. Or at least a "Lifetime"-esque trailer that befits a solid piece of filmmaking such as this was online for my viewing pleasure.

Oh. And I did I mention that this "balanced" film is executive produced by the guy who made that other even-keeled movie, Passion of the Christ, and the awesome Ben Stein movie about how "science" teachers who want to teach that evolution is all a lie are persecuted by baby- and Christ-killing Jews like me? Right. (CORRECTION: "The Passion of the Christ" guy is the one marketing this balanced film, although the exec producer is a right winger, too - "Hollywood's Most Powerful Christian," according to Christianity Today magazine. My bad.)

Of course, some of the documentary footage that these tools shot is in the film. (Hence the "-umentary" part.) The pro-choice people, according to the "LA Times," all get to say things like how fetuses are nothing more than parasites (which, sorta, is true, but unlike digestive parasites which make women thin, fetus ones make them fat - ewwwwww). I'm assuming (hoping and praying) that I didn't make the cut, but since this doesn't appear to be available to pro-choice audiences, I may never know. I think it's unlikely that I'm in it, since I said that people who supposedly are "pro-life" have killed a lot of actual people, and that they really scare me. Seems like something that a "balanced" film would not want to highlight.

When Worlds Collide

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

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

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

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

Jews Love Money

If every stereotype emerges from the tiniest kernel of truth, Husband gives the anti-Semitic crazies a good basis for their rants. Before I left to visit my sister in Iowa for the weekend, he gleefully announced that he would spend the weekend counting money. It was a moment for which he'd waited about five years.

Husband hates carrying change. He'd empty out his pockets at the end of the day, save up the change, then count it out and take it to the bank. He counts it because the counting machines at the bank notoriously undercount. Plus, I think it allows him to slip some old coins replaced by Euros into the rolls, but that's just my suspicion.

Anyway, I gave him a plastic parking meter bank for Hanukkah abut five years ago, and he's been patiently feeding it change since then. I guess the manufacturers thought whatever kid would use it would be too impatient to fill it, as it collapsed from the weight of the coins about six months ago. Since then, it lay on the floor as Husband faithfully inserted his change.




All told, he said there were over 3,000 pennies alone. The total was slightly
more than $600. I can only imagine what would happen if someone broke into our apartment and tried to steal Husband's bounty. It would be a loud and very slow get away.

Monster Trucks!

My sister's 30th birthday is Monday. Back before I remembered how bad winter is in the midwest, I decided that I would visit her over the holiday weekend and join her celebration. Living in New York has spoiled me. Sure, it gets cold here and snows, but this is kid stuff compared to what I grew up with in the Chicago area. I have become soft.

I expressed my fears to Dana. She told me to wear layers. I laughed. "It's 25 degrees here and I am already wearing a hat, scarf, down coat, lined mittens, tights, knee socks, leather boots up to my knees, jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater (and, of course, undies). I am still cold." She laughed. "Damn, you're a wuss."

And speaking of wusses, when she told me a few days ago that she would like to celebrate her birthday at a monster truck rally, I hesitated. Part of me was really, really, really excited. The other part feared the Confederate flag waving, pick up truck riding majority of the audience. I assumed that I had enough sense of self-preservation not to get into a fight with anyone, but who knows? I challenged a fucked up Jamie Kennedy at his own documentary. (Not that he was a threat, but it shows that when I feel insulted, I don't think before I open my mouth.)

However, excitement got the better of me, and I cannot wait! Not only does the show feature truck stars Killer Bee, Rislone Defender, Bar’s Leaks Eliminator, Storm Damage, "the ever so popular monster truck 'The General,'" but - but! - if we arrive early enough, we can take a family ride on a monster truck known as Bone Crusher. Fuck, this will be amazing. Bring on the monster trucks!

Now, if only my flight gets there OK, given all the snow, and equally importantly, gets me back on Monday...

Snowstorm, Revisited

I took this picture on March 2, 2009, but today is a similar day in terms of weather, and I love it so much that I can't help but re-post.



Wherever you are, I hope your day is filled with lovable mini snowfolk.

The Jamie Kennedy Experience

This story was told to me by Husband and Brother-in-Law. Although I have never done illegal drugs, nor have I ever even been drunk, I do not remember this incident at all.

In 2007, Husband, Brother-in-Law, and I went to see a documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival about stand up comedy. The film was done by the comic and actor Jamie Kennedy, who wanted to know why people don't find certain brands of humor funny. The first half of Heckler included many famous comedians talking about hecklers. The second part of the movie, however, focused on why critics hated Kennedy's movie, Malibu's Most Wanted. He hunted down critics and badgered them, insisting that they just didn't get it. (Husband said it was the worst movie he's ever seen at the Tribeca Film Festival, and I'm sure I hated it, but of course, I don't remember.)

Usually screenings at the Festival are packed. This one had only about ten people. Still, Jamie Kennedy came out after the movie to talk about it. Once Husband mentioned this part to me, I did recall that Kennedy was wasted on something. He heckled the audience. At one point, he asked us a question about what we find funny and why, and I made the mistake of raising my hand to answer it.

He did not like my response, whatever it was, and yelled at me. I yelled back at him. Apparently, we argued loudly for some time. Husband and Brother-in-Law found this hilarious.

I wish I could remember when I got into a verbal slam down with Jamie Kennedy.

I Married a Lunatic, Part 79

At lights out, I wished Husband a good night.

"I am concentrating now so I can dream about walruses," he replied.

"What? Really?"

"Yes, I want to know more about walruses, and the best way to understand large animals is to study them closely in your dreams."

A few nights before this, he explained to me that some unicorns are ugly. The public just doesn't know about them.

Freudian Slip

Before I went to my peer advisory writing group this evening, I attended a going away party for a friend at work. There were many inappropriate discussions about snatch, viewing porn on a BlackBerry, and women ogling other women. (Oh, how I adore my colleagues!)

The latest draft of my thesis, which is about how I inherited my Jewish identity and outlook on life through what was both spoken and unsaid by my grandparents' and father's Holocaust legacies, includes this line about a nighttime asthma attack I had when I was seven:

"I could almost taste the blackness as though an octopus has replaced the night air with its inky discharge."

We discussed the strangeness of the metaphor/image and why it worked even though it shouldn't. Then my friend asked what the plural of octopus is.

"It's octopussies," I said. Then I turned bright red and we laughed until it hurt.

Join Today!

Anyone who is 50 or older, whether they are working or retired, can join AARP for $16 per year. I know this because they sent me a membership card and requested that I send them my $16 check immediately to activate my exciting benefits as an AARP member.

I will say one thing: I look damn good for someone who is 50 or older.

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

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

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

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

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.

Time Vampire

Urban Dictionary's Word of the Day is Time Vampire. This is something that sucks away your time like a vampire does blood. I love, love, love this concept.

My thesis is a time vampire. Or at least it will be once I start working on it for real. My goal is to write 3-4 pages a day for the next two months, not including weekends for the most part.

Probably it is bad that I describe the writing of what I hope will be my next book as a time vampire, huh?

Breaking the Law Hurts

I hit my knee this afternoon while I was breaking the law. Now it hurts. I didn't want to break the law, but I was forced to when my monthly MetroCard pass stopped working and several the subway station clerks refused to give me an envelope to return it, insisting that it will work if I run it through the turnstile enough times.

It doesn't.

The good news is that it works in one turnstile in the station nearest my apartment, so I can get to work on time. The bad news is that it doesn't work in any other; all it says is "PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN." This would be fine if people actually worked in the stations and could buzz me through, but their jobs where eliminated, so many of the stations I use are completely unattended. When my card doesn't work, I have to jump the turnstile.

So this afternoon when I left work, I tried to swipe my card. I gave it a good five minutes before I realized it was not going to work. My initial attempt to duck under the turnstile (which worked well for me in Times Square on Tuesday night) led me to fall, partly because my backpack got caught on the turnstile. It was ugly. Fortunately, no one was around to witness me embarrassing myself. Then when I stepped over the turnstile, I banged my knee.

"Crime" doesn't pay, I guess.

Speaking of Fame...

Obviously, this photo is of the crowd of shrieking 12 year old girls who lined West 75th Street on Friday night, the police cars that escorted a black SUV down the street to the stage entrance to the Beacon theater, and Nick Jonas getting out of the SUV.

I passed by the mob scene on my way home from work and thought it was hilarious enough to stand around in the cold for a few minutes and repeatedly mumble, "Oh. My. God. It's the Jonas Brothers!" as other startled Upper West Siders made their ways home. The best part is that I didn't know it was Jonas-related, but decided that it had to be, given the situation. (I guess it could have been for Taylor Swift, but then maybe boys would also be there.) I was only partly right - the show was Nick sans Brothers.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, I was a 12 year old girl. The New Kids on the Block were the hotties of the moment. The female tweens would line up on cold streets and shriek for their heartthrobs, but I didn't really get it back then, and I still don't today. This weekend, Dr. P and I discussed our wonderment at the crazed desire that girls threw toward Elvis. (We saw a clip of an Elvis flick on TV and she commented that he was sort of chubby, even before he was Fat Elvis.) Maybe if I was a youth when the Beatles first journeyed across the ocean would I feel compelled to participate in such behavior. I'm such a dork.

My Stash

I sorted my stash tonight, and made a horrific discovery. One of my maintenance inhalers (Qvar) expired in October 2006. Even I'm not messing around with that - in the trash it goes. I also discovered that the sample of my regular inhaler (Ventolin) given to me in December by my allergist expired in June 2009. Harumph.

Ironically, earlier in the evening, while chatting with Dr. P on the phone, I discovered a jar of pasta sauce that expired in December 2007. It was unopened. Dr. P advised me to toss it. I put it back in the pantry. (It was unopened!*) I did, however, toss out the jar of pasta sauce that expired in June 2009, which seems to be a busy month for products to expire in my household. (It was half empty, and I thought I spotted mold in it, although it was refrigerated.**)

Fortunately, my 'stache stash is stocked and ready to rock the world, should I ever need a clever disguise or seven. Steph gave Husband a new extra long fake mustache and a mini mustache comb for the holidays. Between the asthma meds and the synthetic hair and glue, we are good to go.

*God, I am turning into my aunt. If I ever serve salad dressing that expired two years ago, then claim it is fine because it is unopened, I give the recipient of said dressing permission to slap me.
**There is hope for me yet.

My Mom's a Fruit Cake

"I've had a really hard time finding fruit cake at the store in the last few years," my mom told me on the phone last night.

"Um, that is because no one except you buys fruit cake," I explained.

She ignored me. "Fruit cake is the unfair butt of many jokes. It is delicious! Grandma likes it, too."

It takes one to know one.

Chopped Liver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Hanukkah!

Reading the Label

On my way to my bookclub this evening, I stopped at a Russian grocery store to pick up some treats. After browsing all the various candies, breads, crackers, cookies, and other baked goods, I settled on a package of what I thought were meringue cookies covered with chocolate. When I went to pay, I thought it would be fun to buy some candy, too. I picked up a package on the counter.

"What's this?" I asked the cashier.

"Oh, this is for something like make your stomach better digest," she said, struggling with her English.

"OK, I'll try them."

I paid and as I walked to my friend's apartment, I opened the yellow packaging. Instead of a chocolate bar or oat bar, I discovered four individually wrapped chewy chocolate bites. As I was chewing the third one, I realized it reminded a little bit of the chocolate calcium chews I used to eat years ago. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Didn't she say that these were for digestions? OH MY GOD. WHAT IF I JUST ATE THREE CHOCOLATE LAXATIVES?!?! Well, it could be an interesting book club, I decided.

Fortunately, I had not shit my pants or my friend's sofa or stunk up her bathroom by the time our bookclub ended. However, I discovered that the cookies were some strange fruity marshmallow. It was deliciously over sweet, like the relief I felt at not crapping myself. But lesson learned: don't fuck around when you can't read labels!

A Deadly Sin

In the last two days, I read four things* that lead me to a deadly sin. Oh, envy! How it rears its big ugly head up and makes me covet the talents of others. As I said to two of the writers, "It's like penis envy, only real.**" Yes, I want their tools. Maybe this is also a violation of a commandment, too - do not covet thy neighbor's literary skills.

*Two stories at school; The Scenic Route by Binnie Kirschenbaum; and a blog post by AV Flox about jizz as an anti-depressant whose conclusion I disagree with, but loved the writing anyway. Unlike the prior sentence, which is a good example of very bad writing.
**Sorry Freud, but I'm not buying your sexist crap. He'd probably like the study about how precious pearls of cum prevent women from being depressed that Flox wrote so well about...

More Butt Humor, Butt (ha!) Not Gross

While Dr. P was in Vermont with her family, she noticed a product at a general store called "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder." We watched two hilarious ads on YouTube for this excellent product, which I thought I would share:

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Jogger

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Biker (as in motorcyclist, which is even better than bicyclist)

I hoped to embed the short videos in CUSS, but no codes for embedding were available. Boo. Well worth clicking on, and safe for work!

Speaking on work, my first day at my new job is tomorrow. I'm nervous, but excited. I wish I had not down enormous quantities of Indian food last night, though, as my stomach doth protest. I need to quash the rebellion ASAP if I want to continue to have a job after my first day. No one wants to work with a gas bag.

What We Saw at a Bus Stop in the West Village

Warning: This is likely the most disgusting thing I've ever posted on CUSS...

As Steph and I strolled through the West Village this afternoon, she pointed out all the things that had changed since she moved. One of new arrivals is fancy bus shelters. We walked up to a glass and metal bus structure, and Steph gasped.

"Do you see what I see next to the bench?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

"That's a dildo."

"With shit caked on it, yes."

Brilliant Analysis of "Socialized" Medicine

I met Laurie Penny earlier this year while she was visiting New York City. She is just as brilliant in person as in print. I fell over laughing when I read her take on British health care at The Huffington Post:

My partner suffers from a joint disorder which requires regular operations, paid for by the British NHS. His most recent procedure was performed without anaesthetic by a drunken surgeon wielding a rusty hacksaw. As I forced a mouldy rag between his teeth to stop him screaming, an official wearing Nazi insignia burst in and informed us that limbs were not considered an NHS spending priority, so dirty chisels were employed to remove both his legs and one of his arms. My partner is now a triple amputee, and I am forced to prostitute myself for heroin to numb the pain of living in an Orwellian super-state. God save the Queen.

This decidedly made-up story is hardly more ridiculous than the lies that Republicans have been peddling about the NHS all week.

The rest is very serious and wise and required reading. (I would only add that if she were to fall pregnant tomorrow, NHS would offer her support for bringing the pregnancy to term, as she notes, or for terminating it.) Great job!

What Happens in London, Goes on My Blog*

As always, London was brilliant. I am sadder than ever that Husband's potential job in London fell through last summer. I so adore it.

My flight landed a bit early on Thursday night, customs was empty, and the tube came almost right away, so I arrived at my friend Mara's doorstep around 9 pm. We hung out with another friend of hers, then went out to meet a crowd of randy Brits for drinks. (I even had a Pimm's, which horrified the experienced drinkers, as they informed me, "Pimm's is a summer drink." However, they were even more horrified to discover that otherwise I rarely, if ever, imbibe.)

Friday, Mara and I hung around her neighborhood until the afternoon. Then we had fish and chips at The Golden Hind in Marylebone (which is the neighborhood Husband and I planned to move to before the deal fell through). On the way, we walked through a festively decorated passage:After eating, we decided to eat more, and went to Borough Market, where I saw pheasants for the first time:I also ate many samples of cheese and the most delicious custard tart ever ingested.We then wandered around a bit, then called it a day and had dinner at her flat. (Mara is an amazing cook.)

On Saturday, we headed out early to try and eat breakfast at Gordon's Wine Bar, which is thought to be the oldest wine bar in London, and literally is partly in a cave. However, it didn't open until 11, and we were planned to take a walking tour at 10:30, so we dived into a little cafe instead.

The walking tour was excellent. I learned about the installation of London's sewer system after the summer of "The Great Stink," when the Thames was so rancid that members of Parliament could not open their windows. I also learned that the Waterloo Bridge was built by an all-women crew, since the men went off to WWII. Shockingly, it still stands today:I mean, who'd've thunk that women could do construction 'n' shit? Sigh...

I also got a brilliant shot of the original Scotland Yard from the 5th floor terrace of Royal Festival Hall, which is a great public building in and of itself:
(It's the reddish brink one.)

Next, we went through an area revitalized and operated by the Coin Street Community Corporation, a community development group. The organization does affordable housing, social services, and commercial space. I have no idea what all this carved wood was about, but I loved it:The whole thing once again made me sad that a) I didn't move there, as I would love to work for an organization like that; and b) that I won't work in community development directly with my new job. Oh well.

Finally on the walking tour, I loved this collection of M. Potato Heads in someone's arched doorway:Mara had to work on Sunday, but Husband came into town for work, so I spent the day with him. We headed east to see an exhibit of works by Sophie Calle (totally brilliant) at the Whitechapel Gallery, then beigels with salt beef (aka corned beef) at my favourite bagel place in the world, Brick Lane Beigel Bake. On the way to the gallery, we passed the smartest store awning ever: Husband loved that the banner above it advertised a weight loss clinic. Down the street, we saw:Full (from beigels, not Tubby Isaacs jellied eels), we headed back to the fancy area near our hotel, stopping at Selfriges Department Store's Really Really Great Garage Sale, which took place in the car park. I am honestly not sure what the hell it was - lots of random junk on tables, and some women kept trying to get me to buy a word process for 5 GPB - but it did have, uh, reindeer:
And that was my whirlwind weekend in London. Yes, I cried on the tube as I headed toward the airport on Sunday night. The good news is that Steph is coming to stay with me this weekend, so that will be fun. It's always easier to come back from a trip when there are other good things to look forward to.

*For the most part...

Best Cartoon Ever Revisited

Years ago, I wrote a post about a "game" called "ookie cookie" or "cum on a cookie." Basically, guys stand around in a circle and jerk off onto a cookie and whoever finishes last has to eat it. I profess to not understand males in any way, shape, or form. There are so many things that are wrong about people who would engage in such an activity.

Anyway, in response, my friend Mar sent me the greatest cartoon ever:



I am committed to republishing this cartoon every once in a while because I find it so fucking hilarious. Enjoy!

NaBloPoMo

November is National Blog Posting Month. I missed the Nov. 5 deadline to submit my blog as an official participant, but my goal is to blog daily anyway. My trip to London this weekend and my upcoming visit to my family in Chicago over Thanksgiving weekend may prevent me from achieving my goal, but whatever. I'm not on the blogroll, so I won't feel too bad about it.

In 2006, I volunteered as a NaBloPoMo blog reviewer. I was assigned to look at the participating blogs whose titles began with the letters H,I,J,K, and L. That was, uh, fun. If I wasn't so lazy, I would click on each of the blogs that I linked to and see how many are still around. Initially I was going to say that the best part of doing the reviews is that I "met" Eddie from Chicken Fat as a result, but I just realized that is not true. We met through some humor writing contest thing.

While I looked over my NaBloPoMo reports, I enjoyed the writing that I did in Nov. 2006. That was the month I issued my request for more information on Jewish pussy, which I deemed necessary because so many people came to CUSS while googling that term. I wanted to know what on earth they expected to find when searching for "jewish pussy." I still get comments on that, much to my enlightenment and amusement. (I think it is my most commented upon post, actually.)

November 2006 - good times!

Living in Outer Space

As noted in previous blog posts, my memory is shot. I re-write entire stories, I forget birthdays and anniversaries (CUSS hit the four year mark on Oct. 19), and alternatively I believed that I was both 32 and 34 this year. Yesterday I had the ultimate space out day.

I woke up late, but was still tired and remained groggy while eating breakfast. While reading the newspaper, I drifted back into sleep. In hindsight, I think this was when the aliens focused their suction beam on me, but they were thwarted in their morning efforts to kidnap me when my friend Sara called and woke me up. She popped over for what was supposed to be a way to kill 30 minutes before yoga class, but turned into a morning chat fest that ended when I walked her to her noon appointment.

At that point, I was supposed to hop on the subway and meet my friend for lunch downtown. Instead, the aliens seized the moment and sucked me into space. Next thing I knew, it was 3:30 and I checked my BlackBerry life-organizing machine for the first time that day. Boy, did the aliens fuck me up! Still, I felt horrible missing my lunch date, and called my friend.

When I begged for her forgiveness, I left out the part about the alien abduction and took full responsibility for my pathetic inaction. But I'm not sure which is scarier - the fact that I let an afternoon pass and have no idea what I was doing during that time, or my wish that aliens abducted me so I could have some explanation for my spaciness.

Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females

A few days ago, as I walked home from Harlem, I passed a Gothic-looking building on Amsterdam between 104th and 103rd St. I knew it was the New York branch of American Youth Hostels, but noticed for the first time a little sign on a porch indicating the building's historic value. I climbed the stairs to get closer. I nearly fell down laughing when I read the header, "Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females." Wow, I would never be allowed in there! I thought.

The New York Historical Society explains that the organization:

Started in the fall of 1813 as a small association of women, the Society for the Relief of Indigent Respectable Females was formally established on February 14, 1814 in New York City. Intending to provide charity for a class of society they felt was neglected, the Society raised money largely through private donations to supply gifts of clothing, small stoves, and food for elderly women living in poverty. The Society was created out of religious obligation to a Christian ethic and continued to remain very close to the Christian faith throughout its history.

The sign on the building, though, specified that it was founded to help widows of soldiers felled in the American Revolution and War of 1812.

Setting aside the qualifications of widowhood, elderliness, and Christianity, the building would not have taken me because I have lots of opinions and voice them. It seems that respectable women are still not supposed to do that. Oh well.

NYC Marathon

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

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

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

Happy Halloween

This Frankenstein cookie tastes as good as it looks. (Seriously, it was a good Halloween treat. I ate three of them.)

Mmmrrrgggaahhh (scary monster noise)! And don't forget to set your clocks back!

The Republican in My Apartment

I am not biased against all Republicans. In fact, I realized that I live with one. It was a little bit of a shock at first, but I sort of even adore him.

How did I figure out that there's a covert Republican in my household? I evaluated his key personality traits:

1. He is greedy. If offered a piece of candy or raisin, he gobbles it down without thanking the giver, as if he is owed the treat. Then he expects more and turns his back if additional bribes are not provided.

2. He makes messes and does not clean up after himself. However, he seems to be a moderate Republican, as I am not subjected to hypocritical griping about how other people need to take more responsibility for their actions. He just expects me to clean up after him.

3. His situation in life is inherited. He does nothing all day, yet lives a very nice lifestyle, thanks to other hardworking members of society who provide for him.

4. He seems to like the Yankees. (This is not definite proof that he is a Republican, as I know some excellent old school New Yorkers who are liberal and root for the greediest corporate welfare team in America.) While I watched the play off games, he emerged from his space and joined me a bit. He never did this when I watched Mets games in the past. Everyone knows that the Mets are the team of the people. (Yeah, losers like the rest of us chumps, but I digress.)

Here he is doing what Republicans do best, which is mooching off hard working, honest people after sitting around all day doing nothing to earn their keep:

Tycho is cute, though. And since e can't help his small-brained natural instincts for survival, I forgive him.

I Hear the Secrets that You Keep

Someone recently blogged that this song was stuck in her head (Count Mockula, I think?), but apparently I don't have to close my eyes and go to sleep to blab my lame "secrets." No, a low grade fever, a medium dose of insomnia, and a high level of rue for something stooopid I did, combined with Facebook status chatting, is all it takes. Last Thursday night/Friday morning, I confessed to my 7th grade (possibly part of 8th grade, I get confused about timing) crush that I liked him back in the day! Ooooooooooh.... (No, it wasn't "Arnold" from Always. I feel like such a slut. Ha! That's sadly about as slutty as I get - overlapping school crushes. Oy vey iz mir!)

Whatever the case, I sat at my computer blushing like an idiot. (Or maybe I was flushed from fever? It was not a super high fever, just a smidge above 99, although for me that's a bit higher than it is for others because my usual body temperature is 97.5 or something low like that. Husband says it is because I am a cold-hearted bitch. He is hilarious, no?) You know what's funny? For a second, I was actually sad when he didn't say that he had also had a crush on me. I had kinda believed, back in the day, that my crush was not unrequited. Like, this was over 20 years ago, but I still took it as a rejection.

On a related note, earlier in the week, I tried quizzing Husband about his junior high days to "get into the head of a 13 year old boy" so I could maybe fix up my young adult novel. He hesitantly submitted to my questions:

Me:"Did you go to junior high dances?"
Husband: "No."
Me: "Why not? Weren't you interested in them?"
H: "Yes, but no one would dance with me because I was a loser. Do I have to talk about this? I prefer not to relive those days."
Me: (Kissed him on the head) "Well, this cold-hearted bitch would have wanted to dance with you."
H: "Thanks."

Yeah, junior high just sucks.

Where Husband's Money is Going

An email exchange:

> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman

If it makes you feel better, New School was just ranked by "Poets & Writers" magazine as the #3 nonfiction MFA program.

Nah, it doesn't make me feel better, either. :)

--

[Husband@husband.com] wrote:

The accolades are piling up. I hear "Delaying Reality" magazine ranked
New School's MFA program quite highly as a top place for trust fund kids
to cool their heels for two years.


> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
>
In that fine publication, Columbia ranked even higher, though.

---

[husband@husband.com] wrote:

Yes. And I was only talking about MFA programs. In the review of all
graduate programs, "Delaying Reality" ranked 327 law schools before the
Columbia MFA at #328.

> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: Re: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman


I have to disagree with that analysis. Certainly, law school buys more time for trust funders before they have to enter the real world, but at least most people graduate law school with some sort of job, even if they hate it and abandon it a few years later to get an MFA.

PDA

No one gave me the memo, but based on graphic anecdotes, yesterday was PDA Day. By PDA, I sadly am not referring to Personal Digital Assistants, like my BlackBerry. Every day in New York City is that PDA Day. It's impossible to go anywhere without someone walking into you because he or she is texting while walking down the street. (Guilty!)

Rather, yesterday seemed to be Public Displays of Affection Day. But really it was EGPDA (Extremely Graphic/Gross Personal Displays of Affection) Day. I have only two examples, but I am certain they were part of a wider trend that I missed by staying home all day and watching Top Chef re-runs to recover from whatever stomach bug had me in bed and on the toilet all day on Tuesday. (As an aside, I do not recommend watching "Top Chef" or other food-oriented shows while you are eating toast, bananas, and Jell-O and starting to recover your appetite. Just saying.)

I ventured out at 7 pm to go to class. Still a little weak from lack of food over the last 36 hours, I took the only seat available when I got on the subway. Unfortunately, this was directly across from a couple sucking face. Literally. I might have been part of some horror movie scene in which it seems like a couple is making out, but really the girl is some sort of face eating monster-bot. They did not stop for air once between 72nd Street and 42nd St. The groaning and swaying were over the top. Of course, this happened to be the time I had nothing with me to read, so I had no idea where to look. I tried staring at the bag on my lap, but that didn't stop the pleasure noises from invading my ears. At any moment, I thought the girl was going to unzip the guy and give him a blow job.

Then, as I walked home from my subway stop after school, I encountered another couple going at it. They stood right in front of the Jewish Community Center, vacuum suctioned onto one another's mouths. The man was feeling the woman up right on the corner!!! Unlike on the subway, I noticed two other people pointing at the lovers and laughing.

People, have you no sense of decorum? How bad is it when I, a person who writes about throwing brown acidic stomach contents through my nose, am the arbiter of good taste? Yeesh. New Yorkers, go back to your BlackBerries and clueless and antisocial wandering!

Truth or Dare

Two new chapters are up at Always. I must have been drunk with words as I typed them up, as I could not stop hiccuping. The force of the hiccups jerked my head and hands each time, so there are probably more typos than usual or intended. (I'm copying exactly what's in the notebook, so the punctuation is not great.)

Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)

When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.

Quote of the Month

Yes, I know it is early in October, but it would be very hard to beat out this excellent wisdom, as gleaned from my friend Dr. H's Facebook feed:

"Mustard don't change the word"
--significant other of a patient in response to her concerns that his sandwich was dripping onto the open Bible in his lap

My Subway Pervert

Usually after class, I join my classmates for drinks and bonding at a restaurant/bar near school. I happen to loathe the gathering spot, as the waiters seem to count the second from when we walk in the door to when we will leave. Nothing makes me feel more like socializing than an ancient waiter in a red coat throwing my overpriced Diet Pepsi at me and demanding payment the second the mini bottle hits the dirty reddish table cloth. The free snacks do not make up for the general nasty atmosphere.

On Monday, we went elsewhere, and while I now fear that I misled the waitress about my interest in her, at least no one yelled at us or forced us to keep ordering as we chatted into the wee hours. Despite our positive experience, the group headed back to the crappy restaurant bar. I decided to go to a wacky open mic event instead.

The event was still going strong when I slipped out at 12:30. I could barely keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I did not have to wait too long for the subway. I sat toward the front of the train, reading a magazine. A few stops into my journey, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone with grey-ish colored jeans walking rapidly toward me.

The woman sat in the seat on the bench next to me. What the fuck? I thought. The entire car was empty. What was wrong with this asshole? Then she pressed her thigh against mine.

It took me a nanosecond to decide that this was bullshit. I didn't even look at her. Eye contact seemed like an invitation to chat. I got up, walked out of the car, and re-boarded the one behind it. I had just settled down to read again, when the jeans reappeared. Fuck fuck fuck!!! I knew I shouldn't wear a dress that was so low cut. Now I have stalker.

The woman sat down on the same bench on which my ass resided. I looked over at her. It was my friend T. from school. I burst out laughing, as did she.

The Accidental Encounter

After class last night, my compadres and I went to a bar. When we arrived, a tired-looking waitress testily sat us at a table. Slllllllooooooowwwwwwly, she brought us our drinks. No one minded terribly. She looked like she had had a long day.

She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.

At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.

"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.

I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."

"I'm an actress."

"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."

"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."

"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.

Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.

The Two Star Review

There are sixteen reviews of my book about unusual things to see and do in New York, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, on Amazon.com. Fifteen of them rated the book with five out of five stars. (I am humbled and honored!) In the wee hours of this insomnia-filled night/morning, I discovered a two star review:

This book is much more suited to people who live in New York or know the city very well. If you are new to the city is not a good way to get accustomed to the city, as the book doesn't really lay out general information and most of the attractions in the book are very odd.

The first part of the comment is probably true. The second part is definitely true, as it is a book about unusual things to see and do in New York City. The subtitle is, "New York City's Best Unusual Attractions." Amazon's description includes lines like, "Off the Beaten (Subway) Track is the first book to focus on the hundreds of off-the-beaten-path destinations in the city," and "These are the types of places and things that fit perfectly with New Yorkers' psyches and egos and satisfy the desire of tourists to see the unusual." Given these cues, I am not sure what else a reader might expect. Mission accomplished.

Honestly, there are some potentially excellent reasons to give it two stars. I find it hilarious that it was rated poorly because it delivered exactly what it promised to deliver. It's almost one of those compliment/backhanded insult situations. So, if you are thinking about buying a copy of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, I hope you will not be disappointed that a book about unusual things to see and do in New York City focuses on places that "are very odd."

Remembering the Nutjobs on Election Day

The Democratic primary is today in New York. I am relieved. There's not one candidate that I am actually interested in supporting, but at least the junk mail will stop. For the last six weeks, my mailbox filled with campaign flyers. Between Husband and me, we received 12 to 15 pieces of candidate crap every day.

Then again, at least these candidates are not insane. When I received my voter's guide from the New York City Campaign Finance Board (my second employer after college!), one of the mayoral hopefuls submitted the following answers to the Q&A:

1. WHAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ISSUE IN THE CITY YOU WOULD ADDRESS IF ELECTED? RENT Is Too Damn High there is nothing else to talk about. All poor people are being ran out of New York.

2. WHAT OTHER IMPORTANT ISSUES WOULD YOU ADDRESS IF ELECTED? RENT is Too Damn High there is nothing else to talk about.

3. WHAT MAKES YOU THE BEST CANDIDATE FOR THIS OFFICE? I am a Rent Activist with real solutions to the High Rent Crisis that is driving out of this City. That is what makes me the best candidate for this job.

Rent is too damn high for most New Yorkers, but maybe this is not someone who really should be in charge of anything. He's not the first "single-issue" candidate to run for mayor in New York City, either. In the 1997, I sat through a debate in which one of the mayoral candidates proposed clearing out the South Bronx and building a new Disney World location. He felt that it was critical to do so to increase tourism. Uh huh.

I'm off to the polls. As Husband likes to say at moments like this, vaya con pollos.

Survey on Grooming Habits

I found the following message in my in-box:

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

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

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

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

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

A Conversation with My Father*

I called my dad. "Did you get the paper yet?"

"Yes! There's a color picture of you on the fr-"

"I know!!!! It's horrible! I can't believe how bad it is!"

He sighed. "I think you are too hard on yourself."

"That's true, but seriously, this is a bad picture. My friend Suebob said that I look as if I had a terrible accident involving my neck." I cackled. "But now no one is going to want to hire me because they'll think I have a disability that they'll have to accommodate! I'm screwed."

"Well, I'll always love you."

"Thanks, Dad."

And that is the last I will say about this awful picture. It is almost ironic that I am obsessed with how I look in a picture attached to an article about how terrible it is that young girls have to struggle with body image.


*Big nod to Grace Paley, whose essay of the same title we read in lit class last year. My lit prof thought it didn't work, but I adore anything Paley wrote. If she wrote a limerick on the back of a cocktail napkin, I'd find it brilliant.

Noodles

Husband and I joined a group of friends and family in celebrating our friend Dr. F's son's first birthday. Our other friend Maria arrived before we did, and was waiting for the festivities when the evening's entertainment, Noodles the Clown, arrived in civilian clothes.

"Oh, no!" she said when she realized that Maria was with the party. "You didn't see me like this!"

"No problem," Maria replied. "Your secret is safe with me."

Noodles leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Later, I will change genders and species."

"Uh, oh. OK." Maria said, wondering what exactly this clown had in store for us.

Turns out that she changed from Noodles to Mickey Mouse, back to Noodles (to perform a birthday rap with a beat circa 1985, sort of like my mom likes to do at family functions), then to Elmo, ending the night as Noodles. It was as exhausting as it sounds, and a good time was had by all.

Alli: Causing a Real Shit Storm

Cross-posted at BlogHer:

Filed under "Who Didn't See This Coming?:" The US Federal Drug Administration (FDA) is investigating reports that alli, the only FDA-approved nonprescription weight-loss drug, caused liver damage, according to The Washington Post. (Man, if that sentence wasn't a mouthful, I don't know what is. Except, of course, that people using alli can't have a mouthful because of how alli works, but more on that later.) While there is no conclusive link, more than 30 people using alli and Xenical, its stronger prescription sibling, were hospitalized with liver issues between 1999 and October 2008.

OK, so people using alli (pronounced like "ally" - clever, no?) can really eat a mouthful, just so long as said mouthful doesn't contain too much fat. This is because alli "works" by stopping a person's body from absorbing fat. Anyone remember Olestra and "anal leakage" side effect? Yeah, it's like that. But worse. Basically, if you make a mistake and consume too much fat while using alli, you will essentially shit yourself. I'm sorry, there's no nicer way to say it. What distresses me about alli is that a lot of people (especially women, who alli is primarily marketed towards) are so desperate to be thin (and also continue eating what they want to) that crapping their undies is a better option than, god forbid, being overweight. (And let's not confuse overweight with healthy because they are often very different things. Certainly someone who is thin but uncontrollably poops through her thong is less healthy than someone who is overweight but can control her own bowels. Plus, studies have shown that what people we consider "overweight" are actually healthier than people considered a "healthy weight", but that's another story.)

BlogHer Health and Wellness Contributing Editor Catherine Morgan blogged about alli back in July 2007, noting that 1. FDA approval of the drug concerned her, as many drugs get approval and then are shown to be unsafe; and 2. "Limiting your fat intake per meal WILL facilitate weight loss, even without a pill that gives you diarrhea. She also pointed out that the only way to sustain weight loss is through a healthy diet. For these excellent insights, she was raked over the coals by some commenters. (Several claimed that people who eat too much fat - whether on alli or not - are at fault because they have no willpower or self-restraint. Another person demanded that she present her medical credentials for making such a ridiculous argument. Seriously.)

Although I clearly am irritated that people would attack Catherine's scientific, evidence laden post, I understand why. We live in a world we are pounded day in and day out with messages about body acceptability. We are also bombarded nearly 24-7 with ads selling tasty foods. At the same time, busy schedules, socio-economic pressures, and other issues may preclude people from having access to fresh foods, the time to prepare meals, and ways to exercise. These are not excuses, they are realities. And the reality is that drug manufacturers take advantage of our insecurities by selling us miracle pills to make us thin. Is GlaxoSmithKline, the distributor of alli, any better than a snake oil salesman peddling his wares from his wagon at the turn of the century? No, both sold people easy access to things that were and are just out of reach.

I'm not going to lie: I'm no more immune to the pressure to be thin than anyone else. No matter what I look like, I always think I am fat, except for a period of time about seven years ago. I had been having various digestive issues for almost a year and seeing a gastroenterologist, when one day I came home from work and needed to use the toilet maybe more urgently than I ever did in my entire life. When I was done, I was horrified to notice orange grease floating in the toilet. (As this is a family blog, I won't describe what else was in it.) For the next six months, whatever I ate slid out of me undigested like it was a vat of Olestra. I lost a lot of weight, quickly. And despite the fact that I was becoming nutritionally deprived, smelled from gas, had constant cramps, and my ass hurt from the amount of wiping I needed to do every time I used the bathroom - and I mean every time I sat on a toilet, something very bad came out of me (TMI, I know - sorry) - I liked how I looked. At least I liked how my body looked in a tight pair of jeans. My face looked like a zombie because I was seriously ill.

Many unpleasant tests later (for details, see Part I and Part II, but warning: it involves collection buckets and a refrigerator), no one understood why I naturally produced the as-yet-uninvented-alli, and I was warned to be very careful about how much fat I ate. The bottom line is that not digesting fat is really, really unhealthy. That's why I am not surprised that alli may cause liver damage.

Why I Love Barney Frank

According to a NY Times op-ed blurb, a crazy bitch (classification mine, not the Times at a town hall meeting hosted by Rep. Barney Frank screamed at him about why he supported President Obama's "Nazi policy." Rep. Franks replied, "On what planet do you spend most of your time?"

Cackle. Seriously, though, it is about time someone started standing up for common sense.

Well, Do They?

It's been months since I played the game where I look at my blog stats go through the list of how people who visited CUSS got here. When I looked at the referrals yesterday afternoon, a nestled among the usual suspects (unshaved, Jewish pussy, kosher pussy, hairy pussy, etc.), there was a real head scratcher.

I turned to Husband. "Hey, listen to this crazy search. Someone came to my blog by googling, 'do orthodox jews put carrots in an entryway.'"

Husband glanced up at me from the newspaper. "Well, do they?"

I suppose the question is better than the direction I originally thought the question was taking, unless "entryway" is a euphemism.

Three Adjectives

My friend decided to join a dating site. One of the many irritating tasks to complete her profile involved filling in three adjectives to describe yourself.

"What do you think of whiny, judgmental, and anxious?" she asked me.

After I picked myself up from the floor of the Indian restaurant (I had fallen off my chair laughing - almost not an exaggeration), I told her that I thought it was brilliant. "It's honest - although I do not think you are whiny - and intriguing. It seems like only people who get it, and thus get you, would respond." (Incidentally, I initially suggested that she use generous, intelligent, vibrant. OK, I actually said zestful, but she pointed out that sounds like a soap commercial, and just thought of vibrant now. Lively could also work. I still sort of like zestful, even if it is sudsy.)

Then I thought about what three adjectives I would use to describe myself. I realized that I would have to steal two out of three of her words because they are so true for me - judgmental and anxious. My third would be petty. I could substitute spastic or stressed for anxious and mocking for judgmental if I was forced to, but anxious and judgmental are just so perfect. Obsessive could also be a good choice. (If also forced to choose three positive ones, I would opt for entertaining, wonky, chatty.)

I hate ending blog posts by posing a question, but what three adjectives would you choose?

At MoMA

Rebecca and I went to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) on Tuesday. Thanks to my $25,000 tuition at the New School, we saved $20 on my admission and $12 on Rebecca's and got in for free when I showed my school ID card. If that's not a bargain, I don't know what is.

We wandered aimlessly, and came across a work by Carroll Dunham, which depicted square objects that looked like trees, monsters, or robots with shooting penises:


For a few minutes, we were stunned.

"When I went to museums with some other friends, I used to play a game we called, 'Can I make, too?'" Rebecca said. "I think the answer here is yes. It looks like a doodle made by a fourth grader!"

"Nah, I think you don't give him enough credit. I say an eighth grader. Fourth graders might not draw so many penises."

We continued through the museum, coming to a room with white walls and black writing on it. The art project is to have a museum staff person measure your height and record it on the wall with your first name and the date. The swirling black writing concentrated in the range on 5'3" to maybe 6'00" looked like a swarm of angry bees against the stark white paint. This was pretty awesome, Rebecca and I agreed.

Ah, modern art. I scratch my head (or laugh) at most of it, but then something really connects with me.

Passing the Steamy, Hot Crotch Test

The streets of New York sizzled under the beating sun this afternoon. Humidity enveloped anyone foolhardy enough to walk around in a blanket of steam-room air. Sweat dripped from brows, armpits, and other bodily areas.

It was in this weather that I decided that I did not want to pay $2.25 to take the bus to my doctor's appointment. "It's only a mile," I reasoned. "I can walk on the shaded side of the street." I allotted plenty of time to saunter over there.

By the time I arrived at my new gynecologist's office (thanks for the referral, Dr. F!), my underwear were soaked through. Since I was 30 minutes early, I hoped that would allow me to dry out in the overly air conditioned office. Better yet, maybe he'd run late. While I waited, I pondered how much I would hate being an OB/GYN on a day like today.

Fortunately, before he performed the exam, the good (and wise) doctor brought me into his office to go over my history. We chatted about the Mets. (They are dead to me this season, by the way.) I told him about my exciting medical history - the PCOS, the undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment, the breast reduction surgery - and he wrote it all down. We discussed about my increased risks for uterine and breast cancer and diabetes. He complimented the friend who referred me to him, and we remarked on how crazy it is that her son is already turning one. Thanks to all the talk, I even had enough time to get cold and put my cardigan on. This was good.

When the time came to do the dirty deed, the doctor did not pass out. He didn't even make a face. At the end, he said that everything looked normal and that he'd see me next year. Whew.

Girl with the Doody Earring

While there are many good things going on lately, I remain frustrated by how the apartment renovation is proceeding (it's moving forward and looks great, but if the contractor changes the plan one more time and then acts as if it was my idea, I will strangle him) and last weekend my bubbe had a stroke while visiting my sister in Iowa. She's fine, but things were very complicated because she is a demanding and irrational person under the best of circumstances, and these were far from it. Hence, quality sleep evaded me every night this week.

During one of my wee hours of the morning awake sessions, I sat on the fancy new toilet, fiddling with my earrings. When I dropped the silver ball that I wear in my cartilage pierce and I heard it clink on the dusty floor, I got down on my hands and knees and searched. I couldn't find it. I figured that it was because I had no sight enhancing apparatus on, so I fetched my glasses from the bedroom. Still nothing.

A sinking feeling occupied the pit of my stomach. I lifted the lid to the toilet and peered in. There sat my earring. This would be no big deal except that I was using the toilet when I dropped my earring. Also, I had recently lost another small earring that I wore in my cartilage pierce in the shower, and a search for a replacement yielded nothing suitable other than the little ball I already owned. (It seems that super small earrings are not in right now, even for little kids.)

I pondered the dilemma for a few seconds. Should I perform a deep (dirty) water rescue? If so, would a rubbing alcohol bath for the recovered treasure be enough to prevent my from contract e. coli through a hole in my ear?

I really did not want to walk around with a hole visible in my ear when I had a job interview, so I took a deep breath and reached in. So far, I'm not suffering any ill effects. Husband, however, may want to think twice before nibbling on my right ear.

Paraphrased Quote of the Day

"A Republican can't enjoy a meal unless he knows that other people are hungry."
-Mary Karr, The Liar's Club

(I forgot to bring the book to my exile at Cosi, so as soon as I have both the book and internet access in the same place, I will update this into the Quote of the Day.)

God, I wish that I could come up with lines like that!

Back in Action

Although I rescheduled my interview for this afternoon (excited and nervous!), I was a fucking wreck yesterday. Frustration, lack of sleep, and the mess that I arrived home to triple teamed me into a crying blob of jelly. I attempted to clean things up a bit, napped for a few hours, then showered. I feel much better today.

I didn't take many pictures at the BlogHer Conference, as I am not very good at photography and I always forget to take out my camera. I ride the coattails of my friends. However, I did get a few snaps (in random order):

Laurie of LaurieWrites and Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad at Thursday's reception.

Gorgeous view of the Chicago River from my filthy hotel room.

The plastic beaver cream cheese knife that Suebob of Red Stapler gave me - a beaver spreader!

With Pam Mandel, travel writer extraordinaire, of Nerd's Eye View at Thursday's reception.

Moi, Count Mockula, Maren, and Suebob graced the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile with our loveliness on Friday.

Carmen (whose blog I forgot - sorry!!!) and I tested out the bathtub of the Presidential Suite at the CheeseburgHer party on Sat. night. It passed my rigorous requirements for spectacular views, but I swear was a bit dirty.

With BlogHer co-founder Lisa Stone at the CheeseburgHer party. (If I look tired, it is because of my crazy partying at the Playboy party on Friday night. OK, OK! I confess: there was no Playboy party. We invented it to compensate for not being invited to any sponsored parties and make people jealous...)

Laurie Kingston of Not Done Yet; Virginia DeBolt, techie extraordinaire, of BlogHer; and Maren at dinner at Gino's East of Chicago on Saturday night. (Maren and I each had 1.5 slices of deep dish pizza, then foolishly each ate a cheeseburger at the following CheeseburgHer party. On a related note, may I add that my interview pants are tight today?)

Even if I was functional yesterday, I could not have uploaded these jewels of fun until today, as I have no internet access in my apartment right now. Another casualty of the renovation. I really hope the damn thing is over before next year's conference in New York...

Dirrrty Conference

Our first night of BlogHer, Maren noticed that a pillow on our bed appeared to have a moldy pillow case. The bathmat had a crusty orange substance on it. I called reception, and the woman told me that housekeeping would be by with fresh linens. We waited and waited, but not one came, so we just cast aside the offending items and went to sleep.

Then last night Maren and I discovered that there were mold-like splotches on the sheet, in addition to what might have been a make up smear. Our top sheet was so threadbare we could see through it, even in the sections that didn't have holes. Maren's "new and improved" pillow case had three holes in it. (Suebob's bedding was fine.)

Continuing on our dirty theme, but in a more fun way, the three ladies of 3011 realized that our lack of invitations to exclusive unofficial BlogHer parties freed us up to attend the early evening soiree at Playboy headquarters. (You know how it is - Hef tires out so easily these days!) The swag was fantastic - bunny ears and puffball tails, crotchless underwear and peekaboo bras, and vibrators. We mingled with the likes of George Clooney, Adrien Brody, Daniel Craig, and Matt Damen. It was so fabulously exhausting that we could hardly stay awake during the otherwise delightful Sparklecorn party (complete with unicorn cake).

The only party that will be more exclusive will next year, when the conference takes place in NYC in early August. The Party in My New Bathroom* will include the most select group of bloggers and other fine individuals. I feel bad for Hef, but I don't think there will be space for me to return his favor.

*Assuming the fucking renovation is even finished by then, but that's another story.

My New Beaver Spreader

I forgot to bring my furry little beaver to BlogHer this year. However, my friend and roomie Suebob rendered the stuffed animal moot: she gave me a plastic cheese/butter knife shaped like a beaver. (Right now, I am unable to upload the delightful photo.)

Now I can ask people to take pictures with my beaver spreader!

My Next Career

Another Monday, another America's Next Top Model Marathon to entertain me while I'm on the treadmill. As I explained to my dad, it is the perfect show to watch while my brain is deprived of oxygen.

Perhaps the oxygen issue led me to decide that I have a future as a model. I realize that there are several barriers to achieving this new career:
-I am too short.
-I am too "fat."
-I am too old.
-I think too much. (The ANTM contestants are always yelled at for this sin.)

These industry biases, however, will not stop me from climbing to the top of a niche: the cheekbone model. Yes, I shall become a cheekbone model. I have excellent bone structure and decent skin in my small face that can be exploited for close shots of cheekbones.

I shall be rich!

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.)