Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

It's in the Mail

On the Greyhound bus down to DC this weekend, I finished reviewing the proof for my book. From the bus stop, I ran over to Kinko's (a place that inevitably screws up any photocopying that I need done, and did not exceed my low expectations on Friday, either) and made a copy. Then I hit the post office and overnighted the manuscript. When the postal clerk asked me if the packaged contained anything fragile or hazardous, I replied, "Only my ego." She nodded and asked, "Do you need insurance for that?"

The Sniff Test

"Where ya been?" I asked Husband when he walked in the door a few minutes before 12 last night. I knew he had a business dinner, but usually they don't last until midnight. (Although to be honest, I barely noticed what time it was because I was hustling to finish editing my book proof before Friday, and due to extremely poor time management, am mad behind schedule.)

"After the dinner, most of us went to a bar," he replied, leaning over to kiss me.

"A bar, huh? Was it in a strip club?" I inquired, joking. On the extremely rare occasion when he had to go to a strip club with colleagues, he left almost immediately. If they really went to a strip club, he'd have been home by 10:00. Plus, he wouldn't hide that he did. Instead, he'd discuss the club's profit margins. This is why I adore him.

"No! We did not go to a strip club!" Husband said indignantly as he headed to the bedroom to change. A few minutes later, he re-emerged in the dining room, where I was still sprawled out with the book and my laptop. "You coming to bed soon?"

I stopped what I was writing and looked him up and down. "Come here," I said and pulled him toward me. From my sitting position, my head was exactly at crotch level. Before he knew what was coming, I took a deep whiff. "Nope. Doesn't smell like a lap dance."

He swatted at my head. "Back off!" Then we laughed, and I packed my things up for the night.

Beavers are Funny!

(Many thanks to Woman with No Regrets for sending me the link yesterday. Updated: Click here if the picture doesn't show up automatically.)

Actually, it was extra hilarious to get the cartoon when I got home yesterday evening because I had a beaver run-in of sorts on the subway while I was on my way back from work. The train was relatively empty until we pulled into 96th St. (Not too many people are commuting into Manhattan from the Bronx during the evening rush; I love reverse commutes!) When the doors opened, an overwhelmed mother tromped on with her three kids. The youngest one, who was about 5 or 6 years old, sat down next to me on the bench. Almost immediately, she reached out for my backpack and grabbed the little stuffed beaver keychain that I have clipped to the side.

I was quite taken aback at her brazen grab, but she was utterly transfixed by the critter. This is not entirely surprising, as it really is a cute little brown teddy bear that some demented manufacturer turned into a beaver by sewing a beaver tail onto its butt and sticking two mini white buck teeth under the snout, so it is definitely odd looking. Eventually, her mom asked her to stop touching my things, but by then I had turned to the girl and told her that she grabbed my beaver friend.

"How do you know what it is?" she asked me, eyes open wide. Her sister, who was about 10, snickered, although I think just in general and not at the double entendre.

"See his two big teeth and big flat tail?" I asked. She nodded vigorously. "That's how you know it's a beaver. Beavers need big teeth so they can chew through trees and use the wood to build their homes."

"Oh..." she intoned. More giggling from Big Sis.

"Um, honey," the mom said with a bit more urgency, "Can you please leave that woman's bag alone?" She made no move to enforce her request though, so the girl continued holding the beaver in one hand and petting him with her other one.

"Mom," the older girl smirked, "what do you call the houses beavers live in?"

"Dams," Mom replied warily.

"I thought so," daughter giggled.

By then, we pulled into the 72nd Street station, and the young beaver lover, her karate uniform clad eight year old brother, her giggly sister, her mom with no status as an authority figure, me, and the beaver exited the train and went our separate ways. It's always nice when you can educate a young mind about the wonders of beavers.

The Legendary Mall of King of Prussia, PA

Until I was old enough to get a real job, I relied on babysitting to generate some cash flow, but it wasn't my preferred way to earn dough for my mall excursions. In much the same way I looked forward to putting my charges to bed so I could be free to watch TV or talk on the phone, I was eager to get a real job and start contributing to Social Security so I could retire. Even before my first job, I knew that working sucked.

A few months before I turned 16, I registered with the Village of Wilmette's youth employment program, WilWork. (And now that I write that, it makes me think of the propagandistic names for welfare-to-work programs, which is creeping me out, but I digress.) One of the employment notices WilWork sent me (through snail mail! Man, them's days were primitive...) was for an office worker at Chiron Publications, a Jungian psychology publishing company. It paid slightly above minimum wage, was right off the public bus line that went by my high school, and seemed like a far more interesting opportunity than working at a fast food joint - or babysitting. I called immediately to set up an interview.

Long story already too long, I got the job. My duties were too process orders for their various bizarre-o titles, type up invoices in triplicate (seriously!), package the books, and send them to the buyers. Many of these orders came from a bookstore located in the King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania. This was one of the largest malls in the country, and I became fascinated with it. "Some day," I thought to myself gazing out of the office window at the el station across the street, "I shall visit this mall, and see what riches it offers."

Years passed. When I became friends with Steph in college, who originated in PA, I learned that the King of Prussia Mall was every bit as fantastical as I imagined. Yet I still did not visit. Until today, when Husband and I are taking Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and motoring out to meet Steph in the Promised Land. She said we will eat in various food courts and gaze upon wondrous quantities of merchandise. It'll be a dream come true.

Setting the Medical Community Straight

"Suzanne, listen," Bubbe intoned when I called her this evening to see how she felt after her routine cataract surgery yesterday, "the doctor told me that I got diabetes from depression when Michael died."

Michael was my grandpa. "No, Bubbe. Depression doesn't cause diabetes," I explained.

"Yes! That's what the doctor told me. That's how your dad and I got diabetes."

"Um, I think you may have misunderstood what he was saying," I suggested.

"No, he told me this."

"Depression does not cause diabetes," I insisted.

"No? Well maybe the doctor doesn't know this," she said. I pictured the look of smug satisfaction on her wrinkled face, and gave in.

"Whatever you say."

Grow a Happy Bunny

My mother-in-law gave me a Grow a Happy Bunny toy when I was at her house for Passover on Saturday. (How I love that little innocent-looking asshole rabbit!) Thanks to my gutter-mind, the instructions make me fall down laughing:

"It will begin to grow within 2 hours and will be full size in 72 hours. When removed... it will slowly shrink back to its original size. Your grow item can be grown again and again! For Entertainment Purposes Only. Not for consumption."

Sounds just like the instructions for Viagra during its testing period!

I Shot the Sheriff

But I did not shoot the deputy.

This is the kind of wackiness that may or may not take place at a cooking party thrown by Hot Pot, my brother-in-law's new business. Husband says that I look just like a sheriff from the Wild West. I am so going to invest in some Wild West Sheriff Gear and kick off my new career as a drag king. I believe that I have truly found my calling.

Whatever Floats Your Boat

"Where you going with that magazine?" I asked Husband as he walked down our small hallway holding a Business Week.

"I'm putting it in the rack in the bathroom," he replied.

"Oh, so that's what you jerk off to in there!" I teased, while nodding in a serious manner. "Makes sense."

Now That's the Life

I love that Tycho, our 13 lb. rabbit, no longer even bothers getting up before he eats. He just lays on the floor and cranes his neck into his food dish. We should all be able to take it so easy.

Misused Penis Cream Can Lead to Big Fingers

The good thing about watching too much reality programming on TV is that the ads are exceptionally worthy of mocking. First, I tore into a Bounty ad depicting a woman wiping up a jizz-like substance from a door mat. While my initial criticism was aimed at the fact that the woman cleaned up spilled pop while her lazy husband and son stood around staring at the mess one of them made, in the back of my mind, I wondered how the hell a puddle of splooge wound up on the door mat. Thanks to a Maxoderm ad I saw yesterday afternoon, I now know.

Maxoderm is a cream that supposedly gives guys bigger dicks. The couple in the ad beamed and grabbed at each other as the husband boasted that his wife bought Maxoderm for him. She then leered at the camera, purring about what a BIG difference it's made. Wink, wink. They practically cum on the spot.

Now, why this guy is not insulted that his wife would give him such a product is beyond me. I think it would hurt his feelings as much as it would if he bought me cream to make me grow bigger tits. When I asked him what he would do if I gave him Maxoderm, Husband claimed that if I bought some for him, he'd first smear it on his finger to see what would happen. "If it fell off, I'd know not to use it," he told me, nodding.

However, I learned from the Maxoderm site that the results would not be the same on a finger as a penis. Why not? Because, "A relaxed penis has less oxygen than any other organ." If that's the case, can you imagine how big Husband's finger would get from his experiment? It's be crazy. He could poke an eye out from across a room; steal a purse while at the other end of a subway car. I could boast to every that my husband has the biggest... finger. Amazing!

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

"I'm thinking of having my book party at New York City Fire Museum," I told my mom on the phone tonight.

"Really? Will there be one of those calendar firemen there?" she inquired.

"The space does come with a retired firefighter to show people around."

"Can we ask him if we can slide the fire pole?" she asked innocently.

"Why don't you ask him in a sleazy way?" I laughed. "I'm sure he'd love that."

My mom laughed so hard she could barely talk. "No, I'll have Grandma ask that in a sleazy way."

Since we both know that she would do that, we nearly laughed ourselves into asthma attacks.

Best.Gynegology.Practice.Ever.

Steph is visiting her grad school stomping grounds in Chapel Hill, NC these days, and called me with some urgent news.

"Hey!" she yelled into the phone when I picked it up. "While I was eating at Mama Dipps, I saw the greatest t-shirt."

"Yeah? What's that?" I inquired, turning away from a rerun of Law & Order.

"It said 'Cooter's Garage,'" she chortled.

"Hmmm... next time I need my engine repaired, that sounds like a good place to go," I replied.

And that's when I realized that if I were an OB-GYN (like my friend Dr. H), I would so name my practice Cooter's Garage. Services offered on all models.

Proper Storage of the Juices Extracted from Grapes

At the wine tasting birthday party I attended last Saturday, the sommelier was very clear about the proper way to store wine: away from heat. Of course, this is logical, but Husband and I have kept our collection of extremely inexpensive wine (no bottle under $12!), underneath a excellent turquoise leather chair that we obtained at a street sale for $25. This chair is right next to the radiator that pumps out large quantities of steamy, hot air from approximately October to May. One day we may get around to installing the $10 wall wine rack we bought at Ikea in January, so I wanted to preserve the moment.

What is important to me about our current system for storing the juice extracted from grapes is that it is almost identical to that implemented by my parents when I was growing up. We always bought gallon cans of generic grape juice (white label with black stencils reading "GRAPE JUICE"). These cans were then carefully lined up against the kitchen wall, underneath the table. Inevitably, several cans were stacked next to the heating vent. My sister and I swear that those batches of juice were extra-pungent.

Continuing family tradition is important. Just as I am sad that my parents no longer buy large cans of generic grape juice and store them next to the heat, I will miss our heated wine cellar in New York. As for visitors to my home, until we break with tradition, I suggest carefully inquiring as to the storage status of the bottle if I offer you a glass of wine.

Enter the Time Machine with Me!

Husband's flight back from Nice was not due until late last night, so I decided to wander around the damp, but pleasantly warmish, city in the evening. Driven by cravings for chocolate covered caramel popcorn, I violated my principals and wandered into Times Square. (Ever since luxurification hit my neighborhood, the fancy popcorn store lost its lease - along with the vegetarian restaurant and the wacky dish shop - so that some ginormous fancier eatery could take over four store fronts, and the only remaining popcorn shop is on Broadway and 48th Street.)

Times Square is an area to be avoided at all costs. Not because it is criminally dangerous (at the popcorn store, I discovered that I had been wandering around with my backpack open and my wallet in view of everyone, and no one touched it, which I think would not have been the case even 10 years ago), but rather because it is packed with tourists. Now, there is nothing wrong with tourists. I love that they come to New York in droves and stay in hotels with very high occupancy taxes, go to shows, eat at restaurants, and buy things, thus helping to fill our dwindling city coffers. However, I hate that they don't know how to walk. It's not their fault. People from other parts of the country drive everywhere, so are not used to it. Since Times Square really belongs to the tourists, and I hate mowing them down while I try to get where I need to be, I do my best to avoid Times Square.

Still, the craving was overpowering, so after walking in the street to avoid the throngs of people casually standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I get to the popcorn shop. A woman is ordering at the counter. Three other women are standing in the middle of the store, not quite in line, but not clearly not in line either. I get behind them.

"Ew, it smells like popcorn in here!," shrieks Woman #1 as she covers her face with her coat.

"What's that buzzing noise?" Woman #2 yells as a batch of popcorn signals that it is ready to be removed from the giant popping vat.

I decide that they are not, in fact, in line, and move around them to stand behind the woman paying for her package of deliciousness. She leaves, and I move up to the counter.

"Wow, she means business!" Woman #3 casually reports to her friends behind me. "She just walked right up to the counter and ordered!"

"Yes, because that is what you do in store," I wanted to inform her, but instead purchase a single serving of chocolate covered caramel popcorn. (This is a new product, which I get to avoid overeating, but unfortunately it is pre-packaged and not quite as good, so the craving is only 3/4 as satisfied.) I leave to walk home and catch the Mets game.

The game is slated to start at 7:30, and I flick on the TV at 8:15. Mets are tied to San Francisco, 2-2. I don't notice what inning it is until Billy Wagner, the Mets reliever, comes on in the 9th when the score is tied 3-3. This is odd because it is only 8:54. How the hell did the game move so fast?

I keep watching, screaming at the TV when bad shit goes down and clapping when Wagner strikes out the side. Then the Mets are up, and Paul LoDuca hits a double. Now I am really confused. Paul LoDuca is no longer with the Mets. What the fuck is going on here? I check out the Mets home page. It says that due to heavy rain, the game against the Braves in Atlanta was canceled.

Yes, I'd been watching a re-run from last summer all along. I'm not sure how the "UltiMets Classics" logo that flashed every time there was a commercial break did not tip me off to this, but my cluelessness strikes again. Lesson learned: Times Square can lead to time warps. I must remain alert.

The Price is Right, But Who Cares?

Between running down to the basement to do laundry and vacuuming, I'm half-watching The Price is Right. My sister and I utterly adored this show when we were kids. As interactive viewers, we were not content with merely shouting advice at the TV's contestants. We also pretended that we were related to them.

"Bid $600 on the washing machine!" we'd yell at little white haired ladies. "Yay Grandma!"

Today, I'm not nearly as involved. It helps that Drew Carey is not such an inspiring host. In addition, it occurred to me a few years ago that most of the prizes are complete fucking crap that no one needs, and most likely does not even have space for in their homes. One of the Showcase Showdown packages included a cafe-style cappuccino machine and a spa/whirlpool thing that seats 4-6. The pudgy guy who was forced to bid on it managed to look excited, which I think likely makes him an excellent actor. Cast that man in a TV show or movie, pronto! That man has talent!

Watching The Price is Right back in the day when Plinko was new, my sister and I dreamed of someday attending the show. Now I know this will never happen. Even if I did get on, there is no way I could pretend to want a grand piano. The producers likely try and avoid contestants who would make faces, and say, "No thanks," although I think California law allows game show winners to take the cash equivalent instead of the prize. If that is the case, I'd jump up and down, shriek, and giggle. I gotta pay to do my laundry some way, you know. ($11.20 for four loads!!!)

"The Onion" Speaks Truth

Every so often, I complain about how my gentrified neighborhood is rapidly becoming luxurified. Last weekend, while Husband was surfing the net for goodness knows what, he discovered that our zip code is now the 5th wealthiest in the nation. (The first four are all on the Upper West East (thanks, Anonymous commenter!) Side, including where Dr. P used to live, which sort of surprised me, as there is public housing near her old apartment. Come to think of it, there's also public housing in my zip code, so I guess the wealthy are so over the top rich that they dwarf the outlying poor residents on the bell curve, but I digress.)

Anyhoos, the humeros newspaper The Onion, which I have adored since my senior year of high school when I read a gut-busting article on the failure of pet vending machines (the inventor couldn't figure out how to fix the machine so that the pets weren't already dead when someone bought one), has a great take on luxurification. Check out Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened by Aristocritization. Totally.Fucking.Brilliant.

And I Thought I Am Tall

Recently, I discovered that my brother-in-law's wife is shorter than I am. This discovery engendered a minor identity crisis because I have always been the shortest person in my in-law family. All these years, I thought I was short, but really, I am a tall short person. How distressing to live with such self-delusion for so long!

Anyway, while on holiday with my sister and her husband, I encountered two objects that made me feel slightly better about my situation.


This literal giant was housed near the giant penis armor of Henry VIII. (That made me feel small, too, by the way. Maybe I should pay more attention to all those spam emails I receive with offers to help me grow my penis larger...) Even with my hiking shoes, my head only floats a bit above the 5 foot mark.


Further, when a chocolate rabbit at Herrod's is about my height, what's to complain about? If Dana were not leaning in to take a bite, I think they'd be about the same height. I could literally eat my height (if not weight) in chocolate. Yum.

If Good Things Come in Small Packages, Keep Me the Fuck Away from Henry VIII

If my memory serves me correctly, this is Henry VIII's armor. I love that he had extra protection for his prized body part.

Another Failure to Chalk Up

I thought that finding my lost bra was a sign of good things to come, but it turns out that I missed my chance to be the hottest of the hot bimbos. What's up with that? Life is cruel.

What Once Was Lost Was Actually Hiding in My Closet

This morning as I dressed for work, I selected a very nice white button down shirt with pink and black stripes. I'm not sure when I wore it last, but as I withdrew it from my closet, I noticed a white bra looped around the hanger.

"Hmmmm... what's this?" my addled mind puzzled.

I stared at it for a moment, decided to wear it, and as I was removing the mysterious lingerie from its wire home, it hit me: this was the (expensive) bra that I lost that led me to go on my quest to buy (even more expensive) new bras! Hallelujah! It's a miracle!

I slipped into its warm embrace. The bra feels very nice around my rib cage - no squeezing. If today isn't my lucky day, then I don't know what is.

Yeah, I Did Ask That

Here's a recent conversation I had with a friend I hadn't seen in ages:

Me: Hey! How are you?

Friend: I'm really happy! Things are going so well. I started seeing someone.

Me: That's awesome. I was wondering about that, but I didn't want to ask. I thought it would be prying, and I didn't want to ask anything inappropriate.

Friend: We started dating about a month ago.

Me: Soooooo... is he circumcised?

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably because she is used to me)

Me: Yeah, I just realized how wrong it is that I felt uncomfortable asking you if you were dating someone, but not what his penis looks like.

Friend: (still laughing uncontrollably)

Me: I can't help it. I have this weird obsession with uncircumcised penises. I don't know why, but they fascinate me.

Friend: Well, I haven't seen it yet anyway.

Me: Right. It would probably be wrong for me to ask you to report back once you do, wouldn't it?

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably)

While I was replaying this conversation in my head, I thought about what a great GEICO commercial spoof this would make. (You know, those commercials where they hire a "professional actor" to dramatically repeat the story of the actual GEICO customer?) Fred Willard or Sarah Silverman could totally play me. Hilarious.

Cheers!

I think this might be the longest I have gone without blogging since I began CUSS two years ago. (Although possibly I went longer when I visited my friend in the middle of nowhere in the Dominican Republic in Dec. 2005, but in that case, there was no technology at all. This time, the internet access cost way too much.) Time has flown, and I barely noticed that I haven't touched a computer since Monday evening. Life can go on without blogging! Craziness!

Adventures began on Saturday evening when I was forced to put my New York skills into practice and kill a roach on the plane. The bastard popped up on the empty seat in front of me just as I settled in for the evening meal. Somehow, no flight attendant noticed as I chased it around with a folded newspaper, smashing and smacking up and down the row. It evaded me at first, but about two hours later, I took my victory by crushing it. I could finally sleep.

After that, things were calm. It was great hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law, whose 29th birthday was yesterday. As I mentioned, the week just happened so quickly. I've got lots of good pics to come, including one of a shop called the Bung Hole.

Hope all is well with everyone. I'll be back to my usual Chatty McChatterson state of being upon my return on Sunday. (I'm sure you are waiting with baited breath. Ha.)

Beware the Words of Shakespeare

Double double boil and trouble, the Ides of March are upon us. Friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your years, for I have a tale of woe. If brevity is the soul of wit, then unsex me now so I may accomplish my goal. (OK, that sort of made no sense, but run with me here.)

"If music be the food of love, play on," I thought to myself when I woke up with a hungry look this morning. I headed into the kitchen and while microwaving a mug of water for tea, I thought I should do some dishes and put the dry ones away. "Out damned, spot," I mumbled as I took a gander at a tea-stained mug.

As it is important to rotate the stock so that the same dishes don't always go on the top of the stack and be reused over and over again while the ones at the bottom never see the light of day, I lifted a stack of plates and shoved the clean ones under them. Alas, poor Yorick, this caused 10 little plates to fall.

Hath not a Jew eyes? Yes, and that is why I nearly wept at the broken dishes and shards that covered the kitchen floor. Two plates, gone. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Out with the vacuum while the tea sits getting cold.

(Wherefore art thy Romeo? I didn't want him to come into the kitchen barefoot, lest I missed some sharp pieces. Oh, yeah. He's in Europe for work, not coming back until tomorrow. By then, I'll be away with my sister and brother-in-law, so get thee to a nunnery! At least until we are reunited on Sunday the 23rd.)

When the hurleyburley's done, I finally settled down to eat a chocolate Vitamuffin, a dish fit for the gods. Can one desire too much of a good thing? As I greedily ate the muffin, I managed to smear chocolate everywhere - on the table, the newspaper I was reading, and on myself. As good luck would have it, this mess looked repulsive, but was easy to clean. I went on my merry wives of Windsor way, and so the day goes.

Et tu, Brute? May you have an excellent Ides.

Ouch! Now That's Funny! Ouch! Hilarious!

It takes a great storyteller to make me laugh while a method of torture prohibited in the Geneva Conventions (well, not specifically prohibited, but it fits in with the other methods that are, so I think it is covered) is deployed, but Average Jane sent me a link to a story about a Brazilian wax gone horribly, horribly wrong at Money in a Suit, and I laughed my ass off as I read it. (I also crossed my legs and hunched protectively over my crotch, all while giggling.) The Monkey in a Suit is a fine comedy writer.

While I am not knocking women who choose to undergo Brazilian waxes, I still can't help but wonder whether it is worth the pain. Obviously it is to some, otherwise they wouldn't pay people good money to pour hot wax in their cooter, and I've heard from many women who I very much respect who feel better with a shiny waxed snatch, so I sorta get it. But I also really, really hate unnecessary pain, and really, it seems far less painful to just leave the damn hairs there. My friend Mara did once point out that too much pooter puff could possibly get tangled up or accidentally get yanked while grabbing a tampon string to unplug oneself, thus causing unpleasant ouchiness, but I'm willing to take that risk. Trimming seems reasonable, and also does not carry the potential danger of skin being ripped out, burned, or bruised. (I guess there's a small chance one could get cut, but that my advice would be not to trim while drunk, high, or distracted on the phone to lessen that possibility.)

Pubic hairs strike me as peaceful bystanders in a beauty war. (Again, I do not mean to dis women who hate body hair for whatever reason. I get that you don't like it, just like I don't like how moisturizer feel heavy on my face.) They are just minding their own business, listening to their boss (the body), and suddenly, bam! Hot wax is dumped on the unsuspecting village of fuzz. Craziness.

My Daytime TV Diet

So Des reports that she subsists on a steady diet of game shows while she is unemployed. While I wait for people to call me back on the various projects that I am working on, I devised the following menu of non-online entertainment:

America's Next Top Model reruns on VH1 and MTV

Project Runway reruns on Bravo

America's Best Dance Crew reruns on MTV

From these fine programs, I learn many things. First, Husband's assertion that fashion designers are misogynists is obvious from watching the shit that the designers produce and judges fawn over on Project Runway. The leading designer, Christian, is a young punk who fails every challenge that requires him to work with a real woman (i.e. - a woman who lost weight; a teenage girl) instead of a 9 foot tall model who weighs 84.5 pounds. Even when he doing his "best" work, I stare at it and wonder why any person on earth would wear something that fucked up and weird. I guess fashion is about making women look like fools and idiots.

On America's Next Top Model, I learned that Tyra Banks is hilarious. I also discovered that I will never be a model for several reasons that go beyond my 5'1" frame that carries 125 pounds. My biggest challenge is distinguishing expressions. Tyra is always demonstrating the difference between something like "smiling eyes" and "mysterious eyes," but they look the same to little old me. Further, even if I had the body, looks, and skills, I doubt I could put on the ridiculous outfits that designers create without severe mockery and snickering.

Thanks to America's Best Dance Crew, I discovered that I do not use complementary expressions like, "That is sick!" or "That's tight!," nearly enough. I also saw that my roller skating and gymnastics skills could be developed more. There are no wider social implications from this show, as far as I can tell. It's just fun.

Who says that television is not educational?

Yogurt Review #3 - The Greek Gods Do Poseidon Proud

While I think it is good to review yogurt and pudding on CUSS, it occurred to me that some food snobs might not want to read a yogurt review on a blog that has "Snatch" in the title. I've been rejected from ad networks and syndication before because of my blog title, and I decided not to compromise CUSS. Hence, from now on, yogurt and pudding reviews will appear at Live Active Cultures, which I hope will evolve into a group blog. (HINT, HINT...)

Just in case you don't feel like clicking over there for today's thoughts on The Greek Gods plain nonfat yogurt, I thought I would share an image with you from the company's website:


They named the yogurt Poseidon, and put up a big wacky image full of pictures of the yogurt cup and the nutrition info. How can you now want to know more about what a yogurt named for Poseidon tastes like?

CUSS Readers: Brilliant and HiIlarious

Just so you know, I wrote a rambling post over at BlogHer about the evils of douche, which we explored over here at CUSS back in October. Since I thought your comments on that post were exceptionally funny, I included them with links to your blogs. Feedback on the BlogHer post indicates that you are all brilliantly insightful. Thanks for being so awesome! Don't you think there should be an official blog reader appreciation day?

This is only the most recent event this week that reminds me how lucky I am. On Wednesday night, I found $40 on the sidewalk. Yesterday, Husband found out that he is getting a very nice bonus from work, which made me feel less bad about spending $2.69 on a carton of siggi's icelandic skyr yogurt. (But, damn, that is a fuckload to spend on a single yogurt!) Today, I am celebrating how cool it is to connect to such awesome people through blogging.

Personal Pooter Preference*

Yesterday I received an email from a guy who requested some CUSS stickers. (Yes, they are still free, and I would love to send you some, too.) I could not stop laughing when I read his concluding statement: "Spent too many years hoping to see a beaver's pelt to want to see denuded or coiffed like a formal garden or worse." Awesomely hilarious description.

Theo and the Lankees*

My trip to Sacramento included a historic meeting between Count Mockula's Lankee friends and my loyal bear companion Theo. The Lankees are super stylish (man, their wardrobe is impressive!) and surly little dudes who hilariously blog at Lankeeland Wire and live with Count Mockula and Mr. Count Mockula. Zigmund is seated in the front, Mo is next to Theo, and Ignatius is on the couch on the left. (Theo once sort of had a blog, too, but I suck and have neglected his desire to become America's Next Top Model for over a year now.)

Although Mo initially threatened to kick Theo's ass (Lankees are nothing if not violent), he backed down when informed that Theo was at least twice his size. Theo is a peaceful bear, but he will rip heads off when necessary. Fortunately, the guys were able to enjoy watching soccer and had a good time together.

*Wouldn't that be an awesome band name?

Working for a Living*

Since I quit my job in October 2006, I've been pretty busy with all the projects that I cobbled together. I consulted for several different agencies, including a big half year project for a city agency; I freelance wrote and my work appeared in several magazines; I sent out proposals for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York; and most importantly, I got a publishing contract for the book and finished writing it. These days, however, the work is drying up. I decided that I needed a consistent part-time job around which to anchor any new projects. (Plus, a part-time job would be good in the event that I am admitted to an MFA writing program in the fall...)

Last week, I had what seemed to be a fantastic interview. The salary sucked, but I liked the program enough to overlook it. I was feeling optimistic until yesterday at 5:00, when I received an abrupt email informing me that they are unable to offer me "a position at this time." As I left the interview, they told me they would call me back for a follow up with the agency poohbah, so I wonder what happened. I'm not gonna lie - I'm disappointed.

However, when one door closes, there's always a window to jump through in the event of a fire. Yesterday morning, I threw caution to the wind and gave in to the daily ad I saw on Craig's List for "PAID EXTRAS, TV & MOVIES, NO FEE, NO EXP, LICENSED AGENCY." I figured it was a crock of shit, but why not go to their open interview for kicks? I even gussied myself up with some make-up for it.

The whole "interview" took 42 seconds. A nice young woman called me into an office, asked me what I did ("I'm a public policy consultant," I told her. "Wow, that must be gratifying!" she replied. "Not really," I said cheerfully. "It's generally horribly frustrating."), then requested that I read a paragraph.

"Do you have acting experience?" she pleasantly asked me when I finished.

"Obviously not," I wanted to reply, but instead said, "Uhhhh... no."

"Well, that was very good," she said, and handed me a card. "Call this guy back tomorrow."

Long story medium, I called back before I began teaching a class on budgeting this morning, and was shocked that they asked me to come back with some headshots. My big hope here is that I can be cast as a dead body on one of the Law & Order series that are always taping around Manhattan. I'm practicing my "dead" look, just in case.

This is totally hilarious. I'm very curious to see what happens next, although I figure once my headshot is done (which I plan to use for my writing "career," too), there will be limited opportunities for a short, average weight, tired-looking Jewish hag. Still, the story I've gotten out of it so far is pretty good, so what's there to lose but my dignity and last remaining shreds of self-esteem?


*Sorry. I hope that you don't have the Huey Lewis and the New song stuck in your head now as I do.

Something's Rotten in the State of the Union of My Refrigerator

Did anyone bother watching Bush's State of the Union address last night? I can barely bring myself to think about it. The rancid stench emanating from anything that fool says just turns my stomach.

Speaking of rot and turning stomachs, there are few things that I hate more than wasting food. The fact that fresh veggies go bad so quickly is one of my primary reasons to avoid buying them, or so I tell myself. On Wednesday I bought some chopped bell peppers and forgot to eat most of them until today. They were slightly slimy, but I couldn't bear the thought of throwing them out and wasting $2.49, so I dipped a few in hummus and nibbled away. Husband hates when I do things like this, noting that we can afford higher quality food, but I'm pretty sure they were just on the verge of going bad, so why not eat?

While I slurped down the peppers, I justified my actions by noting that at least I don't serve bad food to guests. The chance of a run-in with something long beyond its expiration date is a real risk when dining with my aunt. When you ask her for some ice to put over the spot where the mold on your bread just punched you in the face, she becomes indignant. "It's fine!" she'll hiss at you. "See? The swelling is going down already."

Sometimes I wonder if I am really my aunt's kid, and she gave me to my parents to raise. My aunt insists that my 20 year old cousin is just like me. This means that I feel sorta bad for the poor kid, as I am quite a spazz, but she's a good writer and a passionate advocate. I hope that I'm like her (or vice versa).

Lingo

Here at CUSS, we strive to bring you the hard hitting investigative reporting. Whether exploring the dyfunctional relationship American promotes with working women or understanding douche scents, it's all the news that's fit to print, at least by my standards, anyway. Oddly enough, my standards for news items don't seem to interest a very large audience. Of course, this is because most people aren't very smart or interesting, but that is another story that I often explore under the labels "Asshole idiots" and "What is wrong with people?"

Anyway, the point is that I feel lucky to have found a select group of people with whom I can have good discussions. So imagine my surprise when I read Stephen King's column in last week's Entertainment Weekly and he randomly referred to a blogger who called King a "douchenozzle." The use of the word douchenozzle in a popular national magazine excited and inspired me, as back in October, I deemed it my new favorite insult (sort of - I liked douche pipe, but same thing). I promptly then forgot that it was my new favorite insult, but happily the delightful Count Mockula and this mystery blogger are keeping the term alive. I pledge to follow their shining examples and call asshole idiots douchenozzles rather than the routine douche bag.

Now if I can just remember to also say, "beavers suckle beavers" instead of "fucking shit" or "gee whiz," I will be on my way to implementing a new lingo for myself. Take that, William Safire (retired On Language columnist and conservative douchenozzle)!

Find the Commonality

What do the following book titles have in common?

Basic Statistical Analysis
Clinical Endocrinology
Lesbos
Technical Woodworking

Well, they all share a shelf in a bookcase in the super's office of my building. Obviously.

I noticed this during a meeting. Fortunately, it was near the end of the meeting, as I could barely stop myself from laughing aloud as I wrote the titles down to share with the blogosphere.

File It Under: Overthinking

Many moons ago, I noticed that CUSS got many hits from people searching the internet for jewish pussy. Ever the curious little monkey, I posted a request for information asking those individuals who came upon CUSS as part of their quest to explain what exactly they believed they would find in their search. I expected no answers, but horny anonymous folks continue to take the time to leave responses to my question. Here's the latest comment:

I can't say why a bunch of folks were directed to this site before you put up this entry, but anywho... For me, it's just something about the look of a Jewish woman. It's not that they all look the same, since they don't... hmm... maybe it attitude?

Also, where Jewish brunettes are concerned, the ones that I know in real life have had hair that's really dark, almost bordering on black, which I find really attractive.

"jewish porn" didn't bring up any good search results, so I figured I'd try "jewish pussy". "brunette pussy" is just too wide an array, "black pussy" doesn't work for obvious reasons, and "black haired pussy" only works moderately well, so I figured "What the hell? It's worth a shot."

It's fascinating how the mind works, isn't it?

Failure to Communicate (Without Swearing)

The work week almost passed without me cursing at work. Sadly, I blew it. After my colleague and I were treated rudely during a conference call in which we requested some basic information, I accidentally said something bad.

"I don't know why she had to be so nasty," Colleague sighed as he hung up the phone.

"It's because everyone who works there is a fucking asshole," I replied without thinking. It just came out. I cringed. "Oh, sorry about that. I probably should watch what I say."

"Well, it's true," he nodded. (And he's right - this particular organization has a reputation for being conceited and obnoxious.)

"Damn, I almost made it through the whole week without cursing at work," I laughed.

"I'm probably just rubbing off on you," Colleague apologized, which was pretty much the funniest thing anyone has said to me this week.

Later, I called someone a shithead. It felt good to be myself.