Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

Here's an excerpt from a post I wrote for BlogHer* on Tuesday about couples and yearly check ups:

I don't have a primary care physician. Instead, I have in my contacts list** (in alphabetical order) an:
-Allergist (2-3 visits yearly)
-Breast surgeon (2 visits yearly)
-Dentist (2 visits yearly)
-Dermatologist (as needed, but usually once every four or five years)
-Gastrointerologist (as needed, which hasn't been for over a year, but at one point was once a month)
-Gynecologist (1 visit yearly)
-Ophthalmologist (1 visit yearly)
-Podiatrist (only used once, after I stepped on a sea urchin in Hawaii)
-Reproductive endocrinologist (2 appointments to determine whether I had PCOS, but I keep the name just in case, sort of like the podiatrist)

With all my various parts cared for, who needs an internist? For the first time in four years, I visited a primary care doctor back in August, but only because some forms filled out to enroll in school. That is when I discovered that my "regular" doctor left the practice at least two years ago. Ooops. The new doctor managed to screw up my vaccine schedule, which makes me less inclined to return for care. Whenever I need a new doctor for any of my organs, I usually can just turn to friends for advice. (If I count my doctor friends, I also have two pediatricians, another dentist, another OB-GYN, another breast surgeon, and multiple colo-rectal surgeons in my contacts list. Plus one primary care physician who I would never trust, but that's another story.)

Probably it would be good to have a primary care doctor to coordinate all my files and keep track of what is going on with me and my team of specialists. Ironically, though, I hate doctors. The thought of adding one more doctor whose job it is to just follow along seems like such a waste of time. I have good cholesterol, my blood pressure is nice and low, and my sodium is a-OK. My weight is healthy for my frame, and I don't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I am the picture of good health, except for all of the specialized health problems that I have...

*And thank you, Zandria, for being the sole comment on that post! :)
*Also, I could use a good therapist to deal with my stress and frustration levels, if anyone in New York City has a recommendation... Anyone?

Something Not Funny Happened Part Way Through the Writing Program

My goal was to attend an MFA program to better understand the craft behind writing a book, then to write a hilarious account of the horrors and indignities that I suffered through during puberty. My writing sample (or portfolio or whatever the fuck they call it) was an uproarious account of my first bra shopping experience and adjusting to having boobs. This culminated in the absurd experience of a breast reduction at the age of 22. I had a whole draft chapter on my first period and then what happened when I stopped getting it at all at age 17. Funny shit.

The problem is that as I've been studying literature, I find myself writing not so funny stories about the Holocaust and my family, the prejudiced community in which I was raised, and how direct and indirect discrimination impacted my decision to pursue a career in social justice. Sure, sometimes I am able to throw in a good joke about my bubbe's tuchus (that's butt in Yiddish), as my grandfather used a wicked sense of humor to deflect the pain of losing his family in the Holocaust (a tactic I also employ when I talk about subjects that are difficult for me, even if I can't compare what he experienced to anything I did), but I'm finding myself scribbling all sorts of serious little stories. It's both cathartic and distressing to explore these topics.

I hope that as I progress and develop my voice, I can strike a balance between the serious and the hilarious. Writing. Harumph....

Congratulations, You're a Book Winner Now!

Last year, Alex Elliot and I thought that the world needed an anthology of first period stories. We asked the blogosphere for submissions at Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!, and 38 women and one man heeded our call. The stories are all fantastic - Alex and I laughed, we cried, and, we checked the backs of our pants for leaks, and we doubled over in sympathetic cramps. We thought we'd be able to select a group of authors in December and reach out to publishers with the project in January. We were stupid.

In the meantime, Rachel Kauder Nalebuff, a highly achieving 18 year old feminist, just presented her anthology of period stories,My Little Red Book to the world. It is a wonderful collection of short essays in which women of all ages from around the world reflect on their periods. Profits go to awesome charities supporting women globally. I was psyched that some publisher took on the book and that it would be doing good work in addition to getting women to share, but also sighed a lot. Sigh.

I had the chance to interview Rachel for BlogHer. She's just an awesome woman, and her book team rocks the house, too. In fact, they are offering copies of books to women who blog about their first period! Anyone who is interested in a copy can enter the contest by posting her essay, then linking to it in the comments of at my BlogHer post. I am beyond mortified that no one has yet done so, and I know that CUSS readers are brilliant, intrepid, and funny writers with great stories to share who also love free books. (Hint, hint....)

Stories should be posted by Friday, March 13 (somehow, Friday the 13th seemed like an appropriate deadline for stories about first periods). Spread the word...

Carb Cravings

Until this week, I never lusted after a granola bar. Last night, I dreamed that I drank half of a glass of apple juice before realizing that it was not part of the South Beach Diet; I don't even like apple juice. (Later in the dream it dawned on the that the gallon of vanilla ice cream that I ate before freaking out about the juice was also verboten.) I might kill someone for a bite of a cookie. (Could I use the South Beach Diet Defense in court? "My restrictive diet made me do it, your Honor!")

The first phase of South Beach is the most restrictive because carb cravings generally come from eating carbs. In theory, if you only eat good ones (i.e. - vegetables) for a few weeks, then your body will no longer miss the baddies like granola bars. Clearly, I am driven by psychological and emotional food cravings. Or, the problem might be that I used too much artificial sweetener, which is allowed on the diet. It turns out that the latest research shows that the body produces insulin whenever someone consumes artificial sweetener as if the person ate regular sugar.

On the other hand, once I found out about the Equal/Sweet n Low/Splenda problem and smacked my head and sighed dramatically multiple times, I cut down the amount I used to two packets and tried to drink less than 12 ounces of diet pop a day. That's when the cravings intensified. Craziness.

The Grass is Always Greener When You're Born a Ramblin' Man

As usual, I'm behind. I promised people who submitted essays for the potential anthology COngratulations, You're a Woman Now! that they would hear back about their work by the end of 2008. I'm not even close to finished reading the submissions. (But I swear I will, and I apologize profusely.) I haven't read blogs in a few days, which makes me feel disconnected from the online community I so cherish. Yet I'm spazzing out about what to wear to work for the rest of the week, so I'm not going to make much progress on the things that I want to do. (And oh my god, I didn't realize how short my wardrobe falls for a 5 day a week job that requires more than cords and definitely is not jeans-friendly.... Panic.)

Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?

On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)

AAA

Three As are a cause for suspicion these days. The bond rating agencies ignored all common sense, succumbed to pressure, and gave AAA ratings to all manner of junk securities. (As Husband explained to me, when there's a lot of shit in a lot of buckets, the smell of each bucket doesn't offset the others, which how how the rating agencies justified giving excellent ratings to buckets of shit.)

I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.

Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.

Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)

Happy Birthday Mom!

Sixty-two years ago today (well, it's still today in California and Illinois...), my mom was born in a blizzard. It was a difficult delivery, as she was breech and her nose somehow managed to catch itself on my granny's tailbone, if I recall the story properly. (If I don't, my mom will correct me in the comments.) I am so glad that things worked out.

The funny thing is that Husband and I went to the San Francisco Streetcar Museum this afternoon. Why is this funny? Well, my granny's cousin always tells us how she heard that "Bernice was in the hospital having a hard time," so she rushed over to the hospital in the blizzard on a streetcar. San Francisco operates old streetcars on its F line, with different cars paying homage to cities that also operated streetcars in its past. I looked for a postcard depicting the "Chicago" streetcar known as "The Green Hornet," but sadly there were none. I thought it would make a great birthday card for my mom. (Yes, I am admitting that I otherwise forget to send one, although I did call her.)

Later this evening, Husband and I passed by a storefront with the words Fecal Face Dot Gallery on its awning. We laughed and laughed, and I thought about how my mom would also chortle if she were with us.

Happy birthday, Mom, you nutty fecal face! I love you.

Thanksgiving

With all that is going on in the world lately (and always, I suppose), it seems harder than ever to focus on the positive things in life at Thanksgiving. But maybe that's the point: it's a time to think about what is good and to ponder what one can do to make those good things go further.

Of course, as I typed this, I managed to gouge a large chunk of skin out of my kneecap. (Perhaps a reminder that I am better at cynical sarcasm and righteous indignity rather than sincerity?) So, I'm cutting my Thanksgiving post short to mop up the blood oozing out of my knee.

Hope you have a great day!

Is Sarah Palin a C Word? A Scholarly Consideration of the Issue

On one of the many sites on which I've been devouring political discussions lately, a self-identified PUMA* was irritated that no one decried an Obama supporter who wore a t-shirt that read "Sarah Palin is a cunt" to a recent rally. To which my first thought was, "Well, she is a cunt, so why would I get my knickers in a bunch?" Then I felt a little bad, since I would probably be furious if someone wore a shirt like that with Hillary Clinton's name. Except that HRC is not really a cunt, so that's why I would be so irate. (Bill Clinton, however, is another story.)

Perhaps, I wondered, was I being unfair because I loathe Sarah Palin's evil social policies? Only an impartial and wise source could settle the matter for me. I whipped out my trusty slang dictionary, Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oaths, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphor, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters (2nd Revised Edition) by Richard A. Spears. ("College lingo?" Seriously?) It read:

cunt (see also c*nt, c**t, c***,****,----) 1. the female genitals, specifically the vagina. [said to be from Latin CUNNUS (q.v.)] 2. women considered sexually. 3. copulation [in numerous spellings since the 1300s] The word was banned from print in much of the British Empire until the middle of this century, and it is the most elaborately avoided word in the English language. There are numerous dimunitives: CUNNICLE, CUNTKIN, CUNTLET, CUNNY. Avoidances are: INEFFABLE, MONOSYLLABLE, NAME-IT-NOT, NAMELESS. Disguises are: GRUMBLE AND GRUNT, SHARP AND BLUNT, SIR BERKLEY HUNT, TENUC, UNTCAY. See MONOSYLLABLE for additional synonyms. 4. a rotten fellow; a low, slimy man. [colloquial, 1800s-pres.] 5. to intromit the penis. [attested in a limerick, late 1800s] See also DECUNT.

Whew! That didn't entirely clear the matter up for me, but I believe that she meets definitions 1 (she is certainly interested enough in what comes out of other women's vaginas, anyway), 3 and 5 (she is totally going to screw us if she gets into the VP's office). Hence, Sarah Palin is, in fact, a cunt, and the t-shirt is accurate. Perhaps, however, anti-Palinites might want to wear shirts reading, "Sarah Palin is a monosyllable" to confuse her supporters and avoid controversy. (Plus, "monosyllable" is a great double-entendre in this case.)

Wasn't this fun? Not only did I learn interesting facts about my grandmother's favorite word (I love that she hates the word "fuck," but will cheerfully spew out a word that is otherwise "the most elaborately avoided word in the English language"), but also that I run against popular sentiment in my embrace of the word cunt.


*A group of the Clinton supporters who are possibly the sorest losers in political history.

Hey Little Girl!

Last night, Alex, her hubby BG, her two sons, and I went heading to Ruby Tuesday's for a fine dining experience. Upon entering the restaurant, BG told the host that we needed a table for five. BG held their younger son (age 2) in his arms, and I held the hand of their older son (age 5). The host looked at all of us.

"Do you need three children's menus?" he inquired. We stood silently for a moment, staring at him. Then BG and Alex started laughing, and the host turned bright red. "Of course you don't! Come right the way."

As I followed him to our booth, I wondered if he thought I was the third child or if it was Alex. Lately I've been looking my age more than ever, so if it was me, that would be pretty hilarious. He probably thought I was the oldest brother. Strangely, before we went to the restaurant, Alex told me when BG flipped through pictures from their older son's (OS) September birthday party, when he asked her which friend of OS's was in this one. Alex took one look at it and burst out laughing. "Um, that's Suzanne!" (Evidence to be posted later.)

Maybe school is aging me down. Not only am I breaking out again for the first time in years, but another comment the little wench in my workshop left for me was that my writing is juvenile. Maybe I'm all Benjamin Button or something.

Abstinence-Only Education is a Huge Success!*

Save a seat for me on the bandwagon as I jump on late in the game. Gov. Sarah Palin of Alaska - who not only flew from Alaska to Texas while nine months pregnant (generally, it is a big no-no to fly after the eighth month or so), then insisted on flying nine hours back to Alaska after her water broke (thus creating a ripe environment for infection) so that her kid would not be born in Texas - continues to fly her family values flag proudly, cheerfully reporting that her 17 year daughter's pregnancy is OK since she is going to marry the baby's father. Smiley-face happy ending aside, perhaps we can take a moment to acknowledge that Gov. Palin's support of abstinence-only education certainly has reduced the teen pregnancy rate in her own home by 0%.

*If success is re-defined as failure. The Bush administration likes re-defining things.

Mmmmm.... Mars Bars!

Yesterday I ate a Mars Bar. It's not one of my original stock in which I brought back from London in March or even from the second batch a friend gave me in April when he stayed with us for two short nights. Instead, I purchased it at a British shop in that gray area between Greenwich Village and Chelsea two weeks ago. I figured I could keep in the fridge until I heard back from New School about whether or not I'll be part of the class of 2010.

It turns out that the Tarot card reader I visited in early March was correct: I am indeed attending the New School in the fall!!! The call came today yesterday at 5:15 PM from the admissions office. I'm nervous as hell, but also excited. Whew! What a trip!

Speaking of trips, the Tarot reader's other prediction involved the chance to travel extensively or even live in another country in the next year. That seemed even less likely than getting into New School, so I didn't really think about it. Yet this too shall come to pass it seems: Husband's company asked him to move to London for four years. The relocation is to take place in March 2009. It is an amazing career move for him. When I didn't think I was going to get into an MFA program, I was nervous about moving, but pleased to have easy access to Mars Bars. I figured that I could apply to writing programs over there and keep my fingers crossed that I'd get in. We plan on renting a two bedroom flat, so there is plenty of room for visitors. (Hint, hint.)

Clearly, the New School thing is a wonderful complicating factor. For now, I plan to attend the first year of classes, then join Husband in London for the summer. I'll return to NYC for the second year. Hopefully, he'll be coming to NYC for work frequently and I'll get to go see him in London during school breaks. The thought of all this is scaring the shit out of me, though.

To put it mildly, there's a lot going on here - multiple tentacles of happenings, reaching out and grabbing. Lots of good and interesting things, but still, it is hard for me to absorb it all, let alone savor anything.

Flat Iron-y

Dear Internet Marketing Professionals:

Thank you for reaching out to me to help promote your products. I am flattered by your claim that you came across my site (and even specified CUSS in your email to me) earlier today, and really enjoyed reading my posts, but I suspect that you are not exactly being honest with me. If you really read my content, you would probably know that CUSS is not relevant and appealing to the audience that you are looking to reach, and that, for example, sending me a flat iron to review is not a good idea for a variety of reasons.* On the other hand, if you really think it is a good idea for someone who just wrote about walking around with hair so greasy that she resembled a homeless person to write about your hair care and styling products, who am I to say no?

This is not to say that I am unwilling to receive free products and share my thoughts regarding these items with my blog reading friends. However, in the interests of saving your spambots time, let me outline some parameters. If your product falls into any of these categories, please email me with effuse praise about CUSS and offers for sample goods:

A. Fake mustaches: I love me a good fake mustache. Is yours the best?
B. Tweezers: I hate me some real whiskers on my chin and jaw. Is yours the most effective?
C. Dansko shoes: Supportive shoes are important to me, but how do I know what style is best unless I try a wide variety?
D. Lucky Brand Jeans: Generally, your jeans and cords make me ass look great, but like Dansko shoes, how do I know which styles are the most flattering if I can't model a cross section of your brand?
E. Yogurt: I'm a bit behind on my yougurt review blog, but very committed to updating it. Coupons for free yogurt are always welcome!
F. Spanx bras: I swear that the bra I have in beige is the greatest bra I've ever worn, but maybe it is nicer in black?
G. Airline tickets: Since I currently only fly American Airlines because of the frequent flier miles Husband accumulates, free tickets on your airline will allow me to investigate whether your bathrooms in business class smell fresh.

If any of these items are a good fit with your company, I very much look forward to hearing from you. Thanks again for your interest in CUSS.

Sincerely,
Suzanne

*These reasons include: 1. I have short hair. How the hell would I use a flat iron on it? 2. The odds are high that I will mock the crap out of the flat iron.

New Rule #1,284 (aka The "There is no crying in baseball" Rule)

After The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver made me tear up on the subway yesterday afternoon while on my way to a (useless) meeting, I hereby institute the following rule for myself:

I will not read anything other than:

A) magazines;
B) thrillers (like Bangkok 8);
C) amusing capers (anything by Carl Hiaasen, although his last book reeked worse than a body decomposing on a 105 degree day in the Everglades);
D) satires; and/or
E) politically witty tomes (like Sarah Vowell or Beth Lisick) if:

1) I slept less than 6 hours the previous night;
2) I have not seen Husband in more than 24 hours; and/or
3) I am using some mode of public transportation, such as a subway or airplane.

This rule shall be invoked to prevent embarrassing episodes of me bawling (in public) because I am emotionally overwrought, and the book that I am reading (or the movie I am viewing) took a dramatic turn that breaks my over-feeling heart. Yes, yes. I am all about pretending to be stone cold, what with all my ranting "mothering this" or "cunt-face ass-eater that," but it is all a facade. The reality is that underneath my mean, mocking, hard exterior, I am the biggest fucking softie on the planet. These devastating books and movies (for example, the love story between Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) fucking impact me. I'm a wreck for hours after a book/movie gives me a truly earned sob (not like those manipulative pap movies - The Other Sisiter, anyone? - that Steph so dearly loves but bring "a fucking tear to my eye").

So this new rule is for the good of my mental state, as well as my public image. And don't you fucking forget it, motherfucker. Now I'm off to the Kleenex box and/or Husband's t-shirt to wipe my nose.

The Thorn is Out

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

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

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

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

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

It's in the Cards

These days, I find myself in an oddly similar position to what which occurred ten years ago. In the fall of 1997, I applied to two public administration/public policy graduate programs in New York City. I thought I had a really good chance to get into NYU, and I was hopeful that I would be accepted by Columbia as well.

NYU sent their response in February 1998. Not only was I admitted to the program, but they awarded me a 3/4 tuition scholarship! This made me happy, but having recently graduated from NYU's undergraduate liberal arts program also left me with an enormous chip on my shoulder. (Primarily my problem stemmed from a housing issue, but that's a whole separate rant.) Plus, my heart was set on Columbia. I liked how students could register at other schools within the university, and many of the social work courses interested me. Oh, and I really wanted an Ivy League degree to prove that I was just as good as all the rich kids with whom I went to primary and secondary school.*

When I was waitlisted by Columbia in March, I was devastated. Curling up in the fetal position on the cheaply carpeted floor of my 96 square foot kitchen with no stove or oven and crying my eyes out seemed to be a completely rational immediate response. While I eventually got up, I was depressed for days. Would I get in or not?**

Waiting to learn my fate seemed like too much to ask. I decided to visit a Tarot card reader. My former roommate recommended a place in the East Village. I made an appointment, and when the time came, I was led into the adjoining shuttered storefront. I posed my question: would I get into Columbia?, and shuffled the cards. The reader told me my story, the only details of which I remember are that I would get what I wanted, but it would not make me happy.

Not long after the reading, I made an appointment with a dean at Columbia to discuss how I could best position myself on the waitlist in case a spot opened. I presented the dean with three issue briefs I wrote at work, and discussed the policy analysis I performed at my job. She decided to admit me on the spot.

To end this long story, I turned down the huge scholarship at NYU and went to Columbia. I did not find the program as good as I hoped it would be for a variety of reasons, the chief one being that many of my fellow students only went to the program because they were rejected from MBA programs, and they had no interest in public service. The cards were right.

*Yes, I now know that this is the shittiest possible reason to chose a graduate school.
**Really, this means, why wasn't I as good as everyone else? The idiots were right - I was totally second rate. Why it did not occur to me that getting practically a fucking free ride to a fine graduate program was something I should boast about is beyond me. I really was so young and foolish....

Health Care Denied!

As I've mentioned before, my mom battled and thankfully survived breast cancer approximately 30 years ago. In recent years, she tested negative for the breast cancer gene, but my sister and I are still considered at higher risk to develop breast cancer because my mom had it. Of course, that does not mean we will inevitably get it, but it does mean we need to be more cautious.

Thus I had my first mammogram was performed about seven years ago. I also see a breast surgeon for an exam every six months. The funny thing about mammograms, though, is the more you have over the course of your life, the more exposed to radiation you are in an area that should be protected from radiation. So while mammograms can save lives, they can also increase your risk of your tits being chopped off because you had so many mammograms. Damn, life is complicated.

Anyway, two mammograms ago, the radiologist suggested that I stop doing mammograms and have a breast MRI instead. The breast surgeon thought that wouldn't be helpful yet. My friend Dr. P (who is a colo-rectal surgeon - yeah, she cuts up assholes - ha ha ha) explained that MRIs are so sensitive that everything looks like it could be a lump and so many people wind up with unnecessary biopsies as a result. This year when I visited the breast surgeon, he prescribed an MRI for me.

Long story short, it was supposed to be on Tuesday morning, but the insurance company was "waiting for more information from the doctor," so I rescheduled it for tomorrow. Yesterday the radiology center called to tell me that the insurance company rejected the request. I can appeal the decision, and last night my mom offered to submit her pathology report on my behalf if it will help. Somehow I suspect the insurance company won't find it compelling. I guess I'll see what happens. They may think it is cheaper for me to get later stage cancer (as I may not be their problem at that point) than to pay for the fucking MRI.

And that my friends, is preventative health care in America.

Why I Vote with My Uterus

My uterus, although not functional, is very clever. It understands that any political candidate who does not respect it does not, on a fundamental level, respect me. I do not vote for anyone who thinks that I am not a person capable of making personal decisions based on my values, life situation, goals, and desires.

Over the years, I discovered something very interesting. So-called "pro-life" politicians - who love telling me that their religious morals are superior to mine - don't actually have much understanding or respect for life. First, they seem to believe that pregnancy is something that a woman just does for a little while with absolutely no consequences. They don't seem to understand that pregnancy is devastating to a woman's body. At the very least, the changes in hormone levels affect everything from how a woman feels to how she thinks. Pregnancy can cause everything from nausea to swollen ankles to diabetes. It can force a woman who needs to work to not be able to perform her job, putting her (and her family) at economic risk. And while less common today than in the past, pregnancy can kill a woman. For someone who wants to have a child, these risks are willingly accepted. But to force a woman to endanger her health and possibly life is unreasonable and shows that a politician could care less about the lives of actual women.

On a second level, "pro-life" politicians have suspicious disregard for what it takes to keep a person alive after they are born. Life is not being born and then you are done. Life is sustained at the most basic level through food, shelter, and clothing. Yet "pro-life" politicians are the ones leading the charge to cut support for affordable housing, for heating assistance, and for food stamps. Forget health insurance. It seems that kids with health issues like asthma don't actually need inhalers to help them breathe. It's ironic that someone who claims to care so much for life couldn't care less if a baby starved to death, had chronic untreated health issues, or had no where safe to live.

Beyond the basics to support life, there are the elements of life that give it true meaning beyond mere survival. Oddly enough, "pro-life" politicians don't seem to support aspects of life that make us human. Where's the support for early childhood education? The money to equalize the playing field in elementary and high school education? For financial aid to help low-income kids go to college? Hmmm....

"Pro-life" politicians are not pro-life at all, but merely anti-self-determination. The fact is that politicians who understand the need to legal and accessible abortion are also the same ones who support programs that truly are pro-life. They respect individual decision-making, sex ed programs that help people make informed decisions that prevent unintended pregnancies, and go an extra mile to provide life-saving public programs that in the long run, might actually discourage abortion by providing a safety net for families and children. Pro-choice politicians also recognize that as a woman, I have a right to life, too.

(Go one step beyond voting for pro-choice candidates and tell them to repeal the Hyde Amendment, which prevents federal Medicaid funds from paying for abortion services. Today, on the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, show your support for accessible abortion by signing the "Hyde-30 Years is Enough! petition. Legal abortion is critical for all women, but useless to those who can't afford the procedure. My uterus thanks your support.)

The Early Years

When I visited my parents in early December, I gathered up photos that best document my primary school years. Partly inspired by Suebob, who has been scanning her childhood and family photos into her Flickr account, I planned to scan them as soon as I returned to New York. Of course, I didn't get around to it before I left for Hawaii, as I was rather busy finishing my MFA applications and watching the first season of Hunter on DVD. Anyway, I decided it was now or never because who knows how busy I'll be once I get more consulting gigs/a part-time job, so between catching up on what is happening in Des's dramatically changing life, planning my February class, and seeking other paying opportunities, I invested some quality time with my $35 Canon scanner from Staples. That's right - it's school picture days here at CUSS!



From left to right:
The first photo is me in kindergarten. Seriously fucking adorable, right?

In the middle, I am in second grade. No, I didn't skip first grade. (In fact, the classist fucks who ran my schools wouldn't even let me be in the highest level reading group, even though I thought I should be. Us Jewish white trash kids clearly don't belong with the really smart kids, but the slightly smart kids, but I digress.) There's no photo of me from first grade because I couldn't find any wallet size pictures from that year. Honestly, it's for the best because I looked like shit. If memory serves me correct (and if it doesn't, my mom will let you know in the comments), I just got out of a multi-day hospital stay from my first asthma attack. It was scary shit. As for second grade, I had a fight with my mom that morning because I really wanted to wear this cute outfit that my great aunt and uncle brought me when they came to visit us from California. It had a red and white striped skirt and a red tank top. It was cold that day, so my mom wouldn't let me go to school in a tank top. I insisted on wearing this yellow Lemon Meringue sweatshirt with the red and white striped skirt. I thought I looked like a cheerleader. Yeah. My mom let me win the battle, perhaps understanding that I was providing fodder for mocking myself some 25 years later. At any rate, I am sad that you can't see the skirt. Let's not comment on the puckery eyes or buck teeth. I was just a kid, damn it, although I sort of see why I later wound up with braces instead of only a retainer to fix my overbite.

The last picture is from third grade. I think I am pretty damn adorable again. For some reason, I remember deciding that morning that I must not show any teeth when I smiled. I don't even think I was conscious of the buck tooth look, but maybe I was. The shirt had a cute matching pink shirt and I wore these sweet maroon Mary Janes. I'd totally wear shoes like that today.

Stay tuned for the upcoming horror show: the junior high years. (No, I didn't skip fourth and fifth grade, either. My school was fucking evil and retarded in more ways than one. To make space for an early childhood center in the elementary school, they moved fourth and fifth grade to the junior school. Trust me, this sucked about as bad as sounds. By the time my sister was in fourth grade four years after me, the school realized that this plan fucked kids up and moved the lower grades back to the elementary school where they belong and remodeled the junior high to house an early childhood wing, which from my current professional view, is far less ideal than keeping the very young children also at the elementary school but still works out OK enough. Blah blah blah.

It's My Birthday, Too!

It is still Dec. 26 in Hawaii, where I am blogging from, so it isn't technically my 32nd birthday yet, but I was born in the 'burbs of Chicago, not Hawaii, and it's the 27th there. Yay my parents for having me.

My friend Elizabeth grew up in Hawaii and is in town with her husband Al (my friend from college), so we shall be spending the day with them. Elizabeth suggested driving up to the North Shore, which is sort of ironic because the suburban area I grew up in is also known as the North Shore but instead of being a winter surfing mecca, my North Shore is a frozen tundra. First we will eat breakfast at the super cool hotel that Husband and I are staying at (for free courtesy of his hotel points). The Royal Hawaiian was built in 1927 and is known as The Pink Palace. Everything is pink - towels, sheets, etc. It's very cool. I love historic places. Anyway, it is supposed to have an amazing albeit pricey breakfast buffet, but we're going out on a limb for my birthday.

Otherwise, I have been sort of quiet since I can't walk too much since I was viciously attack by a sea urchin on Christmas Eve after falling off a rock while preparing to snorkel. Husband and I arrived in O'ahu yesterday and had a delicious and delightful Christmas dinner with Elizabeth's charming and cultured family. Today we went to the Aloha Swap Meet, a fun flea market outside Aloha Stadium. After that, we headed to the Hawaiian Medical Heritage Center at The Queen's Medical Center to check out a small exhibit. Since we are weirdos, we decided that it would be fun to eat at the hospital cafeteria and buy t-shirts from the gift shop. After that, we went to a laundromat.

Hope that everyone is having a fun and sea urchin-free holiday!

Foreskin and Seven Days Ago

Last week, I attended my first bris. Given my semi-rigid belief that generally people are born with what they need and we should just accept that bodies are hairy and not typically in need of improvement (e.g. - breast or butt implants), it seems like I should be against circumcision. Oh contraire, mon frere. I'm no connoisseur when it comes to penises, but I do prefer them to be foreskin free. The whole smegma thing just grosses me out too much and I don't trust most guys to be clean enough. Yeah, it makes me a big fat fucking hypocrite. Oh well.

Despite my support for circumcision (not that I am against the uncircumcised), I was a little queasy when I thought about attending a bris. Due to my incompetence (I forget that cars need to be cleared of ice before they are safe to drive and one must budget time for the task), I arrived at the bris a wee bit late. As I was taking my boots off in the hallway outside my friend's parents' apartment, I heard the baby begin to wail. "Oh, I guess I missed it," I thought with a mixture of relief and regret. I was wrong - who knows why the baby was screaming his sweet little head off at that point - and eventually witnessed part of the procedure. Oddly enough, the baby barely cried as his foreskin was removed. He was then given a nice rag soaked with liquor to suck on, and drunk, he slept like, well, a baby. It was interesting.

This past weekend, Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) borrowed our PT Cruiser, Fred the Red, to drive to New Jersey for their new nephew's bris. I'm pretty sure that this was the first bris that BiL attended, other than his own, which I am sure was a very different experience. I don't know exactly what happened at this bris, but BiL must've been either overjoyed at his nephew's pact with God or distraught at the penis chopping, because he had an overenthusiastic encounter with a curb that circumcised Fred' wheel well and prevented him from driving straight. (While none of this was funny on Sunday, the little scenario I postulated here is sure slaying me now.)

My point is that I don't think circumcision really hurts anyone (unless its botched, which is always a possibility), and at the same time, I completely understand why a parent would not circumcise a kid. When I wrote on BlogHer a long time ago about a study that showed some very minuscule health benefits from circumcision, some extremists accused me of being a callous genital mutilating monster.* Yeah, yeah, yeah. I also help kill unborn babies. What can I say? I'm just a bad character all around when it comes to the defenseless.

*It strikes me as hilariously ironic that one women yelled at me about the sanctity of preserving genitals as nature intended and months later emailed me about her scheduled Brazilian wax, but I digress.

Smarts

The word smarts really does function for me on two levels: I want smarts, and it smarts when I don't have them. Standardized tests always leave me smarting. No matter how well I do, I feel like it's not good enough because I know too many really smart people who do better. I'm the idiot, which honestly says significantly more about how damn smart all my friends and loved ones are than it does about my lack of smarts, but it still smarts.

Back in the last century when I took the SAT, I "only" scored an 1100 1110 (thanks for the correction, Mar - I'll chalk it up to a typo or being brain dead after the exam). (This was before they jiggered up the scoring a few years ago.) I earned a 600 on the verbal section and a 510 on the math. Thinking I could do better, I sat for it again and decided to answer more math questions. Unfortunately, I answered them all wrong and thus got only a 470 on the math while the verbal remained the same. Compared to my peers in high school (and later college), I was a total fuck up for scoring under 1200.

How ironic it is, then, that I got an 1100 1110 on the GRE. This time, the test is administered on a computer so you can't skip any questions and if you answer a question incorrectly, it gives you an easier question next which lets you earn fewer points if you get it right. (The upside is that you get your score immediately.) That left me with a 470 on the math, which quite frankly, I'm sort of proud of because its been a damn long time since I've done algebra, geometry, or any of that other crazy stuff. My goal for the verbal was 650, and if you just did the math, you'll know that I fell slightly short of achieving that, racking up 640 points.

So that's that. I'm glad it's over with, I'm more glad that writing programs don't care about math scores, and I'm hoping that I never need to take another one of these horrific tests again. Thanks to everyone who wished me well!

Replaced!

Husband was out at the 2007 edition of the annual Beer & Deer Tour (this involves going to bars around the city and playing the game Big Buck Hunter; t-shirts are sold to those who participate and prizes are awarded in various categories at the end of the event. I wish I was making this up, but alas, I am not.), so no humans were home when I came back from Chicago last night. Tycho the Rabbit greeted me by shoving his ass in my face when I went over to pet him. I went into the bedroom, and discovered that Husband replaced me* during my short trip to my parents' house:



I guess Theo-Suzanne is nicer to both Husband and Tycho. Theo probably also didn't eat the cinnamon roll he meant to bring home for Husband from Ann Sather restaurant, or a hot dog at the airport, or large quantities of holiday cookies, or chocolate that expired a year ago but still was luscious, or Halloween candy, so I guess he also has less gas than I do. I can't say I wouldn't prefer Theo to me under those conditions, either.

*Husband claims that they were playing dress up when I was gone, and Theo wanted to dress up like me in my pjs while Husband dressed up like a pirate. I still think he replaced me.

My So-Called Sartorial History (No Pictures)

As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, my mind drifted over to the closet at the other end of my room. Mostly I was thinking about the hideous white peasant shirt that I wore in that picture of myself from 1994 that I posted a few days ago, but somehow that brought me to my super favorite, long gone outfits from when I was in 5th grade.

{Time warp}
My mom and I are shopping at a low end department store. When I spot the pink sweatshirt covered with little hearts overlaid by a huge heart with a giant white cat head wearing a bow in the center, I know it must be mine. The matching pants also have little hearts all over them. In fact, I love the outfit so much, I also buy it in blue. On days that I feel especially daring, I can wear the blue shirt with the pink pants or vice versa. Awesome!!!
{Time warp back to present day}

As I reflect on the Gitano debacle, it occurs to me that I was sometimes, in fact, fashion forward in my Jewish white trash couture. The sweatshirt I am wearing at this very moment has an environmentally friendly message. At the top, it reads, "DO YOUR PART," and has six little scenes with Peanuts characters depicting green acts. The sweatshirt admonishes those staring at my chest to: "Pick up litter for a cleaner environment;" "Recycle to conserve;" "Carpool for cleaner air;" "Don't pollute for cleaner water;" "Plant trees for future forests;" and "Educate for worldwide awareness." If only it also mentioned "Vote for Al Gore to prevent global warming."

I picked this gem up in the early '90s at Venture, a Chicago-area chain store. Venture is like the poor man's Wal-Mart, if that makes any sense. (It doesn't, I know, but just go with me here.) As Venture's days dwindled, the store didn't even bother re-stocking shelves. Unfortunately, this phase lasted for years before it finally went out of business. (For reasons that befuddle me to this day, it was also my sister's favorite place to shop.) Before its painful demise, Venture had some bitchin' clothes. Now I like to think of it as the Target of the 1980s, but at the time I shopped there for outfits, it was way uncool to admit that you bought clothes there. I always lied to the snooty little assholes who asked me where I got my shirt, saying, "Oh, I think it was Marshall Field's." (For non-Chicagoans, Marshall Field's was a nice department store that Macy's recently took over and decimated.)

Anyway, thanks for sifting through another self-indulgent blog post. I hope it brought back equally amusing/horrifying childhood fashion memories of your own.

Come Light the Menorah

Hanukkah begins tonight at sundown. Over the last few years, Husband and I have become less and less interested in Hanukkah. We managed to get each other one small gift this year. I hope he will like the $10 glass Mets mug that I picked up last week. I have no idea what he is giving me. I'm sure it will be far more clever than a $10 glass Mets mug.

Husband and I may not be taking the religiously insignificant holiday of Hanukkah seriously enough for the likes of the Holiday Sales Industry. Cartier, Macy's, Lord & Taylor, Bloomingdale's, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Barney's all have ads on pages 2,3, and 5 of today's New York Times wishing me a Happy Chanukah. They all spelled it "Chanukah," too, which makes me wonder if the Times issued some sort of guidelines for luxury good purveyors who wanted to sell me shit. Macy's, Lord & Taylor, and Bloomingdale's went an extra step and wrote little Chanukah poems and greetings. The sentiments bring a fucking tear to my eye, I tell you. Tiffany's has an ad, but it doesn't wish me anything. Instead, it reads, "'Tis the Tiffany Season," and depicts a "dreidel in sterling silver, 3" high, $200."

After seeing all the ads, I realized that I never again need bother look up when a gift-giving holiday officially begins. (Last night Husband and I debated whether Hanukkah kicked off tonight or tomorrow night, and I googled it.) From now on, I'll just look at the ads in the paper and go from there. None of the department stores or jewelers would let me forget an important religious occasion, would they? How thoughtful of them.

A Taxing Situation

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

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

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

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

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

Face(book)ing the Facts

Some time ago, Suebob or Des wrote a post about why she doesn't have a Facebook account. I nodded my head. Hell, I can barely handle a MySpace page. Facebook just seemed like overkill. No way I was going to set up a profile there.

Well, as Alex often writes, the only way to guarantee that I will do something is to swear that I would never do whatever it is. In fact, it is completely Alex's fault that I even went to that cursed Facebook site in the first place. Her brother supposedly had some pictures of himself as a goth for Halloween, and she was told to check them out on his Facebook profile. We were on the phone while she tried to do this, and one thing lead to another, and before I knew it, I had my very own Facebook profile and was busily searching for friends from high school who I haven't spoken to in about 420 years. Of course, that shit is almost as addictive as M&Ms.* Bah!

Anyway, Husband and I are off to visit our friend Mara for Thanksgiving, so I will be wrested away from a computer for the most part. This is good so that I don't spend any more time on that wretched Facebook site (is there a damn user guide available anywhere?). I'll probably sneak in blogging (some addictions cannot be denied!), and I definitely have a good essay ready for BlogHer about a ridiculous ban on the holiday refrain, "ho, ho, ho." Happy Thanksgiving!

*Yes, my pretties. If you have a Facebook profile, let me know so we can be friends!!!

I'm Bugged

Sometimes I suspect that I am under electronic surveillance, but when I say that I am bugged, usually I mean that something is annoying the shit out of me. This is not infrequent, especially when I read or hear the news. However, this morning as I was reading the op-ed section of the New York Times at my dining room table, I was bugged in a far less typical manner.

A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.

Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?

"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.

I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!

Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.

Name Change

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

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

A few days ago, I read a blog post somewhere (my brain is beyond fried, so I have no idea where, sorry) about how women want to be taken seriously and not judged solely based on their looks. This statement made a lot of sense to me. Then I read one of the comments, in which the writer begged to differ that women don't want to be objectified. Compelling evidence was presented in the number of plastic surgery procedures conducted on women each year. When I read that, I sighed because I can't really disagree with that point entirely.

Sure, there are a lot of reasons why women undergo plastic surgery. Even I submitted to the knife, although it had nothing to do with how I looked. (Only plastic surgeons do breast reduction procedures and I needed to unload half my chest before my damn shoulders and back caved in from the weight dragging me down in front. I honestly thought I would look worse after the surgery. I'm happy that I was wrong.) Can we really separate out the effects of living in a world that so values feminine beauty and sexiness (demonstrated by only a very small variety of body types) with someone wanting plastic surgery for her own self-esteem? I don't know. For example, there are a number of women I know who chose to get breast surgery after having a baby so that they could look like they did before pregnancy changed their bodies. That doesn't strike me as buying into some beauty myth since they were just trying to return to themselves.

It's hard not to want to look good in a world that places so much value on looking good. While I put about zero effort into my appearance, it doesn't mean that I don't obsess about it, too. I know that I will never have a flat stomach and lean thighs. It is just not my body type, and wrangling myself into a shape that is unnatural for me would mean that I could never eat ice cream, cake, or cheese. No thanks. At the same time, I cringe when I look at my "big" hips in the mirror or when I notice my bulging thighs when I am sitting down. I don't care enough to wear make-up, shave my legs, do my hair, or strut in high heels let alone get plastic surgery, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't want to be considered attractive.

Are there any women out there who don't worry about their looks? Do women care much more about how they look than men? Statistics tell us that increasingly this is not the case. Still, I have to agree with both the blog poster (we want to be judged on our abilities) and the commenter (we want to be objectified). We live in a world that splits women in half. What we want and what we can achieve within its social structures make us schizo. As a result, generally, most women want to be judged for their abilities and objectified. It's fucked up.

Have I Seen You Before?

Did you see Borat? (Answer yes for this to work.) Remember the scene when Borat meets up with the feminists in an art gallery to discuss women in America? I admit that I thought that scene was fairly amusing, and in subsequent interviews after the movie came out, I thought that the only person who took the sham in stride was the feminist artist.

Tonight I got to meet her. Seriously! Unsuspecting my encounter with a "star," I went to a fundraiser for Bitch magazine, which is an independent nonprofit media organization. When I arrived at the gallery hosting the event, the owner and the magazine ladies were discussing Borat. I didn't think anything of it until the artist turned to me and said, "I was in it." And then it all came together in my little mind. She's pretty damn cool in person, too.

Goals/Gaols

Today's goal is to finish writing up all my lower Manhattan site visits. As I was thinking about my goals in general, my head got the word confused with "gaol." "Ha ha ha," I thought to myself, "isn't it weird that the two words are spelled the same way?" Then I remembered that they weren't spelled the same way, although sometimes goals are like little gaols that trap you, aren't they?

Maybe I need to get out more.

Shhhh...

Remember that Bjork song from a few years ago, "It's So Quiet?" It came out when I was in my second year at NYU, and the newly installed video machine in one of the dining halls played the Busby Berkeley-style musical production constantly, alternating with Tupac's "Kalifornia," and Weezer's "Sweater Song." I tried to get the machine to play some song that was from the soundtrack of "Clerks" that was so great that I forgot what it was called or who it was by, only that the video had many of my favorite scenes from that ever-so-fine film. (God, sometimes I miss the mid-90s.)

Video or not, it has been quiet on the 'net this week, hasn't it? I mean, I write a screed over at BlogHer calling "pro-life" leaders terrorists (something I wholeheartedly believe), and pretty much no one blinks an eye. (Not to denigrate the fine people who agreed with me, but I expected outrage, sputtering, and disgust from the other side.) Comments on CUSS, usually limited, are even fewer than usual. So it goes. Optimistically, maybe people are on vacation?

Then, in a weird twist, I find myself agreeing with an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal! Husband reads the Journal daily for their financial reporting, which is claims is excellent, and both of us find the op-ed pages and movie reviews to be beamed in from Uranus. (It was discredited as a planet for a reason, folks. Ha ha ha!) I don't understand how I find myself in bed with conservatives when it comes to Israel, but I hope they keep their pants on.

The world is a mysterious place.

Corned Beef on Wry

"Eat kosher corned beef!" the sign in the delicatessen window across the street from the Bronx bus stop I was at commanded. I snickered in my head because I am infantile. When my silent laughter subsided, I resolved to do as I was told after I visited the Judaica Museum at the Hebrew Home for the Aged, on my way back to the subway, and before I went to the dentist in Brooklyn and received a face full of Novocaine, rendering any corned beef - kosher or not - impossible. (In fact, the right side of my face is numb through my ear as I type this. My only consolation is that the dentist is fucking adorable.)

The Museum was nice. More important for the purposes of this story, the deli was kosher. I knew in my heart of hearts this meant that they would not have white bread. No Jew worth his circumcision eats corned beef on white bread. When I tried ordering corned beef on white at a deli a few weeks after Husband and I started dating, both he and the waiter stared at me. The waiter shook his head in disgust, and I wound up with a roll.

"Who orders corned beef on white?" Husband marveled as the waiter scurried away from the embarrassment I caused.

"I do. The bread gets all mushy and yummy..." I explained.

Husband wrinkled his schnozz. "That what rye bread is for."

"I hate rye bread," I wrinkled in response. (They say people in successful relationships mirror their partner's body language, you know.)

Husband stared at me for a good minute and then spoke slowly. "Are you sure that you are Jewish?"

And that, my friends, is how Husband learned that he was dating Jewish white trash.

Back to the present day, I stepped into the narrow entryway of Loeser's Delicatessen.

"What kind of bread do you have?" I asked tentatively.

"Rye, wheat, and rolls," Fredy the owner (who I recognized from all the newspaper clippings and family photos on the wall behind me) said.

"I'll take corned beef on a roll, please."

"Coming right up."

It didn't come right up, though, and I was getting nervous about being late for the dentist. I definitely needed time to brush my teeth once I got there. Can you imagine how horrifying it would be to have corned beef stuck in your teeth from a sandwich you ate on the subway on the way to the dentist's office when he goes in to shoot Novocaine in your face to drill out a cavity and fix a broken tooth? Thus when the sandwich was ready, I grabbed it without checking what it was and ran out after wishing Fredy "L'shana tova" (that's "Happy New Year," which is right around the corner for us who celebrate Rosh Hashana).

Only on the subway did I discover that he put it on rye. It was delicious anyway.

Dickheads, Penis Heads, and Clear Heads: Getting Dicked in Good and Bad Ways

After I wrote about self-described dickhead Tucker Max yesterday on BlogHer, I moseyed on over to the salon where I have gotten my last few hair cuts. Out of six cuts, I'd say three were very good, and two were acceptable at best. The sixth and last I will get from this woman? Oy. I look like an actual circumcised penis. Irony is an evil wench sometimes. Fortunately, Des agreed to try and help with her hair cutting talent, so perhaps I'll only have to wear hats until Sunday when I see her.

In other news, I read in today's New York Times that the American Cancer Society is devoting their entire advertising budget to the "consequences of inadequate health coverage." Research shows that delayed screenings and treatments due to lack of insurance are largely responsible for improving the rate of survival from various cancers. What with recent Census data informing us that 47 million people now have no insurance at all, I think this is a wonderful idea. I didn't see Sicko, but I hope that the ads take into account that many who pay for insurance find themselves screwed by their companies when they get sick. We need comprehensive reform.

Finally, back in the heart of corn, pig, and soybean country, fairness and rule of law trumps homophobia and irrational hate. That's right - Iowa, my sister's adopted home, is the second state to allow gay marriage! Yay! It makes me so happy. Of course, there is an appeal, as people appear to not be able to be happy for those adults who find love. With the most recent Republican "scandal," (Oooh - a man likes gay sex! He better resign as opposed to the Congressman who cheats on his wife with escorts.), it just reminds me that those who shout their homophobia loudest often are people who have homosexual tendencies and hate themselves for it and are determined to punish everyone as a result. As they say in Iowa, what's with the cob up your ass? (Seriously. They say this.)

The Seventh Deadly Sin

Rarely does pride come after a flood, but the Reisman family frequently defies conventional wisdom.

"I think we have the more trash than anyone in the neighborhood!" my mom reported to me breathlessly yesterday when she described their clean up efforts.

In chimed my dad, "It covers the entire front lawn!"

See? Jewish white trash like us can be #1 at something in the upper-middle class neighborhoods in which we dwell.

I'm off to catch an express bus to the Creedmoor Psychiatric Center in Queens, which has an art gallery full of residents' work.

It's a Jungle Out There

Thursday, Des and I set out to see the bull elephant sculpture with the huge dick in the United Nations sculpture garden. (Nothing promotes international understand and peace like bronze elephant cock.) Unfortunately, the sculpture garden is closed for renovations. This may explain why I could never find more information on its hours when I searched the UN website and then called repeatedly. (The calls sent me through a maze of despair in why I pushed many buttons, but never actually spoke to a human.)

Fortunately, the elephant is situated near the street. Ironically, it is impossible to see the elephant's genitals because it is literally surrounded by a lush, overgrown bush. At least that makes me laugh.

Now that the weather has returned to August, it was very steamy and hot as Des and I pounded the pavement of the concrete jungle known as Manhattan yesterday, seeking adventure for my book on things to see and do that are off the beaten (subway) track. We were lead to Theodore Roosevelt's birthplace, which is awesome. Many of TR's safari victims, namely a lion, an elephant foot (not penis), and rhino's foot, are displayed. The tour guide, a very knowledgeable volunteer former history professor named Russell, explained that while TR indeed was an amazing conservationist, the times were certainly different.

"He took a disturbing amount of pleasure in shooting things," Russell acknowledged.

Still, Des and I agreed that TR is pretty much our favorite US president. The times were very different in some ways, and shockingly similar in others. TR stood up for the rights of labor over corporations, health care for all, public parks so that everyone could enjoy the outdoors, and the sense that "with great wealth comes great responsibility," the motto of his Quaker grandmother. (I am glad that her words left a great impression on him than those of his own mother, who grew up on a plantation in Virginia and supported the Confederacy during the Civil War while his dad went off to the front to provide logistical support to Union troops.)

Before I left my apartment, I read a nauseating article in Rolling Stone about the profiteering that is going on in Iraq by corporations allied with Republicans. Not only are they scamming billions from taxpayers and the administration could not care less, but they are directly responsible for the death and mutilation of hundreds of Americans - both troops and civilians - in their fraudulent work. Grover Nordquist was quoted (and maybe this was in a New York Times op-ed, not the magazine article - I read them both at the same time) as saying that they are working hard to get the US back to where we were before that "socialist" Theodore Roosevelt ruined everything. Yet if only our current leaders followed the civilized example of Theodore Roosevelt and served the people instead of indulging their savage blood-lust for money, we'd be a lot better off. It's sad when I look back fondly at the turn of the century as more enlightened.

Whew! I Am Still a Feminist!

After my recent discovery that I will laugh hysterically at some guy who tells horrific stories about the women he has sex with as long as a heaping side of steaming poetic justice is served up (for example, guy has anal sex with woman and video tapes it without her permission, a heinous act that is rewarded when she has diarrhea all over him, then pukes to top it off), I was wondering what was wrong with me. I've also laughed at jokes in the movie Varsity Blues about date rape, which is not at all funny. I know that. My credentials as a humorless feminist are going right down the toilet.

Thus it was with great relief that I found a little test over at Fetch Me My Axe about feminism. Belledame222 came out 96% feminist. Could I prove myself worthy of her?

You Are 96% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

Yay! Go me. (Although what's with the picture of the hot woman with red boxing gloves? Is it saying that feminists are combative or that we have to fight to get our message out? Weird.) It seems that you can be a horrible person who laughs (and cringes!!! I swear I also cringed a lot!) at select self-described assholes and raging dickheads and still be a good core feminist.

An Eye Opener that Burns

Laurie challenged me to write about Tucker Max for BlogHer for Blog Day later this month. I thought that was a brilliant idea, once I realized that she didn't mean Tucker Carlson. (It took me a few hours.) My usual clueless self had no idea who this Tucker Max character was until Husband told some story about his book. It seems that he turned down some publishing deal because he thought he should get more money since zillions of people read his dating/sexcapade stories on his website.

"The publisher didn't think that frat guys buy books," Husband said. Long story short, Max wound up selling the book to frat boys out of an RV he rented and drove around the country.

"Serves him right, I said and folded my arms across my chest, satisfied at his failure. The stories, I was told, were very misogynistic tales of fucking whores and all that good stuff.

I never bothered going to his website and checking them out myself until yesterday when I was desperately trying to do anything but write up three months of work that I did for the city so that one day, they might actually pay me. When I read the first story, something unexpected happened: I couldn't help but like the asshole. Is he a drunkard? Totally, and I am not too keen on slobbering drunks. Is he a shithead? For sure. Are his stories not flattering to women? Absolutely. Would he probably rate me on his vile "Tucker Max Female Rating System" as "a common stock pig?" Likely, although on a good day, I might make "Respectable pig," neither of which I particularly appreciate being called. Is he a good writer? Now that I am learning about what makes good writing, I also think he is a terrible writer.

So what won me over? The man wrote a story about how he accidentally got his own jizz in his eye. Damn, that is funny. He also makes himself look every bit as bad as the women dumb enough to consort with him. (He admits that he got his own jizz in his eye! Someone crapped on him! That is funny, funny shit!) Also poetic justice is meted out in almost every story. Not that he learns any lessons per se, but he degrades himself genially along with others. And, he sort of reminds me of my friend the Big O., which scares me.

It's not like I want this dude to be a role model, which he inevitably is to the lamer portion of the male population. (Those guys will always find some douche bag to look up to, anyway.) Stories about jizzing in one's own eye will always amuse me to no end. Call me a self-loathing misogynist and take my feminist card away if you must; I can't help it.

I'm Gonna Be Rich!

I'm sitting in a workshop on how to monetize your blog. Advice I received thus far is to use key words that will lead lots of people to my site (e.g. - "Jewish pussy"), then cleverly blend paid links and ads into my site. If I follow this advice, I will become a wealthy blogger and a fine pillar of the porn industry. How exciting is that?

On top of that, some people who sat at my table for lunch tried to convince me to do affiliate selling. That means when I complain about Brazilian waxes, readers will be able to click on ads for home snatch wax kits or pubic hair dye! Isn't that awesome!

The downside is that the blog pimping session led me to realize that Blogger templates are motherfucking (see? I'm using a key word! If only I had a paid link to people who fuck mothers, I'd make $1!) impossible to customize, so unless I switch to another format, we'll more or less be keeping the pepto pink. So it goes.

Given my options, I will leave the moneymaking to Husband. He likes that shit anyway. My life is definitely too hairy for all that. Ha ha.

Some Things Never Change, Some Things Go Down the Toilet

Sister spent a good portion of the afternoon yesterday cleaning out a storage closet in the basement that formerly served as our dad's office. Not only does the room - a walled off section of the basement - contain toys that we have not used in years, but it also has records from our educational careers. Every report card, including ones from Sunday and Hebrew schools, was saved. My dad began compiling dossiers with the material.

My dossier contained a psychological report from testing that I underwent on June 3, 1983 and June 10, 1983. I was in first grade, and my mom and I cannot figure out why I was referred for testing. (My best guess is because I developed serious asthma that year and nearly died.) What fascinates me are the following findings:

[Suzanne] appears to be a sensitive, aesthetic child who also demonstrates issues with power and control... who is experiencing very little difficulty in terms of her own perception of her behavior, intelligence, school functioning, personal appearance, popularity, happiness and satisfaction, as well as perceived level of anxiety. It appears that Suzanne has a very positive self-concept and that she is experiencing herself in very positive and instrumental terms.

Yay! Go young me. Too bad all that disappeared a few years later when puberty hit like a tons of bricks, never to be recovered again.

In this [mother-daughter] relationship, it appears that Suzanne could be experienced as oppositional, negative and determined to seek her own way even if it is at her expense and contrary to even her own best interests. At times, it appears that Suzanne views herself as having carried a power struggle to such extremes that she has ruined things for herself... She does appear to perceive herself as capable of winning these power struggles and when she does so she may even give in to her mother's original demands because she may even, in her heart, agree with these demands. Her power struggles may include highly manipulative and effective methods which at times may be highly dramatic (e.g. running away).

It scares me that even at 7.5 years old, I was doing things that I do today. Except that I'll engage in battles of wills with just about anybody, not merely my poor mom. In the end, though, my evaluation said that, "She appears to enjoy her home life and views it as a great source of protection and contentment." Very true today as well.

Speaking of enjoying home life, in the ride to my grandmother's party last night (which I only wish I had the foresight to podcast), we discussed teddy bears, butter biscuits, and beavers. This is Granny's lingo for breasts, vaginas, and fur coats.

Aint' Nothing Like Kosher Honey

Seriously, I love people. Months ago, I discovered that a very high portion of the hits to CUSS came from searches for "jewish pussy." Who wouldn't be curious about this phenomena, so I posted a request for information. (I'm not even going to bother linking to my original post, but it more or less asked people what the fuck they expected to find when searching for the chosen poon.) Anonymous replies were encouraged, partly because I don't want to know who is obsessed with kosher snatch and partly because I thought people would be more honest.

Honest to God, the replies continue to trickle in. I got these two gems over the past few days:

Although I am not jewish I have had my share of jewish pussy. I find that jewish women are very horny and thus when I search jewish pussy I associate the lust of the women which I've had to the pics I seek.

I think our horniess is due to consumption of gefilte fish, but maybe I am wrong.

being a member of the tribe- and orthodox, if i am going to be human, and desire a look at a woman other than my wife, it HAS to be jewish...besides, I agree, Jewish women are the best looking though I might be slightly predjudiced!! As to the questiom What would my wife think of me looking at other women...she doesn't care where I get my appetite as long as I enjoy only her great cooking

I actually don't care what his wife thinks of him looking at porn, but I found the answer to unasked question horribly depressing even though it was also hilarious. (And again, I'm nominating for gefilte fish as the cause of Jewish lust.)

You know what I hate though? I hate when people get all pius about porn and sex. Does it really matter if you ogle titties and snatch of another ethnic group or race as long as you respect women? Not really. If I believed in this God, I'm guessing that God has bigger concerns than whose photos you spill the precious seed on. It is always the people who are the most sanctimonious who are the most deviant at the end of the day. All the politicians and religious leaders who rant and rave against homosexuality, porn, adultery, masturbation, etc. turn out to be addicted to jerking off over gay porn while "legally sinning" with escorts. Yes, I sure love people!

Don't Waite for Me

In a morning full of utterly depressing news (anyone shocked that thanks to bungles by the Bush administration, terrorists are stronger than ever? No? I'm not either, but it is still depressing to think how many idiot Americans couldn't tell this was going to happen), I was slightly cheered by the New York Times first page photo of cute little Jami Waite. Who's Jami Waite, you ask. Why, she's a public face for the abstinence-only group Virginity Rules.

I can only picture the orgasmic glee that overtook officials at Virginity Rules when Ms. Waite joined their merry band. Really, what are the odds that a girl named Waite wants to wait? And that she's stereotypically attractive? One or the other seems like a good possibility, but the combination of name, (lack of) desire, and looks must be rare. Oh, the slogan possibilities! (Examples: "Waite with Me," or more luridly, "Cum Waite with Me") Surely God himself had a hand in this!

I love it. Not as much as the guy in the article who uses tape to illustrate how pre-marital sex prevents married couples from bonding properly, but I do love it.

Unexpected Treasures

Using the bathroom in the Elvis Automobile Museum, I noticed an SD card for a digital camera on the floor in my stall. I'm not sure how one might lose and SD care in a bathroom, but there it was. Generally, I don't pick things up off the floor in public bathrooms, but this one seemed extra clean and a free SD card was too good to pass up. I snatched it up greedily, but gingerly, in my fingernails.

"Look what I found!" I exlaimed to Husband when I met up with him outside the bathroom. "A free SD card!"

"Oooooh!" Husband loves free stuff. But he frowned. "What if it has all of someone's vacation photos on it? We should give it to the lost and found." He looked sad at giving it up, but he was right.

"I know!" Sister's Husband chimed in. "Let's look at it and see what is on it. If it is blank, keep it. If not, we can turn it in. And maybe it will have pictures of naked people!!!"

We snorted. I placed the card in our camera. Lo and behold, it had many vacation pictures, plus graduation pictures. "I'll turn it in," I said. And just as I was about to turn the camera off and remove the card, three pictures of ladies cavorting with male strippers showed up. Hilarious.

Deep Sea Spear Fishing and Other Metaphoric Overkill

Where to even begin? Setting aside the idea that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," let's focus on the realities of this fine ad sent to me by the hilarious SJ of I, Asshole. I am impressed that between the "before" and "after" shots of the clam, it loudly proclaims "RARIIP." To me, that says, "This is going to hurt like a mad motherfucker," and that is true. (Thanks to the one accidental bikini wax I had, I know this for a fact.) Hence, the hairless clam in the "after" shot is "singing" like a suspect being tortured during interrogation.

As for the statement that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," I have to disagree. There are plenty of people in the world – male and female – who can deal with the fact that grown women have pubic hair, and some of us happen to not want to hear/experience "RARIIP" anywhere near our pooties. (Even thinking about it makes me cross my legs.) I realize that not all women agree with me when it comes to cooch style, and that's fine. But don't be insisting that every single potential clam eater finds naturally hairy clams gross. It is a lie, propaganda from the beauty industry. There's something for everyone. We don't all need to be the same neatly smooth Venus to get action or love.

However, this did get me thinking: if no one likes a bearded clam, is it not also true that no one likes a mustached gherkin? Shouldn't the beauty industry begin targeting men to remind them that their curlies also get in the way? I once had a debate with a total moron on someone else's blog in which he suggested that women who don't wax/shave don't deserve his services. I asked him if he waxed/shaved his pubic hair, and he indignantly insisted that he didn't need to because no one's mouth would be near his bush. I dropped the subject then because it is clear that this man has only received very bad blow jobs for his entire life and has no idea that more than the tip of a dick can be involved. (As I write this, his other completely insane insistence – that circumcised men never experience sexual pleasure, which he based entirely on his own experience, which he somehow compared to that of non-circumcised men – makes a lot of sense. The man obviously has no concept.)

No more beating around the bush (har dee har har)! If bearded clams are gross, so are mustached gherkins. What's good for the goose is also good for the gander, who, to completely kill the metaphor, should both be plucked free, although that probably would not be good for either goose or gander, as they need their downy coats. Just like me.

More Florence, Less Questions

Bush was in Rome yesterday to see the pope, which was a relief to me. I was worried that he would be there next week and fuck up my plans. Not that I planned to see the pope, but I was looking forward to visiting the Medical History Museum, which Dr. P, Dr. H, and I stumbled into last May when we were wondering around by the Vatican. I didn't know if the meeting of the these two great leaders of the anti-reproductive rights movement would mess with my life even more. Nothing pisses me off more than having my vacation ruined.

Anyway, this morning Husband and I were wondering how Italians felt about our great Fearless Leader. We suspected that they hate him like most Europeans do. Later, as I was wondering around, I found evidence that socialist Italians really hate Bush:The comparison to Hitler rankles me, though. Bush is much, much more similar to the Italian fascist leader Mussolini. It turns out that although Mussolini discriminated against Italian Jews, he never sent any to death or labor camps. The Jews were only deported from Italy after the Nazis invaded the country in 1943. Bush is no doubt a fascist like Mussolini. People never like admitting that their fascist leaders resemble ours, do they?

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

Yesterday while I was busy fucking up a big spreadsheet for the umpteenth time, my cell phone rang. I hate when people call my cell phone during the day because I have a shitty plan and not enough day time minutes, so I try and hoard them just in case. (In case of what, I am not sure, as I am certain that I will not care what rate I am charged if I make a call for help from the trunk of a car if I am kidnapped or whatever other emergency arises.) Also, this was maybe the third call that interrupted my concentration, which is why I accidentally deleted four rows of vital information from the spreadsheet.

"Hello?" I said very irritably. Unless it was someone calling to tell me I won a Pulitzer Prize, which I suspected was not the case although I did not recognize the caller's phone number, I didn't want to speak to them.

The caller seemed surprised by my hostility. "Is this Suzanne?" she said.

"No, it's the motherfucking pope," I wanted to say. Instead, I hissed, "Yes."

Well, while it was not the Pulitzer Prize Patrol, it turned out to be an interesting call. It seems that a new management credential is going to (finally) be available to child care center directors. The woman on the other line wanted to know if I would be interested in teaching a module on finance and budgeting. As she asked me this, I misaligned some data on my spreadsheet because it seems that my ragged brain can no longer multitask. I distractedly mumbled something about my qualifications that I am sure made her question why on earth a reputable person referred her to me. She said she'd send me more details.

"Sure," I said. "I'd love to do it."

Sex v. Baby-Making

I am so loving the stories people are telling in response to my inquiry about how they learned how babies are made. However, one thought these comments aroused (heh heh) in my little head is the difference between learning about how babies are made/where babies come from and about sex in general. After I learned how babies were made, I don't think that I thought about people having sex just to have sex because it felt good. Then again, my Barbies were getting it on with Ken, so I must have had some concept of the many purposes of sex. On the other hand, I was clueless enough to ask my mom how babies were made, so perhaps this is just another sign that I was not the most perceptive lass out there. Hmmm…

By the way, Forever rocked the house, as did Then Again, Maybe I Won't and to a lesser extent, Are You There God?.... (Not to mention the brilliant comedy that emanates from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and SuperFudge, although they had nothing to do with the traumas of puberty. I still laugh out loud just thinking about scenes from those books.) Long live Judy Blume!

Living La Virtual Vida Barbie? Loca!

As I recently confessed, I was not always an unshaved, misanthropic feminist. Nope. Back in the day, I was a fat nerd hiding from the onset of puberty and playing with my Barbies while the other 4th graders at my school experimented with dating and read stolen copies of their dads' Playboy magazines. Sure, my Barbies were horny gals out for some action with my one Ken doll, but isn't that more innocent than me being a horny 10 year old looking for ass? I think so. The point is, I loved Barbie.

Hence it is ironic that I was sent by Bugaboo magazine yesterday to cover the global launch of Mattel's new Barbie product, Barbie girls. I admit that I was eager to see what sort of sexist stew they had concocted to feed our kids. I wasn't disappointed, at least in the sense that they lived up to my lowest expectations. From the press release (which I am pleased to note they distributed on USB ports):

NEW YORK CITY (April 26, 2007) –Today, Mattel unveiled the next generation of fashion doll play with Barbie Girls™, an unparalleled, hybrid play experience that blends fashion, music and an online virtual world. Representing the true evolution of what today’s girl loves and opening the door to how tomorrow’s girl will play, Barbie Girls™ fuses the best of virtual and real life for a fresh, new experience. At launch this week, Barbie Girls™ first comes to life via www.BarbieGirls.com, the first global, virtual online world designed exclusively for girls. At BarbieGirls.com girls can create their own virtual character, design their own “room,” shop at the mall, play games, hang out and chat live with other girls. In July, Barbie Girls™ will take shape in the real world with a sleek, handheld, 4 ½ -inch portable device that serves as a music player and fashion statement-in-one, while also unlocking new content within BarbieGirls.com.

According to the Chief Barbie Girl's presentation at the launch, girls today love music, shopping, and being online. A group of hired minions – er, I mean "real girls" – stood around shouting out their agreement at this statement, and as Chief Barbie Girl walked us through the virtual world that is supposed to represent tomorrow's girl, they kept whooping their approval at all the "cute outfits and cute accessories and cute pets" that a girl can virtually acquire by watching "movies" (aka commercials) on the Pepto pink site. (OK, I probably shouldn't criticize the color, but CUSS's Pepto is irony, damn it!) The games offered on the site, which also help a girl earn virtual dollars which she can then spend on clothes and furniture, involve painting digital fingernails and giving Ken a makeover. I detected nothing game-like in this.

The point of all this is that Mattel either believes that girls only care about shopping, fashion, and looking good while hanging out with friends online, or they are reminding girls that obviously this is what they should care about. Even the virtual park is for hanging out, not for playing soccer or running or anything sporty. Need I mention that the Barbie girl avatars look like Bratz, but without the thongs? Oy. As for the Barbie girls MP3 player, well, Barbie's finally an official 'Pod person. (Ha! I kill me.)

Of course, I will write a nice little blurb about the product in Bugaboo. My interviews with minions – er, I mean "real girls" – (ages 10 and 11) will appear at BlogHer in early May. (They made me want to poke my eyes out in despair for the future.) At least they don't spell "girls" with a "z," right? Also, they had some great fucking food at the launch. Not that real Barbie girls eat mini sandwiches with cheese (the horror!), but I put the Barbie-as-surrogate-Suzanne away a long time ago, so I stuffed my face most unceremoniously.

What a Distinction!

I received this email a few days ago from my friend Alex. Her Younger Son (YS) is my official godkid, but I think of her Older Son (OS) as my godkid, too. (OS, as many of your know from Alex's hilarious blog, is 3.5 and YS is 9 months.)

Hi Suzanne,
I just wanted to let you know how highly OS thinks of you. Yesterday
when I was changing YS's diaper, OS pointed out that YS had an
anus. Then he proceeded to list people he knows that have anuses.
Guess who was one of the first people on his list? How are things going?
Love,
Alex

This just cracks me up for so many reasons. I am so damn proud of this kid. I also happen to love the seamless transition from being told that OS said I have an anus (not that I am an anus, thankfully) to asking how I am. I am proud, dammit! Proud!

On another note, Florida is delightful. I arrived yesterday afternoon to find warmth and sunshine. While Husband was at his conference reception, I wandered out of the fancy resort (it's about 1/2 mile walk to get the hell out of here) and as I was leaving, I asked the security guard if he could recommend a place to eat. He said I should try the Cuban place down the road. It was bueno. I particularly loved my mamey (no, I have no idea what that is) batido (shake) and dulce de leche sandwhich cookie, which in Argentina is called alfejore, but the woman stared at me like I was wild-eyed from crack when I called it that. On the way back, I found a 7 Eleven and bought Cheerios and yogurt for breakfast. Upon further exploration, I found a ginormous Winn-Dixie grocery store that I will get lunch at. The security guard and I chatted it up when I came back. Turns out he's originally from Brooklyn.

Oh, yeah, I got some writing done, too.

Another Deep, Dark Suzanne Secret

I loved Barbies when I was a kid. I played with them until I was 10 or 11, when other girls in my school had given up on dolls already and gone on to dating. I was in no way, shape, or form ready to handle real relations with boys, so I retreated into my little Barbie world. They put on pretty clothes and dated and had sex with Ken. In retrospect, it was sort of a proto-Bachelor situation, since there was only one guy and lots of ladies clamoring for him. I personally continued being a nerd. Life was good.

Ironically, although I loved gussying Barbie up and pimping her out, when it came to my life, I realized quickly that I hated heels, tight clothes, and makeup. I also was one of those no-sex-until-marriage types (shocking, I know) until I was 16 or 17. I left high school still a virgin. And I'm a hairy legged feminist to this day. In fact, as I leave for Florida for my writing retreat, I am gleeful that Minnie long ago suggested that I wear board shorts over my bathing suit so that I needn't worry about shaving the old bikini line. (I am not into shaving snatch, but I am also not into pubes hanging out of bathing suits. It's the worst damned if you do, damned if you don't situation a curmudgeonly vacationer faces...)

The Welcome Committee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Plastic it is," I agreed.

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

Welcome home, Suzanne.

Busy Bee (Buzz Buzz)

While I wish that I can report that I've been so busy later because I am always taking overnight road trips with friends or getting a book published or something exciting, it is really because I am writing articles in a magazine for rich families. That said, some of the stories are definitely more interesting than others. I had four pieces in the March issue, ranging from two 100 word write ups on family-friendly resorts to a few hundred words on a new exhibit on evolution at the American Museum of Natural History to a four page piece on neighborhoods that are good for (wealthy) families. (If you are my parents or in-laws, I have hard copies for you, so you need not print these.)

The last article, and money shot so to speak, was a seven page fluff article on new luxury condos that families should consider moving to. Even the magazine staff refer to these types of articles as "real estate porn," which is a perfect description of it. Seriously, I felt dirty when I was working on it and every time I look at the damn thing, my soul dies a little bit. I don't have it scanned in yet; I can't bring myself to do it.

Just Because I'm Paranoid...

It is super cold again in New York today, with winds making the temperatures feel no warmer than the single digits. (Yes, people in the Midwest and the really northern parts of the US and Canada, I know I am being a wuss. Stop snickering.) As I sit shivering at my dining room table in my two sweaters (one an acrylic turtleneck and the other a cashmere one that I got on sale at Macy’s for $30), pants, tights, knee socks, and boots, my mind has returned to the delightful product I mentioned yesterday known as The Body Groomer.

Body hair on days like today is good. It’s another little layer of warmth. I don’t fully understand the link between body hair and historical environment, as it seems far less clear cut than skin color and environment (blazing hot sun=darker skin to prevent skin cancer; not so much sunlight=lighter skin so that Vitamin D can be absorbed more easily), but it seems to make sense that people with Eastern European heritage are typically a bit hairier than others because it is fucking cold there in the winter. Although that would make one think that Scandinavians would be human polar bears and Greeks and Indians would be, I don’t know, sleek seals or something, and it doesn’t seem to work that way, but I digress.

Back to the Body Groomer. At first, I was excited in my cynical way because it pleased me that men increasingly feel the pressure that women do to look one way to be considered acceptable. Norelco finally woke up and realized that it could increase its profits by exploiting the other 50% of the population. Ha! It’s about time. (I know, I know - an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Blah blah blah.) This morning I worried that Norelco’s clever little ad campaign at www.shaveeverywhere.com isn’t really about the “optical inch” at all. What if it is really about women like me?

Bear with me here. I think hairy men are fine. (Of course, I think hairy women are find, too.) One of the things that I like about hairy men is that they are even hairier slobs than I am, so I can still feel “feminine” in comparison. What if men were no longer hairy? Then I would really feel gross and weird. I’d have to start shaving, at least my legs and pits. And I’d be colder than ever. It would really suck.

It seems like the men’s grooming movement is not really going to solve any problems. I will still laugh at it though. I figure at the rate things are going, global warming will do away with us silly humans or even sooner, the US will be involved in a war in Iran as well as Iraq, and may get bombed back into the stone ages anyway. On the bright side, I learned from the human evolution exhibit in the Natural History Museum that body hair was quite stylish back then…

Failure to Fail

Two weeks ago or so, I set a new goal for myself: to get a new rejection every day. The idea behind this was a) at least I’d be sending lots of work out; and b) at least I’d be getting a response, as opposed to hearing nothing from people who would possibly pay me to print my work. Since I set that goal, I have failed to actively fail, although I did get one rejection from a publisher on my weird New York City book proposal. That semi-cheered me up except that it really didn’t.

In even less encouraging news, I caught yesterday’s “Modern Love” column in the New York Times. This was the place I intended to send my I-was-the-worst-sex-columnist-in-the-history-of-sex-columnists story. Yesterday’s article, written by the editor himself, noted that he’s received a huge number of submissions about sex columnists who aren’t having sex and thus struggle to find something to write about. While that is not exactly my story, it’s pretty damn depressingly close. The only encouragement I took from this situation is that the editor did not mention that the essays would be funnier if they concluded with the authors becoming nuns.

Oh well. There’s always today and tomorrow and the day after that. In the meantime, anyone want to buy a $2.5 million “family residence” condo where the staff uniform is Burberry? (Yes, that is what I am writing about at my internship right now. Deep breath. It’s good experience…)

Good Bye, and Have a Nice Life!

Dr. P and another friend (Sophie) separately reported to me today that a mutual acquaintance (we’ll call her Super Annoying but Well-Meaning Person, aka SAWMP, which is sort of like swamp, which is how I felt when I spent time with her – like my limited time was slowly and torturously sinking in a pit of quicksand, so I’ll call her Swampie) called them and told them that she was getting married. Swampie invited Dr. P to her wedding, but warned her that she would probably not know anyone else there. Swampie told Sophie that the wedding was very small, and she hoped that Sophie would not be offended if she was only invited to an engagement party (which is a whole other rant). Dr. P and Sophie were intrigued that I was not invited to either.

Dr. P and I met Swampie at one of Sophie’s parties. Sophie knew that Swampie was annoying and clingy, but did not warn me, and since Swampie was one of the only other non-uber-religious Jews at the party, she fooled me into thinking she was an interesting person. The problem was that she is not. This is not to say that Swampie is not kind and thoughtful; she very much is. (Whereas I am not.) But I subsequently discovered that she bored the fuck out of me and I did not want to hang out with her.

Telling her straight out that I thought she was very nice, but extremely lame, would have been horrible, so I tried to do the silent dump. (For those of you not familiar with this battle tactic, it involves never, ever, under any circumstances, returning the future dumpee’s calls or emailing them back. If you stupidly answer the phone when the dumpee rings your home because you do not have call waiting, the key is to immediately say you are busy and offer to call back. Then don’t. Eventually, the dumpee should figure out that you are an asshole who does not want to be friends and are weirdly trying not to hurt her feelings by saying this to her face. Then she will hate you and dump you, and you will be rid of her.) The silent dump went on for at least three years. Every time I thought I was free and answered my cell phone without worry when a strange number appeared, it would be her and the whole cycle would start all over again.

I felt incredibly guilty, and tried to overcome my dislike of her and once in awhile agreed to hang out with Swampie and Dr. P. (Dr. P has an amazing ability to tune people out and ignore the waves of annoyingness a person projects, which is probably the only reason she is still a friend of mine and definitely why she found Swampie tolerable and continued their friendship.) After restraining myself from strangling Swampie during those outings, I swore to end things. Personally, I thought it would be better to tell her that things were not working out between us, but Dr. P and Sophie assured me that it was kinder to be a bitch and ignore her. I don’t know.

The point is that it finally worked: she has not called me in eons, and is clearly not inviting me to either of her soirées. The irony is that the only reason she met her fiancé is because of me. I was sick of hearing her whine about needing to meet a nice Jewish guy, so I encouraged her to join jdate. (I also reasoned that if she did find a male companion, she’d be too busy to call me, and I’d be rid of her.) She followed my advice, and eventually met a guy she fell in love with, which was good. Although she didn’t initially stop calling me, which was bad. In fact it was worse, because I really loathed her boyfriend and on the rare occasions I agreed to meet up with them, my pain was ten fold. (I found him sleazy and creepy, which Dr. P and Sophie also told me I could not say to her, even with the best of intentions.) Even though I behaved despicably throughout this whole “friendship,” I seem to have done a mitzvah. I admit that after I heard the news about their pending nuptials from Sophie this morning, for a split second I was actually annoyed that I was not included, given my role in bringing the happy couple together. Then I realized I was being completely insane and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

So mazel tov to Swampie and the Sleaze Bag, and a big thank you for not inviting me to partake in the festivities. I wish them a happy and healthy marriage and all the best! (Especially if it does not involve me.)

Forget Washing Hands, I Need My Mind Washed Out with Soap

I saw some former beloved co-workers in the evening, and naturally the subject of Anna Nicole's untimely demise was a topic of conversation. I speculated that she passed out and was smothered by her ginormous silicone breasts when she couldn't life her head out of her oppressive cleavage. Then my friend who I regard as the older brother I never had piped up. "Isn't her dead son the father of her new baby?" he asked earnestly.

Sure this is how horrible, awful rumors get started, but wouldn't that be totally disturbing if it randomly turns out to be the case?

Reaping What You Sow

This is the most hilarious press release I have ever read:
Troy Newman is Not the Director of Operation Rescue

It seems that some lunatic hijacked Operation Rescue West, dropped the "West," moved to Wichita, KS so he could harass clinics and also amass a private real estate empire fraudulently, and now is pissing off his fellow soul-savers by pretending to be them. Damn, that makes me laugh. There is nothing funnier than really angry self-righteous megalomaniacs fuming about other self-righteous megalomaniacs.