Bring on the Funny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freudian Slip

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

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

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

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

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

What We Saw at a Bus Stop in the West Village

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

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

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

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

"That's a dildo."

"With shit caked on it, yes."

Best Cartoon Ever Revisited

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

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



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

NaBloPoMo

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

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

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

November 2006 - good times!

Truth or Dare

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

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

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

My Subway Pervert

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

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

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

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

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

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

Survey on Grooming Habits

I found the following message in my in-box:

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

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

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

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

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

My New Beaver Spreader

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

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

I Had a Really Nice Dream Last Night...

Two days ago, I discovered a package in the mail from my pal Mara, who has the good fortune to live in London. She sent me a tea towel* from Emma Bridgewater:



When I showed it to Husband at night, he made his squinty eye, pursed lips face. It was very cute. The next day, he sent her an email objecting to her gift:

Thank you for the thoughtful gift of a dish towel, but I am afraid we cannot accept it. Although Daniel Craig brilliantly portrays militant Jews in motion pictures (three times by last count), he has insufficient acting credentials to be worthy of a prominent place in our home. While it pains me to reject high quality household goods from Europe, I cannot see how I can put anything in my kitchen that references an actor whose principal roles included casting in such notable films as "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" and "The Golden Compass". Rest assured, we would proudly display a towel if made reference to one of Mr. Craig's more respectable British peers, such as Robbie Coltrane or Robert Carlyle. Thanks again, but please be considerate of good taste when purchasing presents for us in the future.

What's truly hilarious is I had a really nice dream that night about... Matt Damon. Man, I just love him from the Bourne series. Then, yesterday, I was flipping through the channels while I waited for Husband to get home from work. Casino Royale was on USA! O, be still my beating heart!

Of course, when you are lucky to have a husband as witty as mine, who needs Matt Damon or Daniel Craig?

*If anyone knows what that is, please let me know - I use it to wipe my hands in the kitchen, which seems to work well.

Free Hot Dogs

On Sunday, the City of New York shut down traffic in Times Square and created a pedestrian and bike zone. Normally, I hate Times Square (too much traffic of all three kinds) and avoid it at all costs, but Husband and I were curious to see what it was like without motor vehicles, and the weather was gorgeous, so we strolled down to check it out.

Cars and trucks or no cars and trucks, Times Square is a nightmare on a holiday weekend. As we wove our way through the crowds, I noticed a lot of people munching on hot dogs. Eventually, we stumbled upon a man stood on a corner, waiving an aluminum pan in the air, yelling, "Free hot dog! Get your free hot dog!" Hebrew National had set up a slew of tables and served up the foil wrapped dogs. As I watched people eat the juicy wieners nestled appealingly in fluffy buns, my mouth watered.

"You know, 15 years ago, if someone tried to slip me a free hot dog in Times Square, it would've meant something completely different," I told Husband.

Sexual Eating

Lately, I can't keep my hands off the tasty treats, thanks to emotional eating. However, it seems that Mars candy company thinks that women eat chocolate to satisfy sexual urges. Their first new product in 20 years is called the Fling, and it is described as a slim chocolate finger that brings guilt-free pleasure to the ladies.

I compare the Fling to Nestle's Yorkie and Cadbury's Mr. Big over at BlogHer. While many temptations cause my "mouth" to "water," not all satisfy my "hunger" equally.

No Cush for the Bush?

Sometimes a topic so ripe for mockery just falls into my bushy lap. Yesterday, I stopped rocking back and forth, uncurled myself from the fetal position, and wrote one of the best posts I've cranked out in a while on BlogHer about a product known as "The Cuchini." God help me...

As part of the post, I decided to run a contest:

Granted, I would not want everyone and their pervert uncles seeing my cooter silhouette, either. Of course, my solution is not to wear absurdly tight short shorts. This also helps avoid the dreaded "crotch rot." (Man, I can't wait until someone invents an anti-crotch rot product. I challenge readers to come up with a name for that, and I promise $10 to the best one. Seriously! Leave a comment with your anti-crotch rot product name...)

I am really excited about this contest! I'm sure we can develop something really exciting, and then we'll be rich!

Pictures from the Beaver Cam (aka My Blackberry)

As mentioned on Friday, I attended a conference at which Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke delivered the key note address. Although I was distracting from large portions of his speech by his security guard, who stood in the corner chomping gum in a way that made his '70s-style mustache fly up and down and mesmerized me, I followed the lead of my fellow conference attendees and tried to photograph Bernanke with my Blackberry. This blurry shot of his chest is the best I got:

If you squint, you can make out the podium, behind which is Bernanke's white shirt and blue tie.) None of my photos of the security guard came out at all, making me worry that I hallucinated his great 'stache.

After the conference, I had a terrible meeting on Capitol Hill. Then I stopped into the Postal Museum, which is run by the Smithsonian. It was awesome. I love mail. My Blackberry worked very well when I wanted to take a picture of what must be the coolest mailbox ever:


At the end of the day, Maria and I went to the National Zoo to see the beaver pond. This big, bushy beaver spread itself out on a rock for all to ogle, turning my Blackberry into a beaver cam:

The zoo also has a video camera pointed inside the beaver dam for live beaver action. I could not stop cracking up.

The rest of the weekend was delightful. This week is likely to be the exact opposite, with too much going on for the third or fourth week in a row. I'll try and focus on the beaver cam to get through it.

Easter in the Embroidery Capital of the World

This afternoon, Husband and I joined some lovely friends from my writing program for Easter brunch at another friend's apartment in New Jersey. Everything was delicious, and of course, I ate too much. In particular, I loved the biscuits that one woman made.

"Hey Sara, how'd you get your biscuits to be so sweet?" I asked her, then laughed maniacally in my head because, thanks to my granny, I can't say the word biscuit with a straight face. Granny's euphemism for the vaginal area was butter biscuit. So, for example, when I was a wee lass and went to the bathroom, she'd ask me if I wiped my butter biscuit before I got off the toilet. Oy. (For the record, the brunch biscuits were made with honey butter. Mmmmm...)

We departed from the brunch festivities a bit early to go to Ikea. Our living room has been deprived of a couch since Tuesday, which is the only night residents in our building are allowed to dispose of furniture. For $150, Husband and I picked up a cute little couch that flips out into a bed for overnight guests. We had to fight the crowds of Southeast Asians, Asians, and Hasidic Jews to check out. (I swear I saw my super a few check out lanes over, but that's another story.) Now I know who shops at Ikea on Easter Sunday.

Sofa safely tucked into the hatchback of Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, Husband and I headed back home from Jersey via the Lincoln Tunnel. As we passed under a bridge, I saw one of my favorite signs: "Welcome to North New Jersey, Embroidery Capital of the World Since 1872." Something to brag about, indeed.

Hope that everyone is having a Happy Resurrection Day!

Husband's Robed Weekend Companion

On Wednesday, Husband departed for a week long business trip to Europe. He was in Madrid until this afternoon, in London this weekend, and in Milan on Tuesday. It seems that the hotel that he is staying at in London was worried that he would be lonely by himself over the weekend, and arranged for a companion dressed only in a bathrobe to meet him in his room:



Seriously, this was how he found the room when he stepped across the threshold.

Husband was amused. I worried who else this companion may have shared a bed with before he arrived. Was it a free gift for all guests, or just Husband's to bring back after their weekend snuggle? Husband said there was no price, and the mini bar list included Orangina, but not a teddy. This made me feel a bit better. There is nothing sadder than a hotel pimping teddy bears out to lonely business travelers.

If I Don't Laugh...

This is the disturbing yet hilarious card that Husband gave me for Valentine's Day (click on it to make it bigger, which I do not mean as a come on):



Inside it says, "There will be magic."

The card both impresses me and makes me want to take a shower to wash away the ookiness. Sort of like yesterday. It was just a shitty, crappy day, so I couldn't sleep, so I read something online which further upset me, so I couldn't sleep.

Then I remembered that laughter is the best medicine, which made me want to slap whoever said that, although it is so true. I chuckled over message Husband wrote in the card ("I briefly debated whether to purchase this card or purchase a top hat and recreate the scene with Tycho. For the sake of keeping magical rabbit turds out of our bed, I went for the card.") The near hysteria that gripped me reminded me how lucky I am to have Husband, and the horrid feeling of being trapped and unable to extract myself from multiple situations that I willingly entered dissipated and I went to bed, reassured. (Sorry for the sappy ending.)

Come Light My Menorah

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

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

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

Happy Hanukkah!

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

Squeeze This, Asshat

As it is winter here in New York, I have been making good use of my cozy bear hat for the last few weeks. Responses to the hat range from frowns that someone "my age" would wear such an item to a preschool age girl saying, "Look Daddy! That girl's a teddy bear!" Generally, people restrain themselves.

However, two nights ago as I entered a little magazine/cigarette shop near school, a man was leaving the store. As he held the door open for me, he said, "Can I squeeze..." I froze. What the fuck was this guy going to try and squeeze? "... your ears?" Before I could respond (I was sort of in shock from the weird request), he grabbed a little ear stub in his greedy hand and manhandled it. Then he walked away.

At least he didn't ask to squeeze my tits. Shudder.

Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings: A Review

In a previous post, I discussed the difference between earned and entitled. (Quick recap: to earn something means that one worked for it and deserves to be compensated for the effort and results; to be entitled means that one did nothing productive or positive but for some reason believes that they should be compensated anyway.) It seems that the same people who caused the global financial collapse still do not understand this important distinctions between the two words.

A headline in yesterday's New York Times Business Section read, "Bonus Season Afoot, Wall Street Tries for a Little Restraint. Tries? Well, par-done-ay moi, aren't you the same assholes who paid yourselves billions of dollars in bonuses over the last few years? You shitheads are lucky there aren't mobs with pitchforks outside your mansions, calling for your heads. You are going to have to "try" a little harder.

The article does note that the top echelons of executives are foregoing bonuses this year, even though they worked very hard all year. Now, here is a prime example of the difference between "earned" and "entitled." At least, in theory, the honchos who destroyed the nation and assisted in rendering people homeless through the sale of shitty mortgages earned their salaries through hard work. To insist that one also gets a bonus for such poor performance is a demonstration that one feels entitled to wealth that one did not earn. In fact, all these fucks should be fired. Their assets should be seized to repay as much of the taxpayers' cost of bailing out their banks as possible.

One line in the article cracked me up:

“Clearly they’re trying to spread the pain out a little bit,” said John Pierson, president of 10X Partners, a finance recruiting firm in New York. “But if I worked at Morgan Stanley and was looking at this, I would not be happy.”

Oh, poor executives who earned billions of dollars over the last few years! It brings a fucking tear to my eye to think about how you'll just have to live on your six or seven figure salaries alone this year, and even in future years, now that bonuses will be stingily parceled out over a longer term to match it to performance, forcing you to demonstrate that you earned your compensation! Such sacrifice!

The Heat is On

In New York City, landlords either blast the heat so that the old people in the building don't complain and the other tenants sweat their balls off, or they are slumlords who provide no heat at all and tenants are forced to use ovens and space heaters to keep warm. I am fortunate enough to live in a building that provides heat, albeit way too much heat. Generally, I keep the radiators turned off and even an icicle like me is toasty.

This morning I had to open the valve on the radiators. Even Tycho seems to be cold. (Serves him right for shedding like a maniac in November, although I can't entirely blame him for not knowing it is the cold season since the apartment is usually hot.) As I write this, it's four degrees warmer in the Chicago area than in New York (34 degrees - above freezing! - versus 30.) Freezing temperatures were also reported in Georgia. (Stay warm, Eddie! And by the way, your son's Beetle is my dream car.)

Speaking of heat, it seems that the stupid Democrats in Congress are re-warming up to that assfuck Lieberman. They should be freezing that douche nozzle back to Connecticut. I guess they think they need him because in Minnesota, usually one of the coldest places in the nation, a hand recount of the 2.9 million ballots cast is underway. Convicted criminal Ted Stevens lost his bid for re-election in Alaska (as I said to a friend yesterday, I love when Americans do the right thing by small margins), so that's a plus even though I'm not sure I want the Dems to have a super majority.

Also in hot news, the winner of the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant was (drum roll, please) Tokyo Circus! Not who I wanted, but he's certainly deserving of the title. The man did splits on a stage covered with beer and who know what other fluids wearing only a g-string pouch-y thing. Major kudos. I am glad that the audience has higher standards than I do, as I tend to vote for the cutest guy who is willing to show his balls. I'm a sucker for attractive male nudity. (Yes, I'm talking about the tour guide guy again, lecherous hag that I am.)

And that's my report on the temperature.

From Mr. Lower East Side to the Queens County Farm

For the first time since my inaugural experience in 2005, I made it to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. My experience at the Mr. Lower Side Pageant was one of my first blog posts in October 2005. I had the greatest time then, and the greatest time in 2008.

This is a pageant hosted by the Lower East Side's most infamous performance artist, Rev. Jen.. (She's the proprietress of the Troll Museum - it's in her apartment - which is probably the highlight of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track.) I confessed to my friend Sara that I am a little bit of jealous of Rev. Jen because she leads this interesting life, not that it is one that is right for boring me, but still something that I am envious of. (Sara said she thought the same thing.) Anyway, the pageant features talent, swimsuit, and evening wear/interview components, usually of which are conducted over the audiences shouting, "Show us your balls! Balls! Balls!" On a semi-frequent basis, the contestant complies, and raucousness ensues. Usually the and cock flasher is not someone's whose cock and/or balls I really want to see (like the furry guy in his mid-60s, whose talent is standing on stage completely naked and staring at the audience*), but I was pleased that a cutie with pierced nipples eagerly pulled himself out at the first request.

OK, now not only am I digressing, but I sound like an old pervert. (Yeah, I am a pervert, but whatever.) I was forced to leave the pageant a bit early to be sure that I was home when my friend Mara and her two year old daughter arrived at my apartment, so I'm not sure who won. My friend Vicky stayed behind to represent, and I can't wait to hear about what I missed. Another friend took video, incidentally, so I will try to get some footage from him and post it. (I swear I only drooled a little when I wrote that.) I so cannot wait for next year.

In stark contrast to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant, Husband and I are attending a colonial dinner at the Queens County Farm Museum tonight. Dinner is served in a farmhouse from the late 1600s, on dinnerware from the 1700s. The food is cooked on an open hearth using recipes from the 1700s. When I made the reservation in May, I snagged the last two spots. I'm pretty psyched for it.

And that is not only what I like about living in New York, but what I like about my life: I can do all these different activities that satisfy my varied interests with a range of friends. That's about all anyone can ask for, isn't it?

Storytime Delay and Lessons from Bubbe

I discovered that documents written in pencil on lined paper in 1986 or 1987 do not scan well. Since the story is much better when read in its original form (and includes an important drawing), I am going to photocopy it and make it darker, then try to scan it again.

In place of "A Treaser Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted To Be In Professional Baseball," CUSS instead presents the following conversation with Bubbe:

"Hey Bubbe, how come Bob* isn't married?" I asked her, knowing full well what the answer would be. Bob is a friend of the family who is in his late 50s. He attended her birthday party with his mother.

She learned forward, her eyes gleaming with bochinche.** "Because he's a feygelah!!!"

My sister snickered. "Ask her why he's gay?" she said under her breath. I like instigating, so I followed her directions. "Bubbe, how come he's a feygelah?"

"Because," she leered. "His mother didn't hide nothing from him."

"Huh? What's that mean?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant.

"She let him see her naked, and that made him a feygelah." She nodded and leaned back into the cushions of the rust colored couch. "Yes."

And this concludes our lesson on human sexuality with Bubbe. Next time, tune in for a diatribe on why Barack Obama hates Israel. Or better yet, I'll get my story scanned and posted.

*Name changed to protect the slandered.
**I'm not sure how to spell this, but it is Puerto Rican slang for juicy gossip.

The Sniff Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever Floats Your Boat

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

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

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

Misused Penis Cream Can Lead to Big Fingers

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

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

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

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

Is that a Teledildronic Device in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

(Diagram from Gizmodo.)

The more I learn about people, the more I want to become a hermit. At BlogHer, I wrote about a guy who invented his own robot girlfriend. While "Alice" can consent to having sex with "Zoltan," it seems that dancing the horizontal tango with a robot involves something called a teledildronic device. Sigh. At least Alice doesn't have to wipe up Zoltan's jizz afterward.

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, I Did Ask That

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

Me: Hey! How are you?

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

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

Friend: We started dating about a month ago.

Me: Soooooo... is he circumcised?

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

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

Friend: (still laughing uncontrollably)

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

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

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

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably)

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

I'm Alive!

Just in case anyone was worried since I didn't post since I mentioned that my stomach might explode, it didn't. I was just running around like an idiot today, trying to finish articles, grade budgets (one thing I actually finished), take pictures for the book, edit the pictures and ftp them to the publisher, and eat Indian sweets. The last part was not taxing.

As my brother-in-law spruced up the book photos on his computer this evening, I learned that New York State's governor, Eliot Spitzer, who ran on a big reform platform and was formerly the State Attorney General who busted all the corrupt folks on Wall Street, was caught in a federal prostitution sting. It seems that he had a high-priced hooker sent down from NY while he was in DC one night, which is against a 1910 law that prohibits transporting a person across state lines for "immoral" purposes.* There's all kinds of media circus going on around this.

My friend wanted to know why he just couldn't settle for a DC call girl like the other politicians. A former colleague who works in New Jersey sent me an email asking me what was wrong with my governor. "My governor may pay for sex," I replied, "but yours is trying to buy a new Florida primary for his friend Hillary Clinton." I'm not really sure which is worse.

*Honestly, this law scares the crap out of me because I now fear it will be used against people who leave on state to go to another to obtain an abortion, but that's another story.

It's On! It's On!

The infamous Plushie/Furrie episode of CSI! I've been talking about this episode ever since I first saw it years ago. I'm so excited! And now I will say something I never thought I'd say: Thanks SpikeTV for giving me what I want!

That's Not the Stocking Stuffer I Had in Mind, But Thanks Anyway

Nothing says, "Happy birthday, Jesus!" like these fine items available from the British "toy" purveyor Ann Summers:





Someone must have been a really bad boy to be punished with something like this. I hope there's not a lump of coal in there, too, as I imagine that would be uncomfortable. Or could it get more uncomfortable?

Damn, I love those wacky Brits. Oh, this is such jolly fun to laugh at. Ho ho ho.

(For real feminist gift ideas, check out my list at BlogHer and add your suggestions!)

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.

Cutting to the Chase

For a variety of reasons, I recommed not holding a bris on a very cold day in Chicago. (Insert your own immature shrinkage joke here.) My personal bias against frosty bris events is that I will have to drive to them. Since I don't normally drive, I will forget that cold weather means that ice forms on windshields. Then I will be 10 minutes late to the bris because I didn't budget enough time to scrape the windshield clear.

When I finally did arrive at my friend's parents' apartment for the bris, there was a little sign on the door telling people to leave shoes and boots in the hall. As I removed my non-snow appropriate leather boots, I heard the baby crying. "Shit," I thought. "I'm missing the first bris I was ever invited to." I knocked on the door and discovered that the ceremony was just starting, but no cutting was yet happening. The baby was just crying for no reason. Or maybe it was because he saw the contraption that babies get strapped into for the procedure. I'd cry, too.

Since I arrive late, I hovered in the doorway behind the table that the circumcision was being performed on. The mohl (a rabbi who specializes in foreskin removal, which I possibly spelled wrong) took the baby's pants off. His little socks came off at the the same time, and the mohl put them back on, explaining that he didn't want the baby's feet to be exposed and cold. We all shared a hearty laugh. Then the baby was strapped into the stabilizing contraption. He didn't like this and began crying. More things that I could not see took place, although at one point I noticed a clamp thing. If I had a penis, I'd probably cross my legs at that point. The baby's crying never intensified, so I was surprised when he was declared kosher (not the mohl's words) a few seconds later. Grandpa gave baby a wine soaked cloth to suck on, and soon the kid was peacefully asleep. Happy words were spoken by a non-mohl lady rabbi, the guests sang a happy song in Hebrew which I knew half the words to (they also sing it at the end of Jewish wedding ceremonies), and then the eating commenced.

After hanging around for a while, I left the bris and headed over to Granny's. Since she usually keeps the temperature in her house somewhere in the 80s so that she can hang around in her "diaphonous dusters" (as my mom described them) with no undies on, I brought a t-shirt to change into. I was quite surprised when she answered the door fully clad in a sweatshirt and pants. "I turned the heat down a bit so you wouldn't be too hot," Granny explained as I hugged her. (When I told this to my mom later, she said that I must be my Granny's favorite person in the world, as she turns the heat down and dresses for nobody.)

We had a very pleasant visit, except for when I found out that she leases three telephones from AT&T for $27 a month. The woman struggles with money, and she's throwing away over $300 a year on phone rentals?!?! I felt like she was a victim of elder abuse (who else fucking rents phones?), and made her promise me that she would cancel the lease and return the phones if I bought her ones. Sigh. Then I ate too much chocolate, which was left over from the stash we brought her back from our August 2005 trip to Israel. Although it expired in June 2006, it was still delicious.

Tomorrow morning, I plan to share a fashion epiphany that struck me last night as I was dozing off. (Not long after that, I decided that I needed a snack and nearly died in the kitchen, where I swear my feet froze to the floor, but I digress.) In the afternoon, I'm taking Bubbe to lunch and then to return a down coat that she bought a few weeks ago, which she insists all the feathers came out of after only two wears. (I believe this based on my own coat.) I also hope to pick up a new pair of Dansko clogs. Then I'm going to see my friends Rachel and Jenny for dinner. Sadly, Sister and Sister's Husband will not be coming in from Iowa, as it is supposed to snow like a mad motherfucker. Bah.

Last Chance Before December

When I was a wee lass growing up on the "wrong" side of the Edens Expressway in Wilmette, IL, my dad had a t-shirt that puzzled me. It had a picture of a cartoon women who (according to my partly unreliable memory) was scantily clad and had big titties sitting on a bale of hay with a piece of hay in her teeth. Above her, it read, "Last chance before the freeway." My dad also had a t-shirt with McDonald's golden arch logo that parodied the fast food purveyor. It read, "Marijuana: Over 5 Billion Stoned."

Of course, these memories have nothing to do with NaBloPoMo, a scheme to encourage people to blog at least once every day in November, but as today is Nov. 30 and thus the last day of NaBloPoMo, it's people's last chance to create posts and backdate them if they didn't make the daily postings. In my case, pretty much post at least once every day, every month anyway. However, as I decided to enjoy myself in London over Thanksgiving weekend and not pay the outrageous internet connection fee at my hotel, November happens to be the one month I didn't post every day. Some may say I lose, but I say I win. Dude, I got to go to London!!!

I tried to offer a prize for those who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, but the organizer never responded to either of my emails. I guess it's OK for others to offer their blog merchandise, but not offensive little old me. However, if you are a CUSS reader who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, email me (my email is on the right side of the blog), and you can have any short sleeve t-shirt or mug from the CUSS store. If more than one person is a NaBloPoMo champ, I'll do some sort of random drawing at the end of next week. Just because the official NaBloPoMo people rejected me doesn't mean I shouldn't try and make good on my offer. Holiday spirit and all that shit.

Back to growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this last day of November brings the news that former member of the House of Representatives Henry Hyde from Illinois died. Rep. Hyde did everything he could to ensure that low income women had few options for terminating pregnancies by blocking federal Medicaid funds from paying for the procedure. On the other hand, at least he was slightly less hypocritical than his anti-family, pro-forced-childbirth colleagues, as Hyde supported the federal Child Care and Development Block Grant. This important money helped low income parents pay for safe places for their kids to stay while they worked or went to school. I won't call it even, but at least he tried to help families even as he coerced them into living by his religious beliefs.

Priests Are So Sexy

Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) searched high and low for an appropriate souvenir for me while they were on their honeymoon in Italy. Their original idea was to purchase a fancy Venetian glass figurine of a beaver for me. After learning the Italian word for beaver (castoro), they asked at many shops, and many shop keepers laughed. They learned that castoro can also mean "goatee," which is fascinating, but not helpful to their quest. No one made glass beavers. (Incidentally, they did get a cute glass pussy for Mother in Law...)

Since no glass beavers were to be secured, they bought me the next best thing:



Your eyes do not deceive you. This is the cover photo from a sexy priest calendar.

"We thought this was a Steph-worthy gift," BiL said proudly as he handed me the calendar. SiL beamed.

My jaw hit the ground. Other than stammering, "Damn! This is the most perverse gift I've ever received," over and over again, I was speechless. Well done, BiL and SiL. Well done.

Husband and the Furry Guy

I told Husband all about my wacky time in the sex shop with Des on Thursday evening, including how the store sells a mesh tank top for men.

"You would look like a furry animal caught in a net if you wore that," I giggled.

Husband made his exasperated/indignant/mortified face, which involves frowning intensely while narrowing his eyes and jutting his chin forward. "It's not funny. I am a furry dolphin!"

"Caught in a tuna net?" I laughed.

"Obviously!" He batted his eyelashes and sighed.

I do so adore him.

Des and the Real Girl

Last Sunday, I had brunch with my friend Sara and she mentioned that she wanted to see the film Lars and the Real Girl, which is about a mentally disabled young man who gets a blow up sex doll, names it Bianca, and introduces it to people as his girlfriend. It's a movie that is very supportive of mentally ill people and also stars Ryan Gosling, who rocks, but I decided that I can't sit through more than 30 minutes of such precious concepts.

However, I could spend hours observing people at my neighborhood sex shop as they shop for blow up dolls and other sex play items. Yesterday Des was on the hunt for some black fishnet stockings. First we stopped into a "normal" store, Ricky's. (Ricky's is a local chain that used to be a pharmacy and sell sundries and beauty products. A few years ago, they realized that there is no money to be made in selling medications, so they took out the drugs and sundries, kept the beauty products, and put in a sex toys section. Plus they sell all kinds of doodads like slippers, funny t-shirts, and tights.) Ricky's didn't have fishnets that Des liked, so I suggested that we go to the local sex shop, which I knew had a variety of fishnets because I noticed a red pair in the doorway one day as I passed by and went in to check them out. Des agreed, and our hilarious adventure began.

The stockings section at the store is right in front near the door. As we were browsing the various fishnets, a woman about our age reluctantly stepped into the store. As she took off her hat, I was pretty sure that she wished that the ground would swallow her. The two guys at the counter asked if they could help her. She must've whispered what she was looking for, as I didn't hear her response. On the other hand, it was impossible not to hear the guy as he boomed out, "Of COURSE we have this! Follow me!" and led her to the back of the store where the porn videos are.

In the meantime, Des and I commented on gross giant dildos with blue veins painted on them, crotchless leather and mesh panties, and a mesh tank top for men which we thought would likely not be sexy on an actual man. I eyed the fake vaginas, which always fascinate me in their pinkness. We went to the counter so Des could pay for her tights and a cute pair of fingerless lace gloves a la Madonna's "Like a Virgin" era. As the cashier ran Des's credit card, I heard the other customer approach the register behind me.

"So what did you pick?" the non-cashier employee asked her.

I didn't turn around to see, so I can only assume she held her item up to show him. "Why did you pick that one? He showed you much better stuff?" the employee pressed.

"They're all the same," the woman mumbled. I swear I could feel the heat radiate off her blushing face, although I did not turn to look at her. I didn't want to add to her embarrassment. It most of my willpower to not start laughing.

"NO!" the employee said loudly in disgust. "All pornos are not the same! The other one he showed you is much better quality! Better pictures, better sound, better everything..."

Now I was biting my lip at the ridiculousness of the situation. Des finished paying, the cashier put her items in a plain black bag, and we left. In that time, I decided that I should just hang out at the sex shop all day some time and record the absurd conversations that I suspect go on multiple times.

Arghhhh! *Slurp* (Part II)

As we chuckled over Husband's hilarious email about a possible air pirate eating soup in the Admirals Club lounge at Heathrow airport yesterday, Husband pointed out that "Arghhhh! *Slurp*" is also the sound that a pirate makes when giving a blow job.

Clearly, when we met as college freshman, Husband had to be somewhat demented or he would not have wanted to date me. At the same time, I wonder (at times with pride) how much I have dragged him down into the gutter with me. Regardless of my influence, the man makes me laugh.

My Eyes are Still Stinging

Based on anecdotal evidence, adults seize upon Halloween as an opportunity to display their "wild" sides. Nationwide, the availability of "sexy" costumes in stores seems to be higher each year, sometimes making it impossible to find anything remotely covering unless you make it yourself. In New York City, however, this unfortunately provides a convenient and unacceptable excuse for individuals to not wear pants/skirts. Or underwear.

I knew I was in for a night when, on my way to a community Halloween party in the East Village, I observed several women whose costumes consisted of shirts. How men's dress shirts with sparkly purses as accessories are costumes is beyond me. I dodged several of these mysteries along with countless "sexy" pirates until I met my friends (one was Mighty Mouse and the other a vampire disco guy) and we went to a gay dive bar where no one really wore costumes. My cronies loved that I was going to a gay bar dressed as a bride.

After I drank a stiff Diet Coke (it was flat), we headed to the party. It was an all day event at a community theater center. Scott and Mark had already been there for a little while before they left for stronger drinks at the bar, and they warned me that a naked man was wandering around the party. I spotted him as soon we entered the lobby. "Oh, shit!" I told my friends upon seeing his extremely furry naked torso. "I know this guy!" He was the naked guy contestant in the Mr. Lower East Side pageant that I attended in October 2005.

The whole night I marveled at the weirdness of recognizing that guy. Many other men were wearing minimal amounts of clothing, but I thought that Naked Guy had the biggest balls to go full monty. After I downed a watery glass of apple juice at the bar, it was time for the costume contest. Who could beat the Naked Guy?

Unfortunately, Naked Guy with Elephantitis of the Scrotum could. When he walked across the stage with his softball-sized nut sac, I realized that I needed to wash my eyes out with soap when I got home to rid myself of the vision. Further, I had a bad feeling I knew him, too. At the same Mr. Lower East Side pageant, the previous years' winner of the title "Best Nut Sac" was a man spoken wonderously of as "Tommy Nut Sac." I suspect that was who I set my eyes on during the costume parade.

Now there's inherently nothing wrong with men who have sacs that are 15 times larger than normal ones, I just don't want to see them live and in person for the most part. (That's what medical history museums are for!) I was fairly repulsed when the guy won for "Best Erotic Costume." A naked man with a giant sac does not equal erotic in my not-especially-selective book. The stiff Diet Coke and weak apple juice just weren't enough to make me lower my not-so-high standards.

Suzanne, The Busy Beaver*

I forgot to note that the wedding I went to was for one of Husband's co-workers, hence we drove for 5 hours plus with three of his colleagues and sat for another four hours with almost everyone from his office, including the boss man. The boss man is someone I am always nervous around for a variety of reasons. First, he used to have a photo of himself with Karl Rove prominently displayed. Terrifying. Then, I fear that I will say or do something totally inappropriate and make Husband's situation uncomfortable. Remember, I can't even get through a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development without sighing and rolling my eyes. Can you imagine what spending time with someone who admires one of Satan's prime henchman is like for me?

Thus when boss man's very kind wife asked me what I was up to these days and I started talking about my book (for which I have launched an extremely lame temporary blog until I can work with the publisher to get something spiffier and more official), it was a relief. However, that led me to admit that the next travel book I want to do is "Medical History Museums of the United States and the World," which would be absurdly expensive to write given the international travel component and probably find a very limited audience. That audience seems to include boss man, as we wound up avidly discussing medical history for 15 minutes while everyone at the table stared at us. It seems that most people don't like thinking about the horrors of non-modern medicine while they try to eat steak and crab-stuffed shrimp. Ooops.

Anyway, back to beavers. Answers to my long ago posted question (What the fuck do people think they will find when they google "jewish pussy?") continue to trickle in. I found these two responses in my inbox this morning:

It's simple. I am a Jewish man who appreciates Jewish women and want to see Jewish pussy which physicall is no different than any other I suppose except that it is connected to Jewish women. I think it is like any other ethnic, cultural fascination, hence porn site dedicated to Latinas, Blacks, or Indian women. It's the pussy I prefer and I have a hunch it's the same reason for the other hits you've received.

On to the second comment:

I want to see photographs of nice naked Jewish women up close and personal. I like pubic hair and good personal hygiene. My life is empty.

I hate to shatter the illusion, but just because something is labeled "Jewish pussy" doesn't mean the models are actually Jewish. Some probably are, but given the general dearth of Jewish women in the world, I tend to doubt that the vast majority of "Jewish" porn truly features Jews. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's my point: how the fuck do you know what "Jewish" pussy looks like compared to gentile pussy? It's just not possible to tell. (And as I learn more and more about the Jewish Diaspora, it's important to note that not all Jews are white. But I digress.) I did laugh my ass off at that "My life is empty" line. Dude, I write about unshaved snatch and spend time analyzed people's comments about their online Jewish pussy fetishes. What does that say about my life? Oy vey....

Thanks to Des for her comment on the last post for this hilarious title.

The Whole Story

Although Brother-in-Law's (BiL) wedding was not until Saturday night, the gang headed down to New Jersey for the event on Friday afternoon. During the 90 minute drive, traffic clogged the roads and rain poured down in bucketfuls. Bubbe took the time to tell my mom and I how essentially every party she attended over the past two decades made her puke at some point. From her 40th wedding anniversary surprise party (she "vomited it up" from the shock) to my sister's bat mitzvah (undercooked broccoli made her "vomited it up" because she can't eat raw vegetables), we heard it all.

Fortunately, no one that I know of vomited it up after the wedding. On the other hand, the bathroom door in Big O's room fell off and all the guest rooms smelled like there was a mold infestation. Plus, one of the three elevators broke down and was not repaired for some time and the hotel deigned to have service elevators, which meant that the poor room service folks and maids were left standing with their carts as elevators chock full of people passed them repeatedly. At least the beds were super comfy.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I had a blast at the reception dancing it up with the family. I was rather self-conscious about the brown bridesmaid's dress from the get go (while the cut of the dress was very flattering, I felt like I looked like a big turd so much brown, although I am very happy that it was brown instead of orange or seafoam green or some other completely cruel hue), at least my $195 of alterations left me secure that it would fit me well. Oh did I say it fit me well? My bad. At first it fit perfectly, but as the night flew by, the top expanded and expanded. It happened with the other ladies as well, I noticed. We were all hauling our tops up and hoping that our boobs wouldn't fly out. There's no rationale for this, as the fabric was not stretchy. This (nor my imperfectly shaved armpits) did not stop me from throwing my arms up in the air while boogying it up.

After brunch on Sunday, we dropped Sister and Sister's Husband off at the airport (sob!) and spent the afternoon with my parents, bubbe, and Husband's parents at our place. It was very pleasant. My parents stayed at a hole-in-the-wall hotel (there are no hotels in Manhattan other than this one that gives guests private bathrooms in their cells for only $100 a night plus tax). It smelled in the hallway, but not like a mold infestation and the cell had a beautiful view of the Hudson River and lights of New Jersey's east bank. They came back to my apartment this morning to wash up.

Now everyone is gone, which makes me sad. Overall, the whole weekend was fantastic and I only yelled at my various relatives a few times despite being tired and crabby. I guess it's back to my "usual" routine, whatever the hell that is.

One Year Later

One year ago today, at about this time, I packed up the Powerpuff Girl figurines, the pictures of Husband and my sister, and a squishy stress-relief ball shaped like a green paper advertising the Child Care and Adult Food Program, and I left my job at a nonprofit community development financial reinstitution after nearly five years. It took me two years and two previous attempts to quit, but mounting frustration, seething rage, and desperation at working in an agency that took 40 cents of every dollar that I fundraised to cover overhead costs while offering me absolutely zero support took its toll. Every year I received glowing reviews from my direct and indirect bosses about how I continually exceeded expectations and single-handedly oversaw a program to build more child care center for low income kids in New York City, but not once was I ever offered a job promotion or job title that reflected the full amount of work I performed. While my peers and externally partners respected me, I was rewarded with suspicion and wrath from the upper echelons of the agency for not fundraising enough to cover their five-figure bonuses and six-figure salaries. (This is not secret info, by the way: it is all public in the agency's Form 990.)

My bosses liked to tell people that I left to write my book about unusual things to see in do in New York City, and that is partly true. Within 8 months, a small publisher in Nashville bought my book, I published several articles in local newspapers, and began writing a memoir about puberty and other bodily betrayals. Not working for those wretched fucks improved my mood for the first time in years, but I didn't fully escape their tentacles. Since these wonderful accomplishments didn't pay very much and I felt guilty about living off my husband (something I swore from a young age that I would never do), I agreed to consult for a City agency, working closely with my friend who took my old job. Obviously, there has not yet be enough distance for me to get over my experience yet.

Still, today is a day I am celebrating because I took important steps toward a new career. I indulged in a piece of guava bizcocho Dominicano, a traditional yellow cake with frosting so sweet that I actually felt the sugar granules in the neon pink frosting crunching in my teeth. Husband and I then headed out to the Queens County Farm Museum, the last site I plan to visit for my book. (Yay!) We toured a farmhouse that has been on the site since the late 1700s, pet sheep, and wandered around in the seasonal three acre corn maze. The unseasonably warm day of fun was capped off with gyros (pronounced with a hard "g" in Chicago, a soft "g" in New York, and a "y" in Greece).

As we trudged out of the farm, sweaty and full of meat, a family passed us on their way in. Their teenage son was wearing a t-shirt that read, "I (heart) hot moms." Husband and I exchanged glances. "That shirt would not be disturbing if the guy who was wearing it was not 16," Husband remarked.

You can say all that again. Here's to another wacky and weird year of change.

L'Chaim, Jewish Pussy

Any Jew worth his horns knows that "L'Chaim" means "to life." Anyone who has seen Fiddler on the Roof may remember the fine song sung to celebrate when Tevye agrees that his daughter Tzeitel, who is maybe in her late teens or early 20s, will marry Lazar Wolf, the lecherous old shtetl (that's ghetto) butcher who ogles Tzeitel like a choice cut of kosher meat every time the poor girl has to go to his shop. Tevye thinks that this is a good arrangement for Tzeitel, since his family is mired in poverty and the widowed butcher is rich, so she'll be comfortable in life. (And one can always hope that the old fuck will die quickly and just leave her with the money, a la Anna Nicole Smith, but I don't know that this actually crossed Tevye's mind.)

The point is, there's a big song called "L'Chaim" that celebrates life. I was thinking about this last night (and now can't get the damn song out of my head) because sundown marks Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, 5768. Traditionally, apples and honey are eaten at the start of the New Year in hopes of it being a sweet year. Last night, Husband compared Jewish pussy to this custom, saying that he likes to dip his apple in the honey, then laughing sleazily. (Update clarification: because it was a funny joke! He's not creepy!) I'll never be able to think about a sweet New Year the same way again. Ah, I adore him.

L'chaim and shana tova.

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.)

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.

Need Paper Panties?

If you are in the market for new cotton underwear that feels like paper, have I got a recommendation for you! Last week, I bought a six pack of variety solid color and heinous patterned Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton hispter underwear. My suspicions should have been raised when I saw that they were only $4.99 plus came with two bonus pairs in white. Instead, I was excited that I was getting such a deal.

After opening the package and feeling the thin rough "fabric" of each pair of undies, I realized that anyone who wears these with a waxed or shaved snatch is in danger of getting a paper cut on her cooter. Ouch. I also discovered that although the packaging clearly read "HIPSTER" when describing the cut, I received eight pairs of super low rise bikini briefs.

According to pictures of Fruit of the Loom Hipster undies sold through various internet purveyors, I am missing about 50% of the underwear. While the raspberry color is lovely, the narrowly cut ass is going to creep into my ample buttocks every time I wear them, thus putting me at risk for ass paper cuts. (I still think poon paper cuts would suck worse, but either is pretty awful.)

I washed them and they softened up a bit, so now they are the consistency of high quality stationary versus printer paper. I am committed to wearing each pair once and then throwing them out. Harumph.

Camping in My Mom's Underwear

My mom ordered new Lollipop underwear in the mail. One package of undies is a size 10 and the other is a size 11. Here's what this means in terms of my mom, who is proudly holding up her new size 11 acquisition.

Forget jogging shorts. These are so big compared to her that a family of four could use it as a tent while she is wearing them.

"But I don't want my circulation cut off," my mom explained when Des and I laughed and laughed at their nonsensicalness for a person of her size. "They are not big."

"Look at the picture!" I said, handing her the digital camera.

"OH! I guess these are a little big. This really gives it a different perspective." The sense of wonder in her voice made us laugh harder, and she joined us. "Well, after I put them in the dryer they'll shrink right up."

Good luck with that.

Trouble

Sister and I pose proudly, falsely advertising in the little study/storage closet in my parents' basement. Sister was rummaging for items she could use in her classroom when she starts teaching 1st grade at the end of the summer.

She asked me not to touch her should, which has ringworm (which I now know is a fungus, thanks to Suebob). Just in case you have never had the chance to ogle ringworm, the kid also has ringworm on her lower, lower back.
Tasty.

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.

Laundry Room Crotch Eating

As per Steph's request, here is the Ricola underpants story.

After I graduated from college, Husband and I moved in together. We couldn't afford anything because he still had a semester of school to go (I graduated a year early thanks to a shitload of AP credits; he graduated a semester early) and I was planning to attend law school. (I dropped out on my third day. Long story, but one of the best decisions I ever made.) We managed to secure ourselves an illegal sublet of a ground floor maid's quarters in a fancy schmancy building on Central Park West. It was 200 square feet (260 including the oddly large bathroom that I kept my Ikea wardrobe in because there was no other space), and had no stove or oven, but it was safe, clean, in our price range (a thousand smackeroos a month), had doormen, and 3 blocks from the law school I dropped out of. (Ooops.)

To get to the apartment, you went into the stairwell that led to the basement. Then you walked by the stairs to a door on the back wall marked "Private." Behind the door was a narrow long hallway with four rooms, three of which were connected to form our living space. (The fourth was a tiny room used for an "office" by the freak who owned a massive condo upstairs. He'd come in and out at all hours, and initially proposed using our bathroom, to which I adamantly said no to, and fortunately he relented, or I would not have rented the place.) It was an odd situation, to say the least. The building staff definitely wondering what our deal was, as we clearly did not fit in with the other tenants and lived in a stairwell. We lived there for three years.

I'm sure it was no surprise to the staff when I had my laundry incident. Steph's building didn't have a laundry room, so she often came over to do laundry with me in my building. One day, I pulled a pair of underwear out of the drier. Something was stuck to the crotch.

"What the fuck is this?" I wondered aloud, peering at it closely and poking at it. It was hard. I smelled it. "Smells medicinal… maybe I left a Ricola in a pocket and it melted onto my granny undies."

It was feasible. I had just recovered from a cold. "There's only one way to know for sure," I said and then I licked the object.

"You know," Steph said through fits of laughter as she picked herself up from the floor, "the security camera is pointed right at you. I'm sure the guys at the front desk are enjoying watching you eat out the crotch of my underwear."

I shrugged. "They probably expect nothing less from me."

Stay tuned for the story of the Midwest road trip, Sister, and my undies, as per Dr. P's request.

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.

What Can Your Panties Do For You?

Seriously, that was the subject line of an email that I got from Hanes. Somehow my reaction (I cannot stop laughing) is probably not what they were aiming for.

You're Not Wearing What?!?!

Almost forgot (I think I tried to block it out of my mind, actually) an important detail from the India trip reunion. One of the guys who organized the trip, previously assigned the name "the Lech" for my blog, hosted the reunion at his insane mansion with an inground pool overlooking a man-made lake. He also decided that hosts need not wear underwear. Even when wearing short shorts. How do I know this super disgusting detail? At one point he had his hand in his waistband and had dragged the elastic down enough that Rachel noticed the expanse of exposed flesh, which she then pointed out to me. Not enough proof?

"Why did you show me this?" I groaned.

"Oh, at least I didn't drag you into the pool and make you look up while he was standing at the edge," she replied. "That was much worse."

The exuberant full-body hug the Lech administered to me as I left was just that much grosser knowing that he was freeballing it. I love underwear for so many reasons.

Damn Savage

Last time I checked, bars in New York City have restrooms. Thus, there is no excuse for a preppy white kid who clearly is on his Happy St. Patrick's Day bender to be peeing on the service door of a building while his yuppie scum friend chats him up at 10 pm.

"Nice whizzer, fuckface," I sneered at the dickhead as I walked by with my grocery bag.

I didn't stop to see their reaction. Two seconds later, I wished that instead of issuing a walk-by insult, I had actually walked next to him, gazed upon his public display of penis, and suggested that he not take it out of his pants in freezing weather, as he clearly had not much there to lose to shrinkage.

Rollin' on the River

Before Williamsburg, Brooklyn became a hipster Mecca, Mara lived out there. She liked to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge to work in the morning, but it required extra caution. First, the bridge at that time was in serious disrepair. The walkway was patched with irregularly sized metal sheets, so she had to watch where she was walking. At the same time, she couldn’t solely look down at the sidewalk because she needed to be alert to the bridge masturbators. She said that there were about four men jerking off on the bridge every morning.

What is it about waterfront views that make men so overcome with desire that they are compelled to choke the chicken in public? Or is it only the East River? Once Steph and I went to the Socrates Sculpture Park in Astoria, Queens, which is right on the East River. As we were wandering about, keeping an eye firmly on the ground to avoid dog crap (the sculpture park was also an official New York City park that people walked their dogs in and rudely did not clean up despite the dozens of signs telling people to clean up after the dogs; I swear one sign even had shit at its base, but I digress), we turned a corner. There, mere feet in front of us, was a guy jerking off into the bushes. Naturally, we screamed and ran away. Then we laughed and laughed.

Maybe this is a tale about life in New York. As my mom says, keep your eyes peeled.

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.)