It's Here!

The Census form arrived yesterday! I am very excited. Instead of working on my thesis, I am going to fill it out tonight. After all, it says in block letters on the envelope that it is required by law to return the Census. Am I a law breaker?* No I am not!

Besides, it is very important to be counted. Every day when I read the news, I despair at the state of the nation. Texas just re-wrote standards for all textbooks to emphasize the importance of Phyllis Schlafly; drop Thomas Jefferson because he wrote that church and state should be separate; and remind people that women and people of color got the right to vote because white males were kind enough to let them. Seriously. A dentist/"historical expert" on the committee that rammed through this abhorrent crap challenged people to show him where the Constitution calls for a separation of church and state. (He said he'd donate $1,000 to a charity of choice of anyone who can "prove" that this concept exists. Yeah, and he'll sooner believe "evidence" that dinosaurs and Jesus played together as children while unicorns swarm in rivers of chocolate.)

Blah. The point is, I want to be counted because I know damn well that evil people who believe that the US is a Christian nation are going to be counted. I didn't open my Census form last night, but I'm pretty sure that the Census does not ask about religion. I'm bummed about that because even though America is predominantly Christian, it would be nice to know how many people aren't so we can be sure to protect everyone's rights. Husband always says that we should be ready to flee at a moment's notice. I used to think he was insane ("This is America!" I'd tell him), but history has shown that even the stablest democracies can turn, and of course, Jews have been kicked out of pretty much everywhere except North America (not that Peter Stuyvesant didn't try really hard), so we're probably due someday.

Um, yeah. Anyway. This sure turned into a downer, huh? No one is going to hire me to write ads for the Census if I keep this negativity up, so... The Census is here! Rah rah! Don't forget to get represented! YOU matter! Woo!

*Well, if I could steal my political adversaries' Census forms, I totally would. That's the kind of bad ass law breaker I am. Except that I'm not, because that would be wrong. Sigh.

Another Disturbing Ripple in My Universe

My mother and I are planning a trip to Warsaw in mid-June. We will visit the Jewish cemetery and try to find my great-grandfather's grave. (He died before the war, so he probably is lucky enough to have a burial place unlike my grandfather's sisters and mother.) We will see the few remnants of the wall of the Warsaw ghetto. We will visit the Jewish Historical Institute. We will do a records search. We will pass by the address where my grandfather's family owned a butcher shop and/or lived.

We will also go to Treblinka.

I always assumed that my grandfather's family died in Auschwitz, if they even lived to be deported from the ghetto. But, one of the dangers of Holocaust hagiography is that the fame of Auschwitz dwarfs reality. Deportations began in 1942, and when Warsaw's ghetto was liquidated in the spring of 1943, everyone left was sent to Treblinka, 2 hours outside of Warsaw in an isolated forest. There was no work at Treblinka. People died within an hour of their arrival.

Husband has a friend who lives in Warsaw who is very kindly helping me arrange my trip. He sent me a link to the Treblinka Museum. One of the things that fascinated me when I first learned about the Treblinka site is how noncommercial it is. Auschwitz, to me, is tourist attraction at this point. Tour groups go, people gape at the convent built on site, they exclaim over the signs proclaiming how much the Poles suffered* because it was initially built for Polish political prisoners. Treblinka was completely destroyed by the Nazis, so there's nothing "fun" to see. It is a sober monument to the 800,000 Jews and thousands of Gypsies and Romani murdered there.

Anyway, as I read the museum's website, I was taken aback by this statement:

The memorial should be visited with due seriousness and respect.
Within the area of the museum it is forbidden to bring dogs, smoke or eat ice cream.

Damn, I can't eat ice cream there? Well, I guess I'll have to pack ham and cheese pierogies and chocolate kolacky.

I hope that this was a translation error and in Polish it says, "no eating." Otherwise, WHAT THE FUCK? How weird is the focus on ice cream? Even weirder, it reminds me of a fucked up Hasidic monument I visited in Israel:


I mean, they are not the same thing, but the utter randomness of what is forbidden strikes me as similar. (In case the photo does not appear, it is a sign that says that it is forbidden for women to dance at this site.)

Anyway, it is going to be an intense trip. I believe we will also take a trip to Krakow, as Husband's friend recommended.

*Oh yeah, and some Jews, gypsies, and homosexuals died there, too. But whatever. (This is written in the vein of signage at Auschwitz, so pardon my bitter glibness.)

Heads Up!

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

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

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

Things I Do Not Understand, Part 794A

1. The YIVO Institute has the records of American Displaced Persons Camps in Austria, Germany in Italy from 1945-1952. Since my grandparents and father lived in camps in Austria during that time period, I am eager to see what is in the archive. YIVO is conveniently open Monday-Thursday from 9:30 am to 5 pm. However, the reading room is open until 7:30 on Mondays. I called and asked until what time the library was open today and was told 7:30. After work, I rushed down to get as much time as possible with the records.

After passing through the metal detector and sending my bag through the x-ray machine, using the mandatory coat check, and providing photo ID, I took the freezing elevator to the library and reading room on the 3rd floor. The woman at the information desk informed me that since YIVO closed at 5:00, I could not get the records I wanted. I am extremely confused as to why a reading room is open when the records that one is supposed to read in that room are unavailable, but there were people in there using computers and looking over books from somewhere, so what do I know.

2. On the subway home from my failed trip to YIVO, a woman rushed onto the train with a stroller and four or five year old girl in tow. After mowing people down to get the stroller in the middle of the car, she wedged herself in the small space between me and the extremely large man on the other side. She struggled to pull her daughter onto her lap.

"Excuse me," I said. "Would your little girl like to sit down?" I gestured at my seat and moved slightly to get up.

"I HAVE TWO KIDS WITH ME AND I NEED TO SIT," she yelled in my face. That is when I realized that she had earphones on. They were blasting music. Not only could she not hear me, but if her kids needed something, they were shit out of luck.

Resisting the urge to slap her, I tried again. "Yes, I see that you should sit. Would your daughter like to sit also?"

"DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME? I SAID I GOTTA SIT DOWN BECAUSE I GOT TWO KIDS WITH ME!" One of the earphones slid out of her ear slightly when she pulled her daughter up higher.

"Yes, I heard you," I sneered. "But I am asking if your girl would like my seat." At that, I stood up and tried to wiggle around the stroller to get away from this cuntface.

"Oh, naw. She'll just sit on my lap."

Since there was really no standing room, I sat back down. The woman standing in front of me who witnessed the whole scene sighed. "Yeah, no good deed goes unpunished," I said.

"She's probably just used to people being rude," the stranger replied. The woman, of course, could not hear a word anyone was saying. The stranger was very kind, and chatted up the little girl about Valentine's Day. For all the mother knew, she was soliciting the kid. When she got off the train, the little girl kept waving and saying, "Bye bye. Have a good night."

It broke my heart. I know that there are times when parents don't want to hear their kids, but the girl kept trying to talk to her mom, who just nodded, unhearing. So awful.

I Don't Even Know What to Title This

Granny is mostly OK. Sunday the cardiac doc came to discuss her options. Her blood work indicated that she had a very small heart attack, so he wanted to do an angiogram. Depending on what he saw, he would insert balloons or stents into her arteries. Everyone agreed that because she needs oral surgery soon, he would use nonmedicated stents because the medicated ones would basically cause her to bleed out if she had dental work.

On Monday morning, the doctor told us that the test went well. He said that her heart was strong and that there was no damage from the heart attack. Then he said he saw a lot of heart disease and inserted a balloon and two medicated stents.

My mom and I recoiled. "What do you mean medicated stents?" she asked.

"Oh. Ooops. I forgot. I even wrote it on the board and I forgot. Sorry about that."

Yes, that is actually what he said. "Ooops... sorry about that."

"What about the oral surgery?" my mom asked. She was trying not to punch him. (She later told me that she was more angry about his flippant tone than the fuck up, not that she condoned the fuck up.)

"Oh, she'll have to wait at least six months, but I really recommend a year," he said as if it's no big deal to have a mouth full of rotting teeth. "Maybe you can find a dentist who would be willing to do a procedure while she's on Plavix."

I pictured some back alley dentist ripping up my Granny mouth and leaving her to bleed out when things went awry. I wanted to slap the doctor. (Husband suggested slapping the doctor - with a lawsuit.) I know it could be worse, but this really, really sucks.

My Stash

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

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

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

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

It's No Accident that "Stupak" Looks a Lot Like "Stupid"

Two of my favorite organizations, the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice and Planned Parenthood are holding a National Day of Action today to lobby the Senate for health care reform that ensures women’s access to reproductive health care. Right now, things are not looking good.

Basically, the House passed a horrible amendment sponsored by Rep. Bart Stupak, an anti-choice douche bag. The amendment would prevent women who currently have health insurance plans that cover abortion from obtaining the same coverage if they buy it through an insurance exchange. This is a problem for me, but even worse is that private plans will likely drop abortion coverage in order to participate in the exchange. People who like imposing their religious beliefs on others are proposing the same thing in the Senate.

Planned Parenthood explains the situation (it's a long one):

The Bottom Line

• Under the Stupak amendment, millions of women would lose benefits that they currently have and millions more would be prohibited from getting the kind of private sector health care coverage that most women have today.


• Millions of women would lose private coverage for abortion services and millions more would be prohibited from buying it even with their own money.

The New Health Insurance Exchange

• The new health insurance exchange is intended to provide a new source of affordable, quality coverage for the roughly 46 million uninsured Americans and the millions more whose current coverage is unaffordable or inadequate.


• The House bill is expected to cover 96 percent of all uninsured Americans by offering subsidies for private coverage or the choice of a public plan. Depending on their income level and the final package approved by Congress, individuals would receive subsidies on a sliding scale to purchase private insurance through the exchange.


• Not everyone in the exchange would have subsidized coverage — a significant portion of people (for instance, those currently purchasing in the individual market and those working for small businesses) who would buy insurance in the exchange would not receive any subsidies, also known as affordability credits.

The Stupak Amendment

• The Stupak amendment prohibits any coverage of abortion in the public option and prohibits anyone receiving a federal subsidy from purchasing a health insurance plan that includes abortion. It also prohibits private health insurance plans from offering through the exchange a plan that includes abortion coverage to both subsidized and unsubsidized individuals.


• The Stupak amendment purports to allow women to purchase a separate, single-service “abortion rider,” but abortion riders don’t exist.


• Women are unlikely to think ahead to choose a plan that includes abortion coverage, since they do not plan for unplanned pregnancy.


• Realistically, the actual effect of the Stupak amendment is to ban abortion coverage across the entire exchange, for women with both subsidized and unsubsidized coverage.


• Example: Currently, a self-employed graphic designer or writer, buying coverage from Kaiser Permanente in the individual market, likely has abortion coverage. Under the health reform plan amended by Stupak, she would purchase that same plan from Kaiser Permanente in the exchange, but it would not include abortion coverage because it would be barred. This ban would be in effect even if she were paying the full premium. Similarly, a woman working for a small graphic design firm, who currently has abortion coverage through her company’s plan, would lose it under reform if the company decides to seek more affordable coverage in the exchange.

For more information on health care reform and the Stupak amendment, visit us at http://www.plannedparenthoodaction.org/healthreform.

End of Planned Parenthood info, and back to my ranting... If this pisses you off as much as it does me, call your Senator today. (Or email him or her, as I suspect the lines will be busy.) Perhaps yelling, "Stop the stupid Stupak amendment bullshit," is not the thing to say, but it does have alliteration, which is a good literary technique.

In all seriousness, something like this is NOT going to stop women from having abortions. Instead, it will force more women to wait longer for their procedure while they figure out how the hell to pay for it. If we want more late term abortions in this country, then by all means, support Stupak. But that would be stupid.

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."

Naming Names: A Cautionary Tale

The number one rule of blogging is not to use people's names unless they tell you it is OK. Generally, I follow this rule religiously. Some of my friends and family are identified by their real names; others get fake ones. If I link to a blog, I use the blogger's blog name, which may be different from his or her non-blogging name.

So I have no idea what I was thinking back in February, when I wrote a post about why I hate Valentine's Day. Not only did I use the real names of guys I knew in high school, but I lost my mind completely and also put in their last names. Perhaps this was due to a carb deficit, as I was in Phase I of the South Beach Diet, and Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) was unable to perform at the minimal level he usually offers. Whatever the reason, not cool.

Even less cool is how this came to my attention. The gentleman now referred to as Mr. X was displeased that I shared this story. It seems his in-laws and maybe also fantasy football league googled his name and then mocked him, although I don't see why he was mockable - I'm the total fucking shit in the story. Whatever, he was not amused. I felt awful and took his name out, but we all know the problem with the internet - once it is out there, it's not entirely erasable.

I sincerely hope that this will not cause Mr. X any more grief. It was incredibly bad judgment on my part.

Best Cartoon Ever Revisited

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

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



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

Publishers Weekly Best Ten Books of 2009 - 100% Male

The problem with feminism is that it makes women crazy. We seem to believe that our words and our stories matter, and that we are not only capable of telling stories, but that we can excel at it. Our voices and our story telling techniques may differ from what has traditionally been viewed as great literature, but we think that doesn't mean that they are not equally good.

Of course, these beliefs are silly, and Publishers Weekly took great pains to remind people that women's work is just not up to par with that of (white) men. Their list of the ten best books of 2009 includes ten dudes, nine of whom are white. Some people bristled at this. Kamy Wicoff at She Write - an online community of women writers that is free and you should join - wrote:

Try to imagine if they had come out with a list of the Best Books of 2009 and it had included ZERO MEN. Try to imagine if Amazon had released its Best Books of 2009 and it had included only TWO men. I know it's hard. But just try.

Wicoff asked the She Writes community to take action. To protest this ridiculous list, we should all buy a book published by a woman in 2009, take a photo of ourselves with it, and explain why we bought it.



Here I am with the 2009 paperback edition of American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld. When the hardcover came out in 2008, it received glowing reviews. My friend Alex Elliot read it for her bookclub, and said that I would really like it. Sittenfeld and I are the same age, and I wish that I had an ounce of her talent.

I don't have pictures of myself with another two books that came out in 2009, but last night I attended a reading of A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein. I thought it was great. Deborah Copaken Cogan also read From Here to April, which came out in hardcover in 2008 and paperback this month. It was also excellent. Both works were funny and thought-provoking, as were their creators.

If you are also pissed about the Publishers Weekly list, join the She Writes community's protest. Once you post a picture of yourself on your blog holding a book you bought by a female writer that came out in 2009 (the deadline is Friday), send Kamy the link at kamy@shewrites.com. She Writes will send these links to the entire community (5000+) on Saturday. While the emphasis is on women writers protesting, I think anyone who cares about sexism should feel free to participate.

Living in Outer Space

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

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

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

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

The Gonifs* Win

A few years ago, Rudy Giuliani, a mega Yankee fan and dictatorial mayor, put together a deal offering the Yankees a new stadium. This ballpark would be financed in part by New York City taxpayers. It would also require taking one of the few public parks in the South Bronx** and handing it over to the Yankees for the new structure. Boo! Hiss!

Then, thank to term limits (a concept I generally disagree with as it is not compatible with democratic elections, but that's another story), Giuliani could not run for mayor again. Whew! The new mayor, Michael Bloomberg, announced that the public was not in the business of building new stadiums for sports teams. Hurray! Rah rah rah!

Fast forward a few years, and Mayor Bloomberg inks a deal turning Macombs Dam Park over to the Yankees for their new stadium. There is lots of taxpayers supported financing, and a secret deal for a fancy luxury box for high ranking city officials, which somehow is called a public benefit. The Yankees also get a new MetroNorth stop, so that rich Republican assholes from Westchester need not set a foot in the surrounding neighborhood. In exchange, the Yankees agree to create a series of new little parks for the impoverished people of the South Bronx. Very generous of them, right? Boo! Hiss! Rotten tomatoes!!!

Now that the Yankees won the World Series, are the people who live in the shadows of the new stadium gathering in the newly built parks to celebrate? No, because there are no new parks. At best, there might be a park in 2011. But one of the lots promised to be a park is now actually going to be a parking lot. Sure, I understand that "parking" has the word "park" in it, but my dear Yankees, they are not one and the same.

So, go Yankees. Nice work. Taking from the poor and giving to the rich is considered an admirable American trait. You are exactly the American champions you set out to be.

*Gonif: Thief in Yiddish
**The Bronx, incidentally, is the poorest urban county in the US. The South Bronx is the poorest neighborhood in the Bronx. Clearly, these people have a lot to spare for a struggling sports team that has little revenue...

Elections: Good and Bad News

For the second morning in a row, the day began with promise. I woke up early and with big plans. Then I picked up The New York Times.

At first I didn't understand what I saw. Why was that fucking anti-choice, social conservative idiot with no plans at all for how to govern New Jersey on the front cover of the paper? No paper puts a big picture of the loser, and as my friend said on Monday, a good sign that he is not intelligent is that his first and last names are more or less the same. (Maybe this would work in Scandinavia, but it is silly here, I agreed.) But no. The stupid fuck his his right-wing agenda and won. People in New Jersey chose a moron with no ideas other than attacking his opponent's plans to save their state from recession.* Good luck with that.

I was relieved, however, to learn that the Democratic candidate in a district in upstate New York won. For 150 years, this community was represented only by Republicans. (Of course, that meant something different 150 years ago when it was the party of Lincoln, but that's another story.) Crazy conservatives around the country banded together to smear the moderate Republican candidate because she had the audacity to support gay marriage and keeping abortion legal. She was supported by all the local Republican leadership. But it seems that what people want is not good enough for the fringe elements that control the Republican party, who know much better than everyone else what they want, and if you don't agree with them, you will be punished. After months of verbal assaults from the likes of Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh, who supporting a crazy right-wing third party candidate, the Republican dropped out right before the election and endorsed the Democrat. He won narrowly.

My interpretation of all this insanity is that people still do not want to elect hatemongers. Christie won in part because he hid his conservative agenda, and this is also true of the Republican who just won Virginia. They emphasized the economy, not hating gay people or women's reproductive rights. In upstate New York, when the candidate foisted onto the voters emphasized his intolerance of people not like him, he lost. See, Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh and the crazy bitch in the Times who praised the national coalition who imposed their will on a small area of New York, people do not embrace your so-called values. If you want to win and continue to oppress people with your evilness, you have to hide your agenda.

There may be hope yet.

*This reminded me why a story that we read in class that same night made me laugh. My classmate submitted a story about playing guitar in high school, and described his magnet school as offering an education to "the best and brightest of New Jersey." I thought he was making a joke about New Jersey's image as people with big bangs and a love of shopping malls, but it turned out he was serious.

Maurice Runs the Wheel Out of My Head

Earlier this year, I handed in a story in my lit class. I thought it was really good, so I was surprised when my instructor gave it back the next week with no comments. When I asked her why she didn't like it, she explained that she always looked forward to my work, so she was disappointed to read a story I had submitted before.

I was confused, as I was certain that I had been thinking about the story for weeks, so I didn't see how I could have handed it in already. But when I looked through my files, I discovered that I had written a story, turned it in, forgot, and then wrote almost word for word the exact same story and handed it in. It was scary.

Nine months later, I decided to write a story about my work with Haven Coalition. I knew I wrote a short piece about it first semester, so I re-read it, and used what worked. I thought I wrote a scene in which I was at my desk at work, the phone rang, and my first hosting night was arranged. But when I looked through my files (eerie music), I found a story I wrote almost exactly a year ago that, almost word for word, had the same opening.

Maurice, the hamster who runs the wheel that powers my brain, is scaring me. On one hand, if I wrote almost the exact same thing a year apart, I think it means that I had an important idea, and I'm glad that I did not forget. The fact that I have no memory of doing this is disturbing.

PDA

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

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

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

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

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

Memoir, Fiction, and Balls vs. Testicles in Literature

I read Frank Conroy's memoir Stop-Time for my lit seminar on Wednesday. What's good about it is the writing. Conroy doesn't tell his story in a linear fashion, and at times switches to the present tense. I just tried both of these techniques for a story that I handed in last week which will be workshopped on Monday, so it is nice to have another successful model to learn from. (I patterned my work on A Feather on the Breath of God by Sigrid Nunez.)

During a break from the meandering class discussion, a friend calculated that we pay $125 an hour for our classes. We resumed class. After a ten minute debate on Conroy's use of the word "balls," which our professor defended by saying, "Balls is a great word," I thought about other uses I had for $20.84 I spent for that. Not that I disagree that balls is a great word or really minded talking about whether Conroy should have used "testicles" instead of balls, but still. That's a lot of money for something I talk about for free all the time.

Speaking of balls, I posted four more chapters of Always. Chapter 9 is one of my favorites so far, and Chapter 10 (not to be confused with Chapter 10*, as I had two chapter tens) is one of the most gag-inducing. The similes flow in Chapter 11 most impressively. I actually learned a lot from myself from twenty years ago while typing up this work.

Cheese-tastic

My face hurts, probably due to all the cringing I did while typing up Chapters 2 - 4 of Always, the atrocious young adult book that I wrote when I was in eighth grade. Why I decided to use a male narrator is beyond me. Also puzzling: why give half the characters fake names, but then use the real names (or ridiculously close to real names - Suzannah, anyone?) for others. I wonder what Maurice* was thinking all those years ago.

What most embarrasses me and interests me about Always is the combination of how I saw myself at that time, and how I wanted to be perceived. My favorite line so far, hands down, is "I got the feeling that when Suzannah Rawlings spoke, people usually listened." Oh man, how I wished that were true!

*The hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain.

This Really Reeks

A friend asked how I felt about the renovation now that it's been complete for over a month. Because I am a cynical bitch who only looks at the downside of things, I told her it made me feel poorer after all the money we spent. Then I paused and realized how much I like some of the changes.

The new linen closet is amazing. The old one was narrow and deep, which made it impossible to find anything. The new one is in a strange location (the entry foyer), as that was the only place to put it, but it is amazing. It is wide and just the right depth. Everything is sorted semi-neatly. Every time I use it, I am happy.

The faucet in the new bathroom sink is perfect. It is just the right height and arc for me to use it as a drinking fountain. It makes me smile.

Best of all, the washer and dryer have made what was once a hugely stressful chore into something easy and almost even fun. I no longer have to schlep all my stuff down to the basement. The wait for the elevator (my stupid building has no stairs that go into the basement, a fire hazard if there ever was one) is eliminated. My battle to find an unused washer and a dryer that actually works has been won. What is not to love?

Oh, right - the smell of sewage. For the last week, something has gone terribly awry with the plumbing. I hear a surge of water in the pipes, then the smell emanates through the white doors that shutter the washer-dryer closet. Sometimes it is so strong it permeates the bedroom down the hall. Other times, it is just faintly noticeable as you pass the closet on the way into the bathroom. It smells like a cross between shit and rancid Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup.

I've looked everywhere for a leak, but I don't see anything wet. I can't see behind the machines, but he smell dissipates within 30 minutes at most, so I know there isn't standing sewage water. It flush-smell-dissipation process repeats a few times a day. Oh, and did I mention that my super is on vacation? Even if he wasn't, I'm almost afraid to have him look into it, as tearing up walls at this point is my second worst nightmare. (The worst nightmare: there is a sewage leak and the washer-dryer must be permanently dismantled.)

A Conversation with My Father*

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I'll always love you."

"Thanks, Dad."

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


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

When Then is Better Than Now

When I first posted the link to the WSJ article, the photos had yet to be posted. I may have been an enormous nerd in 4th grade, but now I am a woman who needs a better hairstyle and more sleep. Damn. And my friend Sara checked my make-up and everything before I met the photog. ("You look sort of like Rachel Maddow," my other Sara friend said, trying to be positive. Dude, Rachel Maddow may be awesome, but I do not want to look like her.)

The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.

Passing the Steamy, Hot Crotch Test

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

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

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

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

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

Where Can I Get a Pair of Michael Pollan's Rose-Colored Glasses?

I agree with the basic tenet of Michael Pollan's writing about food: what is mass consumed in Western culture is full of chemicals, leads to unsustainable farming practices, and is bad for everyone's (and I include the earth as everyone) health in the long run. My (organic, grass-fed) beef is with his analysis of how people ate in the past, and what we can do today.

Over at BlogHer, I address the gender absurdity he ignores. (In a sustainable, farm-raised nutshell, he says that people spend less time cooking wholesome foods at home because women have jobs, and does not ask the pivotal question: why don't men pitch in now that women have less time? Instead, it is the fault of feminism for rushing women out of the kitchen. Sigh. I suppose you can say feminism also failed in convincing men to do "women's work," like cooking, so the lack of time spent cooking is therefore also the fault of feminism.)

The other problem with Pollan is how he looks at the past. I read In Defense of Food for my book club, and we all thought it was condescending bunk. He claims that we should go back to cooking and shopping the way that our great-grandmothers did. This idealized notion of home cooking assumes that our great-grandmothers didn't work 14 hour days at shirt-waist factories, were not bent over fields doing sharecropping, or otherwise occupied in a struggle to earn some sort of income for their families. Further, it assumes that people had access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Photos that I have seen of cities from a century ago tend to depict vendors standing in the street with raw sewage at their feet. Of course, that assumes that my great-grandmother even had the money to buy fresh items - the reason that the Federal Poverty Level is based on the cost of a basket of food is because food was the biggest expense in a family budget in Ye Goode Olde Dayes.*

My guess is that my great-grandmother did not spend hours cooking after she arrived home from the sweatshop as a young woman; she was just glad when people in her household had anything to eat. In fact, back in Pollan's Ye Goode Olde Dayes, the infant mortality rate was much higher and people died (for a lot of reasons) younger than our diabetes-infested society members do today. One of these reasons is that poor people (who make up a lot of the population) had limited access to nutritious foods.

Pollan wants to return to a past that never existed for many people. Without acknowledging why affordable, fresh food and nutritious has always been a problem in some way or another, he prescribes solutions that are ridiculous. Spending more time preparing healthy, delicious food at home is a good goal, but how can we achieve it when fresh food remains unaffordable to so many, as it always has? (Seriously, when I was at McDonald's last week, I got a small meal for less than $4 - I can't eat for even close to that at my local farmers' market.) How can we change the industrial farming practices that Pollan so rightly abhors as stripping plants, animals, and the earth of its nutrients, and make sure that people can afford to buy what is produced? How can we re-direct farm subsidies that go toward harmful practices to get better, affordable food? How do we help people find the time to cook, and make sure it is an enjoyable way to spend time so people will choose to cook?

Blaming feminism and ignoring the realities of the past is easy. But it won't solve anything.

*Today, the cost of housing is by far the largest line item.

Tragedy and Bad Public Policy

While at a picnic with friends and their toddlers at Hudson River Park this afternoon, I heard a big bang. The park is wedged between the West Side Highway and the Hudson River, so I just assumed that it was a truck or some other large vehicle on the highway. I was paid little attention when a number of my fellow picnickers ran toward the river. When emergency boats began circling the area a few minutes later, I realized that the big bang was not what I thought it was.

It turns out that the big bang was a private plane crashing into a helicopter. The plane's wings clipped the blades of the helicopter, and both aircraft plunged into the river. Tragically, all three people on the plane and seven people in the helicopter died.

Husband is actually surprised that these horrible instances don't happen more often, as the lower altitudes above the Hudson River are unregulated. Today Mayor Bloomberg said that while he was sorry that this happened and extended his condolences to the families of those lost, he opposed regulating the airspace as it would be bad for tourism. I'm not sure that the families of the six Italian tourists who died in the helicopter would agree. I certainly don't.

The Gift of Fear

One of the discussions I attended at BlogHer was about understanding your audience. (Obligatory self-deprecating joke here: Since I sat next to Maren at the panel, I had direct access to understanding what approximately 25% of my audience enjoys about CUSS.) I asked Twanna Hines from Funky Brown Chick about how she deals with creepy readers, and she recommended a book called, "The Gift of Fear," which basically advocates for listening to your gut instincts when assessing potential threats.

I have yet to check the book out (I'm still working my way through "The Liar's Club," which reminds me that I should update the quote about Republicans that I paraphrased on Wednesday), but it became relevant on Tuesday during a subway ride. As usual, I sat on the train, spacing out. A slightly homeless-looking guy got on the train a few stops before mine and plopped down next to me. I paid no attention.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him fidgeting. I turned my head slightly. He was manhandling a pair of scissors and the corners of his mouth were turned up into a strange grin. Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) went ballistic, and thoughts shot through my head:
-OH MY GOD! Those scissors look sharp.
-I should move. He could stab me, and my reflexes are very slow.
-If I get up to move, will it enrage him, thus encouraging him to stab me?
-Maybe I should sit really still.
-No, you should move. ASAP.

I stood up and glided toward the door. He didn't look up. I breathed a sigh of relief, but continued observing him from afar. At the next stop, I changed cars. As far as I know, he didn't subsequently stab anyone, but better safe than sorry.

Dirrrty Conference

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

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

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

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

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

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To

I remember very clearly in 1984 worrying about Reagan being re-elected. Although the Gipper managed to fool a large number of working-class families into thinking he was helping them when in reality he was a reverse Robin Hood, my seven year old self knew that bad shit was going down. I was a Democrat through and through.

I survived the past eight years. I was excited to see things change in federal policy. And I am more disappointed than ever. First, the Democrats proved that they like being treated like shit. Lieberman can campaign for fucking McCain, and when his candidate loses, all he has to do is say that he was just kidding and everyone is like, that's cool. Now Arlen Specter changes parties to continue to work against progressive policies, and the Democrats are like, you said you want that conservative psychopath Norm Coleman to win and you joined other shithead Democrats and all the Republicans in voting down fair change in bankruptcy laws so that people with one house get treated the same as people with vacation homes and yachts? That's cool. Welcome to the party.

I am tired of this bullshit. If the Democrats are going to continue to suck the shit out of Republicans assholes and leave me with brown stains on my teeth, I am done. Forget it - that's not cool. I don't think I've ever been so disheartened by the possibilities or lack thereof.

To the caves!!!

It Only Looks Alarming

"I need to burp Marcus," Dana said before she did this:

I had no idea that burping a newborn looked like you were strangling it. "Wow, I hope that the child welfare authorities never see you do this," I exclaimed.

Although it does look like he is being murdered, and the picture is blurry, I sort of like it because you can really see his little face and how much he looks like my sister.

And that's it for the baby pictures for now.

On the Hill, or A Pig on a Hog on a Pork Barrel

As I trudged up the gently sloping incline with my 8 ton backpack, I remembered why the Capitol is called the Hill. It's been a long time since I did policy advocacy in DC.

Upon my arrival for a meeting with a Congressperson's staff member, I was informed that a fire drill was scheduled in a few minutes. I took out my little backpack, and left my ginormous backpack in their office so I wouldn't need to schlep it through security again. Then I evacuated with the staff, and had an amazing hour long meeting in the parking lot on C Street.

As we mobilized to re-enter the building, I shifted my bacpack. A white disc caught my eye. Shit! I violated rule #1 of advocacy with elected officials: do not wear offensive political buttons to meetings, even with friendly ones. Attached to my backpack, my button read, "Mommy says Republican is another word for motherfucker."

Ooops. Anyway, I promised Midwestern Tom that I would post pictures from any travels. While this is a quick trip for work, I did snap a shot of a buff cop sitting on his motorcycle on the steps of the Capitol (a pig on a hog on a pork barrel! Ha!):

True Age

According to one of those online "true age" quizzes, I am 28. (Or maybe it said 29 - I can't remember, which is a sign of how accurate the quiz is, isn't it?) My "true age" was determined through a series of questions about my height, weight, some moderate exercises, lifestyle (smoking, drinking, drugging), and a few actual health-related questions about asthma and family history with diabetes and hypertension. Since I am the most boring person on the planet, the lifestyle questions clearly brought my age down.

Perhaps a more reliable true age quiz would ask whether anxiety caused me to peel the flesh off my cuticles, if I had mysterious ailments, and at what age I was told to wear reading glasses with my contacts. Because that last question's answer? Would be 33 year old. Yep. The eye doctor told me yesterday that my eyeballs were straining to focus and I should wear reading glasses in the afternoons.

My plan is to get the crotchitiest, most elderly looking pair I can find at the pharmacy, then partner them with some hideous chain. Then it will be obvious that my true age is 77. Gah. At least March 2009 will finally end in about 28 minutes.

Maybe the Childhood Concussions Did Have an Effect...

A surge of excitement ran through me as my lit professor handed back our papers from the previous class. I had worked extra hard on mine, and thought that it was one of the best things I had written in a while. In addition to telling the story of my best friend from 4th grade and exploring racism in my hometown, it had metaphors!

The professor generally keeps the papers she likes best at the top of the pile, so I was a bit disconcerted when mine came in the middle of the stack. Looking it over, I was struck by the lack of comments on it. "Oh my God," I fretted. "She hated it!" In the following nanoseconds, I realized that I was a talentless hack who should drop out of school and never show my face again. Then I decided that it might be more productive to ask her why she didn't like it.

"Oh, I always look forward to reading your work," she replied. "But I read this one already, so I was disappointed that it wasn't anything new."

"What? You did?" I urged the hamster to run more quickly on the wheel that powers my brain so that I could figure out how this was possible. Maurice grunted at me before reluctantly picking up the pace.

"Yes, this is a nice expansion of something you handed in earlier in the semester."

I frowned. I knew that I had been thinking about this particular story for a few weeks, but I was pretty sure that it hadn't left my head until I wrote the paper I now clutched in my bony hand. Finally, Maurice got his furry ass in gear and I realized that I had, in fact, handed in the same basic story my second week of class. Worse, I had just looked at that first story again on Monday night, and thought about where I wanted to go with it, making no connection to the fleshed out version that I eagerly anticipated receiving back on Wednesday night.

Very, very scary. I would think that I completely have lost it, except that I think that Maurice threw some information out of the mental filing cabinet to make room for all the details I learned about the Obama administration's mortgage refinancing and loan modification program. (I am a very good resource on this!) Still, not good.

Neighborliness

I couldn't fall asleep last night. As I lay in the darkness, listening to Husband breathe, clinging to Theo (my teddy bear), my mind would not let go of several disturbing things that I'd read over the past few months. Basically, we are in this whole mortgage meltdown mess because a lot of people feel no remorse about ripping their neighbors off. Brokers unethically baited-and-switched homebuyers into loans different than those promised, pocketing huge fees for luring unsuspecting borrowers into riskier loans that were more lucrative for banks to package, securitize, and sell to unsuspecting investors. I read an article about credit card debt collectors lying to grieving relatives about their responsibility to pay for their deceased loved one's debt, then justifying it by saying that they were doing people a favor by letting them clear the air. When I can't fall asleep because the amoral behavior of other people keeps me awake, I wonder why those people don't have consciences and how that happened.

I was particularly distressed last night because earlier that evening, my mom told me that they have had to help their next door neighbor several times over the last ten days. My parents have shared a driveway with Mrs. S for over 33 years. When my sister and I were kids, she invited us over to bake traditional Danish Christmas cookies and decorate her tree with paper basket ornaments. She also hosted a Christmas party for the neighborhood kids, teaching us how to play moose (I have no idea if I spelled that properly), a game with cookies that are the size of pebbles. We also went on chocolate egg hunts at her home during Easter. Even today, Mrs. S brings a plate of Christmas cookies and homemade marzipan to my parents every December.

When my sister was born, I slept in one of Mrs. S's spare bedrooms. When my mom was taken to the hospital once in the middle of the night, Mrs. S opened her door to my footie pajamaed body. When I first figured out why toilet seats were necessary, I was on an overnight visit at Mrs. S's house. I sleepily crept down the hall and plunked myself down on the toilet without looking, only to be rudely awakened by cold water lapping at my tushie. For some reason, Mrs. S had left the seat up.

Ever since my parents moved into their house, they also kept an eye on Mrs. S. She has diabetes, and sometimes would fall into a diabetic coma. Many times over the years, my dad rushed over in the middle of the night after my mom looked out our kitchen window and into Mrs. S's and noticed that she was behaving oddly. Her friends and relatives would call our house when they were worried that Mrs. S didn't answer the phone, and ask us to see if her car was in the driveway, and if so, check on her. My parents did this with no complaints; why would they mind helping out?

Anyway, my parents received dozens of calls from Mrs. S's family last week, and also had to call the paramedics a few times when she was not responsive to a glass of orange juice or insulin, depending on the situation. When my mom mentioned something to a co-worker about a 2:30 am check in she made, her colleague said that it was very nice of my parents to be so concerned.

"Why wouldn't we be?" my mom wondered.

"A lot of people," her co-worker sighed, "just dont' care."

I know that these people justify their actions in many ways, but it boggles my mind that they sleep soundly at night, while I stay up worrying about the world.

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...

schmoozer, loser

6:52 pm
Greetings from the corner of a fancy awards dinner! When I was invited to the event last week, I was excited. What a great opportunity to meet people, I thought. Of course, I forgot how bad I am at schmoozing.

I also appear to be one of four women not wearing stilettos. The fact that I am decked out in neon green wellies is probably not making me a more enticing person to network with, either. But it is slushy and cold, dammit! What else should I wear?

Ok, off to my table, where hopefully my host will not be embarrassed by me. At least I left my bear hat and backpack at the coat check...

Update from home: Once I joined my table, all was well. No one seemed at all disturbed at what I thought passed for "festive attire," as the invitation specified. Lots of cool reproductive rights and social justice types to chat with, plus the woman I sat next to graduated from my high school in 1987. Everyone rocked! I am very glad that I attended, and thankful to my host for thinking of me.

Mini Disasters that Add Up to Laughs

Witness arrived in movie theaters when I was nine years old. I thought it looked like one of the scariest movies ever. If memory serves me correctly (and it usually doesn't), it also received complementary reviews as a suspenseful film.

Husband and I watched it on Saturday night. Let me just throw this aphorism out there: Any time there is a 20+ year build up to something, the odds are high that it will disappoint. Damn, that was one crappy movie. The plot makes almost no sense, the action is limited, the score involves some weird synth/organ droning, and there is about as much suspense as watching Jell-O set. Still, Harrison Ford is smoking hot in it. Holy shit, that made the movie almost worth it. (So as not to be sexist, I noticed that Kelly McGillis is gorgeous.)

Then on Sunday, Husband, my friend Sara #1, and I loaded ourselves into Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and headed to New Jersey. My goal was to return two shirts that I purchased on Nordstrom online to an actual store so that I could find replacements that fit. As we neared the luxury mall in Paramus, I thought it odd that the parking lot was empty. It was almost 2:00 in the afternoon - prime weekend shopping time. Was the recession really so bad that people didn't even hang out in malls in Jersey any more? Terrifying thought.

My economic fears were soon replaced by annoyance. Husband drove around some orange cones that blocked parts of the parking lot and pulled up to the doors of Nordstrom. "Sundays: Closed," I read aloud. So the whole freaking mall was closed. How fucking un-American is it to close a mall on Sunday? Seriously! We tried another nearby mall, only to find it closed as well. That's when we realized that Paramus, NJ is the most unpatriotic town in the US: no retail stores are open on Sundays, which we assumed is by law. The horror! The horror!

O, My Darlin' Clementine

Last week, Suebob posted a photo of a moldy cantaloupe that she found in her fridge. I showed it to Husband, and he asked me if it was named Archibald. (When his mother was growing up, her British father found a moldy - or mouldy? - cantaloupe in their house, and named it Archibald.)

Then last night, Husband sheepishly approached me while I sat at the computer desk, hiding something behind his back.

"Can you take out some trash?" he asked. (He was in his pajamas, whereas I was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.)

I had a sinking feeling that I knew what he was holding. When I said sure, he whipped out a bag with a moldy clementine. Seriously, seriously, moldy. Before I chucked it, I had to snap a shot:



As I threw it out, I sang it a funeral dirge. Oh my darlin, oh my darlin, o my darlin Clementine/You were lost and gone forever/Oh my darlin Clementine.

Happy Inauguration Day!!!!!

Yin & Yang

Good news: I had a good 2nd day.

Bad news: I came home to find the progress on my bathroom to be unacceptable. It seems that the building staff is attempting to replace the tile in the shower and bathroom walls themselves rather than hire a contractor. (I suspect that this is because the managing agent balked at the quoted prices.) The upshot is that it looks like shit, with the wrong size tile used on some places and other tiles already are cracked. The new tiles don't look anything like the old ones. I would rather have had them put in a funky color and at least have a cool stripe than two different shades of white. Worse, Husband touched a tile and it fell off the wall.

Good news: I won't be home to deal with it.

Out with the Old, In with the New

There's nothing like starting a new year than by breaking things. By things, I specifically mean bathrooms. And by bathrooms, I mean home and hotel facilities, one on each coast.

Yesterday morning, Husband and I awoke to urgent voicemail messages from my cousin, who is staying at our apartment while we gallivant about California. It seems that the pipes in our bathroom are leaking. The super and a maintenance dude came over to poke about, and after ripping up the linen closet (and patching it back up), concluded that the walls and floors of the bathroom need to be torn open to fix the problem. Work is to commence on Friday, Jan. 2 and hopefully will conclude on Monday, Jan. 5, which is my first day of work and I was already a nervous wreck about it before I learned that I won't have a functional bathroom that day.

I rang in the new year today by nearly breaking the toilet in the hotel. The result of my spontaneous self-cleansing strongly resembled an eel. Steph warned me yesterday morning that the toilet was not as powerful as it should be. ("It took me three flushes and a lot of hoping. I almost started looking around for a wire hanger, but then figured that this place was too fancy. A wooden hanger would work," she explained, "but wire hangers can be bent so that you can get as far away from the shit as possible, whereas a wooden hanger, it is what it is.") I thought about my honeymoon trip to London in August 2001 and how I had broken the toilet with a shit brick, and then feared that my eel turd would be even worse. Fortunately, it went down in two flushes and nothing resurfaced. Whew!

Happy new year and shit...

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.

What's Fucking Cookin' in the Windy City

Despite foreboding reports from CNN that due to weather conditions, yesterday was one of the worst days to travel, my flight not only took off on time, but also landed early. The flight was smooth. I was even upgraded to a nice comfy seat!

Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.

In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.

"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.

"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.

Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.

The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.

One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:

Patti Blagojevich -- who publicly used her first lady platform to promote food allergy awareness, treatment of lazy eye and a children's book club -- secretly was recorded directing a deputy governor speaking with her husband "to hold up that f- - - - - - Cubs s- - - . . . . f- - - them," according to the complaint.

Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

My Super Sweet Socialist Revolution

I battled the laundry room today. It was me, three maids, and eight driers that refused to dry anything. We took turns. We shared tips on getting the driers to work. We commiserated. I dreamed of a washer dryer in my own apartment.

Hours later I was folding laundry in my bedroom, watching a My Super Sweet 16 marathon called the Blingiest Bling. Going back a step, throughout the election, I kept reading op-ed pieces about how rich people shouldn't have to pay high taxes because they earn their money through hard work, and asking them to pay their proportional share of the benefits they reap from society is an outrage. So as I watched 15 year old girls whining about how they "earned" a $350,000 party and a car. Then their parents reinforce their misguided beliefs by saying that their daughters "deserved" such riches.

As my anger mounted, I realized that anyone who watched this show and wasn't enraged by the ridiculous inequities in society must be brain dead. Then it hit me: MTV must be crafting the boilerplate for a socialist revolution. How awesome is that?

Fröhliche Halloween, Mein Lieblings! (Or, Would You let Your Kids Take Candy From This Woman?L

Last year for Halloween, I wore my wedding dress and went as a bride. Clever, huh? Yeah. The truth is that I wanted to wear my dirndl, but I may have consumed a bit too much candy since I purchased the frock on eBay in 2001; I looked like an overstuffed bratwurst. Halloween can be scary or gross enough without that.

This year, I decided to suck it up, admit that I'll never be that small again, and have the dress altered. I took it to the tailor. When I came out of the fitting room, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head.

"You are going to pay money to fix this?" he asked, showing the type of Eastern European sensitivity that my bubbe usually does rather than his normal tact that makes him money.

Knowing that it would cost me more to ultimately get a whole new dirndl, which would then likely need to altered anyway, I nodded. He shook his head for a moment, mystified, than said, "OK. It's your money."

I picked up on Tuesday and it fits much better. Plenty of room for Halloween treats before I burst through the seams. It shall be perfect for the two Halloween events that I am looking forward to attending this afternoon.

Happy Halloween!

PS - If you want to read about a trick that the health insurance industry plays on women, check out my post on BlogHer about how money pay more than men for the exact same crappy coverage.

In My Medicine Cabinet

Yesterday I took a good look at the contents of our medicine cabinet. I found:

• Pepto-Bismal chewables (expired 2/07, although I swear I bought them in 4/07 for a trip to India...)


• Sudafed Sinus Headache (2 boxes, both expired 8/06)


• CVS cold & cough liquid gelcaps (expired 9/06)


• Sudafed Sinus Nighttime (expired 11/06)


• Chloraseptic (expired 9/07


• Maalox Anti-Gas (expired 11/02)


• Zantac 75 (expired 12/03)


• Immodium AD (expired 2/08 - not bad given the other expirations)


• NyQuil (2 bottles, both open, neither expired, although on Sunday I threw out a 3rd bottle that was also half used that expired in 2007)


• Vicks Formula 44 (not expired!)


• Sudafed Cold & Allergy (2 boxes, both open, neither expired)

I cannot believe that nearly every single box of OTC meds that we had in our medicine cabinet expired. This is only slightly less horrifying than the boxes of tea that I chucked on Monday. The Wild Berry Zinger expired in June 1997; I'd had it since college. The Cinnamon Apple expired in December 1998. The Iced Tea expired in December 1999.

I sort of wish I kept the Wild Berry Zinger as a relic. Ah, nostalgia.

Workshop

Tonight my story about developing breasts and how boobs have affected me over time will be workshopped in class. I am excited, but also nervous. The good news is that a few people already mentioned that they enjoyed reading it. (Right after I submitted my work two weeks ago, I convinced myself that I would be asked to leave the program.) Mostly, I look forward to hearing what people think I can do to make it a richer piece, but I am also relieved that at least a few people found it funny.

If I am lucky, I will avoid the same fate I suffered in class last Wednesday. My mysterious digestive ailment reared its ugly head earlier that week, plaguing me with acid reflux and cramps. The cramps and gas pockets were particularly painful on Wednesday night, and it is only a testament to how much I enjoy my literature class that I was able to focus on the discussion while simultaneously worrying that I might literally shit myself.

During the peak of my mysterious digestive ailment, I often worried that I might poop my pants, but I had never done so. As I gathered my belongings and dashed out of the classroom last Wednesday, I felt wetness on my ass. Two possible explanations ran through my head: 1. I got my period early (please, please, please); or 2. anal leakage. Whatever it was, I prayed that I did not reek. The two women who walked out with me did not seem to notice anything, so I took that as a good sign. All I can say is that I subsequently learned that anal leakage does not smell. Sigh.

Breaking & Entering

While Dr. P is at work fixing people colons, she has no time for grocery shopping. For a variety of reasons, I hestitated to leave her place but since she understandbaly has no food in her apartment, I reluctantly slipped out for lunch. Although Dr. P left me her car, I decided to walk the mile or so to the shopping center up the road. It was hot, but not awful. I had a nice egg sandwich and iced tea, did some work, and then walked back home.

Everything was fine until I re-entered her development. Here is my problem with suburban developments: all the buildings look the same. Plus, there aren't identifiable streets to use as guidelines. I knew she was by the alligator pond (my terminology), so when I saw an apartment with her number on it near this body of water, I was proud that I found it quickly. Except that the key would not fit into the lock. And as I stood there wondering what was going on, a woman opened it. A woman who was not Dr. P.

"Can I help you?" she asked, surprisingly pleasantly given that I just tried to open her apartment door.

"Um, I thought this was my friend's apartment, but I guess I'm lost," I stammered, thanking my lucky stars that she didn't blow my face off with a gun or call the cops.

She asked me what building number I was looking for, which is when I realized that all the complexes had their own address. Fortunately, I wrote Dr. P's on a slip of paper. It turns out I was five buildings up the alligator pond. Ooops.

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakout

My return to school has brought with it the return of my skin problems of yore. I trimmed my 'stache a bit, only to find a potentially mountainous zit hiding under the thin fringe. A quick glance at my cheek or under my nose reveals that the zits are sort of hovering under the surface, waiting for me to make one false move, then BAM! Massive breakouts will ensue.

It would be nice if I could stop stressing about the election, the economy, and the world at large. Also, I'd like to stop second guessing my decision to go back to school in the first place. For the most part, I'm learning a lot and meeting some interesting people. Still, I couldn't help but wonder if I'm just throwing money away, especially when I read Jennifer Wiener's advice to aspiring writers. (Granted, I've only read one of her books - Good in Bed - but I liked it a lot.) She just makes a lot of sense to me.

OK, deep breaths. I went out last night with a few of my classmates, which was fun. No one seemed to think I am a fucktard, so that is encouraging. Tonight I am giving a short presentation in my lit class on Edwidge Danticat, as well as handing in my first literary critique since I wrote a paper about all the menstruation symbolism in Jane Eyre in the fall of 1995. Fingers crossed, and I'm off to wash my face.

Hardliners are Assholes, No Matter Which Side of the Political Spectrum

Salon has a moving essay ("Our cupboard was bare," by Heather Ryan) about a woman with three kids who took a job as a government secretary after her divorce. Although she made a decent salary with benefits, the cost of full-time child care for three kids during the summer left no room in the budget for food. Desperate to keep her kids fed, she took them to a soup kitchen one night. Her analysis of the chronic issues facing the working poor made me cry.

That said, I've been reading some insane drivel from conservative bloggers lately about individual responsibility. They believe that hard work alone is enough for people to succeed in life, and feel that wealthier households should thus not be "punished" for their success by paying taxes that support losers like Heather Ryan's kids. Clearly, it's Ryan's fault that she had three kids and now that she can't afford it, she's got to deal with it.

On the flip side, a comment from someone who I suspect is a hardliner left-winger reminded me why I loathe zealots on either side of the spectrum. She wrote:

I have no sympathy for breeders, or for brie-eaters. Go to a dairy farm and ask yourself if you'd want your own children imprisoned as milking machines. You can feed yourself and your 3 children a healthy vegan diet for about $5 per day (for all 4 of you).

Wow, she makes "compassionate" conservatives like Bush look like child-huggers. I'm just blown away by how fucked up people are and how unable they are to look at people who are unlike themselves with anything but contempt. It's enough to make me want to live in a cave and never have to deal with people again.

Aging

In order to keep my supply of asthma drugs current, I visited my allergist this morning. After sticking various lighted instruments in my ears and nose, he gave me a test for my lungs, which I nicknamed "Old Betsy" as I typed this. I took a deep breath, then blew into some plastic pipe-thingy. As I panted into the machine, Old Betsy's air capacity was measured.

"Looks very nice," the doctor said as he looked at the graph of results.

"Um," I said and pointed to a line under the graph. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"Yes, the age of your lungs is 39," he replied nonchalantly.

"Yeah, but I'm only 32!"

He shrugged. "Don't be so glum. It's not a big deal."

If it's true that you are only as old as you feel, than I am about 77, in which case, my lungs are significantly younger than the rest of me. But if it's true that you are only as old as you act, my lungs are years ahead of my kindergarten mentality. (I was fascinated and enormously pleased by the glow-in-the-dark hands of my watch as I reached out in the dim lobby of my building to unlock the door to my apartment.) From a chronological perspective, I'm concerned that my lungs are seven years ahead of the rest of me, although god knows how "old" some of my other semi-functional organs are. I sort of need them. Maybe I can age up the rest of my body by obsessively worrying about my elder lungs.

And now that I know that my lungs are entering middle age next year, I bet that I will be psyched out when engaging in cardio activities. Like, "Oh, I better slow down running or else my old lungs might fall out since they can't keep up with my youthful legs." Yes, it's ridiculous, but I can't help it. I so wish I didn't notice that little line. Bah.

The Audacity of Hope

Feeling partiotic this morning, I donned my "Bush is a Tush" t-shirt. As I sauntered up Amsterdam Avenue on my way to Barnes & Noble (they finally have Off the Beaten (Subway) Track in stock!), I noticed two guys engaging in the latest New York City annoyance: sidewalk fundraising. The sidewalk fundraisers wander around with a clipboard, approaching people and asking them things like, "Do you care about the environment?" or "Do you support gay rights?" If you are foolish enough answer yes, they then attempt to get you to give them money for the cause. I can't imagine that this works, but it must because the only sidewalk fundraisers I used to encounter were for Greenpeace, but now I see people from the DNC and Human Rights Camapign all the time.

Today's sidewalk fundraisers had t-shirts on for some progressive group whose name I can't remember. I figured that my "Bush is a Tush" t-shirt made me a big target. Silly me. I assumed that people would read my chest.

"Do you want to defeat John McCain in November?" the bearded sidewalk fundraiser asked me.

"Do I look like the type of person who supports John McCain?" I asked with disdain, pulling my t-shirt away from my body a bit so he could read it without feeling like a pervert.

"Bush.... is... a... tush," he read aloud, sloooooowly. Then he frowned. "So do you support John McCain?"

"Damn, we might really lose this election," I thought. "Good thing we are moving to London!" Not long after that, I called Husband at work. He sounded glum.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"London might be off the table," he grumbled.

At that moment, a pigeon flew into my head. (I am OK, albeit repulsed, as my hair now is infested with rank pigeon germs. Those things are flying sewer rats.) Could the signs be more ominous? I am very displeased.

I Eyed It Like It Was Vomit

Large cities tend to me dirty places. Given the high concentration of people in a condensed area, it is inevitable that there will be less than pristine conditions in commonly traversed areas such as subway platforms. Since New York is the biggest city in the country, it only makes sense that we are probably one of the messiest.

The common occurance of random acts of grossness is a big reason why I cannot understand why women here wear sandals with very thin soles. When the ground is often covered with things you do not want on your toes or feet, how is a barrier of no more than a few centimeters adequate protection? I'm not just talking about general grime. I'm thinking about the various neon green puddles that I observe regularly, food, dog (or worse, human) crap and piss, and vomit.

Last night as I was returning home, I found myself skirting a small pile of puke on the uptown 1,2, and 3 train platform. Unfortunately, a woman wearing strappy sandals was not as astute as I. Before I could shout, "Watch out!," she dragged her foot onto the beige mess. The barf hung just over the lip of the sandal, taunting her big toe. She didn't seem to notice the danger that lurked just at the tip of her pedicure, but it was enough to make me want to vomit.

Barbie Lives!

Until yesterday, I never personally laid eyes on boobs that I absolutely, 100%, no doubt at all knew were fake. My innocence was shattered, though, in the locker room of a downtown branch of my gym. As I approached my locker, I noticed a topless woman stretching against the her locker. Without warning, she whipped around and I was confronted with two perfectly molded, symmetrical, round lumps soddered on to a lithe body. Anyone who ever saw a topless Barbie knows exactly what I mean, except that this woman had enormous erect knobs attached to the center of her flesh-covered half-spheres rather than smooth plastic.

I'm sort of proud of myself because I managed not to gasp. I was just so taken aback by the sight of her tits. And I feel bad being judgmental about it, but I really wanted to ask her why she did that to herself. It's her body and she needs to be happy with it, so it's not my business, yet I honestly could not help thinking that she looked totally fucking ridiculous. No matter how small her previous chest size might have been (and I include the possibility that she may have had a mastectomy), I suspect that she was gorgeous before her surgery. Now she just appeared so artificial and fake that it made me weirdly sad.

Now that I've met Barbie (this woman was also blond, with a pleasant face and trim figure), I have a slightly increased appreciation of my flab, and even my chin hairs (not that it stopped me from plucking away last night; maybe if I could grow a Van Dyke or something interesting versus sporadic bristles, I'd leave it alone). Perfection is way overrated.

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.

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.

My Bounty on Bounty

I just saw a Bounty paper towel commercial that left me slack jawed. Here's the paraphrased scene:

Dad and son stand, leaning over a big brown puddle of what I think is pop (or soda to you non-Midewesterners) and empty glass.

Dad: Wow, that's a three sheeter!

Son: No, it's a four sheeter!

Mom stands in background near paper towel dispenser.

Mom: It's a one sheeter!

She rips off a towel...

Cut to me in my living room. I think to myself, she is going to give the guys who made the mess the paper towel so they can clean it up, right? No way she is going to walk across the kitchen, get down on her hands and knees, and clean the spill while the guys just stand around, right? Right? Back to scene...

A female arm with the same color sweater as the mom was wearing swipes the paper towel over the pop. She then goes on to clean something that I swear is a blob of jizz off of a doormat.

Cut back to me. What the fuck? Seriously, I hope when she wiped up the spunk, she applied for membership in the jizzmoppers union. (No joke - there's really a jizzmoppers union.) At least she wouldn't also have to mop up spilled beverages as well.

Welcome to the Insect Graveyard

Since we live on the ground floor of our building and our windows look directly out onto the sidewalk, Husband and I never open our curtains. While I would prefer to allow the sun to shine in every once in a while, I also am not cool with people inspecting our fine home as they bop down the street. Two halogen lamps keep our living room brightly illuminated to make up for the lack of natural light and chase away some of the cave shadows that seem to form.

The halogen lamps work very well for us in more than one way. In addition to giving us light, they also appear to annihilate large numbers of winged insects. Recently, as I looked at the lamp while turning it on, I noticed that dozens of insect carcasses filled up the clear plastic piece at the bottom of the light.

While I am glad that my lamp kills flies, the unfortunate part is that the graveyard is below a large metal plate, and hence not possible for me to empty into the trash. Now every time I turn on the lamp, I am forced to look at this grotesque scene and contemplate about mortality. Oh, the conundrum!

Totally Inappropriate Comparison...

Although my dental appointment yesterday was mostly without incident, every time the hygienist accidentally scratched my tender pink gum with the sharp scraper tool while cleaning my teeth, I thought about how utterly awful a coat hanger abortion would feel.

Miracles and Non-Miracles

Yesterday, I was offered a part-time program developer job at a small grassroots nonprofit organization in the Bronx! It occurred to me that although I have thus far spent nearly my entire career working with community-based organizations by providing technical assistance and training, I never worked at one. I think this is going to be very interesting. Just as important, the organization does not work in the child care field. Step one away from work that makes me miserable! Hurray!

After my interview, I headed further north in the Bronx to take some pictures of the Lourdes of America shrine for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (Yes, a church built a replica of the miraculous healing grotto in Lourdes, France so that parishioners here can enjoy its superpowers. I love it.) Rain fell from the sky in buckets. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, I get that this is a metaphor.) I worried that I would not get a good shot, but lo and behold, the second I stepped into the church yard, the rain stopped. I snapped away, filled my empty Snapple bottle with miracle water (the same water source that serves all city residents), and went on my way. As I left the churchyard, it began raining like cats and dogs. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, this is a simile.)

Then last night Clinton took Texas and Ohio, giving her the ammo she needs to justify her continued ego trip - I mean, run for the presidential nomination - although it could destroy the Democrats' chance at winning the White House in November by inciting anger, resentment, and bad will all around. I'm not sure how many times I can say this, but damn, I miss Pat Schroeder. What a class act. The thought of a McCain presidency is overwhelmingly depressing, so I will try to not dwell on it.

Perhaps it is time to register for cheese making lessons. This way, I'll at least have some concept of how to fulfill my ridiculous plan B, which is to move to a sheep and goat farm in the UK if the US is subject to four more years of Republican rule. My anxiety is like a bull in a china shop mixing kashi with borscht.