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.

When Worlds Collide

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

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

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

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

Jews Love Money

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

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

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




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

Bless the Internet!

Not long ago, I wrote about my mother's love of fruit cake (concluding that it takes one to know one), but I didn't mention that as she told me her tale of fruit cakeless woe on the phone, I plopped my ass down in front of the computer and ordered one online for her birthday. (I didn't want to spoil the surprise in case she read my blog before it arrived.) My blog friend Pamela kindly suggested a good online fruit cake source, but I had already secretly ordered from Hickory Farms. I believe that I will make online fruit cake ordering a new tradition. Next year: Pamela's suggestion, Collins Street Bakery. I love their history.

After I accomplished the fruit cake mission, I turned to the internet for some research. I was asked to contribute an article to an almanac about New York City. My assigned topic was a forgotten crime spree from the 1950s. The New York Times archives offered me articles from those days that gave me all the information I needed to complete my story. No microfiche! Hurray!

With the internet, is there ever a reason to leave home except to go to the gym, see people, or travel? (And the travel can be 100% planned through the internet!) I can do research, order gifts, and arrange for food to be brought to my doorstep. If only I could harness the power of the internet to work from home.

I love you, internet....

Richard Peck Made Me Cry Today

The day started out well. I woke up a bit before my alarm sounded, feeling refreshed. After feeding Tycho the rabbit and myself, I ran three miles at the gym. Then I scurried home to purchase U2 concert tickets for Husband. For a concert on Sept. 16, 2010.

Ticket purchasing is not as easy as it sounds. First, he had to subscribe to the band's fan site. This runs something like $50. Then he received an email with a secret code that could be used to purchase up to four tickets before they went on sale to the general public. Since Husband was at a Very Important Meeting when his special group of bribe givers was allowed to give U2 more of their money, he asked me to click on the magic link, enter the code, and secure the best tickets available, at whatever cost.

Fine. How hard can that be? Except that he already used the code he provided me for tickets for a concert this past September. And I had no access to his U2 account to find his new entree to U2 happiness. The man asked me to do a simple task, and it distressed me to no end. He works hard. All he wants are some fucking concert tickets, and I could not provide. Two frustrating hours later, I finally bought the tickets. Yay.

However, I was late for everything else I had to do today. Among other things that did not get done in a timely fashion, I missed a call from an organization offering me a job. Yay for the job offer, boo for missing the call. I left the woman an overly enthusiastic message on her voice mail at 5:30.

Blah, blah, blah. Fortunately, I arrived at school on time to hear my favorite author from when I was in 4th grade. Blossom Culp, the main character in Ghosts I Have Been, was a hero to me back then. I wanted to be her. So all semester, I'd been waiting to hear Richard Peck. During his talk about writing, he said, "I write for lonely people looking for friends in books."

Thank you, Mr. Peck.

Truth or Dare

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

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

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

New Mottoes

During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:

It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.

While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.

Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.

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.

Three Adjectives

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

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

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

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

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

Exploiting My Weakness for Laughs

My friend Jennifer is a multi-talented performer who just moved to New York from San Francisco. I went to see her tonight in a stand-up comedy show, where I thought she was clearly the best comedian until a guy got up and found my Achilles heel.

"When you were in high school, all you wanted was dick, right?" he asked me.

"Uh, no," I said.

"Really? Are you a lesbian?"

(Heaving big internal sigh.) "No, but everyone thinks I am."

"It's the short hair cut," he said, then paused. "Actually, you look a lot like Jane Wiedlin. You got that pixie thing going on."

Swoooooooon. I don't care that he was not nearly as funny as Jennifer. From then on, whatever he said, I laughed. Hard and loud. I wished I wore makeup. I am such a sucker.

My Celebrity Lookalike and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Don't Shoot!

Although I like pretending that I am a scary bear, I am really just a big nerd in a moderately-sized woman's body. The little seal next to me is a snow sculpture.* I fear that with the recent discussion of Gov. Sarah Palin's love of hunting, people might accidentally blow us away with an AK-47 while hunting for wolves from helicopters. I just want to be clear that I am not, in fact, a scary bear.

Speaking of bears, Theo enjoyed his guest post stint this past Thursday so much that I decided to create a new feature called Theo Thursdays. Every Thursday until the election (or until Palin drops out), Theo will post an environmental message on CUSS. He is very excited about this opportunity and hopes you will enjoy it. We both hope that it will not need to continue after early November because Barack Obama will be our next president.

Speaking of bloody "sports," anyone who is interested in submitting an essay for a potential anthology about periods has until September 15 to do so. Check out Congratulations, You're a Woman Now! for details. I think it will be an awesome book along the lines of Sleep is for the Weak. We want to capture a diverse range of stories and experiences, so please spread the word.

*This photo was shot in Cooperstown, NY in February 2005. Husband and I went up there to celebrate our 10th anniversary of being together. I think it is clear that we are well suited for each other, as only crazy people go to freezing Cooperstown in February. We thought it would be fun to participate in their winter carnival and also see the Baseball Hall of Fame, though. As part of the carnival, we took a walking tour across a frozen lake, which was awesome. At the Hall of Fame, I posed for a picture with Curt Schilling's bloody sock. (I hoped that the pig who "donated" his/her ligament to Schilling's ankle would also be honored, but the museum seems to discriminate against non-human baseball heroes.) We had a great time.

Yurts!

Assuming that I'm not planning a new life in a foreign country after election day, Husband and I are heading to California for an end-of-the-year trip. The scheme is to fly to Los Angeles on Christmas Day, spend two-ish days wandering amongst the bronzed and the implanted, then drive up to Ventura to hang out with Suebob on my birthday. From there, we shall continue up the coast, stopping in Solvang ("Scandinavian" tourist trap), Pismo Beach, and San Luis Obispo (Bubblegum Alley!!!), and taking a night tour of Hearst Castle. A search of the internets for a place to stay near Hearst Castle made me gasp.

"Yurts!"

"What?" Husband asked. "Are you OK?"

I sprang up from the couch. "OH MY GOD!!!!! We can stay in a yurt!"

Husband's face transformed into a question mark. I sighed. "You know - a yurt!" Except that he obviously didn't know. "It's a part tent, part solid building thing," I expounded.

"Why do you know this?"

Good question. I have no idea why I know what a yurt is. Although Husband then accused my family of being a roving hippie clan, we never went anywhere more exotic than Burbank to visit my great uncle and great aunt. It's always interesting to try and trace back to when you first learned about something, and I'm drawing a complete blank on the yurt. The only explanation I can up with is that I must have read about it somewhere. Yurts are hardly common in the suburbs of Chicago, so I've certainly never seen one. However it worked its way into my subconscious, I am psyched for our yurt stay.

Mountatin Greetings!

Hello from the parking lot of a closed cafe that is broadcasting a Wi-Fi signal. I hope that I can finish this quick post before Alex and I are arresting for looking suspicious. Before we left the house, I made a joke that we would look like drug dealers, but when we pulled into the lot and found two young men sitting in their car with the engine running, this ceased to be funny. So now I hope that we are not killed for interfering with a drug deal rather than be arrested on the suspicion of selling drugs.

Anyway, the week has been both eventful and relaxing thus far. On Friday, we arrived, discovered that no one received cell phone service at the house we rented, set up shop, and at 1 am, the power went out. Husband was not a Boy Scout, but he is always prepared, so we had lots of flashlights on hand. For about an hour, my brother-in-law wandered around with a butcher knife to protect us from intruders, although I repeatedly said he was more likely to stab one of us or fall on the knife himself. He then moved on to panicking about carbon monoxide poisoning before going to bed.

Saturday we hung around the pool and in the hot tub. My friend told us a story about a guy she knew in college who contracted "cunnilingus jaw" when a woman had an orgasm and clamped her thighs very tightly around his face. From then on, he could predict whether rain was on the way based on how his cunnilingus jaw tingled.

Sunday we headed over to the Green County Youth Fair. This is the one event I talked about for weeks. I love seeing the champion rabbits at fairs. The plan was to leave at 11:30, but departure was pushed back to noon. Then Husband randomly ran off tot the grocery store, leaving me to fume and stuff my face with ice cream. We finally took off, caravan style, at 1:00 and arrived at the fair an hour later to find it closed due to weather conditions. It seems a tornado blew through a nearby area. I whipped up a little cyclone of anger at that news. So it goes.

Monday we headed over to a bizarre zoo and petting farm. Amongst the goats, sheep, and horses were a kangaroo, monkeys, emus, a bison, and camels. The poor rabbits and guinea pigs were completely traumatized by all the little hands that grabbed at them in the petting area. I decided that when I move to London, we should get a guinea pig. Husband stared at me in horror.

I can't believe that I survived for several days without internet access! I am so proud of myself. Until the weekend...

The Crazy Lady on the Street

Because I wanted to save $2 by not taking the bus 16 blocks to Whole Foods, I walked. This was OK for the way down, which mainly involved carrying my water bottle and the little cooler I planned to put my frozen goods in so that they would not cook on my way back home. I also stopped at the post office and picked up a flat rate priority mail box for some shoes that I am selling on eBay.

My return trip was a bit more complicated. By removed the frozen chicken & apple sausages I purchased from the bulky outer box (they are also in plastic bags), I fit all three packages into the cooler. I then removed the pound of ripe red strawberries from the plastic container and put them in one of those plastic veggie bags. They then nicely fit in the cooler as well. The spinach, red onion, blueberry, and goat cheese side salad, however, was just big enough that the cooler would not close all the way. So I took Tycho's carrots (complete with green tops - his favorite part) out of their plastic veggie bag, put the salad in it so that leaks would be somewhat contained, and threw it in my mini backpack. Then I took off with the flat box tucked into my left armpit and under my left arm, the water bottle in my left hand, and the carrots balanced on the cooler, which I held in my right hand.

Even without the wide brimmed straw hat that ties under my chin with black ribbon - necessary on a slightly windy and blazingly sunny day like today, but making me look like a deranged version of Little Bo Peep - I would have looked like one of those homeless people wandering around with their random possessions. At least I didn't wear my hot pink sunglasses with mirrored lenses a la the '80s.

Before I was even half way home, a rivulet of sweat that began on my upper, upper thigh reached my ankle, and the carrot tops wilted. This did not stop a normal looking woman from asking me if I knew where Bed, Bath, and Beyond was located. (I did, and pointed it out to her.) Perhaps her own good judgment was affected by the heat.

The Price is Right, But Who Cares?

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

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

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

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

Beware the Words of Shakespeare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Call Me the Morton Salt Girl

You know, when it rains, it pours? (Plus my language is certainly salty.) I went from worrying that I'd never have paid employment again to having more project offers that I can possibly calendar, but will anyway. Of course, some of the will likely fall by the wayside, so I likely won't be overbooked when the dust settles. And some of the things I hope will disappear, as they are for projects that drive me insane. (Those are the ones that I have to charge a lot for, as I need to build a legal defense fund in the event that I go batshit and throttle someone. Good lawyers cost a lot of money, although I suspect that any jury will grant me an insanity plea when they hear the details of some of this work.)

Yesterday, I went back to a due diligence gig from a few weeks ago. Mostly the work is boring financial analysis, so the hard parts are staying awake and getting all the data that I need. Gathering information from people is like removing a thorn from the paw of a lion. It only helps them in the end to let me extract what I need, but everyone acts like I'm asking them to sacrifice their first born. To make things easier, I even put together a chart for each organization in which they can just fill in the blanks. What is returned to me in nearly every case is a chart they designed that has different information in it. Yeah. If they don't have the info, they could save themselves hours by just telling me that instead of putting together of info that I won't use, which is why I didn't ask for it in the first place.

Today I had taught my first class at a university. It is a one credit, four week class at the City University about basic budgeting for child care businesses. I was very pleased. My goal is to help people learn this extremely boring shit in an entertaining way. I don't know if anyone learned anything this morning, but they were entertained, so I feel successful. Teaching is good. I should rustle up some other work like this in the future. The class ends at the end of the month.

Anyway, that's where my time has been going. Tomorrow I am over-the-top excited to go to Sacramento for Count Mockula's baby shower. I can't wait to see her and meet her family and friends. Since this exciting journey was brought to me by a voucher Husband had for a free flight, I will be flying in to San Francisco, taking BART to Richmond, then taking Amtrak to Sacramento. Weirdly, I find this more appealing than what I initially tried to book (but was denied by the airline), which was a flight to Dallas with a connection to Sacramento. Both methods require a full day of travel each way, which is sort of funny. The point is, I'm working a lot now, and I can't wait to play.

Smarts

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

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

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

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

GREat Day

At 12:30, I'll be sitting down to take the GRE. In preparation, I have learned words like peregrination, turgid, vituperative (a word I just saw in an actual newspaper article!), and occlude. I also refreshed my memory of how to calculate the area of a triangle (1/2 base x height) and some other cool math tricks that I may not have really learned in the first place. If glory hole also happens to appear on the exam, I'm totally set.

My goal is to get a 650 on the verbal and a 450 on the math. The good news is that even if I don't accomplish this, it won't matter because the writing program I am applying to does not care what the GRE score is. However, the university at large requires that everyone submit a score before they matriculate. I just don't want to completely embarrass myself, so we'll see what happens.

In other exciting news, a story about my blog friend Eddie of Chicken Fat appeared in the Marietta News. I've enjoyed Chicken Fat's liberal and hilarious observations about life for awhile now, and I am very glad that he's getting lots of recognition. He also just celebrated his 40th wedding anniversay! Yay Eddie!

Thirteen and a Half Years

Summer 1994

December 2007

Husband the Humanist and the Radical Notion that Woman are People

One of the many reasons I love Husband is that we have a variety of interesting conversations. Sometimes they are about farting. Other times they are about work, friends, family, and/or whatever is happening in our lives. Many times we discuss sports and politics. Once in awhile, we debate philosophical differences.*

Yesterday I wrote on BlogHer about the case of a woman in Saudi Arabia who was gang raped by seven men. Her husband bravely encouraged her to press charges (which led her brother to try and kill her) and while the men were convicted and sentenced to prison, the woman was also sentenced to 90 lashes for going out in public with a man who was not her legal guardian. Her lawyer, a famous human rights advocate, fairly protested that it is absurd and wrong to punish a woman who was gang raped. World attention and pressure ensued. The authorities responded by increasing her punishment to 200 lashes and six months in prison, claiming that she confessed to having an affair. More outrage from the civilized world thus far has not made any difference.

After I wrote the essay, I was depressed. Somehow this led Husband and I to discuss the difference between feminism and humanism. If feminism is, at root, a belief that women and men deserve equal human rights (which is how I define feminism), how is that different from humanism, which is essentially that all people have basic human rights? Husband felt that because feminism (by necessity) primarily focuses on the rights of women, it is easily manipulated by conservatives and right-wing lunatics into a movement that tries to put women above men. Thus we get a lot of bad publicity and all manner of people saying things like, "I'm not a feminist, but I believe that women and men are equal." For example, a humanist will point out that domestic violence is wrong. A feminist will note that, according to the Family Violence Prevention Fund, 85% of victims of intimate partner violence are women and 15% of victims are men. As a result, feminists focus on women first and demand that the resources proportionally go to women victims. It's not that we dismiss violence against men, its just that we look at the history of violence against partners and statistics and demand that women get help in proportion to the situation. Some (like Husband the Humanist) would say that because there are not enough resources to go around, insisting that women get priority denies male victims, who are even further stigmatized by partner violence than women because they fail to meet masculine stereotypes of being strong, the resources they need, and thus does not treat men and women equally.

It's an interesting discussion. What do you think?**

*Many times these discussions end with me shouting, but not always.
**And if you write about this on your blogs, put a link in the comments, because I'd like to explore this humanism-feminism topic more in depth at BlogHer on Thursday.

1994: The Year of Hair

Damn. My friend from high school recently posted this photo of me in his Facebook album. I think this was taken in 1994 somewhere in suburban Chicago.


Those sunglasses were my mom's from the 1970s. (One of the lenses cracked or I'd probably still use them today. They rock!) Today I'm about 30 pounds less than I was when I was 18, and now that I look at this shot, I think about half of that weight came off when I cut my hair. (I do miss those long, long pigtails.) Another 6 or so pounds came off when I had my breast reduction. That surgery resulted in my shoulders looking about half as broad as they did back then. Craziness.

Face(book)ing the Facts

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

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

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

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

Shaking It Out

Once or twice a month (or more, depending on my anxiety level, so generally more), I have hyper-realistic dreams about failing school or being involved with people who I have known since my elementary school days. Two night ago, I dreamed that I kept missing the bus because I left my backpack at Target, where I stopped to look at some clothes before school. This was significantly less intense than my usual school-anxiety dreams, which tend to center around me not going to a specific class (German, Spanish, or more recently, math) for the entire semester and then panicking as finals approach because I am so far behind that I don't even remember where the fucking classroom is. I can't explain how I ever let it get so far, and I generally wake up in a sweaty state of dread which takes me the better portion of the day to overcome.

The other intense dreams that occur when I go to bed feeling apprehensive about something involves people I haven't seen in years. Last night I dreamed that I was involved to varying degrees with three guys, two of whom I was buddies with in elementary school and one of whom I was friendly with my freshman year of high school. (The last time I saw the guys from my days of early childhood was at my high school class reunion in 2004. I haven't seen my pal from high school since senior year, and we weren't really friends at that point any longer.) Whenever I have these dreams with people from the past, I am almost consumed in the day time by the urge to find them online and try and strike up a conversation with them. I spend hours finding them, and then am smart enough (for once) to not do anything about it. The funny thing is that at least one of these guys is a regular in my subconscious anxiety dump.

I guess I am trying to go back to more secure times in my life, even if they get weirdly updated to being adults. (The subconscious is truly one fucked up bitch.) I am all bothered these days because I want so badly to be accepted into a particular MFA program, and terrified that my trite stories will be laughed at by the graduate admissions committee. If anyone is willing to read 30 pages of stories from my youth and today (involving getting - and losing - boobs and my period), I would welcome your feedback.

Shit I Almost Forgot

As I was catching up on blog reading (something I forgot to mention in my previous post that I am behind in that is stressing me out), Alex's recap of BlogHer Day Two reminded me that I failed to pimp my blog. I tried. I tried really hard, even coming up with an awesome tagline thanks to Karrie ("Because life is hairy" - ha! that kills me), but only succeeded in temporarily removing my sidebar. Next year, I am going to physically pimp my blog MTV-style by covering it in pink fur and added diamond-encrusted wheels. It could be a crafts workshop or something. Tricking my laptop out is far more achievable than fixing my blog template, as the most important thing I learned during the pimping session is that Blogger does not want you to fuck with their preset templates and makes it damn near impossible for a fiddler like me to do so. So it goes.

The other shit I almost to forgot to mention was the most ludicrous bumper sticker I ever laid eyes on. Now, I've some some puzzling bumper stickers in my 31.5 years on this earth. (Most recently, those tend to say things like "Bush/Cheney 2004," but I digress.) This bumper sticker said, "If you are tailing* gonna ride my ass, pull my hair." What the fuck does that mean? I do not get it at all, but in the absence of context, I assume it is in support of unshaved snatch. Or something. If anyone has a clue, please share. (What's weirder is that I saw this car near the airport, then a few days later saw the same Sphinx car near my parents' abode. What are the odds of that?)

My final pearl of wisdom/nugget of wit that I felt the internets needed to hear involves Husband. My dad, Granny, and I were on our way back from breakfast (in which both Bubbe and Granny shockingly behaved well and did not traumatize Super Des, so now I hope she does not think that I make all up all my crazy stories about them - I do have other witnesses, just in case, some who are not related to me by blood or marriage) and we were discussing the impending nuptials of Brother-in-Law and Future Sister-in-Law, for which the whole mispuchah (that's clan to you non-Yiddish speakers) will be journeying to the New York City area. I mentioned that FSIL will be 30 in March, but BIL is only gonna be 27 in May.

"Oh, he's a cradle robber!" Granny squealed in delight.

"So is Suzanne," Dad said. "What are you, seven months older than Husband?"

"It's true," I admitted. "I was a baby wise to the ways of the world before he even opened his newborn eyes."

Damn, I crack myself up.

*Thank you, Missy, for your correction.

The Gathering of the BlogHers

Those of you not traveling to Chicago for BlogHer need not be jealous. There was an announcement on the news that the kitchen in the Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier was just closed by the Health Department for vermin. Guess where us hungry bloggers will be meeting and eating? Gonna be interesting, that's for sure.

On the other hand, Chicago has plenty of great eats. Des, Alex, Count Mockula and I plan to eat deep dish pizza on Friday night. I have almost convinced my parents to come downtown and join us. That's right! If you'll be in Chicago and want to eat pizza with me, you can meet the people who produced me. Many of you are members of the Mom Reisman fan club, and this is your big chance!

Before all this happens, however, my mom and I are heading over to the infamous Graceland Cemetery to spend a few hours today. Many of Chicago's biggest names currently reside there, and the cemetery plays a fairly interesting role in one of my favorite books, The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. (It is an amazing book about the 1893 World's Fair and America's first known serial killer.)

On an unrelated note, but something that is irritating me to no end, I am reminded once again that I should not bother going to concerts. Generally I don't like live musis, as I like to hear songs the way that I know them by heart from CDs, MP3s, or the radio. Still, every five years or so, I am compelled to attend a concert. I went to see Madonna in 2001, and Prince in 2003 (or so). Hated both concerts. This year, I was super psyched to get tickets to see The Police on Aug. 1. Of course, then it turns out that Dr. P will be in town that night, which means that I will be anxious for the concert to end so I can see her. On top of that, I signed up for an eight week online course on travel writing. The first lecture was tonight at 10 PM EST. I completely misunderstood and thought that meant the first online chat was also tonight. No, stupid me. The first fucking chat is on - you guessed it - Aug. 1. So now I am going to miss that unless I miss the concert, and look like an irresponsible idiot. I don't want to miss the concert, as Danger Doll said it rocked the house when she saw it in her home state a few weeks ago, although I fear that I will hate it anyway because I am a dorky loser like that and something will probably upset my conservative musical tastes, most likely a poor rendition of "Roxanne." I am totally stressing over this, which is ridiculous.

Out of curiosity, at this point would you go to the concert or find someone else to take your ticket? (And, as an aside to the aside, if you live in NYC, we have an extra ticket regardless of whether I flake out or not.)

The Smoke Behind the Mirror

A few days ago, Working Girl over at Mostly True Stories wrote a nice recommendation about CUSS. (And I must, in good faith, tell CUSS readers that her story about getting a cervical cap is about as priceless as it gets. This is not a you-scratch-my-back,I'll-scratch-yours type of thing. I'm saying it is a must read.) Anyway, part of her referral said:

I was kind of scared. I thought she was an angry feminist and that I had made an enemy. (I am also a bit of an angry feminist, but that doesn't mean that I'm too stupid to be afraid of other angry feminists.)

Then she went on to say nice things about me. This cracks me up because, as Working Girl so insightfully discovered, for all my vitriolic spew, I am really a big teddy bear pushover.

Seriously! Here I go and start about about hating the removal of female pubic hair and being all judgmental about the people who like it and their problems with accepting that adult women don't look like pre-teens. Then I meet all these really excellent women who say that they wax or shave or whatever and they personally like it for whatever reason. It makes me think about how much I hate it when people judge me and call me gross for my personal body preferences and here I am doing the same thing. So I decide that while I am a supporter of the beaver with its full coat, maybe I should back the fuck up when it comes to bugging other people. Unless they are automatons. (Automatons always deserve scorn for mindlessly following the advice of crap purveyors like Cosmo, which assures us that we will die alone and unloved and worst, uneaten if we dare to just be ourselves.) Logical people tend to make me get over my prejudices and biases and look outside my own little world. Not a very scary or angry reaction.

Sure there are core beliefs that I stand firm on, like my belief that while breastfeeding is clearly important, it's not my damn business to be harassing women who don't do it. I also like paying taxes, and feel that to live in a just society, Husband and I should pay our fair share of the benefits we reap. (That may mean I am crazy, though.) I can understand why people are against legal abortion based on their own moral code, but I'll never be convinced that I must be forced to live under their beliefs, nor will I accept that I don't have "values" because mine don't dovetail with the vice squad.

I'm happy that Working Girl and others stuck around CUSS for awhile to see behind the facade. I may talk tough, but really I'm just a another woman who is not quite 5'2", 128 lbs, married to the first person she slept with, doesn't tend to drink (and in fact regret that last night when I ordered a Toasted Almond at a bar, I forgot to tell the bartender to go heavy on the milk, easy on the amaretto, so it was too strong for me), is afraid of drugs, and has no tattoos. Not intimidating at all. Unless you mess with my family or friends. Then I will hunt you down and fuck you up. I think.

Tuesday, June 12 in Pictures (and a Few Words of Explanation)

Husband had most of the day off, so we set out for Milanese adventures. We began by climbing the stairs to the roof of Il Duomo.It was sunny, which explains my grimace. (I'm terrible with glare.) Nothing explains my bad hair except my need for a hair cut.

After Il Duomo, we headed over to the Museum of Science and Technology, which was exceptionally fun and interesting. In the section on water transportation, Husband tried out a periscope from a retired submarine.

The museum also recontructed a schooner from the 1800s. In full.My only (minor) complaint is that you could not actually go onto the ship, which would have been utterly amazing. Also, large parts of the museum were under construction, so some potentially cool stuff was off limits. C'est la vie. We still spent 3.5 hours there, including a break for snacks in the vending machine room. Somehow it is even more fun to buy junk food out of vending machines in foreign countries.

Finally, we went to the Pinateca Ambrosiana, which had some great art by Ghirlandiao, Botticelli, and Leonardo, plus Brueghel, a weird favorite of mine. More importantly, it was in a completely stunning palazzo.I thought that the building itself was far more interesting than the art it housed. Except for the objects d'arte, which included a pair of Napolean's gloves and a lock of Lucrezia Borgia's hair.After our sightseeing, we trekked over to a large grocery store to stock up on provisions, as Husband so eloquently put it. As we returned to the hotel, I turned to Husband and told him that although most of the guests arrive with shopping bags in hand, he is probably the only one to show up with grocery bags. He beamed with pride.

Nerd Alert

I love Husband, but he is evil sometimes. Back in January, he took a picture of a picture that my parents still proudly display in the living room as part of The Shrine to the Family. Husband finds this picture utterly hilarious (not that it isn't, albeit in my mind it is painfully funny). I think I was in third grade. Note the awkward phasing into puberty that is just on the cusp of destroying my life as I knew it. My sister is adorable, though. Nothing funny there.

If you squint at the picture, you can see Sister's Husband's reflection. He clearly is enjoying a hearty guffaw at my sad pre-teen expense.

My First Period, Revisited

One morning approximately three weeks before my 12th birthday, I woke up with a stomach ache. Because I disliked many aspects of school and preferred to stay up all hours of the night reading, I frequently woke up with a “stomach ache.” However, this day was different. My sides hurt like hell, and so assuming that a major bought of diarrhea or something was in store for me, I convinced my parents to let me stay home. I went back to bed, hoping it would go away if I out-slept it.

When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?

At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.

“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.

My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.

I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”

“No, I used a tampon.”

“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”

“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.

A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me.

I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.)

My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”

“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”

My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”

I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.

Oh.My.God.

"Oh my God" is one of those phrases that requires context. In some settings, it expresses indignation or irritation. In others, it conveys mortification or embarrassment. It can also be used to show different types of excitement, if you get my drift.

While I say, "Oh my God," frequently in all ways, yesterday the link between "Oh my God" as please-ground-open-and-swallow-me-this-minute and heavy breathing formed in my mind. I was working on my book about the trials and tribulations of growing up, and began a chapter on sexual awakening. As I wrote about the time I asked my mom how babies were made when I was in fourth grade, I was immediately transported back in time…. (Cue flashback/excerpt.)

I turned to my mom for enlightenment. Every fall and spring, we had a "girl's night out" where she took me shopping for new clothes for the upcoming season, as I generally outgrew everything from the prior year. It was just the two of us, my dad staying home with my sister. In the fateful year of the bra, I decided to revisit the whole where babies come from issue while were shopping for t-shirts and shorts that I could stuff my roly poly figure into without looking obscene.

Really, though, by the spring of 1986, did any kids still ask their parents where babies come from? No! Most had enough common sense to learn about it in less embarrassing ways: from older kids or by digging through the library for books like, "Where Did I Come From?" Kids who were even nerdier than me might have waited an extra year and figured this shit out in the "sex ed lite" we were given in 5th grade, with the boys herded off to one room with the male junior high teachers and the girls shuttled into another, so we could learn about wet dreams, periods, and where babies come from. (Some kids probably learned about sex by reading their dad's stashes of porn mags, but I'd argue that this does not actually teach anyone where babies come from, so it doesn't count.) The point is, I am the only fourth grader dorky enough to decide to ask my mom.

Closing time was approaching at Old Orchard mall, and my mom and I walked toward one last shop before the clock struck 9:00, and I turned into an unclothed pumpkin for the summer. The April air was cool on my face. I appreciated that it would be hard to see my face in the dark. The time was right. I took a deep breath.

"Mom," I said began nervously, then spat out the rest, "How are babies made?"
I grabbed her hand and held it tightly once the words escaped my lips, but I could not look at her.

She grabbed my hand back just as tightly, maybe out of surprise that I asked, but definitely uncomfortable. "The parents have sex," she replied in a straightforward manner. "The husband places the penis in the wife's vagina."

Oh my GOD! What was I thinking, asking her this? I wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and die of embarrassment. No wonder my other friends preferred to hear crazy stories from other kids. I had to play it cool, though.
"Oh, OK." I said. Maybe I asked some follow up questions, but if I did, I blocked them out of my memory for good reason.

For the rest of the day, I was mortified. Last night, I told Husband about what a freak I was and asked how he found out how babies were made.

"Did you ask either of your parents?" I inquired.

He laughed. "No! I'm not a fool! I waited to learn about it in school. It wasn't a burning question."

Um, thanks. Here's my question to you, Dear Reader – how did you find out how babies were made?

Living La Virtual Vida Barbie? Loca!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excel(lent)

It's been six months since I quit my do gooding work at an evil nonprofit organization that squeezed me dry like a grapefruit. I've tried semi-successfully to use that time to write. Generally, I've also used the time to feel guilty about not working. Then I got The Call.

My friend at the City's main child care agency asked me to help them develop a child care facilities strategy. (It was more like, "Please, Suzanne!" she begged. "Please! I really need your help.") I am terrible at saying no to friends, especially ones who plea for my assistance. Plus, it would be a good way to get money so I wouldn't feel guilty about mooching off Husband.

The truth is that it was about the last thing on earth that I wanted to do. I was really fucking burned out on that topic. Of course I said I'd do it, and spent the next few weeks moping and dreading it.

Yesterday was my first day. You know what? I forgot how much I like being useful. Even better, I spent most of the time parked in front of the computer developing a highly exciting Excel spreadsheet. Despite my hatred of math in school, I adore crunching numbers. There is nothing that can be more fun than a day with Excel. If only the rest of the consulting gig will be as fantastic as my first day.

Danke Schon for the Nightmares

The most frequent recurring dream that I have involves language classes. Most often, I dream that I am in high school and have not attended my German class in months. The final is approaching and I realize that not only do I not know the difference between wunderbar and toll (or whatever), but I can't even remember where the classroom is. Sometimes involves my college Spanish class. Regardless of the language, I am unable to explain how the hell I let the situation spin so far out of control. I feel like the biggest idiot, and my sense of impending failure is overwhelming. I wake up feeling more anxious than ever.

What particularly interests me is that this dream centers around foreign language. I definitely struggled with it in high school because I was absent so often, had a bad memory, and unable to distinguish between the sound "ihr" and "er," which is pretty critical in German. Thanks to a kind teacher, I did well. On the other hand, I battled with math far more ferociously than German for two out of three of the same reasons. I came extremely close to failing a semester each of geometry and trigonometry. (Final grades in the second semesters of both: D.) I'm surprised that my nightmares never are about forgetting the quadratic formula or how to calculate co-sine.

If you ever have a nervous drama that repeatedly unfolds in your sleep, I am curious to hear what the scenario is.

Another Deep, Dark Suzanne Secret

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

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

Oh, the Nerdiness!

Husband and haven been watching The History Channel's presentation on The Dark Ages for the last 90 minutes. I just love history. The Dark Ages are fascinating. I actually feel slightly better about the world situation these days in comparison. I could watch these types of educational programs for days on end. Or CSI. I love that too and Husband and watched four episodes of that last night.

Yeah, it's been an exciting weekend.