Mmmmm.... Mars Bars!

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

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

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

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

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

Passing on the Stuffing

At a party yesterday, a friend explained how she passed the time at work by researching on the internet how paraplegic men have sex. (Seriously, how on earth did people kill time at work before the internet?) She learned that men with some blood flow to their penises can engage in a practice called stuffing. Stuffing is exactly what it sounds like: cram it in, and hope that there will be some reaction to the action. Sometimes this works; others, there's just some raw genitals at the end.

Before I even discovered stuffing had a name, I realized that I was metaphorically familiar with the practice. For the last few years, I've been trying to forge a career based on it. Each time a job came along that didn't really excite me, I tried to make the pieces fit and hoped that I'd get some satisfaction from it. There were times when he work made me satisfied, but generally I felt tired and sore from the effort.

Last week, the always insightful Maria Niles wrote a post on BlogHer about the benefits of closing doors. The post hit me. How long have I said that I didn't want to work on child care policy any more, only to take every job that came my way because I feared that I would never work again? Too long. If I was serious, I'd need to really close the door on my child care policy career. It would be scary, but it didn't have to be permanent; I could always walk through it again in the future. My skills won't go anywhere, but I'll never fully explore my other options until I move on.

Two days after I had my epiphany, I went to have my fortune read. The tarot card reader told me that I am surrounded by opportunity, but my biggest obstacle to success is myself.

"You like things to happen in a linear fashion," Katie noted, "and the way things are happening now makes you feel insecure. You have to let go to get ahead."

On Friday, when I got a call and email about a consulting job with the city, my first impulse was to take it. What else am I doing now except trying to get pictures for my book about unusual New York, writing an article for Just Cause, blogging at BlogHer, and finishing up an article about termination for an encyclopedia of sex? If I didn't take the job, I could be homeless, starving, and unloved because Husband would get mad that I didn't work. My heart raced. I was standing in front of the door. All I had to do was call the lady at the city back and make the arrangements.

That's when I decided that I didn't want to be stuffed any more. I took Katie's words to heart, and took a deep breath. Husband would not drop me because I said no to a job to which I had reservations. In my mind, I quietly shut the child care door. It felt good.

Success Begins with a Good Foundation (Garment)

Broken ribs due to a too tight bra are not on my to do list, so I took the bad bras that I bought last week back to the store yesterday for an exchange. It seems that bras are supposed to be very tight to be supportive, and according to the saleslady who assisted me, the reason that my boobs start to pop out under my bra when I raise my arms is because the band is too loose, and thus I am not getting enough support. Still, I pointed out, at least I could move. She said she'd find me something that was supportive, but not a straight-jacket, and set off to check the stock.

Now, I was a bit mortified when she returned with an orthopedic bra. It looked like a cross between an ace bandage (which is sort of how I pictured my first bra would be when my mom dragged me bra shopping twenty or so years ago) and some sort of bullet proof vest. To make matters worse, it closes in the front, so when I put it on, it was like shimmying into a vest or jacket, and it hung around my shoulder sort of like how gun holsters do until I finally snapped it shut. Fortunately, it doesn't look so haggish when it is finally in place:

Keep in mind that this model is way more buxum than I, but it still looks nice on me. Anyway, even if it made me look like a 90 year old woman, I wouldn't care. This is the most comfortable bra I have ever worn. It rocks the house. At $62, it is expensive, but worth every penny. Spanx, the people who made gut-sucker-in pantyhose and girdles, are somehow responsible for this delightful tit support.

If the Bra Doesn't Fit, Don't Buy It

My faith in the ancient cult of bra fitting saleswomen is shattered. The sole reason I went to the Town Shop is because it reminded me of Schwartz's lingerie shop. My mom always took me to buy bras at Schwartz's because the salesladies there are trained in the art of fitting bras. The Town Shop has the same set up as Schwartz, in which some woman measures the customer, shows her some bras from the boxes behind the counter in which they are kept, then brings stuff to her in a fitting room, and finally adjusts and tugs the products once they are donned in a final fit test.

I went through the process (minus the measuring) when buying two bras to replace two of mine that were branapped. I thought one of he bras was too tight, but the saleswoman, who was my age, insisted that there was plenty of room.

"If you can stick your hand under the back, it's too big," she said, criticizing me for wearing bras that were too loose.

I figured that she was a bra expert, and that the bra would stretch a bit, so I purchased it. However, when I wore it yesterday, it was so tight that it left red marks all over my back in the shape of the bra. The receipt clearly states that bras must be unworn and have the tags on to be returned, but since I bought mine based on the recommendation of their staff and could only tell by wearing it that it was wrong, I am hoping that they will exchange it for a product that actually supports and uplifts without also squeezing my rib cage like an angry octopus.

Either way, the age of the wise bra fitter is over for me, although I did watch two episodes of How to Look Good Naked on Lifetime (yes, I am admitting that I stooped low enough to watch that crap channel, although this show is awesome and worth it), and the show has a "bra whisperer" who helps women find their best tit supporting garment. It almost restored my faith.

Calgon, Take Me Away!

Man, those ads used to be fun to mock, but I'm becoming that distressed woman in the commercial begging her bubble bath to magically transport her to a more relaxing plateau of existence. Except that I don't like bubble baths because, as my mom told me when I was a kid, they can "dry out your vagina,*" and I have enough problems already without a crusty, cracked cooter. Plus, my bathtub is pretty dirty and the amount of time I'd need to invest in giving it a full scrub down so I can sit in it and dry out my snatch is not worth it. Just thinking about cleaning the bathtub sort of stresses me out.

This week's been sort of full, what with the last minute temp job, the "phone screening" for another job (which went well; my interview with the hiring committee is on Tuesday), the running around trying to get my transcript in before the deadline** at an MFA program to which I applied, and general spazzing out about why the admissions office refused to process the transcript. This morning, I agreed to scope out an apartment that Brother-in-Law and his wife are thinking about buying before I go to work. Next week, I'm teaching a class and still need to finish the materials, have a breast MRI, and have two job interviews. It's funny, but the interviews are the least of my concerns. I guess normal people deal with this kind of activity all the time.

On another topic, I have a nice post over at BlogHer ranting about Caitlin Flanagan's latest crazy, hypocritical, and attention seeking solution to a modern issue. (To prevent girls from ruining their lives by becoming pregnant as teens, we should revert to Victorian era "protections." Right. Can someone protect me from Flanagan?)

*I believe she read this somewhere.
**Although I had transcripts sent back in October.

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

While in the cab back to my apartment from the airport, I noticed that I unconsciously began picking my cuticles. It took less than an hour for me to be back to "real" life before my anxiety set in. What kind of new job could I get this year? Will I ever find a job that I will like again? Would I be accepted into an MFA program? When am I going to get cracking on developing a curriculum for two classes on budgeting that I am teaching in January and February and why didn't I start before I left? It didn't help that when I turned my cell phone on after debarking, I found a voicemail from a small local policy magazine waiting for me. What did I think of all the closures of publicly funded child care centers that had been announced recently? This is what I worked on over the summer as a consultant, but the last thing I want to do right now is think about it.

It seems that my "real" life stresses me the fuck out. Contrast this to my last two weeks away. None of my fingers were bloody from my anxious cuticle shredding. I barely thought about whether I would get into an MFA program or not, and while I did fret a little bit about planning a curriculum and getting a job, it wasn't nearly as intense as it is now. It's hard to stress when there are giant sea turtles swimming near me or when I'm concentrating on climbing to the top of Diamond Head Crater and soaking in the majestic views.

Husband and I spent our last day of vacation freedom in Hawaii with a snorkel trip and a visit to the 'Iolani Palace. The snorkel trip was fantastic. We climbed onto a catamaran from a sandy beach (no rocks to slip on or sea urchins to worry about, although we heard some jelly fish washed up onto a different section of the beach), then rode out for ten minutes to a section known as turtle canyon. Armed with floatation devices, we climbed down the boat ladder into warm enough water and had an amazing view of tons of schools of fish as we swam among them. ("Swim" is a very strong word in my case. It was more like dog paddled and splashed around to propel myself in a direction.) For the last 15 minutes of the hour in the water, big and bigger sea turtles swam both below us and on the surface. We emerged exhilarated.

The Palace was fascinating. We learned about the last Hawaiian monarchs work to modernize the country while preserving the unique Hawaiian culture. Unfortunately, an evil cabal of US businessmen overthrew the popularly supported rulers, and from then on, Hawaii lost its independent status. It was incredibly moving to stand in the Palace room used to imprison Queen Lili'uokalani for years. Like at Pearl Harbor, I was reminded of the fallacy of the American myth: justice and fairness only triumph sometimes.

Back at home, Husband and I watched Barak Obama win the Democratic Iowa Caucus. Maybe, like the sea turtles, fairness and justice will persevere in the sea of history. (OK, that was hokey, but I'm trying to find a way to tie everything together and wrap it up.)

Foreskin and Seven Days Ago

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!

Has Anybody Seen My Bra?

While dressing this afternoon, I realized that the bra I wanted to wear under my Red Stapler t-shirt was not in my undies drawer. As I dug through piles of cheap cotton underwear, other bras, and ratty slips, it occurred to me that I haven't seen the particular bra in some time. Was it lost in the laundry? Did I leave it somewhere when I went on a trip? When the hell was the last time I wore that thing?

Since I doubt putting a picture on the back of a milk carton (Have you seen me? 34 B beige bra with little bows on it. Missing since sometime in 2007. If found, contact the Center for Misplaced and Runaway Lingerie) will lead to my bra's discovery, I am going to have to replace it. Unfortunately, it seems that the price has increased dramatically since I bought it two years ago. Harumph.

Attack Rabbit Goes for Fruit, Not Crotch

Although Tycho is frenzied in his effort to wrench the package of dried fruit from me, I swear that his glowing eye is not a sign that he is possessed. (Let's agree say that albino rabbits don't photograph well and leave it at that.) He cracks me up, though. Every night Tycho has been hanging out with me, Husband, and his boyfriend the bear rug. This means that I must clean up scads of white fur all the time, but it's worth it.

My Eyes are Still Stinging

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Whole Story

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

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

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

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

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

Threading the Douche Pipe

Although it is a tetchy product, douche is turning out to be far more hilarious than I anticipated. I told Husband about "Sweet Romance," and after he stopped laughing, he admitted his curiosity was piqued.

"What other things do they make?" he asked.

"Well, there's the combo enema/douche kit..." I began.

"Really? No, I don't want to hear more about that," he said, looking wildly away from me. "That's just disturbing."

But it's true. Reliable drugstore.com sells two different kinds of combo douche/enema/water bottle systems. The directions should be read as a stand up comedy performance, I swear:

Douching Use:

Slide shut-off clamp (in open position) lengthwise onto tubing and clamp it shut.

Flush bottle with water before each use.

Fill bottle with warm water or mixed douche preparation.

Thread adapter cap into bottle, cover opening, and shake to ensure proper mixing.

Slip end of tubing onto adapter cap. If necessary, use soapy water to aid in assembly.

Slip pipe adapter onto other end of tubing.

Thread douche pipe onto pipe adapter.

Punch out perforated hole on bottle hang tab. Suspend bottle by hook, less than 3 feet above vagina.

Release clamp to expel air in tubing before inserting douche pipe.

Positions: A) TO USE IN SHOWER, stand with feet apart; B) TO USE IN BATHTUB, lie back in tub, knees slightly bent apart; C) TO USE ON TOILET, lift one thigh while seated. When in position, gently insert the douche pipe into vagina. Open clamp to permit solution to flow gently.

You can't make this stuff up. I'm only pissed that the phrase "douche pipe" had not entered my lexicon years ago. The enema instructions include the phrase "enema pipe" (as in, "Apply lubricating jelly to enema pipe.") That is not nearly as hilarious as uploading some Sweet Romance through the douche pipe, but still amusing.

The Book Meme

My beloved blog-friend Suebob tagged me for a meme on books. Hopefully, I will not be too boring.

Total number of books owned: It's hard to tell. Between Husband and I, we have two overflowing bookcases. Books are also in piles on the floor and stacks on nightstands. Sometimes I think a book volcano erupted in my apartment and buried a small city. I also have two very tall book cases in my old room in my parents' house that are overflowing.

Last book bought: For my Sept. 9th book club meeting, I bought San Remo Drive by Leslie Epstein on Sept. 6th. Nothing like the last minute, and I had to go to two Barnes & Nobles to find it.

Last book read: See above. It was a very strange book about Hollywood in the 1950s, HUAC, adolescence, and race and religion based on the author's life. I partly recommend it. Overall, I think I liked it, but it was also kind of fucked up. I think our next book is going to be This Book Will Save Your Life by AM Homes. I'm pretty excited about it. Not that this relates to the question.

Five Books that Mean a Lot to You:

It by Stephen King - this book is a beautiful story about friendship, courage, and growing up when it is not scaring the fucking crap out of you, dear reader

Sport by Louise Fitzhugh - a hilarious tale about family and friendship that I often re-read when I am seeking solace from the world

Backlash by Susan Faludi - I read this when I was a sophomore in high school and it absolutely changed the way I looked at the world and re-affirmed my burgeoning feminist belief system

Take a Nap Harry by Mary Chalmers - a picture book my mom read to me that I loved because I hated naps and my mom read it in the greatest way (sadly it is out of print now)

Savage Inequalities by Jonathon Kozol - another book I read in high school that inspired me to take action to make the world a better place, I was devastated at how the US systemically cheats poor kids

Best Five Books You Read in the Last Year (I wish I can remember what the hell I read over the past 12 months, but I'll do my best):

Winner of the National Book Award by Jincy Willet

Sweet and Low by Rich Cohen

The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead

Strivers Row by Kevin Baker

Random Family by Adrienne Nicole LeBlanc (OK, I didn't actually read the book yet, but I've been meaning to do so for ages...)

I tag:
Major Bedhead
Valerie
Urban Pedestrian
Michelle
Ev and Kwatch

Lock Me Up

My journey to The Living Art Museum at Creedmoor Psychiatric Center was delightful. Housed in a full building on the Creedmoor campus and surrounded by an organic garden, the museum is vibrant, full of interesting paintings, drawings, and sculptures, and busy with artists at all times. A patient named John showed me around, and while some of the art was disturbing (smocks with paper vaginas pinned to them, anyone?), I felt like I could see the same stuff at the Museum of Modern Art or a SoHo gallery. The porn collages cracked me up. On the whole, though, most of the art was spectacular, and the doctor in charge of the program seemed delightful and caring.

All of this is very good because I came back home to a pile of child care project bullshit that is going to drive me into Creedmoor residency. (Every time I think I am free, there's something else that needs to be done in order to satisfactorily complete the project. The tentacles of responsibity are wrapped around me.) I am very pleased to know that I will have such nice options for art therapy. You can all visit me there. They love visitors!

On Parasites

Ah, there's nothing like going home. I was super crabby when my folks picked Husband and I up from the airport, but at least I didn't have crabs. My poor sister, on the other hand, is not so fortunate when it comes to parasites. She brought ringworm home with her. My mom is only slightly bent out of shape about it, so Sister threatened to sneak into her room at night and rub her ringworm arm on my mom's forehead. This caused us all (including my mom) to laugh hysterically. Oy.

Tonight is Granny's 85th bday celebration gala. I am sure that many memorable quotes will be uttered. Rebecca and I will take notes.

Now I'm leaving the ginormous suburban gym that Husband and drove 20 minutes to get to (so weird for us city slickers!) and going to get my very own copy of the new Harry Potter! It will be hard to wait until Husband leaves tomorrow afternoon to read it. The challenges I face, I tell ya.

I Think Those are Mine

Picture it: Wisconsin, 1998. A young girl, her sister (who just graduated from high school), and three friends (Alex,Dr. P, and Dr. H, who just gradduated from college) are on a celebratory road trip. The girl and her sister shared a duffle bag to reduce the amount of luggage they needed to put in the trunk of their Bubbe's white Cutlass Supreme, which they borrowed for the occasion after their parents' Cutlass Supreme went to the shop for emergency repairs. They have seen the (cheesy) splendors of Wisconsin Dells, although for the life of her the young girl can't currently remember what the hell they did there except stay in a Holiday Inn with an indoor waterslide and pool. Next they traversed the wonders of Minneapolis and the suburban Mall of America, which were delightful. Now, on the drive back to the Chicago area, the ladies stop for lunch.

The restaurant is a scene to behold. A train track is built around the length of the wall, with a model train tooted around the perimeter of eating customers. A string, much like a laundry line, hangs high above the patrons' heads across the center of the room. A mechanical bear on a unicycle "pedals" back and forth. Oh the fun!

Not long into the meal, the young girl's sister pushes her chair back.

"I am going to the bathroom," she announces dramatically and scampers off. The other travelers nod and keep eating whatever greasy diner food is on their plates, most likely with side orders of fries. A few minutes later, the sister returns to the table and sits down.

"You know, while I was going to the bathroom, I looked down and noticed how pretty much underwear was," the sister announced. "Then I realized that I don't own underwear that color."

The young girl stopped eating and looked at her sister. "What color were they?"

"Blue," the sister responded.*

"Hmmmm..." the young girl reflected for a minute. "I think those are mine."

"Oh," the sister said.

The young girl thought even longer. "Also, I think those are dirty."

"Ewwwwwwwww..." everyone gasped. Then they all laughed and laughed and drove home another five hours and lived happily ever after.
--------------------------
*Or maybe green. The young girl isn't so young any more and forgets details these days.

Fans of a Hairy Situation

Last night during a minor fit of insomnia, I discovered that CUSS is referenced on an English language French chat room dedicated to the sexiness of hairy women. (The person who linked to CUSS was a little disappointed that I don't write more about unshaved snatch, but recommended it nonetheless. Whoever you are, email me for stickers!) This discovery amused me to no end, although it did not help me sleep.

On a related note, it is hot as balls here in New York, and I considered shaving my pits and legs so that I can wear a sleeveless dress to my consulting gig without looking "unprofessional." The folks who like us furry ladies will be happy to know that I didn't get around to it. They will also be disappointed that I will refrain from exposing myself to the general public as a result.

This also reminds me that Dr. P suggested that we use the pool in her complex while I was helping her move. I didn't pack my bathing suit and board shorts (which go down to my knees, thank you) as I didn't think we'd have time for frolicking (I turned out to be right, sort of). Dr. P said I could borrow one of hers. To which I refrained from reminding her that her neighbors might go blind if I were to go out in public in a normal suit, and I didn't think we had five hours to spare so I could make myself more presentable to the general American public.

There's no point to this post. I just felt like I should write something about not shaving. Hope the random anecdotes entertained at least a bit.

You're Not Wearing What?!?!

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

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

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

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

Suspicious Package My Ass

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get that costs rise and inflation and all that. I still don't have to be happy that stamps went up 2 cents. May I point out that I still have one 37 cent stamp still left? Yeesh. While the price increase annoys me, my real problem is that I had to go to the post office to get those "make up rate" stamps and also the new "Forever" stamps.

If you've ever been to a post office in New York City, you know why dreaded my visit so much. Lines are out the door under the best of circumstances. When everyone in NYC also needs two cents stamps, lines wrap around the entire office. I braced myself.

Upon entry into the denizen of America's mail finest, I was a shocked to see that the lines were long, but no worse than usual. I took my place at the end of the "stamp only" line, noting that the two cent stamps were all sold out from the machines. Ten minutes later, I was next. A commotion erupted.

"Where's security?" a man demanded of one of the two counter helpers. A large column mostly blocked my view, so I could only hear his frazzled voice and see his hands as they waved around in panic. "There's a suspicious package!!!"

"Yeah, yeah," the unimpressed postal worker muttered. "I'll call someone."

Shit! It was my turn next. I'd be damned if I had to get out of line at this point. I was next, motherfucker. My heart beat a little faster, but I'm not sure if I was more nervous that they'd evacuate the post office or the suspicious package would turn out to be a bomb and my arm would be blown off.

Fortunately, business continued as usual. The suspicious package turned out to be a kid's insulated lunch bag with a skull and crossbones on it. My arm was not blown off.

Thus I will be traveling to Chicago tomorrow with all my limbs. My India group is having a reunion on Saturday, and my newly tailored altered punjabi dress would look so bad without all my arms.

Progress Report

I had three goals for my trip to Florida:

1. See sunlight.
2. Finish essay about trip to India
3. Finish chapters on boobs and period for memoir

I am happy to report that I did see sunlight. It has been very lovely. I wrote outside in both sun and shade. I have not, however, seen any octopi in the ocean. (I had to throw that in there so I could use my cool octopus label. Sorry.)

Also, I finished a shareable draft of my essay on my trip to India. The essay started out two weeks ago when I copied and pasted all of my blog posts from the trip into one master document and wrote a new intro. Unfortunately, it was 10,000 words and I was aiming for 2,000. The good news is that once I cut all the parts where I said nasty things about people, plus the parts where I repeated myself ad nauseum, and the things that were just totally inappropriate (for example, my fear of shitting my own pants at the Taj Mahal), I got it down to 8,000 words. I edited that sucker on Tuesday afternoon and all day on Wednesday, bringing it to 4,600 words. The Husband made the really hard cuts that I knew had to happen but couldn't force myself to do. With that, I am at a reasonable 2,664 words. I turned to my writing group for help. Hopefully, they can suggest 664 words to cut and I'll be in business.

As for the memoir, I better get my ass in gear tomorrow. The main problem is that when I get back to New York, I am starting a part-time consulting gig with the city's main child care agency. This will pay me money and assuage my guilt about not utilizing my do-gooder skills for the last six months, but also severely hamper my time to write in May. (At the end of May, my fourth month commitment to Bugaboo magazine ends, so that will open up some time for me.)

So that's what's up. I give myself a B or B- minus on the writing retreat accomplishments, and a D for the overall sabbatical that I continue to sabotage by taking on other projects out of fear or guilt.

Great

Yesterday I read in The New York Times that while Bush was in Latin America on Tuesday, he promised to bring "social justice" to the region if the people would stop supporting leaders like Venezuela's Hugo Chavez. I couldn't decide whether I should laugh or cry. 'Cause, you know, Latin America needs increasing disparity between the rich and the poor, more religion, and more corrupt government. Bush does like having his tentacles everywhere, though.

I'm Safe Again

Fortunately, I only puked on the plane and in a plant at immigration. (For which I was so out of it, I forgot to apologize to the agents. Happily, they let me in anyway.) I've been feeling much better, and even ate a fantastic Indian dinner last night. Thanks for the well wishes!!!

This afternoon, we are heading out for tea and hopefully, if all goes well, we can convince Mara to journey over to Brick Lane for bagels with salt beef (corned beef). Mara took me to this Jewish place last time I was in London (Jan. 2006) and I salivate just thinking about it. Then, hopefully, on to Harrod's so Sara can buy her mum-in-law some perfume and we can poke around the food section, which always entertains me to no end. Also perhaps an exhibit of functioning adult slides at the Tate Modern.

No puking=good time. No octopodes involved. (I only wrote that so I can use my cool octopus label. Although I do hope that Husband had the sense to throw away the remaining octopi/octopodes that I left in the refridgerator...)

Lunch

I ate octopus salad for lunch today. And for dinner last night after I bought it at the seafood counter of the local grocery emporium. Usually, octopus salad involves teeny octopi, so I was rather surprised when the guy behind the counter began scooping 4-5 inch long octopi into my container. I almost canceled the order, but I told myself to be brave. (Had I also known that the salad is inexplicably chock full of my arch enemy herb, cilantro, I would definitely have told him to forget it.)

However, it is one thing to eat calamari or little things with tentacles. It is quite another when a long tentacle falls off the corpse and sort of waves at you.