15 Years is Very Good, But Expensive

If Husband and I had saved ten cents for every day we've been together, it would have paid for our ridiculous blow out celebration. Fortunately, the amount of change that Husband stashed away in his parking meter bank more than covered it. (Incidentally, now that he's got everything counted and sorted in wrappers for the bank, the bag he plans to transport the coins in weighs more than 60 pounds!)

We kicked off our anniversary date by signing our wills, power of attorney documents, and health care proxies. It was very romantic. Yeah.

After the business of love was done, we went to the cozy Bookmarks Lounge on the top of the Library Hotel for a drink. I threw all caution to the wind and ordered an insanely expensive hot apple toddy, which I quickly realized that I could barely drink because it was more alcohol than cider. But the sips I had warmed me up on a rainy night, and I tried not to feel guilty about wasting money, so all was well. Husband enjoyed his overpriced glass of Chardonnay.

We took the bus up to Daniel. A few of my friends have celebrated anniversaries there, so I thought it might be nice for us. We left with extremely full bellies and an empty wallet. When I made the reservation, I mentioned that it was our anniversary, so they printed us little copies of the the menu that said happy anniversary as souvenirs. This is good, as I could not understand our French waiter, so I had no idea what we ate. Plus there was a lot of it, so I doubt I'd remember it all anyway. We did the eight course chef's tasting menu. Here's what we indulged in:

Course One
Mosaic of capon, foie gras, and celery root with pickled daikon, Satur Farms mache, and pear confit

Duo of duck foie gras terrine with figs, raisin chutney, spinach, and daikon salad

Course Two
Meyer lemon royale with sea urchin, North Star caviar, Barron Point oyster, finger lime and tapioca vinaigrette

Vodka-beet cured hamachi loin with walnuts and lettuce wrapped tartare with North Star caviar

Course Three
Duo of Florida frog legs and fricasse with kamut berries and black garlic, and "lollipop" with spinach, mushrooms, crispy shallots

Katafi crusted Maine lobster with broccoli mousseline, ricotta salata, lemon-pine nute gremolata, and sweet harissa sauce

Course Four
Bacon Wrapped montail fish with Maine lobster, green lentil ragout, tahoon cress

Slow baked striped bass with creamy endive, black truffle arancini, and perigueux sauce

Course Five
Roasted Liberty Farms duck breast with watermelon radish, spinach subric, cara cara orange, sauce "Bigarrade"

Course Six
Duo of dry aged black Angus beef - red wine braised short rib with porcini marmalade and seared rib eye with chestnut-potato gnocchi and swiss chard

Elysian Fields Farm lamb loin with braised radicchio tardivo, confit fennel, crispy polenta, and Sicilian olives

Courses Seven and Eight, but really more like Seven through Eleven
Desserts were little things made from fruits and chocolate (an apple tart, a spiced pear thing on semolina cake under a chocolate flake with warm chocolate sauce, peanut butter chocolate cake) with small blobs of ice cream (including smoked vanilla, which was repulsive), followed by a special plate of dessert for our anniversary, followed by warm mini Madelines, followed by four types of little chocolate truffles. We also had tea and coffee. In addition to the menus, we got a box of warm Madelines to take home for breakfast.

So, it was amazing overall. For the most part, I behaved myself. (I considered stashing the left over Madelines in a sandwich bag that I had left over from lunch, but restrained myself.) I will say that I do not like frog legs - the consistency made me gag, but I did not spit them out. I just smiled and switched plates with Husband. I also killed a moth while we were there, and spilled all sorts of things on the table. The service was crazy attentive. Every time I made a mess, a guy came over with a napkin and covered it up, which was sort of embarrassing. The bread guy also came five times, and I consumed four pieces of raisin walnut bread, which was the best bread I have ever tasted, along with the most delicious creamy butter on the planet. Today, I am still a little full...

5,479 Days, But Who's Counting?

A little over 15 years ago, I rang Husband at his dorm room. I told him that I had something that I wanted to ask him. Before I got to my question, we spoke for two hours.* Then I said that I hoped to see a film over the weekend, and was wondering if he would like to join me. He said yes.

So, on Feb. 23, 1995, I met Husband in the lobby of his dorm and we walked to the East Village Cinemas to see "Pulp Fiction." I wore a pair of rainbow striped stockings, a turquoise skirt, and a black tunic-y thing with orange embroidery at the neck and sleeves. And blue Doc Martens. I was nervous that Husband didn't know that I meant to ask him out on a date, but when he paid for the tickets, I thought he knew.

After the movie, we went to a cafe and drank the worst hot chocolate I've ever had foisted upon me. It was like the staff dropped a Hals into it and let it dissolve. We laughed about how nasty it was. When we left, I forgot my ear muffs. Husband asked if I wanted to go back and look for them, but I said, "No, they are diarrhea brown. I'll just get a new pair." He thought this was hilarious.

He walked me back to my dorm, and we stood in a light drizzle for another two hours, talking. When we finally parted around 4 am, he hugged me good night. I've been on cloud nine ever since.

*And how my roommates, who were trying to sleep in our one room dorm cell, did not punch me in the face (as I deserved) is beyond me. I sat right next to one of my roommate's beds as I obliviously chatted away.

Freudian Slip

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

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

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

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

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

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

Although I cannot be bothered to wash my face on a daily basis,* I am excited to link to my friend's blog, Ask An Esthetician. She is a licensed esthetician who is giving out excellent (free!) advice on beauty, particularly skin care. I know that most women are not slovenly shlubs like me who wander around with uncombed (albeit usually clean) hair, un-moisturized skin, and legs and armpits that make them look like Chewbacca's midget sister, so I thought I'd do a public service promote her blog.

*Despite this gross habit, my skin is pretty clear. I am not sure why this is since in my pre-teens I was a horrid pizza face on the way to scars that would make Norriega look like a beauty queen. My mom insisted that I go to a dermatologist even though I protested, and the antibiotics he prescribed made a huge difference. (Thanks, Mom!)

After years of happy skin, I was covered with cyst-like zits in my early 20s. Another dermatologist gave me drugs, which did not work well, and he said I should consider Acutane as an option. No fucking way was I going on Acutane. In addition to requiring me to take birth control pills (which I was on anyway) and submit to regular pregnancy testing because it is so dangerous to fetal development, and cause hair and skin to fall out in chunks, it could cause people with depressive tendencies to commit suicide. I told him I'd rather be zitty than dead and fleshless.

Awesomeness

My cousin told me to say hi to Tina and Alex when I went for my taping at 30 Rock, but sadly, I did not see them. Heck, I didn't even see the guy who plays the page. Or Janice Huff, my favorite weather person, who I'd be far more likely to run into since I was on the same floor as the news. I think.

The lack of celebrity sightings did not make my first TV appearance* any less exciting. AnneLise calmed my nerves, assuring me that I did not look like a zombie with too much eye makeup. She also said she liked my pixie haircut. Once I saw myself on the monitor, I felt a little better. AnneLise and I sat in front of a green screen, and I thought the subway car backdrop that they chose was pretty awesome.

AnneLise was great leading the interview, and I had a fun time talking to her. The production staff was also very nice. After we finished, they asked if it was my first time taping for TV. When I said yes, they said I was very professional. It was just a super experience overall. I can't thank AnneLise enough, and I also can't wait to see the segment on New York Nonstop!

*This discounts various times that I showed up in the audience of shows, like The Bozo Show when I was a kid, or during my period of talk show obsessions in 1994-1995, when I made a comment on The Rikki Lake Show and possibly also The Rolanda Show. Also, I ever so briefly appeared eating hot dogs in MTV's episode of Real Life ("I Want to Be a Professional Eater") because I stuffed my face next to Tim "Eater X" Janus, who was featured on the program. Although exciting, I do not count these.

30 Rock

Tomorrow I will be interviewed about my book by AnneLise Sorensen for her weekly travel segment on NBC. I owe this exciting opportunity to Julie Ross Godar, who is friends with AnneLise and suggested that she contact me.

Barring any last minutes changes in studio availability, I'm meeting AnneLise during my lunch hour at - drum roll, trumpet blast, gong bang, whatever other large noise - 30 Rockefeller Center! Yes, 30 Rock! Man, oh man, I am so excited.

At the same time, I am scared shitless. Not to be interviewed - I'm psyched about that - but to appear on HDTV. AnneLise suggested that I will be fine if I wear "just a little more make up than usual." Ha ha ha ha! Oh, if only she knew. That means I will look like a zombie with a little lip gloss* and mascara. Sigh.

*That, however, is not like dressing up a pig in lipstick.

On the First Night of Hanukkah Someone Threw Up on My Face

Actually, it only looks like a cat threw up a yarn hairball on my face. In reality, Husband found this crochet sleeping mask on etsy. He said it made him laugh so hard that it was worth the few bucks.

He also gave me an awesome Snoopy watch that was advertised on eBay as "for girls." What it meant was "for giants." It was even too big on him. I love it, though. I'll just buy a new band. Fortunately, he assured me that it was very cheap.

The sweater I am wearing in the picture was a Hanukkah gift from him many years ago. When he first gave it to me I hated wearing turtle necks. However, it soon became my favorite sweater. It's shrunk a bit, and I am fearful that it may not make it through this season.

Incidentally, I gave Husband a Kindle last night. At least I didn't sell my hair to buy him a watch fob only to discover that he sold his watch to buy me fancy combs. Love is all you need.

Happy Hanukkah!

Knowledge

Years before I went back to school to study the craft of writing,* I spent scads of money to study social welfare policy and public administration at Columbia. Early on in the program, I realized that I went back when I was way too young, but I resolved to learn what I could. I discovered that I really liked statistics. This was a huge surprise.

My last semester at school, I enrolled in a poverty research class. Students paired up and selected a topic to investigate. We then we given national databases, which we ran many numbers over the course of the semester to support or disprove our thesis. It was exciting.

The topic I chose was whether children living in households with two adults had outcomes that matched those of children living in households with married parents. I pictured grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and other family members offering the same support that a spouse might (or might not) give, thus enabling children to live in more stable environments. My partner and I ran a gazillion multivariate regressions, basic stats like averages, and a fancy-schmancy time-hazard regression to see if this was true.

It was not. According to data from the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth, children from married households had better outcomes than those from two adult households, who in turn were better off as adults than children from single parent homes. I was crushed. Did this not mean that horrid policies put forth by right wing nutjobs were correct? That people really should rush off to get married (assuming they have the right, but that's another story), come hell or high water?

As I moped about my findings, my wise professor opened my eyes. He pointed out that the data may not support my theory, but that the social environment in which we live does not provide the same benefits to unmarried people. Perhaps if I recommended that we implement policies that support different types of households rather than continue to punish them for not conforming to a conservative view of family life, then the outcomes would improve.

I hadn't really considered that it was possible to take a "bad" finding and turn it into a tool for advocacy. This changed the way I interpreted studies and all sorts of news reports. Cool.

*Seriously, just typing "to study the craft of writing" cracks me up. I had hoped to learn how to write a book with a plot and characters. Instead, I discovered that I am not "literary" and my writing will never be literary, because my brain does not think that way. While this discovery caused enormous angst last year, I am OK with it now. I'll just admire people who write really beautiful sentences and go about my business trying to entertain people with a serviceable story. Which is not to say that I did not learn anything, because I learned a lot. But anyway...

The Week of Furniture

My return to New York will be followed by exciting furniture deliveries. In October, I wrote a letter to Room and Board cursing them for failing to have a sofa I ordered in August. Last week, the warehouse called me and said that they will not only deliver our couch to us on Nov. 18, but that it will include the sofa bed that we actually purchased. How exciting! I would love to credit my angry internet letter, but I know that it was Husband's phone call to the incompetent sales rep in which he said he'd cancel the whole thing that made it magically be processed in a timely fashion.

Even better, the new sofa bed will arrive in time for Steph's visit. She shall sleep on a cushiony bed fit for the princess she is. (No need for me to demonstrate her royally high standards by putting a pea under it.)

Only slightly less exciting because the purchase involved significantly less drama, my new nightstand, which CUSS readers helped me select (and which Macy's closed the deal on by having it on sale for 77% off), is scheduled to arrive on tomorrow.

Oh, the classiness! I almost can't live here any more. Almost.

Best Cartoon Ever Revisited

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

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



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

Visiting the Queen

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?
I've been to London to visit the Queen.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you do there?
I frightened a mouse under her chair.

Yes, today I am on my way to London to visit my friend Mara, who is a queen in my mind. (I hope, however, to not encounter any mice, under her chair or wherever.) I have not seen Mara or her adorable daughter or amusing husband in over a year, so I booked my flight with frequent flier miles a few weeks ago, hoping that if I found a job before then that I could work around my trip. So far, so good. I only wish that my class schedule had permitted me more than a long weekend trip.

Husband actually will also be there for work, although he is not arriving until Sat. and I depart Sunday night. We have jolly times planned with lots of eating and wandering around and museum-going. I shall post pictures.

I adore London. Last summer, it seemed that Husband would move there for work for four years, and although it scared me a little to leave the US, I became very excited about the adventure. Once I got into it, of course, the plan was called off. Logistically, that's good since I wound up going back to school and I didn't want to live away from Husband for months at a time, and then my sister had a baby and I'd never get to see him if I lived so far away. But I'm still a bit sad that it didn't work out. Maybe another time. In the meantime, I'll enjoy my trip.

Luke, I Am Your Father*

I came across this picture in New York Magazine this morning under the headline, "Katie Lee, Movin' Out." My mind properly triggered, I made the link between the cute girl woman pictured and singer Billy Joel. I thought, "Oh, it's a good thing that Billy Joel's daughter looks just like her mom, Christie Brinkley. And how nice that she's moving out of her dad's house to work on her celebrity cookbook line."

Then I remembered that Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley's daughter is named Alexa, and that she looks like her dad. When I read the article, and realized that this woman is Billy Joel's ex-wife. Ooops.

*OK, as I recently learned, this line was never actually in the movie, and the actual dialog is:

Luke: You killed my father!
Darth Vader: No. I am your father.

but this whole post is about misunderstandings, so it seems fitting.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

I really love my neighborhood. Husband and I relocated to the Upper West Side from Greenwich Village begrudgingly upon graduating from NYU, but once we were here, we realized that we belonged. Not even our first apartment, an illegally sublet, 200 square foot former maid's quarters with no stove or oven, deterred us. We rented it because I wanted to live near Fordham Law School, which I was set to attend, and it was the best thing we could afford. (Seriously.) Law school lasted less than three days, but we stayed in the apartment for three years.

Once we decided to move on, we knew we wanted to live in the West 70s. Eventually the plan was to buy a place, and our residency on West 72nd above a photo studio (which decorated the basement garbage room with old wedding portraits - how hilarious is that, assuming you are not in the photo?), message parlor/day spa, and car service dispatching center lasted a little over two years. Not long after we moved in, we saw a news report about a cold case in our building. A dominatrix linked to Marv Alberthad been murdered there in 1997. (Her case is still unsolved, as far as I know.) I'm making it sound crappy, but it was a good place to live, although loud due to heavy traffic.

When it came time to buy a place, Husband's parameters were between W. 70th and W 75th Streets and Columbus and West End Avenues. This is a five block radius, which is absolutely ludicrous given our limited budget, but so it goes. When I made an appointment to see an apartment one block outside his guidelines, he spazzed a bit, but it was the best place we saw in our price range by far, and eventually we signed the mortgage papers and moved in. Now, almost seven years later, we still love our home and the neighborhood.

Here's why: There are lots of places to eat. My favorite restaurants include S'mac(a macaroni and cheese joint), Fred's, Harry's Burritos, Kefi, and Earthen Oven. Diners also abound. And three top bakeries: Crumbs, Magnolia, and Levain (greatest peanut butter chip chocolate cookie ever, butit has like a full day's worth of calories in it) are all within a few blocks, too.

There's culture. The JCC Manhattan has tons of free and cheap events for the public. The classic Beacon Theater was recently refurbished, and features everything from Bob Weir (who played last night, so the sidewalk was full of old hippies) to Tyler Perry productions. Right about the Beacon Theater is the Hotel Beacon, which recently underwent its own huge renovation. When my parents and bubbe came for my book party last August, I tried to get them a room there, but it was booked. (My sister and brother-in-law stayed with us, so there was no more room.) Chaos ensued. I think I also tried On the Ave and The Lucerne, but they were too expensive or booked or both. I can't remember, and I'm off the topic now. Sorry... My neighborhood also has two large movie theaters, and, oh - Lincoln Center.

There's shopping. Besides Fairway, the best grocery store ever, there are two Whole Foods stores within a mile of my apartment. A Trader Joe's is coming soon to a corner near me. And I am "treated" to an ever expanding array of retail chains, like Bed, Bath & Beyond and Loehman's, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Great public transportation. Many subway and bus lines. I can pretty much get anywhere I need to be conveniently and for $2.25, no driving required. Yay!

Anyway, I've rambled long enough. If you ever want to visit, I should one day, before hell freezes over, have my stupid new queen size sofa bed with memory foam mattress that we ordered in August. Don't forget - the BlogHer conference will be in NYC in August 2010! It's a great opportunity to hang with me in my neighborhood. I might even have the damn couch by then.

This is a TravelingMom dedicated post

PDA

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Going to Hawaii Again!*

At the end of 2007, Husband had a lot of vacation time that he needed to use. (His employer does not let people roll over vacation days from year to year.) We decided to plan a blow out trip to Hawaii. Using large numbers of airmiles and hotel points, we were able to book one of the many luxury hotels on Oahu. Husband initially planned to stay at the historic Moana Surfrider, which was the first hotel in Waikiki, but it was full. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent thing, as we stayed next door at the Royal Hawaiian instead.

Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)

Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.

We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.

Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.

*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...

This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.

The Accidental Encounter

After class last night, my compadres and I went to a bar. When we arrived, a tired-looking waitress testily sat us at a table. Slllllllooooooowwwwwwly, she brought us our drinks. No one minded terribly. She looked like she had had a long day.

She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.

At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.

"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.

I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."

"I'm an actress."

"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."

"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."

"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.

Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.

Mystery Guest at the Westin Copley Place

On Friday afternoon, Husband had a meeting in Boston. Since I most unhappily remain unemployed, I hopped with him into Fred the Red, our semi-trusty PT Cruiser, and motored up. We already planned to go to Massachusetts on Saturday morning to spend the weekend with Alex Elliot's family (her son's 6th birthday party is on Sunday), so it was just easier to go up with him and make an extra night of it.

When we returned to the hotel after dinner,* the street was blocked off, cops wandered around in neon safety vests, and crowds gathered along the curb. Husband and I speculated that this had something to do with Sen. Kennedy's funeral. A cop verified our suspicions, and we went into the hotel.

In the lobby, some SWAT-type team finished checking in and the strapping men hoisted their large black bags onto their backs. I asked the concierge what was going on.

"Well, there's a senator, Ted Kennedy..."

"Yes, he died," I interrupted. "I know that the funeral is this weekend. But what's going on here?"

"Oh, there's a dignitary staying here, but we don't know who it is."
A couple in their early 60s the gift shop were convinced it was Barack Obama. Husband tried to explain that if Obama was here, there would be Secret Service everywhere and metal detectors. I pointed out that there were not snipers on surrounding buildings. The cashier ignored our logic. "It's Obama! I know it!"

A letter slipped under the door of our hotel room noted that, "We have a dignitary staying in the hotel for the next two nights, and as such have extensive security measures in place in the hotel as well as the area surrounding the building outside... but the front entrance to the hotel will still be open for drive in traffic."

Who could it be?**

*Which, incidentally, leads me to an important question: I ordered a lobster salad on brioche, and when it arrived, it was on bread. I thought brioche had to be a roll or bun (and I'm 90% sure that the menu said "brioche roll"), so I asked the waiter if they ran out of brioche. "No, this is brioche bread," he replied. It was certainly thick and buttery, but I spent the rest of the evening convinced that it was toasted buttered white bread and that the staff was laughing at me. I looked up brioche, and it said it can be baked in a loaf. But I wonder if it would look different than any other kind of toasted bread?

**"It might be a prince from Seychelles," Husband decided. He cracks me up.

Noodles

Husband and I joined a group of friends and family in celebrating our friend Dr. F's son's first birthday. Our other friend Maria arrived before we did, and was waiting for the festivities when the evening's entertainment, Noodles the Clown, arrived in civilian clothes.

"Oh, no!" she said when she realized that Maria was with the party. "You didn't see me like this!"

"No problem," Maria replied. "Your secret is safe with me."

Noodles leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Later, I will change genders and species."

"Uh, oh. OK." Maria said, wondering what exactly this clown had in store for us.

Turns out that she changed from Noodles to Mickey Mouse, back to Noodles (to perform a birthday rap with a beat circa 1985, sort of like my mom likes to do at family functions), then to Elmo, ending the night as Noodles. It was as exhausting as it sounds, and a good time was had by all.

My Next Career

Another Monday, another America's Next Top Model Marathon to entertain me while I'm on the treadmill. As I explained to my dad, it is the perfect show to watch while my brain is deprived of oxygen.

Perhaps the oxygen issue led me to decide that I have a future as a model. I realize that there are several barriers to achieving this new career:
-I am too short.
-I am too "fat."
-I am too old.
-I think too much. (The ANTM contestants are always yelled at for this sin.)

These industry biases, however, will not stop me from climbing to the top of a niche: the cheekbone model. Yes, I shall become a cheekbone model. I have excellent bone structure and decent skin in my small face that can be exploited for close shots of cheekbones.

I shall be rich!

More to Love

While I was at my parents' house two weeks ago, I found this photo of Husband and me from 1996 or 1997:


Here we are in July 2009:


There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.

(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)

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

I Had a Really Nice Dream Last Night...

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



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

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

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

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

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

School Dance Dream

The buzzing alarm clock cut through the picture unfolding in my head. It interrupted my ascent up a grand staircase dressed in a green knee length silk dress and matching bolero jacket and black satin shoes with chunky two inch heels. The dance was just about to begin.

In only the way a dream can unfold, my friends (I think from New School, but also from my previous graduate program at Columbia) and I were excited for our graduation dance. We spent hours picking out dresses, putting on make-up, and styling our hair. When we got to the dance, I immediately saw my ex-boyfriend from when I was 16. I worried that he would think I was following him, and somehow lost the group of giggling ladies who I accompanied.

Attempting to go in another direction, I headed up the stairs. At that moment, Mayor Bloomberg swept down with his entourage, ready to open the ceremony. It occurred to me that Mayor Bloomberg looked like my ex-boyfriend's unemployed, alcoholic father: short and overconfident. That's when the alarm ended it it all.

Usually I have no idea what sparks my crazy dreams, but I'm pretty sure this one came from two sources. The weather was perfect last night for a long stroll, so I walked home from school. That led me through Times Square, where I saw several groups of high school kids departing from proms in fancy gowns and tuxes. School dance: check. Then when I arrived home, I read an article about how Bloomberg is once again buying an election for himself (last election, he outspent his opponent by 10 to 1), not only through campaign ads, but also by buying off the best Democratic consultants through hiring them to run his campaign. Mayor Bloomberg: check. The ex-boyfriend tends to show up in my dreams when I'm upset about something in general, so that explains that.

The dream, though, made me miss the good old days. I would love to gather up my friends, get dressed up, and go to a school dance. How fun would that be?

Now That's Talent

As the express train raced through the subway tunnel this morning, I watched the Canal Street station pass by in a choppy blur. Then I turned my attention to my fellow commuters. A woman with dyed blond hair applied thick black lines with a sharp eyeliner pencil to her lower lid, monitoring her progress in a hand mirror. Satisfied, she capped the pencil, dropped it in her bag, and pulled out mascara. Done with that, eyebrow liner emerged.

I was impressed. I can barely apply eyeliner and mascara evenly when I standing on solid ground. If I were on a bumpy train, no doubt I'd poke my eyes out. I'd then be forced, a la Odysseus Oedipus,* to wonder the streets of Manhattan with my eyes tangled in my beard. OK, my beard is not yet that bushy, but if I don't keep up with the plucking, it could be.

Actually, that's one thing I probably am talented enough to pull off - plucking chin hairs on a subway train. Yeah, I'm bragging.

*Thanks, Rebecca. That's what I meant. Stupid Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) let me down again!!!

Husband's Robed Weekend Companion

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



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

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

On the Radio, Part II

I think I have a voice for silent movies, but whatever - I was very excited to do my first live radio interview yesterday! In the event that anyone has a fleeting interest in foreclosure prevention and New York City, I think this is the link to the podcast. I come on halfway through the two hour program, and my colleague and I engage in conversation for 50 minutes.

When I entered the studio and saw the microphones and headsets, I thought I might throw up. My heart battered my rib cage. Fortunately, the host was an excellent facilitator with great questions, and my colleague was a pro at live shows. I quickly relaxed and had fun. I like radio better than TV (not that I've been on TV), as I did not have to worry about how my hair appeared.

Of course, the first person to call into the show was a raving lunatic conspiracy theorist type. Somehow, that struck me as appropriate. The rest of the show was great, and afterward, the host invited me to come back and talk about my book! Very exciting!

There's a Sea Monster in My Sink! Eeeeek!

Husband and I went shopping for new fixtures for our bathroom today, and I had to share this:



(Apologies for the poor quality of the picture.) This is a sea monster sink. On one hand, it is the coolest sink ever. I cannot stop laughing. On the other hand, seriously - it is a faucet shaped like a giant fish with little critter handles. People pay money for this not as a joke? I mean, I would totally love this sink, but only so I could tell guests to use my sea monster sink because it would be so hilarious, and because I love sea monsters, as one of my first blog posts attested. But seriously!

Congratulations, You're a Book Winner Now!

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

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

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

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

If I Don't Laugh...

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



Inside it says, "There will be magic."

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

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

The "C" Word

Sunday was not a relaxing day. I spent a good portion of the day ensconced in the kitchen engaging in the "c" word. That's right, I cooked.

There is almost no chore I hate more than cooking. I'd rather do laundry, vacuum, mop, change Tycho the Giant Rabbit's litter, and wash the dishes than cook. Cooking stresses me. There's measuring things and timing them, and if I fuck up, then I wasted untold dollars worth of food and still have nothing to eat. I know that many people enjoy cooking and find it relaxing and fun, but II think they are insane, especially if they share all that good food with me when I've done nothing but watch them toil and slave. When it comes to preparing food for myself, I am very happy with toasting an multi-grain English muffin and smearing some non-salmonella organic peanut butter (made at my local grocery store) on it. Yum. I even cook eggs for myself without hating it too much. That's my limit.

I found myself sweating it up in the kitchen on Sunday because I decided to try the South Beach Diet. In November 2006, I was diagnosed with insulin resistance and told to control my carbs to prevent diabetes. Since my dad and bubbe have type 2 diabetes, and I would prefer to avoid the disease for as long as possible, I followed a strict diet for a month, then fell off the wagon and ate poorly for two years or so. This led not only to me looking like I shoplift turkeys in my work pants, but also probably to a worsened prediabetic stage, if that makes any sense.

Overall, South Beach seems fairly easy to follow and is a good way to control carbs. I thought I would try some of the recipes, and of course I forgot that I didn't have some of the ingredients (like shredded cheese), so I spent 30 minutes chopping pieces of string cheese into cheese shreds so that my crustless veggie quiche cups would come out. Then I made balsamic vinaigrette, but the need for a jar led me to open a jar of salsa in the fridge that had bubbly mold. Finally, I sauteed some chicken in olive oil, added onions, garlic, and chicken broth, and worried that the chicken was not cooked enough.

Tonight, mahi mahi with garlic made in the broiler. I think that any weight loss from this diet will be from all the work I am doing to fucking make something to eat. Jesus, I don't know how people do this all the time for their families!

Nude Housecleaning

As I got ready for a shower this afternoon, I realized that the bathroom was a disaster area. As Dr. P is staying with us this weekend and was to arrive within a few hours, I figured I should clean up. Unfortunately, I was already undressed.

Undeterred, I vacuumed the chunks of wall and tile from the floor, then mopped, all in the nude. Then I realized that we'd been tracking wall chunks into the hallway outside the bathroom as well, so I vacuumed there, too. As I bent over, I reflected on the premium prices that some people pay to secure the services of a nude housecleaner, and I laughed and laughed. Because really, the whole cleaning thing is sweaty and gross. I can't imagine why anyone would find this appealing to watch. In fact, the whole time I was parading around naked with the vacuum, Husband didn't even look away from the TV while he did his crunches.

Yeah. People are weird.

AAA

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

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

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

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

Merry Xmas

Husband and I are departing today for our fabulous road trip up the coast of California. As I finalized our itinerary on Sunday night, I realized the difference between arrangements Husband made and those that I took care of.

He booked lodging in Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, Sacramento, and San Francisco. Three of the four hotels he reserved rooms in are free, thanks to his extensive travels for work and the points that he racks up while traveling and charging everything on his Starwood awards credit card. The hotel in San Francisco is particularly over the top - the St. Regis! When Steph, who is meeting us in San Francisco and staying with us, heard what hotel we'd be at, she wondered if they'd even let us (me and Steph, that is - Husband will be fine) in their luxurious halls. Then we laughed maniacally.

It was not until I checked out the hotel website last night that I realized that this might not be a joke. Damn, that place is swank! It even has an indoor pool. Steph said she was glad that I gave her time to de-fur herself, which is when it occurred to me that if I am to frolic in its waters, I should probably shave off my overcoat as well.

I found us a place to stay in Big Sur. It involves yurts.

'Tis the Season

For Hanukkah last night, Husband gave me this cute sweater dress:


I am surprised and delighted that it fits, and I plan to bring it with me on my trip to California.

More exciting, however, is the mop that I purchased for myself:


It would be even better if my apartment looked as sparkling clean as the home pictured on HSN, but whatever. As I put the mop together, my cousin laughed and told me that it looked phallic as I clenched it between my legs while struggled to slide slot A into slot A. We also had a good chuckle over the "instructions" that came with it:

for fun, try attaching the cloths or mop pad using only your mind. It helps if you squint.

I am disturbingly overjoyed at the prospect of using it tomorrow. Finally, the bottle of floor cleaner that Sara gave me a month ago when I did laundry at her apartment will be put to use!

Happy holidays indeed!

Come Light My Menorah

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

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

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

Happy Hanukkah!

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

Bring on the Holiday Travel!

Oh, I am sure that I will regret the title of this blog post, just as George W. Bush will regret encouraging foes of America to bring it on if ever accidentally develops any level of consciousness about the outside world. Still, it is time for Holiday Travel. I got off easy last weekend when I went to Chicago to visit my family, with no delays on my flight out and only a 20 minute delay on the return.

Tomorrow, my sister and brother-in-law are flying from Chicago to Miami for a last hurrah vacation before the baby is due. They are staying with Dr. P, which makes me very jealous. (However, Dr. P is coming up here in January for an interview, and I am so excited about the visit and potential return to New York that I am only a little jealous that Dana gets to hang out with one of my bestest friends and I don't.) My fingers are crossed that they weather allows them a timely departure.

Also tomorrow, my parents and bubbe are leaving Chicago to visit my great uncle and great aunt in Las Vegas. My dad loves Vegas, and I am sure that they will have a great time. I hope that they get out there with no issues as well.

Then on Christmas, Husband and I take off for LA, from which we will drive up Highway 1 and on to Sacramento, with stops to see (in geographic order) Liz Rizzo, Suebob, Santa Barbara, Solvang, San Luis Obispo, Hearst Castle, Big Sur (we stay in a yurt!), Winchester Mystery House, Warrior II, and Kara. Also, we will spend New Year's Eve with friends in San Francisco, where Steph will also join us. So excited. Hopefully, there will be no injuries this year involving sea urchins and/or medical helicopters or slipping on tile and fracturing my elbow thus requiring an immediate return to NYC for surgery, as unfortunately happened to my sister-in-law this week while she vacationed with my brother-in-law in Mexico. (Feel better, SIL!!!)

What are your holiday plans?

Lipstick Jungle

Last week, I entered enemy territory. I traversed the block between Amsterdam and Broadway, then I turned right on the corner of 76th Street, walking less than half a block. I took a deep breath. Then, trying to be brave, I pushed open the glass door. Before I knew it, I was in Sephora.

Some friends at school convinced me to wear lipstick. As I crept down the florescent aisles of Sephora, squinting at the prices in the blinding light, I doubted myself. This shit was expensive. I approached a salesperson with a headset.

"Hi, do you have any lipstick under $15?"

"Sure," she said and smiled. She was probably thinking, cheap bitch. She pointed me to a display case full of Sephora-brand cosmetics, then started to walk away.

"Uh, can someone help me pick out a color? I haven't bought lipstick since 2000." (Which, incidentally, was when I bought two Clinique Chubby Sticks for my wedding. I have plenty left of both and still wear them once in a while.)

She gave me a funny look, and called for reinforcements on the headset. Another black-clad headset wearer approached. She squinted at my face the way I did earlier at their prices, then handed me a brown lipstick on a cotton swab. I wish I could say that I applied this sample with grace, but somehow it wound up all over my teeth. I'm still not sure how that happened. Then I tried two lighter colors.

I walked out $14.01 lighter in the wallet and heavier in the sparkly pinkish lipstick that smells like grape Bubblicious department. I'm surprised at how different I look wearing just a little lipstick. It makes me nervous. If I cave on lipstick, will I suddenly find myself spread on the waxer's table? It's a slippery slope, I tell you. Slippery.

New Title

Starting sometime in June, I will officially be known as Aunt Suzanne to my sister's baby! I am so, so, so, so excited. I am also really sad that my sister lives so far away.

My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.

"What's this?"

"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.

"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"

Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.

Flattery Makes Me Giggle and Blush

As usual, I've been obsessing about my hair for the last few weeks. Since I went super short in March 2006, I've been mistaken for a dyke many times. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course, except that I'm not a dyke. After my last hair cut two weeks ago, I decided that enough was enough, and I should grow my hair back.

Then after class on Wednesday night, I went out with a group of people. My friend Vicky's friend's friend met up with us.

"I hope I won't offend you," he said to me, "and I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you look exactly like Jane Wiedlin."

"Huh?" I said, clueless as usual. The name rang a very faint bell, but part of the problem was that I could not hear what he said over the background noise.

"You know, the guitarist from the Go-Gos."

I sort of did know. I certainly knew enough to know that it was a major compliment. Vicky's friend's friend used his Blackberry machine thing to search the internet for a picture of Ms. Wiedlin. When he showed it to me, I nearly fell over:



Fuck yeah, that is a big compliment. I puffed my chest out and everything. Usually, if I'm compared to any famous person, it is Anne Frank. And while I think Anne Frank was an amazing person, it is just a wee bit depressing to be compared to her. But Jane Wiedlin! Shit! I'll keep the hair cut, and this is almost enough to make me start wearing make-up.

The Rewards of Voting

I am going to vote. If all goes well, today will be as sweet as the bag of Brach's Caramel Candy Corn that I consumed over the last few days. Theo is hoping that he can come to the polling station with me. We'll see.

Actually, voters in New York and Seattle can get orgasmic rewards for voting. Babeland is offering a free mini vibrator or penis sleeve thingy to anyone who walks into one of their stores and says they voter. Word of honor is honored. That voting rewards are worth $15 and $20, respectively. I am awed by their amazing generosity.

Other freebies for voters include coffee from Starbucks and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. But the vibrator or dick sleeve is definitely the voting gift that keeps on giving. I'm speechless. Me! Speechless!

Master of the Stairs

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but yesterday morning, the sky opened up in New York City and it rained on the Upper West Side like a mad motherfucker. And it was chilly. I looked outside and thought, "Nah."

Still, I needed to get some sort of exercise, so I suited up and hit the stairs. My building has 15 floors. When I reached 15, panting, shaking, and sweating, I heard the rain falling harder than ever. Looking up, I saw a skylight and another flight of stairs that led to the roof. I climbed to the top, triumphant.

On the way down, my left knee reminded me that climbing real stairs is a lot harder on the joints and knobs than the StairMaster. "Shut the fuck up, you whiner," I told it. "We have work to do." It somewhat complied with my demand, and we tromped back up 16 flights once we hit the bottom.

Other than learning what a fabulous workout I can get for free in my building,* I discovered that people use the landings to store a lot of stuff. On the 3rd floor, there is a broken trampoline with a paper taped to it, reading: "This belongs to #3G." Other landings offered bikes for children of various ages, construction materials, and a map of the world (still depicting the USSR) mounted on posterboard. It is nice to know that there are other hoarders in this building.

*I can't move my calves this morning.

Does Anybody Really KNow What Time It Is?

Does anybody really care? As I was walking down the street one day, a man came up to me and asked me what of day it was... Wait. That's a song. Sorry.

Last night, as I prepared for several hours of restful (ha, if only) slumber, my alarm clock, which receives signals from outer space (via satellite) to keep the most accurate time possible, read Su 11:15. Right before Husband snuffed the light, I noticed that it said Tu 3:14 AM. Hmmmm... time warp or satellite malfunction? I pressed the reboot button.

While the clock decided if I missed a day or if it was telling me the wrong time, I looked at my watch. It's a blue Flik Flak with little pictures of a witch with pink hair and black cat flying on a broom stick on the band. Not only that, but the hands glow in the dark. (Every time I look at the glowing hands, I cannot help but grin.) Unfortunately, it seemed to indicate that it was after 1:00 AM, which I was pretty sure it was not. Then again, I'm not good at reading watches without numbers, and the digits on the watch do not glow.

Now that it is today, Monday, at 8:35 AM according to my computer (but 8:37 as per Flik Flak), I am relieved. I am heading to an interview for a potentially exciting job in 40 minutes. If the cow howls at the moon on the third Thursday and it is 62 degrees and a leap year, everything will work out great, and I shall be in school, writing a second book about New York, blogging for BlogHer, and gainfully employed with a flex schedule. Probably it will be helpful if my clock gives me an extra hour each day.

Is the Mile High Club Even Possible? - An Investigative Report

I spent some time re-reading my old posts on BlogHer, back when I was the contributing editor for travel, and I thought this post from May 2006 was hilarious:

I spent the past week visiting Florence and Rome with two friends (which explains my absence from BlogHer). We had a great time, but as I endured the 9 hour return flight from Rome, I began wondering: Who are all those freaks writing letters to Penthouse Forum boasting of hot encounters with other passengers on airplanes? Unless these letter writers are some sort of contortionists without senses of smell or fear, my experience with flying leads me to doubt whether any regular traveler really belongs to the mile high club.
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Anyone who flies economy class knows that the seats are ridiculously close together, so it would be very hard to get it on with someone and not involve the people around you. (That would then be a mile high club threesome or orgy, which I suppose some people would not mind). You could try and get away with your partner and slip into the plane bathroom for some action, but the bathrooms on commercial aircraft are barely big enough for one person, even in business class. I am not very large, and when I am in the bathroom I find that there is barely enough room for me alone. Even if they squeezed in, people would find that there's not very much room to maneuver around for boot-knocking to happen. I suppose two standard size adults could do it if one sat down on the toilet and the other person on his lap. Somehow letters to Penthouse Forum about chance encounters on airplanes never seem to mention sitting on the porcelain throne as part of the action.

At any rate, even if you can fit into an airplane bathroom with someone else, I noticed that they tend to reek. Not exactly like a sewer, but a different type of gross fecund smell; a bit milder. I try to breathe as little as I can while I use the facilities of an airplane and get out as quickly as possible before I pass out. This may then be perfect for someone who engages in autoerotic asphyxiation (i.e. - denies himself oxygen to heighten his orgasm), but does masturbating in the bathroom of a plane allow you to count yourself as a member of the mile high club? I think not.

A final problem with sex in airplane bathrooms, whether alone or with another person, is the other passengers. While some people could not care less what other people think when they see two adults going into a lavatory together, I noticed that lines for the toilets can get pretty long when someone takes his sweet time to do his business. The people waiting start to get very cranky. (Or maybe it's just me - I've come damn close to trying to kick the door in and find out what the hell was taking so long in there.) The flight attendants become annoyed by the hordes of people blocking the aisles as they wait to relieve themselves. Violence could easily break out if it was known that people were in there having sex. Even if the trysters are not discouraged by the thought of an angry mob, there's the risk of injury during turbulence. It just sounds dangerous.

Unless the prospects of physical cramping, stench, and potential violence turn you on, I just don't see how anyone could find these good conditions which lead to great sex. Am I misunderstanding the situation?

What's even funnier is that one guy actually left a comment about getting it on in an airplane bathroom. All I can think is, ew...

Keeping the Motor Running

Yesterday I brought myself in for a tune up at the cooter garage (i.e. - the gynecologist, not Cooter's Garage from Dukes of Hazard, although if I were a GYN, I would definitely name my practice Cooter Garage). This was the third GYN I saw in three years. My first GYN, who I adored because she used foul language to describe a bad doctor, disappeared at the end of 2006. I tried my friend Sara's doc last year, but wasn't impressed. (She described him as very attentive, but I had to remind him to take my history before the exam. Not cool.) I wasn't sure if I would see him again or try to find another person for my annual exam this year. Finding new doctors is a pain in the ass (or maybe in this case, in the crotch?).

Then, in May, the answer came to me while I visited Dr. P in Florida. One might think that she referred me to some doctor that she knew, but of course, that would be a normal way to select a new doctor. While I usually do not read women's magazines (I even hate the term), Dr. P had an issue of Glamour that I picked up while we were sitting around her apartment. Generally, I do not find the health articles helpful, so I was shocked to read one in which the author, a gynecologist in New York City, warned women about the potential dangers of Brazilian waxing. Plus, her bio at the end of the article indicated that she contributes to a feminist sexuality blog. I knew we would get along.

"This is my new gynecologist!" I announced to Dr. P and Husband, pointing excitedly at the open page.

"OK," Husband mumbled, not looking up from what he was reading.

"Great," Dr. P said from the other room.

The best part is that I was right: I LOVE this woman. (This most excellent gynecologist, by the way, is Dr. Katherine O'Connell at New York-Presbyterian.) She's totally the shit. As long as she doesn't drop off the face of the earth, I'll not worry about my poon care for a long time.

And the Lead Item in the NY Times City Room Blog Is...

What is the New York Times City Room blog looking at today on the internets? Why, it's the three subway road trip itineraries that I put together for WNYC!

Wow.

Beep Beep! Horn Tooting Time

I just adore this post that I wrote for BlogHer today about a crackpot new study that claims that the Pill leads women to choose the "wrong" partner. (The study involves 97 women thinking about taking the Pill, sweaty shirts, and sniffing. Sounds like a sound methodology, doesn't it?) There are days when I think I might be one of the dumbest people on earth, and then moments like know when I am so pleased with my cleverness that I sound like an egomaniac. What can I say?

As long as I am encouraging people to read things that I wrote that I consider funny, I might as well put out another plea for reviews on my book over at Amazon. If you read it and liked it, please let potential buyers know how you felt. (Even if you didn't like it, it would be helpful to know why.) Those of you who already posted something have my eternal gratitude. Those who post in the future will also have it. I don't think it takes long to post, and you can even use a fake name. How often does something that takes five minutes earn someone eternal gratitude?!?!

The Party's Over!

The release party for my first book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, was yesterday. I loved having people from various parts of my life at the event. There were friends from junior high, friends from high school, friends from college, friends from my public policy grad program, friends from my book club, friends from various former jobs, friends from my writing group, friends from the writing class I took this summer, friends of friends, family, and family of friends. (Whew!) I missed my friends from blogging who live around the country and could not make it. If only I could have set up a virtual book party, that would've rocked!

The party was a lot like a wedding: I didn't get to eat anything (for the most part), I didn't get to talk to everyone, and it was over in what felt like five minutes. I had a great time, and I think that everyone else did, too. I posted some pictures from the party at my flickr account. Now, the real work begins: promoting the book!

My mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, and bubbe came in for the party earlier last week. (Very regretfully, Granny didn't feel well enough to travel. Her presence was enormously missed.) Overall, it was an overwhelming and exhausting week of fun. My family departed this afternoon, which is always hard for me. I don't get to see them enough, especially my sister. I was a bit blue this afternoon now that it is all over. It's always for me after an event that I've looked forward to for a long time passes. I'll just have to keep extra busy this week.

As the Summer Ends, My Stature Declines

For an excellent account of the varied activities we shared at the house that Husband rented in the Catskills, I recommend Alex's recap.

Now that I am home, I am gearing up for a busy next few weeks. The book party is this weekend, and my family will be in town. I need to find ways to get media attention for the book, too. A consulting contract that was four weeks in the making is finally ready. Orientation for school is at the end of the month.

In preparation for school, I needed to provide evidence that I was vaccinated against measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR). Needless to say, this took place about 32 years ago, so my records aren't exactly at the top of the heap at my former pediatrician's office. Although my mom put in a good effort to secure them, I also made an appointment for a physical, just in case. When I called to set it up, I learned that I have not had a regular old check up in four years. In that time, however, I've managed multiple visits with a GI, an allergist, a dermatologist, three different breast surgeons, and three different gynecologists. My parts are well attended to.

My appointment rolled around this morning, and the nurse asked me how tall I am. "I don't know," I responded. "Maybe five two?" She thought she should measure me. To my surprise, I remain five feet and one-half of an inch. I swore I had a growth spurt at my last physical, so either I am shrinking or I was improperly measured back then. Either way, I am pleased that my status as a short person is back. When I thought I was 5'2", I had to use the disclaimer that I am a tall short person. So hurray for that!

My Furry Beaver Gets Around: BlogHer Beaver Shots Now Online!

No less than a 100% rip off of Suebob's popular red stapler series, I decided to bring my furry little beaver to the 2008 BlogHer conference and have her pose with my blogging friends. Brilliant! Except that I forgot my camera. Fortunately, Alex lent me hers, so I wandered around the conference on Friday, asking people to take a beaver shot. Then I forgot to upload the pictures from Alex's camera. Until Thursday night...

Without further ado, I present: My Beaver at BlogHer 08. Feel free to tag yourself if you have a beaver shot. (I figure some people may not want to be identified for web search purposes, so I leave it up to the individual in the photo to tag herself. Please do not tag any beaver shot unless you are in it. It's pretty bad when a prospective employer googles someone and comes up with a link to her beaver shot...)


Someone (Mar, I think) suggested that Bev the Beaver do a tour, which I think would be fun. People who want to be in a picture with my beaver would email me (or leave a comment), I'd generate a list with people's addresses, then send Bev and the list to the first person on the list. That person would take a picture with my beaver and post it, then send Bev to the next person on the list and so forth, until Bev is sent home to me. Anyone interested?

Perusing My First Copy of My First Book at My Apartment

While I was out and about yesterday, a preview copy of my book arrived! Although it was well after 11 pm, I ripped open the package and (pretended) to read while Husband took pictures. Weirdly, it feels less real now than ever, but still super exciting.

(Also, I love the funny details of my cluttered apartment that appear in the background. For example, the wood piece on the wall with junk hanging off it (a rabbit bead necklace my mother-in-law got me in New Orleans; tassels from my graduation from NYU; scissors that someone gave me in 3rd grade; a cross-stitch I made of a tabby cat that I changed the color scheme for so that it would be psychedelic; a bookmark; and a hamsa - a Jewish object to ward off the evil eye - my Israeli relative made) is something I made in 6th grade. The pictures on the entertainment center are of me and Husband at our wedding (bottom); my sister's husband, Dr. P, Husband, and me at a picnic in Central Park (second from bottom); Dr. P and I at an Oktoberfest party (second from top); and my sister and I at her wedding, and Husband and I cutting the cake at our reception. A menorah I got from my Bubbe and Grandpa is in front of those pictures, and the tabernacle cover opens to reveal the ten commandments. I always loved that menorah when I was growing up.)

FYI - My book signing time at the BlogHer Conference has changed. It is still on Friday, July 18, but now will take place from 12:15 - 12:45.

Barbie Lives!

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

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

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

Springtime is For Shearing Sheep and Women

I posted an essay about shaving my legs and arm pits over at BlogHer today. It's one of the best essays I think I've written in a while. (It's weird how the MFA application process sapped my writing inspiration and abilities for a few months.) Synopsis: When I was young and idealistic, I didn't shave my legs or arm pits as a political statement and way to rebel again patriarchal beauty standards. Now that I am old and cynical, I don't shave my legs or arm pits because I am lazy, but this makes me embarrassed in public, so now I am stuck with the razor during the revealing months of spring and summer. Good times.

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Alive!

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

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

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

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

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.

Job Hunting and Celeb Spotting

People depress me. It just boggles my mind how much other people love telling me that they are not judgmental, it's just that we all should live our lives according to their values and beliefs. Right.

I'm not having a great day over in dark, rainy, gray, and cold New York City. My quest for semi-meaningful part-time employment that is not child care policy is not yielding many results. My drop dead date is late March before I crawl back to the child care policy field and beg for a job. I feel like if I do that, though, I'll never break free from the industry.

Anyway, on my way home from a temp agency "screening," I walked past Bryant Park. Being the clueless woman I am, I had no idea that it was fashion week. (Somehow, it always seems like there is some fashion event going on in Bryant Park, though.) A bunch of photographers and reporters were bunched up outside the big tent in which the shows go on (damn, fashion truly is a circus, now that I think about it...), so I paused to see what the deal was. Tyra Banks emerged through the crowd. I must say she looked stunning.

Merely spotting a celeb of Tyra's wattage was not enough to brighten my day, unfortunately. If the Weinermobile would show up near my apartment again, that would be appreciated. Who isn't cheered up by the sight of an orange and yellow hot dog vehicle parked across the street?

Lingo

Here at CUSS, we strive to bring you the hard hitting investigative reporting. Whether exploring the dyfunctional relationship American promotes with working women or understanding douche scents, it's all the news that's fit to print, at least by my standards, anyway. Oddly enough, my standards for news items don't seem to interest a very large audience. Of course, this is because most people aren't very smart or interesting, but that is another story that I often explore under the labels "Asshole idiots" and "What is wrong with people?"

Anyway, the point is that I feel lucky to have found a select group of people with whom I can have good discussions. So imagine my surprise when I read Stephen King's column in last week's Entertainment Weekly and he randomly referred to a blogger who called King a "douchenozzle." The use of the word douchenozzle in a popular national magazine excited and inspired me, as back in October, I deemed it my new favorite insult (sort of - I liked douche pipe, but same thing). I promptly then forgot that it was my new favorite insult, but happily the delightful Count Mockula and this mystery blogger are keeping the term alive. I pledge to follow their shining examples and call asshole idiots douchenozzles rather than the routine douche bag.

Now if I can just remember to also say, "beavers suckle beavers" instead of "fucking shit" or "gee whiz," I will be on my way to implementing a new lingo for myself. Take that, William Safire (retired On Language columnist and conservative douchenozzle)!

Sigh of Relief from the Irritated Vagina

OK, this really has nothing to do with an irritated vagina, but I loved Working Girl's use of that phrase in her comment on my previous post and want to use it as often as I use the expression "beavers suckle beavers." Or more often, actually, as I never remember to throw my beaver suckling line out when it matters.

Anyway, this post is neither about irritated vaginas or suckling beavers or the cause and effect one might have on the other. It's about the relief I feel now that my MFA application is officially complete and ready for review. Am I mad that it took them weeks to inform me that my transcript was missing, leaving me to scramble at the last second? Fuck yeah! Does it infuriate me that it took an additional 72 hours for the admissions office to process the transcripts that I hand delivered as a result? You better fucking believe it! However, it is complete, and now I can relax and wait and see what happens. If I don't get in, that will suck, but at least I can take comfort in being considered in the first place. Not getting in because the admissions office never processed my transcript and thus my application was never reviewed would be frustrating beyond belief.

Plus, it is Friday. While I enjoyed my work project this week, I am really ready for it to end. Every day I stare for hours at financial statements and loan reports, crunching and recrunching the numbers. I can barely see straight at the end of the day. Even harder? Stopping myself from swearing out loud, which requires constant vigilance on my behalf. (I suspect that is why I am exhausted by mid-afternoon. Swearing is rejuvenating and entertaining as an effective stress-relief mechanism, so holding it in when I want to tell someone that the motherfuckers are driving me crazy with their constantly changing accounting methods is doubly harmful.) Pocketing that paycheck is going to feel mighty fine. It would be awesome to use some of he proceeds to hire someone to clean my bathtub for me so I can take a nice, hot non-vagina-drying bubble bath. I can dream, can't I?