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!

Being a Tease

If women who lead men on are known as cock teases, are women who falsely set off the gaydar of others then twat teases? If so, that would be me. I don't mean to do this, but it seems that my style of dress, hair cut, and manners put me on the positive register.

Yesterday I went with my aunt and her two friends, a hetero couple in their mid- to late 50s, to the Chicago Gay Pride Parade. Despite rain and other parade interruptions, it was a lot of fun. (As an aside, it boggles my mind how fucking political these things are in Chicago. The Chicago Metropolitan Water Reclaimation District had a float in the parade, for fuck's sake.) During one of the long delays, my aunt chatted up the people sitting around us.

"My niece lives in New York," she said and pointed to me.

The man missing a tooth turned to me. "Oh, are you from Long Island?"

I made a sour face. "No!"

"Oh, I'm sorry why are you so offended?" he asked.

"Well, when you think of Long Island, what do you think of?"

"Snobs!" he said cheerfully.

"Yeah, so youo can see why I am offended!"

"Oh, honey! You're gay, so it's different!"

I started to tell him that I was actually not gay, but then stopped myself. What did I care if he thought I was a dyke? Plus, I would way rather be a dyke than a snob from Long Island. He then introduced me to all his friends, who were very fine people and we started talking about New York and that I wrote a book. If they look at my website, though, they will be very surprised to see that I live in NYC with my husband. Oh well.

Goulash Over Noodles

One of today's specials listed on the wipe board outside the diner near my gym is goulash over noodles. I just like how that sounds. It sort of describes the customer service I received at the post office last week.

"I'd like to buy insurance for this letter," I told the postal clerk when I stepped up to the window. I tried very hard not to be distracted by the lipstick smeared all over her face, but it was difficult.

"You can't buy insurance for a letter," she intoned.* The lipstick smear moved up and down, hypnotizing me.

"What? But I want to insure this," I was confused.

"We don't insure any letters," the lipstick smear was upside down now, frowning at my stupidity. "What's in the envelope?"

"A gift card," I replied.

"Who buys gift cards these days? Doesn't everyone know what a scam they are?" she ranted while selling me a certified delivery service. "You just lose money on them, whether they expire or they charge you monthly rates for not using it. Gift cards are a big scam!"

"Um, whatever." My eyes darted to either side of me. Could this be one of those postal workers who goes, well, postal? "Thanks for your help."

"No problem. Want anything else? Stamps?" the lipstick smiled.

Yeah, how about some sanity? I thought. Fortunately, Crazy McCrazyson sent the letter along, and Des received her birthday present. From now on, I order gift cards online and have the companies send them directly, the way God intended.

*FYI - According to the USPS website, you cannot insure a letter sent via Standard Mail. However, I would've upgraded to priority mail happily so I could get insurance had the option been offered to me.

Enter the Time Machine with Me!

Husband's flight back from Nice was not due until late last night, so I decided to wander around the damp, but pleasantly warmish, city in the evening. Driven by cravings for chocolate covered caramel popcorn, I violated my principals and wandered into Times Square. (Ever since luxurification hit my neighborhood, the fancy popcorn store lost its lease - along with the vegetarian restaurant and the wacky dish shop - so that some ginormous fancier eatery could take over four store fronts, and the only remaining popcorn shop is on Broadway and 48th Street.)

Times Square is an area to be avoided at all costs. Not because it is criminally dangerous (at the popcorn store, I discovered that I had been wandering around with my backpack open and my wallet in view of everyone, and no one touched it, which I think would not have been the case even 10 years ago), but rather because it is packed with tourists. Now, there is nothing wrong with tourists. I love that they come to New York in droves and stay in hotels with very high occupancy taxes, go to shows, eat at restaurants, and buy things, thus helping to fill our dwindling city coffers. However, I hate that they don't know how to walk. It's not their fault. People from other parts of the country drive everywhere, so are not used to it. Since Times Square really belongs to the tourists, and I hate mowing them down while I try to get where I need to be, I do my best to avoid Times Square.

Still, the craving was overpowering, so after walking in the street to avoid the throngs of people casually standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I get to the popcorn shop. A woman is ordering at the counter. Three other women are standing in the middle of the store, not quite in line, but not clearly not in line either. I get behind them.

"Ew, it smells like popcorn in here!," shrieks Woman #1 as she covers her face with her coat.

"What's that buzzing noise?" Woman #2 yells as a batch of popcorn signals that it is ready to be removed from the giant popping vat.

I decide that they are not, in fact, in line, and move around them to stand behind the woman paying for her package of deliciousness. She leaves, and I move up to the counter.

"Wow, she means business!" Woman #3 casually reports to her friends behind me. "She just walked right up to the counter and ordered!"

"Yes, because that is what you do in store," I wanted to inform her, but instead purchase a single serving of chocolate covered caramel popcorn. (This is a new product, which I get to avoid overeating, but unfortunately it is pre-packaged and not quite as good, so the craving is only 3/4 as satisfied.) I leave to walk home and catch the Mets game.

The game is slated to start at 7:30, and I flick on the TV at 8:15. Mets are tied to San Francisco, 2-2. I don't notice what inning it is until Billy Wagner, the Mets reliever, comes on in the 9th when the score is tied 3-3. This is odd because it is only 8:54. How the hell did the game move so fast?

I keep watching, screaming at the TV when bad shit goes down and clapping when Wagner strikes out the side. Then the Mets are up, and Paul LoDuca hits a double. Now I am really confused. Paul LoDuca is no longer with the Mets. What the fuck is going on here? I check out the Mets home page. It says that due to heavy rain, the game against the Braves in Atlanta was canceled.

Yes, I'd been watching a re-run from last summer all along. I'm not sure how the "UltiMets Classics" logo that flashed every time there was a commercial break did not tip me off to this, but my cluelessness strikes again. Lesson learned: Times Square can lead to time warps. I must remain alert.

Another Failure to Chalk Up

I thought that finding my lost bra was a sign of good things to come, but it turns out that I missed my chance to be the hottest of the hot bimbos. What's up with that? Life is cruel.

Welcome to the Insect Graveyard

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

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

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

It's in the Cards

These days, I find myself in an oddly similar position to what which occurred ten years ago. In the fall of 1997, I applied to two public administration/public policy graduate programs in New York City. I thought I had a really good chance to get into NYU, and I was hopeful that I would be accepted by Columbia as well.

NYU sent their response in February 1998. Not only was I admitted to the program, but they awarded me a 3/4 tuition scholarship! This made me happy, but having recently graduated from NYU's undergraduate liberal arts program also left me with an enormous chip on my shoulder. (Primarily my problem stemmed from a housing issue, but that's a whole separate rant.) Plus, my heart was set on Columbia. I liked how students could register at other schools within the university, and many of the social work courses interested me. Oh, and I really wanted an Ivy League degree to prove that I was just as good as all the rich kids with whom I went to primary and secondary school.*

When I was waitlisted by Columbia in March, I was devastated. Curling up in the fetal position on the cheaply carpeted floor of my 96 square foot kitchen with no stove or oven and crying my eyes out seemed to be a completely rational immediate response. While I eventually got up, I was depressed for days. Would I get in or not?**

Waiting to learn my fate seemed like too much to ask. I decided to visit a Tarot card reader. My former roommate recommended a place in the East Village. I made an appointment, and when the time came, I was led into the adjoining shuttered storefront. I posed my question: would I get into Columbia?, and shuffled the cards. The reader told me my story, the only details of which I remember are that I would get what I wanted, but it would not make me happy.

Not long after the reading, I made an appointment with a dean at Columbia to discuss how I could best position myself on the waitlist in case a spot opened. I presented the dean with three issue briefs I wrote at work, and discussed the policy analysis I performed at my job. She decided to admit me on the spot.

To end this long story, I turned down the huge scholarship at NYU and went to Columbia. I did not find the program as good as I hoped it would be for a variety of reasons, the chief one being that many of my fellow students only went to the program because they were rejected from MBA programs, and they had no interest in public service. The cards were right.

*Yes, I now know that this is the shittiest possible reason to chose a graduate school.
**Really, this means, why wasn't I as good as everyone else? The idiots were right - I was totally second rate. Why it did not occur to me that getting practically a fucking free ride to a fine graduate program was something I should boast about is beyond me. I really was so young and foolish....

Eggplant Parmesan and Roses

Probably it is unfair to blame my day's woes on the microwaved eggplant parmesan I consumed last night for dinner, but life isn't fair, so the dish is taking the fall. I thought it tasted a little funky, but honestly, eggplant always sort of tastes not quite right to me, so I ate it all without a second thought. Before I went to bed, my stomach began feeling uncomfortable. Not hurting or queasy, but weird. Hence I didn't fall asleep until after 2 am, although I suppose I used my time well by reading a Rolling Stones article about Britney Spears.

This morning, I was queasy, although I suspected it could be from the thought of getting out of bed or the residual effects of reading about Britney as much as anything substantial. I ate me some cereal, drank some delightful English breakfast tea with milk, and hustled off to teach my budgeting class. I thought I successfully passed as an alert and cheerful instructor until someone commented on how tired I looked. The good news is I then admitted that I might have eaten something that didn't agree with me, and so when I got a horrific taste in my mouth, no one minded that I chewed gum. Plus, another person offered me a Tums, and that was a big help.

After the class was over, I took advantage of the sunny day and walked the two or so miles home. It struck me as odd that so many people were carrying roses. Later, I became outright annoyed at the number of bodegas that put buckets of flowers out all over the sidewalk, narrowing the space available for walking and impeding my progress. It was only when I passed a bake stand at the farmer's market on 66th Street and saw the heart-shaped chocolate brownies with dyed red coconut shreds that I understood what was going on: VD infects the city once again.

When You Are Out of Shirts, It's Time to Go

As always, time flies when I am having fun. I'm heading back to NYC tomorrow (Monday), and while I am very sad because I won't get to see Count Mockula again until the summer (the BlogHer conference is in San Francisco this year in July), I am happy that I had the chance to come out now and celebrate the impending arrival of her baby with her and her friends and family. Her friend Monkeygirl threw an amazing shower, and I loved hanging out with her all weekend. Mr. Count Mockula and Count Mockula Mom are awesome, too. (Actually, watching the Count Mockula Mom and Daughter interactions made me really miss my mom.) The whole weekend was wonderful!

While I hate to go back - and not only because I just discovered that the temperature in NYC is only 15 right now - it's time. Not only do I have to go back to my consulting jobs, but I ran out of clothes to wear already. Somehow I managed to pack three days of undies and socks and my pjs, Theo, and meds, but only brought one extra shirt. I suppose it is better that I packed the right amount of clean underwear, but there's really only so long I want to alternate between the shirt I wore on the plane on Friday and the shirt I wore to the shower on Saturday.

When I get back (or if I have a lot of time at the airport), I'll post my pictures from the trip. We drove around the Delta area on Sunday, and saw this amazing town that is frozen in time due to ridiculous legal issues over the land. I so wish that Count Mockula and I did not live so far away.

Failure to Communicate (Without Swearing)

The work week almost passed without me cursing at work. Sadly, I blew it. After my colleague and I were treated rudely during a conference call in which we requested some basic information, I accidentally said something bad.

"I don't know why she had to be so nasty," Colleague sighed as he hung up the phone.

"It's because everyone who works there is a fucking asshole," I replied without thinking. It just came out. I cringed. "Oh, sorry about that. I probably should watch what I say."

"Well, it's true," he nodded. (And he's right - this particular organization has a reputation for being conceited and obnoxious.)

"Damn, I almost made it through the whole week without cursing at work," I laughed.

"I'm probably just rubbing off on you," Colleague apologized, which was pretty much the funniest thing anyone has said to me this week.

Later, I called someone a shithead. It felt good to be myself.

Ouch

Here are some pictures from my Christmas Eve sea urchin mishap:

This is the two mile trail husband and I hiked down to get to the Capt. Cook Monument and the bay that is known for excellent snorkeling. It is full of loose rocks and over its course, descends 1,300 feet to the water.

The Monument stands in British soil! I thought this was very cool. Given its remote access location, however, it is not so well-maintained.

Although it hurt like a motherfucker, here I am calmly awaiting medical evacuation. Note the completely hideous sunglasses that I bought at Urban Outfitters the day before I left for the trip. They are fudiculous, which is my new term for fucking ridiculous. (Maybe the sea urchin attacked me because it was so offended by my bad taste?)

A close up shot of my injuries doesn't do the damage justice. (A random tour guide/registered nurse plucked out the sea urchin spines that hadn't broken off already before I thought to document the experience. (It's a fuckload scarier to look at when there are long thin sticks poking out of the skin.) The big ink blobs and blood smears cover up all the individual barbs. There are 24 barbs in my heel and six on the side of my foot, plus about seven more near my big toe and four more near my little toe. While I still feel that a helicopter was a bit excessive, there was no way I could climb back up the trail.

All's well that ends well... sort of. Most of the ink from the sea urchin is gone from my foot (but not all), I can put on my shoes again, and here I am posing cheerfully in the lovely lobby of our hotel in O'ahu.

Trucks and SUVs and Mini Vans - Oh My!

For those of you who drive on a daily basis, you are very brave. Between the trucks, the SUVs, and the mini vans that I can't see around to the speeding maniacs (which admittedly includes me as I zip down the road at a brisk 80 mph in a 55 mph zone), driving practically gives me a heart attack every few miles. For the rest of the day, I'm very glad that I'll be running my errands on the subway. Even though non-discounted rides are $2 a pop, that sure beats $3.47 per gallon in gas. (OK, it sort of doesn't, but a monthly public transit pass with unlimited rides for $72 definitely kicks the ass of a month's worth of gas.)

File Under "Accomplished" - A Photo Story

(Incidentally, this little photo story will give a fair tour of the mess that is my living room. I only mocked my parents' house in the past because I could completely relate to it.)

My writing desk was my dining table for years. Then we got a new one, but instead of throwing this table out, I moved it into the living room to use as my writing table. Initially, this was very good. Then my writing table became my dumping table. (FYI - My friend Dianne painted that portrait of the CUSS logo for me. Isn't she awesome?) Not much writing is done at my writing desk as a result. After months of writing at the fancy new dining room table, thinking if I could just put my files somewhere, I could use the writing table as a table instead of storage unit, it occurred to me that I could buy a filing cabinet. Two weeks later, I ordered one from Staples.

It arrived yesterday in a tidy box. I committed to building the filing cabinet on Friday morning. Here I am hard at work in the middle of my living room. Husband was working from home, and he was so amused he decided to take a picture. (Note the hideous purple leather chairs that he insisted on buying from Craig's List. The blue sofa came from a thrift store. Our temporary second rabbit, Jacques, chewed a whole on the corner of the puffy top which is covered by Husband's green blanket that he got for college in 1994. At the front of the room, behind the gate, is Tycho the Giant Rabbit's apartment.)

About an hour and one minorly major fuck up (I forgot to put in the bottom on one of the drawers before I attached all the sides - oops), the file cabinet stands complete. What a jolly laugh I shall have if it is not large enough.

Things I Learned This Halloween

1. The amount of candy that I buy is inversely proportional to the total number of tricker or treaters who come to my door.

2. The desire I have to eat said purchased candy is also inversely proportional to the amount of left over candy.

3. Adults are equally as delighted (and sometimes more so) as kids when a person wearing a costume (in my case, my wedding dress and veil) open the door.

4. Kids these days do not love Pixie Stix nearly as much as I did when I was a youngin'. What is wrong with them? What person under the age of ten does not understand the glories of colored sugar in a convenient paper tube?

5. I should proof-read my posts better. (This is not a Halloween specific lesson, but my post from earlier on this Halloween day is riddled with missing words.)

Name Change

Remember how I was all against changing my name when I got married? Well, nothing is different there. However, I did discover that my book was assigned an ISBN number, and the author credited with writing the master pizza (as I like to call it) is Susanne Reisman. Check it out on Amazon.com. Houston, we have a big fucking problem.

I'm only freaking out a little bit. OK, that is a lie. I am in full on spazz mode.

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.

Write, Write, Write Your Stories

Did I claim that my allergies were bothering me yesterday? I lied. A big, fat, nasty cold is punishing me for thinking such mean thoughts about that hapless guy at the pharmacy. (Urban Pedestrian and Average Jane pointed out in the comments to this morning's post that there are pills that sort of do what the guy wanted.)

The only good part about my situation is that today and tomorrow are writing days. I want to finish the first draft of the book by Monday. (Originally, I planned on Friday, but then realized that my last site visit is on Saturday.) As long as I am required to be cooped up in my apartment, I can deal with a cold. Plus, I was excited to discover a blurb about the book in Publishers Weekly. It came up on a google search I did on myself (that sounds perverted, doesn't it?) and said, "Suzanne Reisman's OFF THE BEATEN (SUBWAY) TRACK, an alternative guidebook to all that is strange, weird and wonderful about New York City's often overlooked ..." When I tried to look at the website, it said I need to pay to be a member. (If anyone out there has access to this and can let know what it says, that'd be awesome.)

This morning I also wrote an essay for BlogHer about the bullshit that goes on during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. The conclusion makes me particularly proud:

Don't buy products you didn't plan on buying anyway. If M&Ms were on your shopping list, then it can't hurt to buy a pink bag instead of a regular one. That's an extra 14 cents (or however the math works out) that will now go to breast cancer causes that you would have spent anyway. But if M&Ms were not on your list, why not just donate the bag's purchase price directly to a cause you support? Not only will the organization get the full benefit of the $3.25 (or however much a big bag of M&Ms cost), you can also write the amount off of your taxes, fattening your own bottom line (and this was NOT meant to be a pun, although it is certainly applicable in my own life) instead of some corporation's.

Thank goodness I amuse myself.

Onto the Field

It was a weekend of sports, and it was a weekend of losses. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets blow their first game against Philadelphia thanks to lazy and sloppy play. We did, however, get a kick out of the free fake mustaches distributed to 20,000 extremely lucky fans in honor of Keith Hernandez, former Mets player and cokehead, and current TV announcer who sometimes talks with food in his mouth. Saturday, we attended the game in person to encourage them. Other than the free cute hats that were given to a lucky group of 25,000 fans and the quality time I spent with Husband and the in-laws, I would say it was not the best use of my time. Sitting in a windy, shady part of the stadium, I froze my ass off as the Mets once again played like shit. Finally, on Sunday, I witnessed the Giants suck ass, although at least the seats we had (second row behind the 20 yard line on the Giants' side) were excellent and I got a free useless calendar that I threw out immediately. Also, being at the Giants game prevented me from watching the Mets play worse than your local Little League team, so that was some avoided aggravation. Good times.

This weekend also saw a personal kick-off to the GRE season. To apply to the Hunter College MFA program, I must face my nemesis. I did answered 125 questions from the verbal portion (I haven't faced my biggest challenge yet, which is the quantitative section) and did mostly OK. I played the antonyms section like the Mets, though. It's bit hard to identify the correct antonym when I don't recognize the word at all. Out of 30 words, I didn't even have the foggiest idea what 15 of them meant. I guessed well on one of those. Yeah.

Into the Woods

If you are ever looking for a place to escape from the urban environment of Manhattan, but have no interest in leaving the island, the north end of Central Park is woodsy and quiet. If you really want to get away without going anywhere, you must head to Inwood Hill Park. This is where I found myself on Friday morning.

Someone from my book club told me that there is a rock in Inwood Hill Park that marks the spot where Peter Minuit bought Manhattan from the (a?) Native American tribe occupying it in 1628. Since I had no idea where this was, I thought it would be wise to head to the nature center/visitor center first. The Urban Park Ranger on duty (ha! I said doody!) gave me a map and told me which trails made for good sightseeing, but no poison ivy. Yes, I said trails and poison ivy.

All went well at first. The rock was easy to find (and also marks the spot of what used to be the oldest, biggest tree in NYC - a tulip tree that grew to 160 feet high with a circumference of 20 feet and lived about 280 years before it died in the 1930s). As I set off on the trail, I marveled at the beautiful woods that seemed like they might be easy to get lost in, although the ranger assured me that all roads eventually lead out of the park since it is not that big. I also reflected on the various little personal problems I've been having lately.

Before I knew it, I was lost. Or sort of lost, but how could I use my cell phone to call for help if I was really lost? What would I say, "Hi! I'm lost in Inwood HIll Park by some trees and rocks?" What if I wandered around in circles until it got dark and then coyotes (who I am certain do not live in the park) ate me? In the back of my mind, I was pretty sure that homeless people were found living in the woods, and worse, a few years ago a woman was murdered there.

After panicking for a minute, I decided that I would just retrace my steps and eventually I'd find the haven of the urban jungle. I also committed to return to the park with another person next time. It's funny how I don't think twice about venturing out into all sorts of places in the City, but I freak out completely when I'm turned around a bit in a 196 acre park and/or when little things in my life don't go as planned. I just like concrete and maps, I guess.

Corned Beef on Wry

"Eat kosher corned beef!" the sign in the delicatessen window across the street from the Bronx bus stop I was at commanded. I snickered in my head because I am infantile. When my silent laughter subsided, I resolved to do as I was told after I visited the Judaica Museum at the Hebrew Home for the Aged, on my way back to the subway, and before I went to the dentist in Brooklyn and received a face full of Novocaine, rendering any corned beef - kosher or not - impossible. (In fact, the right side of my face is numb through my ear as I type this. My only consolation is that the dentist is fucking adorable.)

The Museum was nice. More important for the purposes of this story, the deli was kosher. I knew in my heart of hearts this meant that they would not have white bread. No Jew worth his circumcision eats corned beef on white bread. When I tried ordering corned beef on white at a deli a few weeks after Husband and I started dating, both he and the waiter stared at me. The waiter shook his head in disgust, and I wound up with a roll.

"Who orders corned beef on white?" Husband marveled as the waiter scurried away from the embarrassment I caused.

"I do. The bread gets all mushy and yummy..." I explained.

Husband wrinkled his schnozz. "That what rye bread is for."

"I hate rye bread," I wrinkled in response. (They say people in successful relationships mirror their partner's body language, you know.)

Husband stared at me for a good minute and then spoke slowly. "Are you sure that you are Jewish?"

And that, my friends, is how Husband learned that he was dating Jewish white trash.

Back to the present day, I stepped into the narrow entryway of Loeser's Delicatessen.

"What kind of bread do you have?" I asked tentatively.

"Rye, wheat, and rolls," Fredy the owner (who I recognized from all the newspaper clippings and family photos on the wall behind me) said.

"I'll take corned beef on a roll, please."

"Coming right up."

It didn't come right up, though, and I was getting nervous about being late for the dentist. I definitely needed time to brush my teeth once I got there. Can you imagine how horrifying it would be to have corned beef stuck in your teeth from a sandwich you ate on the subway on the way to the dentist's office when he goes in to shoot Novocaine in your face to drill out a cavity and fix a broken tooth? Thus when the sandwich was ready, I grabbed it without checking what it was and ran out after wishing Fredy "L'shana tova" (that's "Happy New Year," which is right around the corner for us who celebrate Rosh Hashana).

Only on the subway did I discover that he put it on rye. It was delicious anyway.

I Had a Good Time

"Worry obsessively, get bent out of shape, and spazz first."

That is my motto. I follow it very closely. As an event approached over the course of last week, I relied heavily on it. I was certain that no one would talk to me at the event because I don't wear pointy toed shoes or take cabs everywhere. The event just ended, though, and I had a fantastic time. Like 99.7% of other events that I am sure will not be fun for me, I was dead wrong. Everyone was fun and welcoming, even if I still hate the Flake.

Given how often my motto fails me, you might think I should adopt a new credo. Think of all the time I would save if I didn't work myself into a frenzy over numerous situations that turn out to be benign or better. Sometimes I think about what I might do with such vast amounts of found time. Maybe blog more? Take up paint-by-numbers? Re-train Tycho the Giant Rabbit to use his litter box consistently? Nah. People always say you should focus on what you are good at, and I excel at spazzing.

Speaking of good times, freaking out, and rabbits, however, I took Tycho to the vet last Monday. This was not the good time. He HATES taking the bus and sheds up a storm. I look like I am donning a white fur coat by the time the ordeal is over. No, the good times are resulting from the pain medication that the vet gave Tycho. He likely has arthritis in his hips which is preventing him from moving freely, and she thought painkiller would help. Now that he gets 1/4 of a tablet of dope once a day delivered in the center of a cluster of raisins, he is the happiest rabbit I ever saw. Who knows? Maybe he slipped me some earlier and that's why I am in such a good mood too. (Or it could be that I ran a tad over 5.5 miles this afternoon, which is the most I ever ran at once and am super proud of myself.)

So that's the stories, morning glories.

Shit I Almost Forgot

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, I crack myself up.

*Thank you, Missy, for your correction.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

You know what happens when I spend 11 days in Chicago, mostly hanging out? I get behind. Very behind. I am behind in:

1. My consulting job, although I began that at the end of April and those fuckers have yet to pay me (my last invoice-y thing was rejected for "not having enough verbs") and I am getting to the point where I am not going to do things for them until I see a fucking check;

2. My book, which I have no excuse for since I had lots of notes to turn into melodious paragraphs and I (unsuccessfully) shopped for bathing suits and new underwear and ran around cemeteries with my mom instead, as that was more fun;

3. My ridiculous online travel writing class, whose start date I misunderstood and tuned in for the first online chat last Wednesday, only to find that the first chat is tomorrow and I can't "attend" because I am supposed to go to this Police concert with Husband, Steph, and Stupid McFuck (Husband's high school friend who votes Republican against his own economic interests) and Dr. P is also arriving for one night only (although that has nothing to do with my ability to log into class); and

4. A freelance article I hoped to finish about the complex but loving relationship that exists between me, Husband, and my long-time companion, Theo Roosevelt Reisman (my teddy bear), but I didn't write the last paragraph because I spent the afternoon with my friends Rachel and Jenny and their adorable genius 2 year old daughter.

Seriously, I'm not stressing out or anything and freaking instead of watching the Mets game with Husband, who I have not seen in 9 days, or petting Tycho Bunnae, who I last pet 11 days ago. Not at all. (Maniacal laughter.)

Camping in My Mom's Underwear

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck with that.

Laundry Room Crotch Eating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Va Bene!

I am told that "va bene" means "very good" in Italian, and that is how life is right now. Husband and I left Florence this morning and took the train to Milan. When we arrived, I discovered that he had forgone earning points at the Westin so that I may experience the wonder that is the Four Seasons Milano. All I can say is, holy shit. (I so do not belong here, although entering the hotel with my Ferragamo shopping bag - free from the reception I attended on Thursday - fooled people into thinking that I am the right type of person for the Four Seasons. Little did they know that the bag held a wood toy, Husband's jacket, and a bottle of hand santizer.) But don't take my word for it. Here are pictures of my room:There are two bathrooms: one has the shower and bath in it, the other is next to the dressing area and contains the toilet and bidet. Both rooms have sinks with full counters. Va bene indeed.Once we unpacked, Husband and I headed over to Santa Maria della Grazie, the church that has Leonardo's The Last Supper. Unfortunately, we did not get the notice that we had to reserve a spot at the table (so to speak) one month in advance. The church only lets in 25 people at a time to see the work at a pre-assigned time, and it is sold out until July. Oooops. We did stop in the church to catch a glimpse of Saint Catherine's cloak.For a 350 year old garment, I think it has held up pretty well. St. Catherine is my favorite saint because when her wealthy family tried to marry her against her will, she suddenly developed "invisible stigmata" and was spared the wedding. Instead, she was sent to a convent, which is what she wanted all along. Now that is fucking clever.

From the church, we wandered over to a museum and saw some good and some awful art. Then we walked over to the local synagogue, which was built in 1890. More walking, then dinner and gelato before retiring to the hotel. It was very nice to spend time touring with Husband. He has a slew of meetings tomorrow, so I am off to see as many churches with nutty objects (ossuaries, relics, etc.) and art as I can cram in. He hates going to churches, whereas I am fascinated by these things. It's supposed to rain, which will be most displeasing, but I will soldier on.

Swag!

Husband neglected to tell me until after this evening's cocktail party that only a select group of conference attendees were invited. Most of those people were exceptionally large donors to NYU's business school. Suddenly, the fact that we were at least ten years younger than anyone else there made sense.

However, I am glad that I did not know this beforehand, or I would have been extremely nervous. Also, I would have additionally rued myself for not bothering to bring any makeup or decent jewelry (I can assure you that I was the only person wearing a Flik Flak children's watch), and been even more self-conscious of my dress, which I swore fit me perfectly on Tuesday night when I tried it on before I packed it, but tonight made me worry that my boobs were going to fall out because the top was too big. And did I mention that I wore a white cotton Gap Kids cardigan over it? Oy.

Since I did not know any of this, I was pretty relaxed and had some nice chats with people. One woman even suggested that I connect with NYU when my book comes out and they would invite me to speak with students and promote it. I was pretty happy about that. (Now, let's just get a damn contract. I have heard nothing since I met the publisher last Thursday...) I loved the personal tour of Museo Ferragamo. So many cool and utterly impractical shoes to see, and I got some behind-the-scenes stories on the tour.

To wrap up a lovely evening, Husband and I were each given a Ferragamo gift bag as we left the event. Inside was a leather portfolio. As Skeeter from Varsity Blues says, "Nice. Very nice."

Plan for Friday:
1. Eat more gelato.
2. Visit museum of extremely graphic gynecological waxworks from the 17th century (seriously, I am so excited! I hope I can take pics to share)
3. Visit some churches
4. meet up with Husband later for dinner with his conference group.

Buon - Cough, Hack, Sneeze - Giorno!

Ten days is a lot of time when you're hacking mucus up. That's how long I have been sick now. Last Monday, I thought my allergies were bothering me because I had been outside all day on Sunday and then ran in the park on Monday. By Wednesday, it seemed clear that it was a cold. Not much I could do about that. As of Friday, things were so bad that I began wondering if it was a sinus infection. I made an appointment to see an allergist on Monday.

My appointment rolled around in the midst of a torrential downpour, but I coughed, sneezed, and blew my way into a taxi and to the doc's office. Part of me dreaded the appointment because I knew that torture was in store for me. When I sat down in his chair and he began preparing the Machine, my suspicions played out.

The Machine is some sort of laproscopic tool that the allergist shoves up my nose and into my fucking sinus cavity. Supposedly this will not hurt, he explained, because he prays some numbing potion into your nostrils beforehand. The first time I had this procedure done, I believed him. Then I realized that the numbing shit does not go beyond my nostrils, so I can feel the long thin camera as it prods my sinus cavity. On Monday, I made a joke about it.

"I hear they use this at Guantanamo Bay," I said chuckling joylessly.

"Really?" He was serious. I didn't expect him to have no sense of humor. This was awkward.

"Um, no," I mumbled, "but it is torturous!"

He seemed genuinely confused that I find having things stuffed into my sinuses to be unpleasant. Anyway, long story short, it was evil, but in the end, I did get to watch a little video of what my nasal passages and sinuses looked like. I love seeing my innards. Weirdly, it seemed rather vaginal. I can't entirely explain it, but I sure didn't expect that. I chose not to share my observations with my no nonsense allergist.

Turns out that everything was swollen up. After two days on Prednisone (a steroid that reduces swelling), double dosages of my regular nasal spray (Nasonex – a gift from God), and Sudafed 12 Hour, things are better. If it doesn't completely clear up in another day or two, it's onto antibiotics.

Italy, here I come! After Andrew Speaker, I just hope I don’t get quarantined there.

Preparing to Meet My (Book) Maker

There is a closet-size designer boutique a few blocks away from my apartment that sells utterly adorable little outfits. Since they are utterly adorable designer outfits, the prices are not remotely adorable. But they have blow out sales at the end of the season, and that is when I scooped this rockin' suit up for 40% off, although mine has a skirt instead of pants.

By then I had been unemployed for several months, so I had no where to wear it. I bided my time. Thursday, May 31, the day was right.

Scorching sun and high humidity blessed us New Yorkers. I thought a cutesy skirt suit would convey to Publisher that I was a Serious Author, yet also fun. The only problem? I had to shave my legs to wear it. Sometimes you just gotta make sacrifices for the greater purpose, you know.

Later, I called Agent Friend and said something about wearing a suit.

"You wore a suit?" he asked.

"Um, was I not supposed to? I knew I should have called you and asked!" Panic rapidly set in. I hoped I didn't blow my chances by being a stiff.

"Most authors just show up in a shorts and flip-flops, so I think that was good."

"Well, it was a creative looking suit," I explained.

He was still impressed by my fanciness. He should've seen me in a sari. (Foreshadowing...)

Attack of the Allergies and Benadryl-Inspired Philosophy

Other than embarrassing myself with the Great Dildo Debacle of '07, I spent nearly every waking moment outside this weekend. At one point, I considered that my allergies were sending up warning flares, but I ignored them. The weather was just too tempting.

The other thing that spending a lot of time outdoors leads to is tiredness. Although I was exhausted last night, the nasal drip geyser and itchy soreness at the back of my throat kept me up.

"I know," I thought to myself around 11:30. "I'll take two Benadryl! Not only will that help with my allergies, but it will also make me sleep. I'm a genius!" I gulped the pills down. And we all know that I should never, ever take things to help me sleep.

Several hours (minutes? Seconds?) later, I woozily awoke with a full bladder. Zombie-like, I staggered into the bathroom. The room was spinning. I'm only 97% sure I remembered to wipe before trudging back to bed, holding the wall for support.

At some point later, I thought I was drowning. With much effort, my eyelids were unwillingly pried open. I was lying in a pool of drool. Even my faithful companion, Theo the teddy bear, was covered in slobber. Or at least the left side of his face was. Husband was spared, though, and I decided to keep it that way by moving to the couch.

While relocating, I pondered the existence of God. If there is in fact a god, it is definitely genderless or hermaphroditic. But which one? Employing the principals of ying-yang, I decided that any possible god is a hermaphrodite. What do you think?