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.

Reading the Label

On my way to my bookclub this evening, I stopped at a Russian grocery store to pick up some treats. After browsing all the various candies, breads, crackers, cookies, and other baked goods, I settled on a package of what I thought were meringue cookies covered with chocolate. When I went to pay, I thought it would be fun to buy some candy, too. I picked up a package on the counter.

"What's this?" I asked the cashier.

"Oh, this is for something like make your stomach better digest," she said, struggling with her English.

"OK, I'll try them."

I paid and as I walked to my friend's apartment, I opened the yellow packaging. Instead of a chocolate bar or oat bar, I discovered four individually wrapped chewy chocolate bites. As I was chewing the third one, I realized it reminded a little bit of the chocolate calcium chews I used to eat years ago. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Didn't she say that these were for digestions? OH MY GOD. WHAT IF I JUST ATE THREE CHOCOLATE LAXATIVES?!?! Well, it could be an interesting book club, I decided.

Fortunately, I had not shit my pants or my friend's sofa or stunk up her bathroom by the time our bookclub ended. However, I discovered that the cookies were some strange fruity marshmallow. It was deliciously over sweet, like the relief I felt at not crapping myself. But lesson learned: don't fuck around when you can't read labels!

What We Saw at a Bus Stop in the West Village

Warning: This is likely the most disgusting thing I've ever posted on CUSS...

As Steph and I strolled through the West Village this afternoon, she pointed out all the things that had changed since she moved. One of new arrivals is fancy bus shelters. We walked up to a glass and metal bus structure, and Steph gasped.

"Do you see what I see next to the bench?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

"That's a dildo."

"With shit caked on it, yes."

Naming Names: A Cautionary Tale

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

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

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

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

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.

Theo* Gets a Bath

It could have been worse. While ailing in bed yesterday, I sat up to take a sip of Gatorade. I didn't sit up enough, though, and the viscous reddish-pink fluid tricked out of the bottle, down my chin, and onto Theo's head. It looked like someone hit him on his matted head and he bled out. I dabbed at my little victim with a tissue, but Gatorade is powerful.

When Husband came home from work, he told me that we both looked awful. This was probably saying less for me than for Theo, as I had just taken a shower, and he hadn't been bathed in years. "Why didn't you put Theo in the wash?" he asked. "It's long overdue anyway."

The pathetic part of all of this is that I wanted to wash Theo up, but I didn't have the strength to deal with even a simple task like that. Today, however, I am 115% better. I put Theo in a pillow case and when he came out of the machine, the Gatorade-assault victim look was gone. He also smelled fresher. Hurray for the new washer!

*Theo is my long time companion bear.

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.

Insomnia Cure!

The train ride back from Long Island last night took an hour and forty minutes. I figured that I could use the time to get some reading done for my lit class. I am a fool.

The problem is that the book, Safe Conduct by Boris Pasternak, is insanely boring. Maybe boring is not the right word - pretentiously literary probably describes it better. Here is an illustrative passage:

We take people as our symbols so as to overcast them with weather, set them in their natural surroundings. And we take weather, or what is one and the same, nature - so that we may overcast it with our passion. We drag everyday things into prose for the sake of poetry. We entice prose into poetry for the sake of music. This, then, in the widest sense of the word, I called art, set by the clock of the living race which strikes with the generations.

Certainly, this is brilliant writing. I just can't read it. Every time I try to read this autobiography, I fall asleep. I read about 20 pages on the train before I passed out. This is not good for my class discussion possibilities. However, I am glad that I now have a cure for the insomnia that plagues me.

People I Love

I trekked out to Queens this morning and had brunch with my friends Dr. P and Dr. R. From there, Dr. P and I drove out to Long Island and hit an outlet mall and Home Depot. I spent too much money, but damn did I get a cute dress.

While eating frozen yogurt at the mall, I got an email from my sister with a picture of my nephew. I have not seen him in person since the 4th end* of July, and she hasn't sent me any new pictures in a month. He's so big now! Of course, I think he is totally adorable:

It was such a nice day. I just wish I could spend more time with all the people I love and don't get to see enough because they live far away.

*Thanks Mar. Clearly, Maurice was overtired and not running fast enough on his wheel.

Up (and Back Down)

The new Pixar film Up garnered solid reviews, so when my friend asked if I wanted to catch the flick yesterday, I agreed, even though the theater charged an extra $3 for the fucking 3D glasses. (This is on top of the $1 internet ticket purchase charge, bring the total to $16.50! Man, no free fucking cheesecake here...)

Since every review I read mentioned the four minute silent montage that captures the cycle of a loving marriage made the reviewer cry, I knew that I would cry my eyes out. Two different points turned on my eyeball waterworks, and a third prompted my ducts to get wet. Plus, there were several moments of such hilarious hijinx involving talking dogs, that I practically sobbed with laughter.

All in all, an excellent movie. Perhaps not worth $16.50, but certainly I do not regret shelling out Husband's hard earned cash for it. (He enjoyed it as well, but definitely felt it not worth even the regular $12.50 admission, although he also believes that no movie is worth so much moolah. "Up is going to be a classic," he said. "It was very well constructed.") Although the 3D glasses package specifically says not to wear the glasses as sunglasses (the diagram indicates that a ray from the sun will penetrate one's brain while wearing the glasses), I planned to do so anyway until I realized that all my salt water left spots on the lenses. Foiled again!

Snip the Tip

Yes, it is time for the inevitable circumcision post. Despite the lovely cross that decorates the wall behind me and my brother-in-law in the photo I posted previously, we will continue the ancient ways of our Jewish heritage. Yesterday was eight days after Marcus arrived in the world, and thus his covenant with God was made, albeit at the doctor's office with a regular rabbi saying a blessing. There are not to many mohels wandering around Iowa, and thank goodness even fewer with these weird plush moyel scissors.

Happily, the procedure went off without a hitch. The doctor told Dana she could give Marcus some infant Tylenol if he seemed to be in pain, but she said he slept sounder last night than he had since he came home on Monday. I'm not sure what that indicates, but I'm glad all is well.

However, for a more disturbing circumcision story, let's go back in time. While I was in Iowa over the weekend, the rabbi visited my family in the hospital and gave the new parents a book on raising a Jewish baby. I began reading it, and was fascinated by the story about how Moses's son came to be relieved of his foreskin.

Basically, the father is supposed to do the job, but Moses was too busy leading his people around the desert, and forgot. Zipporah, the baby's mother, then took matters into her own hands. Using a flint knife (the tool of ye olden days), she sawed off the kid's foreskin. The baby was fine (or as fine as a baby can be after being cut up by a flint), but the book reported that Zipporah was supremely pissed that she had to see to this task herself. (I see her point: if she's gotta birth the damn thing, the least Moses can do is circumcise it - she's already traumatized enough.) So she went up to Moses, and bitterly flung the foreskin in his face.

Now that is the way to end both a circumcision and a story.

Poked by the Doody Finger of Fretfulness

My adorable little alien nephew* finally proved that he is a member of our family when he took his third extremely nasty shit. (Fortunately, I missed Nasty Shit #2, and as I reported yesterday, was peed on during Nasty Shit #1.) As I helped clean up the squirmy, screaming kid, doody got on one of my fingers. I knew that I loved the goober because I didn't mind at all that he managed to smear poo on me; I found it oddly endearing.

Other than Marcus's arrival in the world, things have been extra special stressful lately. I feel like the Doody Finger of Fretfulness poked me in the eye. Seriously, my right eye is punishing me for something. It is super allergy angry, and my contact gets blurry and dry at the same time. My glasses are very nice, but the last time I had the prescription updated was 1999 since I just wear them around the house at night, so I don't see so well out of them, either.

Our bathroom is still not fucking fixed. The person from the management company neglected to respond to my last email about what the status is. Things are going on in my professional life that keep me awake at night with anxiety. (Worse, the anxiety leads me to pick my cuticles, which then got baby doody on them...) School, which I love right now, is ending in three weeks.

I guess things could always be worse - the Doody Finger of Fretfulness could have poked me in both eyes...

*I swear, photos to come. I need to be sleeping now but am waiting for some stupid USB port to format, so I thought I'd blog a bit, but can't find the camera.

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

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

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

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

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

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

Damn, Damn, Damn

Earlier this week, Husband worried that he was coming down with a cold. I advised him to take it easy, particularly since he was leaving for the Old World for a week, and being sick while traveling is miserable. Of course, I did not take my own counsel, staying up all hours and running around in chilly, damp weather, and now I'm knocked again with a fucking cold. Will this winter of discontent never end?!?!

Yesterday evening I journeyed out of my sick cocoon and was distracted by a store offering 70% off the original ticket price of certain items. I found a great sweater, and was pleased by my savings. The cashier told me that they had another shop around the corner with more items, so my friend and I sauntered over there. I found a flattering wrap dress that was originally $98. When I went to pay for it, the cashier said it would be $39.

"Oh, the sign said that the items in that section were 70% off the original price," I told him.

"Right," he nodded. "That's $39."

"No, it's less than that."

He sighed and pointed at the tag. "It was originally $98."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, I am aware of that. And 70% off of 98 is NOT $39. It is $29 and change."

Long sigh from the cashier.

"OK, forget it," I snapped. "I don't want it anym..."

"That'll be $29.40."

Damn, people! Of course, when I woke up this morning and looked at the original price of the sweater, I discovered that they overcharged me by $5.60. Gah!!!!

Maybe the Childhood Concussions Did Have an Effect...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

Here's an excerpt from a post I wrote for BlogHer* on Tuesday about couples and yearly check ups:

I don't have a primary care physician. Instead, I have in my contacts list** (in alphabetical order) an:
-Allergist (2-3 visits yearly)
-Breast surgeon (2 visits yearly)
-Dentist (2 visits yearly)
-Dermatologist (as needed, but usually once every four or five years)
-Gastrointerologist (as needed, which hasn't been for over a year, but at one point was once a month)
-Gynecologist (1 visit yearly)
-Ophthalmologist (1 visit yearly)
-Podiatrist (only used once, after I stepped on a sea urchin in Hawaii)
-Reproductive endocrinologist (2 appointments to determine whether I had PCOS, but I keep the name just in case, sort of like the podiatrist)

With all my various parts cared for, who needs an internist? For the first time in four years, I visited a primary care doctor back in August, but only because some forms filled out to enroll in school. That is when I discovered that my "regular" doctor left the practice at least two years ago. Ooops. The new doctor managed to screw up my vaccine schedule, which makes me less inclined to return for care. Whenever I need a new doctor for any of my organs, I usually can just turn to friends for advice. (If I count my doctor friends, I also have two pediatricians, another dentist, another OB-GYN, another breast surgeon, and multiple colo-rectal surgeons in my contacts list. Plus one primary care physician who I would never trust, but that's another story.)

Probably it would be good to have a primary care doctor to coordinate all my files and keep track of what is going on with me and my team of specialists. Ironically, though, I hate doctors. The thought of adding one more doctor whose job it is to just follow along seems like such a waste of time. I have good cholesterol, my blood pressure is nice and low, and my sodium is a-OK. My weight is healthy for my frame, and I don't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I am the picture of good health, except for all of the specialized health problems that I have...

*And thank you, Zandria, for being the sole comment on that post! :)
*Also, I could use a good therapist to deal with my stress and frustration levels, if anyone in New York City has a recommendation... Anyone?

Carb Cravings

Until this week, I never lusted after a granola bar. Last night, I dreamed that I drank half of a glass of apple juice before realizing that it was not part of the South Beach Diet; I don't even like apple juice. (Later in the dream it dawned on the that the gallon of vanilla ice cream that I ate before freaking out about the juice was also verboten.) I might kill someone for a bite of a cookie. (Could I use the South Beach Diet Defense in court? "My restrictive diet made me do it, your Honor!")

The first phase of South Beach is the most restrictive because carb cravings generally come from eating carbs. In theory, if you only eat good ones (i.e. - vegetables) for a few weeks, then your body will no longer miss the baddies like granola bars. Clearly, I am driven by psychological and emotional food cravings. Or, the problem might be that I used too much artificial sweetener, which is allowed on the diet. It turns out that the latest research shows that the body produces insulin whenever someone consumes artificial sweetener as if the person ate regular sugar.

On the other hand, once I found out about the Equal/Sweet n Low/Splenda problem and smacked my head and sighed dramatically multiple times, I cut down the amount I used to two packets and tried to drink less than 12 ounces of diet pop a day. That's when the cravings intensified. Craziness.

What? Who Am I and How Did I Get Here?

My future is grim. Case in point: this morning I arrived at a doctor's appointment with a coat, scarf, hat, mittens, backpack, and bottle of water. Before leaving the exam room, I put on my coat and scarf, then attempted to grab my hat and mittens, but they were nowhere to be found.

"Shit, I hope they are in the waiting room," I muttered to myself. Then I headed over to check out. After paying, I ducked back into the lobby and sure enough, my hat and mittens were on the chair I used. Fine. I put them on and left for work.

As I walked to the subway, I noticed that my throat was dry. "Damn, I wish I had a drink," I thought. And that's when I realized that I left my water bottle in the bathroom at the doctor's office. Sigh.

I am only 33 and senile already. It's amazing that I remember the password to my blogging account. (I guess my brain knows what's really important.) I'm so fucked.

Note to Self: Listen toBlog Readers,* Not Allergist

There's a first for everything. Once I had a sinus infection that was so bad I developed pink eye and laryngitis before it was properly diagnosed.** Another time in college I had a urinary tract infection that I somehow did not notice until it became so bad that it made me vomit.*** Today, I discovered that a sinus infection can get so bad that it gives a person a toothache.

On Saturday, I called my allergist to tell him that I had a lot of yellow mucus that reminded me of the slime that they used to dump on the kids on You Can't Do that on Television. He told me that I should wait until I was sick for a week before he would consider antibiotics. Now, although this is the same doctor who insisted that I take Singular pills (I do not and never have) when I called him to get a refill for my inhaler, this sounded OK to me since I worry about the overuse of antibiotics and the super bugs they create. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, dammit, so I went about my business.

I swear I even started to feel better. "I see the light at the end of the tunnel," I told a co-worker today at lunchtime after hacking up four pounds of neon mucus into a Kleenex at my desk. She looked a bit skeptical, but said that was great. Then around 3:00, I noticed a dull throbbing in my upper left molar. This eventually spread to my lower left molar. By the time I got out of class at 10:20, I had to hold my face in my hand.

Fortunately, the 24 hour walk-in clinic is not far from school, so I headed over there. I won't go into the hour long wait I experienced although I was the only person there (the doctor apologized profusely and said that no one should have to wait when she's sick; I am easy to mollify), but when she asked me if I had tooth pain, I felt a little less insane. "How did you know?" I asked. "Oh, it means that there's an infection," she smiled. As an experienced sinus infection sufferer, I've never had this before, but hey, first time for everything.

Now I am on some sort of super antibiotic which will hopefully clear up my head infection, but also wreak havoc on the rest of me. (Other good reasons to steer clear of antibiotics if they are unnecessary: 1. disruption of birth control pill; 2. potential for explosive diarrhea; 3. potential for massive vaginal yeast infection. When the doctor said that I had to use condoms for six week and then mentioned the diarrhea and yeast infection, I asked her who would want to have sex under those conditions any way?)

Time for a new allergist. And thanks everyone for wishing me well! Now I am finally on the way. I hope.

*Especially when one reader is an excellent ass surgeon.
**Thank you, NYU student health center for administering pregnancy tests and insisting that I did not have a sinus infection every time I went in to get help for my congestion.
***Seriously, I'm not sure how the fiery burn when I pissed - and constant need to go - didn't tip me off.

Pneumonia Ice Cream

"How are you?" my dad asked me when I spoke to him on the phone earlier.

"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.

"Oh, do you have a cold?"

"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"

"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"

This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.

"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)

"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."

I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.

Eruption

There's a mountainous red zit on my forehead, approximately half an inch above my left eyebrow. Since I am in the chin hair plucking phase of my life, I haven't had to deal with real pimples in a few years. (Although there was the unfortunate transition period in which I had both acne and chin hairs. That was evil.) I realized that I forgot how to deal with volcanic zits.

When I first noticed Mt. Krakatoa bursting through the surface of my skin yesterday, I left it alone. I know that is technically what one is supposed to do, but in my zit-covered prime, picking at them seemed far more productive than sitting there, waiting for it to disappear on its own. This morning I remembered that I should poke at it. I grabbed my trusty tweezers and squeezed.

A small glob of pus oozed out. "Oh, yeah. That's how it works," I thought, as memories of zits past haunted me like ghosts visiting Scrooge on Christmas eve. I squeezed harder, not remembering what happens when the molten center of a zit bursts forth. Pus exploded out and hit the mirrored medicine cabinet. Ooops.

I Forgot to Step Away from the Hyperbole

Last night in workshop, I made the following statement:

"Many times this semester, I've felt a lot like Trig Palin at the Republican National Convention. Everyone surrounding me is totally with the program and knows what's going on, and I'm sitting here, blinking, wondering where I am and how I got here."

No one laughed. This is not the first time I made an exaggerated statement that produced no reaction. I forgot that people in my workshop are not so into hyperbole. Or my random political jokes. Oh well.

I found it hilarious, though. I love me some extravagant exaggeration.

Hey Little Girl!

Last night, Alex, her hubby BG, her two sons, and I went heading to Ruby Tuesday's for a fine dining experience. Upon entering the restaurant, BG told the host that we needed a table for five. BG held their younger son (age 2) in his arms, and I held the hand of their older son (age 5). The host looked at all of us.

"Do you need three children's menus?" he inquired. We stood silently for a moment, staring at him. Then BG and Alex started laughing, and the host turned bright red. "Of course you don't! Come right the way."

As I followed him to our booth, I wondered if he thought I was the third child or if it was Alex. Lately I've been looking my age more than ever, so if it was me, that would be pretty hilarious. He probably thought I was the oldest brother. Strangely, before we went to the restaurant, Alex told me when BG flipped through pictures from their older son's (OS) September birthday party, when he asked her which friend of OS's was in this one. Alex took one look at it and burst out laughing. "Um, that's Suzanne!" (Evidence to be posted later.)

Maybe school is aging me down. Not only am I breaking out again for the first time in years, but another comment the little wench in my workshop left for me was that my writing is juvenile. Maybe I'm all Benjamin Button or something.

Breaking & Entering

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

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

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

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

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

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?

The Great Memorial Day Weekend Dildo Debacle of '07

My dearest friend Dr. P is leaving NYC for the fine state of Florida in less than a week. Tonight a select group of ladies (plus Husband and Brother-in-Law) gathered at my apartment to have cake in her honor. As we were slurping down the ice cream cake Dr. H brought, I asked her to tell us her favorite surgery story from the past five years.

"Well, there was the time a guy came to the ER after he perforated his colon with a dildo," she began.

We laughed and leaned in closer to hear more.

"His wife brought him in, and she wasn't sure which dildo he had used - the 8 inch one or the 12 incher..." As she related the sad story, I decided that a visual aid would be good. I ran into my room and grabbed the dildo that I won in a fundraising raffle last March (which is also when the picture was taken).Sadly, only one of the google eyes that Husbadn had taped on it remained. (Tape and silicon don't work well together.)

Dashing back into the dining room, I whipped it out and reminded everyone that this was only an 8 inch dildo.

"Let me see that!" Dr. P said. I handed it over. Dr. H and Dr. P inspected it closley. "Ewwwwww! There's hair on it!"

"What?!?! Let me see that!" I snatched it back. This thing is too scary to use. More importantly, I was mortified to think that they would believe that I was slovenly enough to use a dildo and not only not clean it up, but then share it with a dining room full of people. I got very defensive. "Of course there's hair on it! There is also a thick layer of lint and dust clinging to its thickly veined shaft and a google eye stuck to its head!" I was desperate for people to believe that I am not completely disgusting. They just laughed and laughed, making me more flustered.

Eventually, I sheepishly put my object d'art back in my room, Dr. P finished telling her surgical dildo retrieval stories, and Dr. H threw in one of her own from when she was a med student. (Some guy stuck a travel toothbrush case up his ass while consorting with a prostitute and it got stuck.)

Ultimately, that's what brings me to Memorial Day. Words of wisdom to our soldiers as they travel the world and use the services of prostitutes or even local woman: be careful. Doctors will make fun of you after they pull foreign objects out of your ass. Also, if you want to use a dildo to illustrate a point, wipe it down first. Silicone is sticky shit unless you are trying to affix google eyes with tape, and you don't want to be embarrassed, regardless of whether it has been used or just sits around your cabin collecting dust.

I'm just saying.