"It's Free!" Yells the Town Crier

Today is Free Iced Coffee Day at Dunkin' Donuts. Even the location down the street from my south Bronx office is participating until 10 PM. I don't like iced coffee (too bad it isn't Free Donut Day), but the cheapie who resides deep within my soul is urging me to get some anyway because it's free, and Cheapy McCheapstein hates missing out on anything free. Even if I don't like whatever item is on offer. Plus, I already missed Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's, so it would be a shame to miss another national chain store promotion....

This has been a public service announcement. We now return to our regular programming.

Barbie Lives!

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

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

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

I Remember Mama Voting

Today was a long day (wrote a post about the firing of the most powerful woman on Wall Street at BlogHer, and also one on public service and burnout at Just Cause; went to work and did my data entry tasks; edited the proof of my book; and joined Husband at a painful networking event for NYU's Young Alumni Leaders Circle, of which he is a member, not me), but I don't have it nearly as hard as millions of other women in this country who work at least one paid job, then go home to take care of their families. So while my eyes are still (barely) open, I want to take part in ACORN's I Remember Mama Voting event. The campaign asks people to think about your own mother or mother figure and how she may or may not have influenced your political views and your attitudes about voting and civic participation.

Where I grew up, it was assumed that everyone of legal age voted. (This was outside of Chicago, so generally our dead didn't also vote.) Our assigned polling station was at the Jesuit boys' high school down the street from our house. Part of the excitement I felt when I accompanied my mom as she went to vote was from entering what I considered a mysterious space. Incidentally, the actor Chris O'Donnell attended this high school, so he was probably there when I went with my mom to vote. (He also went to the same dentist as my family, but I digress.)

I think what makes this so interesting is that I associate my mom voting with Jesuit boys. My mom is not as involved in political causes as I am, but my family has always been Democrats surrounded by a Republican community. I just always knew that Republicans were not for us, although when I was older, I remember overhearing my father telling our neighbor a bizarre joke about my mom voting for Ronald Reagan because she thought Jimmy Carter had bad legs. I was utterly horrified at the thought. How could my mom vote for a Republican?!?! Fortunately, when I asked her about it, she had no idea what I was talking about, but it was my first exposure to the stereotypical notion that women don't vote on the issues, but rather on a candidate's attractiveness. I thought that was the dumbest thing any woman could do, and swore I would follow my mom's example and always vote for the candidate who would help "the people." Thanks, Mom!

To participate in I Remember Mama Voting, post your story on your blog and then link to it at ACORN's site.

The Sniff Test

"Where ya been?" I asked Husband when he walked in the door a few minutes before 12 last night. I knew he had a business dinner, but usually they don't last until midnight. (Although to be honest, I barely noticed what time it was because I was hustling to finish editing my book proof before Friday, and due to extremely poor time management, am mad behind schedule.)

"After the dinner, most of us went to a bar," he replied, leaning over to kiss me.

"A bar, huh? Was it in a strip club?" I inquired, joking. On the extremely rare occasion when he had to go to a strip club with colleagues, he left almost immediately. If they really went to a strip club, he'd have been home by 10:00. Plus, he wouldn't hide that he did. Instead, he'd discuss the club's profit margins. This is why I adore him.

"No! We did not go to a strip club!" Husband said indignantly as he headed to the bedroom to change. A few minutes later, he re-emerged in the dining room, where I was still sprawled out with the book and my laptop. "You coming to bed soon?"

I stopped what I was writing and looked him up and down. "Come here," I said and pulled him toward me. From my sitting position, my head was exactly at crotch level. Before he knew what was coming, I took a deep whiff. "Nope. Doesn't smell like a lap dance."

He swatted at my head. "Back off!" Then we laughed, and I packed my things up for the night.

The Emotional Gamut

Today (thus far):

4:45 AM: Cell phone alarm plays "Ride of the Valkyries," waking me from a nightmare in which my childhood friend Julie's house is possessed and must be burned down to end the curse. Relieved.

6:45 AM: Can't find gate 20D after Dr. P drops me off at Miami airport. Panic.

6:55 AM: Realize that the "20D" on my boarding pass is my seat number, not gate. Sheepish.

7:00 AM - 2:40 PM: Read excellent book on plane, bus from airport, and at home. Joy.

3:15 PM: Depart for orientation meeting for organizations with student interns, although it is technically my day off from work. While on subway, cry at tragic turn book takes. Depressed.

4:15 PM: Introduce self at meeting, notice large question marks on faces of orientation organizers and ponder why our intern's project description on list of student projects is utterly unfamiliar. Confused.

5:15 PM: Learn that our intern decided not to work with us after all. Unsure (why head of our organization insisted that I attend this meeting).

5:16 PM: Leave meeting. Enraged (at waste of time attending session when I could have been home editing my book).

6:00 PM: Three women glad in bright yellow jackets that end at the midriff, neon green tank tops, and plastic sunglasses with slats across the lenses enter my subway car with bottles of alcoholic beverage and a little dog on a lease wearing a tee shirt. The dog's name is "Gucci," and when the women are not yelling about riding the subway drunk, the are attempting to physically force Gucci to sit. Irritated.

6:20 PM: Get home. Wonder what is in store for me for the remaining six or so hours left in the day. Nervous.

More Reading

While I marvel at the fact that a publisher is letting me write things like:

In a secluded corner of the park near the water, a man stood masturbating (or possibly shaking off after urinating) in the bushes. I am fairly sure this was not a performance art piece, as the park’s other visitors were assiduously ignoring him.

in my book about unusual things to see and do in New York City, and at the same time hoping that whatever evil pain has possessed my back goes away before I leave tomorrow to visit my bestest buddy Dr. P (who I have not seen since September - sob!) in Florida, others may want to check out a depressing essay about the overwhelming guilt I feel about not wanting to have kids in light of Holocaust Remembrance Day, which is today, and/or an inspiring article about two interesting women working in different ways to bring reform to fundamentalist Muslim communities.

I believe that the above is the longest run-on sentence I ever produced.

Safe Places: Perceptions vs. Reality

Until I left for college, I lived with my family in the uppity northern suburbs of Chicago. When I was an ambitious junior high student, I decided that I wanted to attend Northwestern University, which is only about 15 minutes from the home which my parents purchased six months before I was born. This pleased my parents immensely. However, by the end of my sophomore year of high school, it occured to me that college would be an excellent opportunity to live in another city. I set my sights on Boston, New York City, and Washington, DC.

My dad forbid me to apply to school in New York. While working at a CPA firm in the mid-1980s, he was sent to the City once a year to do an audit for a client. He hated everything about it: the crowds, the dirt and grime, and the crime. Why on earth would he send his precious eldest daughter to Sodom when she could stay in Chicago or go to other nice places, like Boston or DC.

The irony is that by the time I applied to school in the fall of 1993, New York was already one of the safest cities in the world. DC has always had an outrageous murder rate; almost 2/3 of the metropolis were and are significantly more dangerous than New York. But since New York had not shed its image as the Rotting Big Apple, my dad thought that DC was a better place to live.

Today, I work in the South Bronx. Many people continue to associate the area with the arsons, burned out buildings, and air of desperation that pervaded it in the 1970s, when the Yankees played a championship game, Howard Cosell saw fires in the surrounding community and announced that the Bronx was burning. I walk through a housing project to get to my office from the subway (which is actually an elevated train up here, just like in Chicago). I've never felt threatened thus far. Yet, I read on CNN that 15 people were shot and killed in Chicago in the past two weeks. I'm not sure there's been one murder in the entire City of New York in the same time frame. (Probably there was, but I refuse to watch the doom-and-gloom that is the local news, and I didn't notice anything in the Metro section of the Times).

Perceptions and fear play a big role in how we live our lives. Although my childhood community is held up as a paragon of educational excellence, I frequently think about how racism and classism influenced the educational opportunities that were offered to my best friend, who has half Dominican, versus me, who lived on the "wrong side of the highway (as did my BF)," versus the wealthier kids. When people say that they are afraid to go to Israel because of terrorism, I think about how my friend from high school moved to Israel after college. While she was back in the US for a visit with her Israeli boyfriend, the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center flew over her head as she boarded a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. It is the only terrorist attack she ever experienced; her boyfriend said he would never return to the US because it was too dangerous here. When people in Europe hear that I am from Chicago, they ask me about Al Capone.

In a media saturated culture, it is hard to get away from perceptions. I found that it took me years to really understand New York, and now I am scared of the dark empty sidewalk of the subrubs when I visit my parents. How do you decide where to go and what to do?

Learning to Be a Compassionate Conservative

For my 7th grade social studies enrichment project, I devised a board game about homelessness. The game was inspired by an article I read in People magazine about four or five people and how they became homeless. Using only their real life stories, people went around the board and tried to find a permanent place to live. I even cut out the people's pictures from the magazine and made them into the men.

After playing the game for a little while, several of my fellow "gifted" classmates became frustrated by all the bad luck that happened on each turn. Just when they thought they were making progress, there would be some set back, again, based on the real life stories told in the article.

"How do you win?" one guy demanded to know.

I frowned. "I don't think it's possible."

"This is the dumbest game ever," he sneered. "I quit."

And that is the type of "compassionate" conservatism that pervaded the community I grew up in. People refused to believe that not everyone was born into an advantaged situation, and thus if they were homeless, it was their fault. Plus, if only someone worked hard enough, they would be fine.

Granted, we were only in junior high, so I can't entirely fault my classmates for their naivety. At the same time, I seemed able to grasp the concept and as one of the dumbest smart people in my school, I barely was admitted into the gifted program, so I'm not sure why the "best and the brightest" were unable to wrap their little minds around the idea that society really screws some people. Now might be a good time to point out that Donald Rumsfeld grew up in that area, so perhaps it is a collective willful stupidity that only a few of us are fortunate enough to avoid.

And, with that little commentary, I am off to get an offensively expensive hair cut.

Cue the Eerie Music

My email in-box had a very nice email in it this morning from a woman who read on one of the various MFA forums that I obsess over that I was wait listed at the New School for non-fiction. She is also a non-fiction wait listee. I instantly felt less alone as I read Catherine's email (for no good reason, I was convinced that I was the only non-fiction applicant who was not immediately accepted), and checked out her blog, A Fly on the Wall. Cool stuff, plus her last entry was about poached eggs and hot cocoa. Hello! I love me some poached eggs and hot cocoa.

After my email checkings and various bloggings, I headed downtown to buy a discount suitcase at the infamous Century 21 department store, a place that I swore I would never shop at again because it is owned by crazy Syrian Jews who look down upon Askenazi Jewish riff raff like me who cannot prove our Jewish lineage because everyone was fucking killed in the Holocaust. (I read this last year in a New York Times Magazine cover story that I cannot find a link to at the moment.) I probably shouldn't have to show birth records signed by rabbis going back three generations to prove that I am Jewish because I went to Century 21 anyway because they have the best prices on luggage. If that is not a Jewish trait, sue my Katubah maker.

Anyway, while I was downtown, I decided to eat at Little Lad's Basket, a vegan cafeteria in the basement of a fancy office building near Wall St. that is run by Seventh Day Adventists from Maine. I love that place because it is cheap, and full of interesting characters. Generally, the tables are bustling with hippies, Muslims, Jews who keep kosher, Hindis, and random office workers. Today, it was empty due to Passover and the fact that I arrived just before it closed. Nothing was left on the buffet, though. I grabbed on of their oddly addictive bags of "herbal" popcorn, and went elsewhere for nourishment.

When I got home several hours later, I had an email from a nice woman named Kat who found CUSS while googling images of egg poachers. She also asked if I could provide the exact address for Little Lad's Basket, which she learned about from the blog.

Woooooooo.....

Setting the Medical Community Straight

"Suzanne, listen," Bubbe intoned when I called her this evening to see how she felt after her routine cataract surgery yesterday, "the doctor told me that I got diabetes from depression when Michael died."

Michael was my grandpa. "No, Bubbe. Depression doesn't cause diabetes," I explained.

"Yes! That's what the doctor told me. That's how your dad and I got diabetes."

"Um, I think you may have misunderstood what he was saying," I suggested.

"No, he told me this."

"Depression does not cause diabetes," I insisted.

"No? Well maybe the doctor doesn't know this," she said. I pictured the look of smug satisfaction on her wrinkled face, and gave in.

"Whatever you say."

It's a Mystery

Why would a community health organization offer orange juice (but not water) as a refreshment at a course on how diabetics can take better care of themselves?

Who's on First? No, Really...

A few summers ago, I swore that I was finished with the Chicago Cubs. The team broke my heart too many times, and I was determined to end the cycle of baseball fan abuse once and for all. Despite my pledge, I half-heartedly cheered for them in the playoffs last summer. Since I didn't follow them all season and had no idea who the players were, I was only half-committed to rooting them on, it didn't bother me when they were (predictably) quickly eliminated. Plus, I had emotionally exhausted myself watching the Mets - my new top team - self-destruct before the playoffs even arrived, squandering a season-long lead. The Cubs' defeat was nothing.

This baseball season marks the 100th anniversary of the Cubs' last World Series victory. Although I am convinced that any future Cubs World Series glory marks the coming of the Apocalypse, I think I am going to again pay attention to the team. There's some good potential there. (We all know where this is headed. Hit it, Elivs: the Heartbreak Hotel...) I viewed the end of yesterday's game, in which the Cubs blew a two run lead over Philly, but won it in the 10th. I hadn't the foggiest idea who the hell was on the field other than Derek Lee, who I at first failed to recognize, but it was fun to watch.

However, my commitment to two teams is going to cause my brain to explode. It is hard for me to learn so many names, and as it is, I am overwhelmed with remembering who the new Mets players are. (LoDuca is out; Schneider is in - or is it Church who is catching? No, Church is in the outfield replacing someone, maybe Millege? And where did Pagan come from?) Next step is to learn to connect the names to the faces, which is extremely difficult for me. If I am truly going to get back into the Cubs this year, that means I also have to learn their team from scratch. It's like taking on a full time job.

Fortunately, Husband is patient with my limitations, and no matter how many times I ask who's on first, Husband reminds me of the guy's whole back story. As any true fan knows, baseball sometimes requires sacrifices to be made.

Now That's the Life

I love that Tycho, our 13 lb. rabbit, no longer even bothers getting up before he eats. He just lays on the floor and cranes his neck into his food dish. We should all be able to take it so easy.

Even My Sentences are Running!

There's a Mars bar waiting for me on my kitchen counter. It's been waiting patiently for me since I brought it back with me from London on March 23. I decided that I would eat it when I know whether or not I will be attending an MFA program in the fall. The Mars bar is getting lonely.

I'd like to know what is going on for the fall, and to eat this delicious, chocolatey, caramel treat. (British Mars bars kick the asses of the American version. They are more like a super extra smooth and tasty 3 Musketeers, which is my favorite American mass market candy bra. Mars bars are even better than 3 Musketeers.) However, somehow between my eating trip to London, my non-stop snacking thanks to anxiety, and my lax attendance at the gym (coupled with lazy workouts when I did manage to roll myself there), I am not fitting into my clothes very well. As in, pants are mad tight, and shirts clearly highlight my pot belly.

This all brings me to The Biggest Loser, which is an oddly compelling reality show about extremely overweight people trying to lose weight. Last week, the first time I tuned in this entire season (although there were only 3 left - better late than never!), people were sobbing their eyes out when they had to vote someone out for merely gaining a pound. (He lost over 100!) It was touching and weirdly inspiring. Not as inspiring as when Alex came to visit me recently, got me to run outside for the first time in forever, and then invited me to take part in a team triathlon with her (I'll run, she'll swim, and her friend will bike - playing on all our strengths), but uplifting enough for me to write a run-on sentence.

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.

The Price is Right, But Who Cares?

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

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

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

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

Linky (Self-)Love

Mmmmm...French Canadian yogurt with pears and grains...

Awesome books I recently read...

Politics as usual...

No word from New School...

How to Settle Up?

"Twenty bucks says that I find rejection letter from New School in the mail when I get home," I grumbled to myself this morning after being frozen out of my email, voicemail, and the shared drive on the network at work this morning.

"You're on!" I answered back.

Really, I think I was agreeing with myself that such an event would be a fitting end to a shitty beginning. Probably that doesn't make it a bet, then. If it is legit, then I owe myself $20. The only item in the mailbox was a letter from a friend that also contained tickets to Mets games this summer.

Ooooh, baseball! Despite the Met's auspicious start (already a key pitcher is injured!), and my cluelessness regarding how the Cubs began their 100th season since their last World Series championship, I am psyched. Play ball! Twenty bucks says the season ends with both my home teams tanking...

"The Onion" Speaks Truth

Every so often, I complain about how my gentrified neighborhood is rapidly becoming luxurified. Last weekend, while Husband was surfing the net for goodness knows what, he discovered that our zip code is now the 5th wealthiest in the nation. (The first four are all on the Upper West East (thanks, Anonymous commenter!) Side, including where Dr. P used to live, which sort of surprised me, as there is public housing near her old apartment. Come to think of it, there's also public housing in my zip code, so I guess the wealthy are so over the top rich that they dwarf the outlying poor residents on the bell curve, but I digress.)

Anyhoos, the humeros newspaper The Onion, which I have adored since my senior year of high school when I read a gut-busting article on the failure of pet vending machines (the inventor couldn't figure out how to fix the machine so that the pets weren't already dead when someone bought one), has a great take on luxurification. Check out Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened by Aristocritization. Totally.Fucking.Brilliant.

What Once Was Lost Was Actually Hiding in My Closet

This morning as I dressed for work, I selected a very nice white button down shirt with pink and black stripes. I'm not sure when I wore it last, but as I withdrew it from my closet, I noticed a white bra looped around the hanger.

"Hmmmm... what's this?" my addled mind puzzled.

I stared at it for a moment, decided to wear it, and as I was removing the mysterious lingerie from its wire home, it hit me: this was the (expensive) bra that I lost that led me to go on my quest to buy (even more expensive) new bras! Hallelujah! It's a miracle!

I slipped into its warm embrace. The bra feels very nice around my rib cage - no squeezing. If today isn't my lucky day, then I don't know what is.

Hippos Lurk, But So Does Happiness

After my trip to the Bung Hole wine bar yesterday, I figured that I was due for some good news today. Initially, I was disappointed. Returning to work, I discovered that my the grant that my new employer uses to fund my position was revoked while I was gone last week. There's a chance that the funder will be convinced to give it back to them, but I won't know until tomorrow or Thursday. Cool.

When I got home from work this evening, there was still no word from either graduate program that I applied to. However, my answering machine did contain the best news possible: Monkey Girl said that Count Mockula had her baby in the wee hours of the morning! Both mom and baby are doing well. (And MG: I can't find your number, so can you email it to me or call me back?) Yay!

My advice to Zadie is to stay away from hippos. Although they look very peaceful lying around in pools of mud, they can suddenly creep up and tip your canoe. Or at the very last, scare the crap out of you with their bad teeth, which makes me think of that hilarious shark from the Strange Wilderness commercial.

The Picture Says It All

After losing my planned post for BlogHer yesterday, which was infuriating (I re-wrote it and posted it today), my fucking piece of shit laptop lost an article that I worked on for almost four hours this most delightful afternoon. This was partially my fault, as I forgot to save it as another document after I downloaded it, but I did save it about 400 times while I worked on it, so I'm not sure why it never showed up in the temp file.


That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. As for the restaurant, I am curious who would eat at a place with such a name. Fascinating.

I Am the Blog Master of CUSS

There's a spam comment on my last post request the "blog master" of this blog to post more relative information before it goes on to plug some sort of site. The idea of being the blog master of CUSS is almost as hilarious as all of your brilliant comments about the horror of roaches on a plane. I wish I had thought of that spoof. Thank goodness I have such witty friends. Instead, the blog master thing reminds me of Ghost Busters. If I am the Blog Master, who is the Gate Keeper?

As blog master, my recent neglect of CUSS is due to the outrageous prices the hotel I stayed at this past week charged for internet access. It would have been $36 for 24 hours of wi fi. Now, I love blogging, but I can't justify $36 for internet access. When I was out and about, I meant to stop into an internet cafe and give a shout out and check my email, but I was having so mch fun with my sister and her hubby that I forgot to look for a place.

I'm coming home tomorrow, which will be grand, as I have not seen Husband for more than 3 hours in the past two weeks. I miss the bugger very much. While I was gone, he ate at lots of nice restaurants with his brother and sister-in-law. (This is a very fine juxtaposition to the places that I ate at with my sister and brother-in-law, which generally involved some sort of fast food. Sometimes, however, it was Lebanese fast food and in my mind, probably rivaled Husband's gourmet lunch at Jean Georges.) I'm still having a great time out here, as I am with Mara and my cousin, but it is fucking cold, I'm running out of clean clothes, and I am ready to stop paying 2x the marked price of anything I buy thanks to a crap American dollar.

Hopefully, there will be no motherfuckin' roaches on the motherfuckin' plane on the way back, as I think the flight is full. My roach hunting skills (which I will gladly pass on to Alex when she visits, although I hope that there are no targets in my apartment on which to demonstrate) are not as honed for varment killing with lots of innocent bystanders around. Smacking people with newspapers or stomping their toes while attempting to create a filthy insect-free environment may not be appreciated, although everyone hates roaches.*

*Warrior: My friend and I once saw some cute little mice in the bathroom of one of our favorite restaurants. Sadly, I never saw them again, either.

Cheers!

I think this might be the longest I have gone without blogging since I began CUSS two years ago. (Although possibly I went longer when I visited my friend in the middle of nowhere in the Dominican Republic in Dec. 2005, but in that case, there was no technology at all. This time, the internet access cost way too much.) Time has flown, and I barely noticed that I haven't touched a computer since Monday evening. Life can go on without blogging! Craziness!

Adventures began on Saturday evening when I was forced to put my New York skills into practice and kill a roach on the plane. The bastard popped up on the empty seat in front of me just as I settled in for the evening meal. Somehow, no flight attendant noticed as I chased it around with a folded newspaper, smashing and smacking up and down the row. It evaded me at first, but about two hours later, I took my victory by crushing it. I could finally sleep.

After that, things were calm. It was great hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law, whose 29th birthday was yesterday. As I mentioned, the week just happened so quickly. I've got lots of good pics to come, including one of a shop called the Bung Hole.

Hope all is well with everyone. I'll be back to my usual Chatty McChatterson state of being upon my return on Sunday. (I'm sure you are waiting with baited breath. Ha.)

Beware the Words of Shakespeare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Just In: Nothing to Report

I thought I'd wait before I blogged today to see if I had any school news. Two of my friends were admitted into the nonfiction writing program (one got a call from the program director waaaaaay back on Feb. 25, the other got a big welcome packet in the mail this past Wednesday), but I have heard bupkes. I've been assuming I'm not in anywhere (I also applied to Hunter College, which called people on Feb. 25), but hoped to find out fer shure, dude, before I took a week to gallivant with my sister and brother-in-law.

My rule of thumb is not to call admissions offices and pester people, as they have a zillion things to do, but since it would suck for poor Husband if he had to call me and tell me about rejections while I am gone, I decided to be proactive. I rang the New School, where the very nice woman told me no decision had been made on my application yet. She said that everything will be finished up next week. Oh well.

Other things that are on my mind:

Good: Girl Scout Cookies. I just picked up a box each of Samoas and Tag Alongs (as they are known in Chicago; in NYC, they call 'em "Caramel deLites" and Peanut Butter Patties). Yum.
Bad: Caramel de"Lites" my ass. Two cookies have 7 grams of fat and 140 calories. Of course I ate three of them, and topped my indulgence off with two of the chocolate peanut butter ones (8 grams of fat, 150 calories). Pants are tight....

Good: Barack Obama's mom, Stanley Ann Dunham Soetoro. I read an article in today's New York TImes about her that made me cry. She sounded like an utterly amazing, fantastic, wonderful, cool person.
Bad: She's not running for president. (In fact, she sadly died of ovarian cancer when she was only 53.)

Just thought I'd share.

The Hardest Work in the World?

If I thought getting through 21 hours of my new job was challenging, I can't imagine what it would be like to work as a prostitute. Generally, even the fanciest ones face severe danger. If a client robs, beats, or rapes you, who are you going to turn to for help? Certainly not the police, as you'd then be arrested for breaking the law yourself. The law makes prostitutes even more vulnerable.

I think prostitution should be legal, and I wrote all about it at BlogHer. Hop over there and take a gander. Think I'm brilliant? Full of shit? (Well, that's sadly literally true, as my digestive system decided to melt down today, but that's another story.) Leave a comment over there and start the discussion: How do you think we can best protect sex workers?

Come for the Reservation, Stay for the Food

Although Husband and I are fortunate to have a very nice life thanks to Husband's chosen profession (which he adores), it's the little things that remind me that I will never truly "make it." While I was eating my microwave breakfast burrito, I noticed a blurb on the front of yesterday's New York Times Dining Out section. It read, "The selling of reservations irks restaurants."

For a second, I stared blankly. What the hell did that mean? Then I realized that it meant that people who scored reservations at choice, top rated restaurants actually find others willing to pay good money to buy their reservation and go eat an expensive, albeit probably excellent, meal.

Shit. I barely ever go to places that require reservations, and only call in advance if I am going out with a large group of family and/or friends. I've never wanted to go somewhere that requires me to call, months in advance, a phone number that will be busy all day. I like good food fine enough, but hand me a plate of mac and cheese, and I'm just as happy. People are weird.

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!

Totally Inappropriate Comparison...

Although my dental appointment yesterday was mostly without incident, every time the hygienist accidentally scratched my tender pink gum with the sharp scraper tool while cleaning my teeth, I thought about how utterly awful a coat hanger abortion would feel.

Miracles and Non-Miracles

Yesterday, I was offered a part-time program developer job at a small grassroots nonprofit organization in the Bronx! It occurred to me that although I have thus far spent nearly my entire career working with community-based organizations by providing technical assistance and training, I never worked at one. I think this is going to be very interesting. Just as important, the organization does not work in the child care field. Step one away from work that makes me miserable! Hurray!

After my interview, I headed further north in the Bronx to take some pictures of the Lourdes of America shrine for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (Yes, a church built a replica of the miraculous healing grotto in Lourdes, France so that parishioners here can enjoy its superpowers. I love it.) Rain fell from the sky in buckets. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, I get that this is a metaphor.) I worried that I would not get a good shot, but lo and behold, the second I stepped into the church yard, the rain stopped. I snapped away, filled my empty Snapple bottle with miracle water (the same water source that serves all city residents), and went on my way. As I left the churchyard, it began raining like cats and dogs. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, this is a simile.)

Then last night Clinton took Texas and Ohio, giving her the ammo she needs to justify her continued ego trip - I mean, run for the presidential nomination - although it could destroy the Democrats' chance at winning the White House in November by inciting anger, resentment, and bad will all around. I'm not sure how many times I can say this, but damn, I miss Pat Schroeder. What a class act. The thought of a McCain presidency is overwhelmingly depressing, so I will try to not dwell on it.

Perhaps it is time to register for cheese making lessons. This way, I'll at least have some concept of how to fulfill my ridiculous plan B, which is to move to a sheep and goat farm in the UK if the US is subject to four more years of Republican rule. My anxiety is like a bull in a china shop mixing kashi with borscht.

Big Day Ahead

Can Hillary Clinton carry Ohio and/or Texas in today's primary, and live to fight another month? I voted for Obama in the NYS primary, and honestly it will make me sad if Clinton loses today, but I am already sick of this election. The longer this drags on, the more fear overtakes me. I can't deal with another Republican administration. Whatever happens today, I hope that Democrats don't splinter and vote for McCain, which is an insane/scary "my-candidate-didn't-win-so-take-that" conclusion, but something I've heard too many say they would do.

How will my job interview go? I think it will be fine. I'm excited about it. Although I think I'd like this job and would be sad to not get it, I'm oddly more concerned with the primary.

Is it possible for me to take a decent picture of the Lourdes of America shrine at St. Lucy's Church in the Bronx for my book? Given my extremely limited photographic skills, this is the least likely of my questions to have a positive outcome. I'd have a friend photograph the place, but I'll be sort of in the neighborhood anyway for the job interview, so I'll give it a whirl myself. If it doesn't come out well, I can always go back with someone who is actually talented.

Fortunately, I'll have answers to at least some of these thorny questions by the end of the day. Stay tuned for more excitement. [Cliffhanger music playing...]

My Daytime TV Diet

So Des reports that she subsists on a steady diet of game shows while she is unemployed. While I wait for people to call me back on the various projects that I am working on, I devised the following menu of non-online entertainment:

America's Next Top Model reruns on VH1 and MTV

Project Runway reruns on Bravo

America's Best Dance Crew reruns on MTV

From these fine programs, I learn many things. First, Husband's assertion that fashion designers are misogynists is obvious from watching the shit that the designers produce and judges fawn over on Project Runway. The leading designer, Christian, is a young punk who fails every challenge that requires him to work with a real woman (i.e. - a woman who lost weight; a teenage girl) instead of a 9 foot tall model who weighs 84.5 pounds. Even when he doing his "best" work, I stare at it and wonder why any person on earth would wear something that fucked up and weird. I guess fashion is about making women look like fools and idiots.

On America's Next Top Model, I learned that Tyra Banks is hilarious. I also discovered that I will never be a model for several reasons that go beyond my 5'1" frame that carries 125 pounds. My biggest challenge is distinguishing expressions. Tyra is always demonstrating the difference between something like "smiling eyes" and "mysterious eyes," but they look the same to little old me. Further, even if I had the body, looks, and skills, I doubt I could put on the ridiculous outfits that designers create without severe mockery and snickering.

Thanks to America's Best Dance Crew, I discovered that I do not use complementary expressions like, "That is sick!" or "That's tight!," nearly enough. I also saw that my roller skating and gymnastics skills could be developed more. There are no wider social implications from this show, as far as I can tell. It's just fun.

Who says that television is not educational?

Happy March!

Just sayin'. I'm going into March like a very nervous lion with a lot of decisions to make (should I hunt now or later? go where the gazelles usually hang out, even though I hate that pasture, or try to find a new place to harvest gazelle meat? maybe I should forget about the gazelles altogether and focus on zebras?), so I hope that I end the month like a very content lamb, albeit not one that has no idea she is about to turn into lamb chops.

God, I love metaphors.

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 di