Punctuation

Look, I suck at grammar. But I know two things:

1. Do not use single quotation marks for anything except for quotes within quotes. Like: "Suzanne is such a bitch," Suzanne's classmate complained. "She said, 'Why the fuck are you in an MFA program and using single quotes for everything?'" Not: 'Suzanne is such a bitch,' Suzanne's classmate complained. Or: I put this in quotes to highlight that it is "ironic." Not: I put this in quotes to highlight that it is 'ironic.'

People at school used these single quotes all the time and it drove me up the wall. Then I doubted myself. Maybe I was the idiot? I looked it up in Strunk & White's book on grammar, and I was correct. Smugness.

2. If you have a list of things, commas go between all the items. This has been the subject of many books. I know that fancy modern writing is OK with sentences like, "I brought my six pack of beer, my handgun, my rifle and my sawed off shotgun to the grammar conference." But that sentence hurts my brain. I learned that it is proper to write, "I brought my six pack of beer, my handgun, my rifle, and my sawed off shotgun to the grammar conference."

Sure, my blog is riddled with typos and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences. (Is it, "Sure, my blog is riddled with typos and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences" or "Sure, my blog is riddled with typos, and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences?" And does that last sentence end with a period or question mark?) Actually, that example brought up another pet peeve, which is punctuation done outside of quote marks. I learned that commas, periods, question marks, etc. belong in the quote mark, not outside of it. (Like, "You stupid fuck," she yelled; not "You stupid fuck", she yelled.)

Grammar is hard. It gives me a tooth ache. OK, sinus pressure also gives me a tooth ache. And so do sentences starting with and, or, but...

It's Here!

The Census form arrived yesterday! I am very excited. Instead of working on my thesis, I am going to fill it out tonight. After all, it says in block letters on the envelope that it is required by law to return the Census. Am I a law breaker?* No I am not!

Besides, it is very important to be counted. Every day when I read the news, I despair at the state of the nation. Texas just re-wrote standards for all textbooks to emphasize the importance of Phyllis Schlafly; drop Thomas Jefferson because he wrote that church and state should be separate; and remind people that women and people of color got the right to vote because white males were kind enough to let them. Seriously. A dentist/"historical expert" on the committee that rammed through this abhorrent crap challenged people to show him where the Constitution calls for a separation of church and state. (He said he'd donate $1,000 to a charity of choice of anyone who can "prove" that this concept exists. Yeah, and he'll sooner believe "evidence" that dinosaurs and Jesus played together as children while unicorns swarm in rivers of chocolate.)

Blah. The point is, I want to be counted because I know damn well that evil people who believe that the US is a Christian nation are going to be counted. I didn't open my Census form last night, but I'm pretty sure that the Census does not ask about religion. I'm bummed about that because even though America is predominantly Christian, it would be nice to know how many people aren't so we can be sure to protect everyone's rights. Husband always says that we should be ready to flee at a moment's notice. I used to think he was insane ("This is America!" I'd tell him), but history has shown that even the stablest democracies can turn, and of course, Jews have been kicked out of pretty much everywhere except North America (not that Peter Stuyvesant didn't try really hard), so we're probably due someday.

Um, yeah. Anyway. This sure turned into a downer, huh? No one is going to hire me to write ads for the Census if I keep this negativity up, so... The Census is here! Rah rah! Don't forget to get represented! YOU matter! Woo!

*Well, if I could steal my political adversaries' Census forms, I totally would. That's the kind of bad ass law breaker I am. Except that I'm not, because that would be wrong. Sigh.

The Census is Coming! The Census is Coming!

A white envelope waited for me when I checked the mail last night. In huge letters it said, "United States Census 2010." Excitement surged through my veins. Ooooh! The Census! Not only do I love filling out questionnaires (seriously), but I love helping New York get its fair share of resources.

I ran back into the apartment. "We got the Census form!" I told Husband, waving the slim envelope triumphantly in the air.

"Are you sure? It could just be a letter telling us that the Census is coming."

"Oh." Suddenly the tiny envelope made more sense. I ripped it open. It was a letter. In bold letters, it said, "About one week from now, you will receive a 2010 Census form in the mail."

Fine. I got all excited again. "The Census is coming! The Census is coming!"

I sort of hope that my enthusiasm for the Census will not be matched by people who live in states that don't believe in government services or civil liberties. I don't want them getting their fair share of representation if they are going to use it to deprive me of my fair share of rights. I'm just sayin'....

International Women's Day Was Yesterday

Basically, I have no idea what is going on outside of my little sphere of work and thesis writing. I thought today was March 8th, which is International Women's Day, and was all excited to write about it. I understand now that March 8th was actually yesterday. I'm going to say some shit anyway.

I wrote a post for BlogHer about 30 Woman Making History, a campaign by the Woman's Media Center to highlight, yes, 30 women making history while also raising some dough to employ women to write about news and politics. Good idea. I picked five women that I thought were making history (Shada [Shatha] Nasser, Eveline Shen, Sindiwe Magona, Shirley Rodriguez Remeneski, and Alysa Stanton). Links for more info on each awesome woman is in my post at BlogHer if you want to know more, and yes, that's my way of getting people to click over there. Whatever.

Today I read a post over at another awesome woman's blog, Suebob's Red Stapler. She quoted a not awesome woman blogger who said that equality is stupid because it is about fairness and we all know that life isn't fair. "Fuck that!" was essentially Suebob's reaction, echoed by all the excellent people who left comments on it.

One comment in particular stood out: "Vagina's are wasted on some people I swear." This was written by Thordora, who totally made my day.

And now, back to my day.

Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

Heads Up!

For a nanosecond, I wanted to scream when I stepped onto the subway on Tuesday morning. In a seat between two disinterested women lay a disembodied head, face down. Its black hair stood up at odd angles, and its brown neck was evenly sawed off from a torso.

I quickly realized that the reason that the women were so nonchalant about this horror was that it was a severed mannequin's head. Further inspection lead me to notice that the mannequin's little bud nose rested on a cosmetology magazine. The head seemed to belong to the woman on its right, who thoughtfully gave it its own seat so that actual humans had to stand.

At 42nd Street, the woman gathered her shopping bags, scooped up the head and magazine, and exited the train. I sat down in the seat formerly occupied by the lifeless head. I love living in New York City.

15 Years is Very Good, But Expensive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5,479 Days, But Who's Counting?

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

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

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

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

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

What's the Frequency Kenneth?

Last Wednesday, I took a closer look at the nail on my big left toe. It had been a bit yellowed for a few weeks, but I thought nothing of it. I hate feet. They are gross even under the best of circumstances, so my toes aren't exactly shining pedicured beauties and the slight discoloration didn't really register.

It turned out that my nail was sort of in the process of falling off. "Hmmm," I though. "I should probably do something about this." I considered ripping it off myself, but wasn't sure how much blood that would entail and how I might, without a toe nail, eventually stop it. So I put a bandage over it and called a podiatrist the next day. They gave me a Friday morning appointment.

The doctor looked at my toe and asked me when I traumatized it. "Huh?" I said. He said that I must have stubbed it at some point, causing the break, which was then allowed a fungus to get in. I wracked my brain. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, amped up. We came up blank. I'd think that something that would cause my toe nail to crack open would be something I might remember, but I guess not. The story of my life these days...

--------------------------

On a side note, changes are coming to CUSS! I have an awesome person helping me deal with the technical issues that Blogger threw at me a few weeks ago (I can't use their publishing service after March 26 for a variety of reasons), and she's going to be moving CUSS to a WordPress format. CUSS readers (all two or so of you, who I love dearly) will still find the blog at the same URL, cussandotherrants.com, and I think the feeds won't be affected. It'll just be a shiny new look (eventually) and a different way to leave comments.

Anyway, given all the blogs out there and the limited amount of time people have in which to read them, I just want to thank you for reading CUSS. It means a lot to me.

When Worlds Collide

When I moved to New York City from the 'burbs of Chicago 15 years ago, one of the biggest adjustments I had to make was the lack of Walgreen's. NYC had plenty of pharmacies/drug store chains to choose from - Duane Reade (as ubiquitous in NYC as Walgreen's is in Chicago), CVS, Rite Aid, the one that was on 8th Street between Broadway and University whose name I am blanking on but that no longer exists, etc. - but I thought Walgreen's had a better variety of random products than any of them. Whenever I went out to Long Island, I rejoiced in the Walgreen's near the train station that served Husband's parents' town.

Over time, however, I adjusted. Duane Reade, still annoying in general, spruced itself up a bit as it expanded its presence. (At one point, it seemed like the only commercial space left in the City would be bank branches, Starbuckses, and Duane Reades.) I adapted to its overpriced merchandise, surly cashiers, and long lines. They introduced a card in which you got points for every dollar you spent, and they rounded up, which made me feel a bit better about paying $2 for a Diet Coke that the corner bodega might sell for between $1.25 (if I'm lucky) and $1.75. Once you get a $100, you get $5 off your next purchase. I love bribes.

So, when I got Husband's email this morning that informed me that Walgreen's acquired Duane Reade, I was shocked. Even more shocked than by the fact that the New York Times finally posted what was rumored to be such a scandalous story about Gov. Patterson that he'd immediately be forced to resign and it turned out to be boring. I mean, Walgreen's taking over Duane Reade? This is craziness! I can't decide if I am excited or horrified.

For now, Walgreen's is keeping the Duane Reade name, but it will be really weird if they replace it and there's no more Duane Reade in NYC. I wonder if this is revenge for Macy's buying Marshall Field's and then changing the name, an affront to the civic pride and identities of Chicagoans everywhere. Huh. Maybe I've uncovered a diabolical plot. Now that Duane Reade is threatened, I feel very defensive of it, even though I fucking hate that store (other than the bribes). Interesting.

Jews Love Money

If every stereotype emerges from the tiniest kernel of truth, Husband gives the anti-Semitic crazies a good basis for their rants. Before I left to visit my sister in Iowa for the weekend, he gleefully announced that he would spend the weekend counting money. It was a moment for which he'd waited about five years.

Husband hates carrying change. He'd empty out his pockets at the end of the day, save up the change, then count it out and take it to the bank. He counts it because the counting machines at the bank notoriously undercount. Plus, I think it allows him to slip some old coins replaced by Euros into the rolls, but that's just my suspicion.

Anyway, I gave him a plastic parking meter bank for Hanukkah abut five years ago, and he's been patiently feeding it change since then. I guess the manufacturers thought whatever kid would use it would be too impatient to fill it, as it collapsed from the weight of the coins about six months ago. Since then, it lay on the floor as Husband faithfully inserted his change.




All told, he said there were over 3,000 pennies alone. The total was slightly
more than $600. I can only imagine what would happen if someone broke into our apartment and tried to steal Husband's bounty. It would be a loud and very slow get away.

Monster Trucks!

My sister's 30th birthday is Monday. Back before I remembered how bad winter is in the midwest, I decided that I would visit her over the holiday weekend and join her celebration. Living in New York has spoiled me. Sure, it gets cold here and snows, but this is kid stuff compared to what I grew up with in the Chicago area. I have become soft.

I expressed my fears to Dana. She told me to wear layers. I laughed. "It's 25 degrees here and I am already wearing a hat, scarf, down coat, lined mittens, tights, knee socks, leather boots up to my knees, jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater (and, of course, undies). I am still cold." She laughed. "Damn, you're a wuss."

And speaking of wusses, when she told me a few days ago that she would like to celebrate her birthday at a monster truck rally, I hesitated. Part of me was really, really, really excited. The other part feared the Confederate flag waving, pick up truck riding majority of the audience. I assumed that I had enough sense of self-preservation not to get into a fight with anyone, but who knows? I challenged a fucked up Jamie Kennedy at his own documentary. (Not that he was a threat, but it shows that when I feel insulted, I don't think before I open my mouth.)

However, excitement got the better of me, and I cannot wait! Not only does the show feature truck stars Killer Bee, Rislone Defender, Bar’s Leaks Eliminator, Storm Damage, "the ever so popular monster truck 'The General,'" but - but! - if we arrive early enough, we can take a family ride on a monster truck known as Bone Crusher. Fuck, this will be amazing. Bring on the monster trucks!

Now, if only my flight gets there OK, given all the snow, and equally importantly, gets me back on Monday...

Snowstorm, Revisited

I took this picture on March 2, 2009, but today is a similar day in terms of weather, and I love it so much that I can't help but re-post.



Wherever you are, I hope your day is filled with lovable mini snowfolk.

The Jamie Kennedy Experience

This story was told to me by Husband and Brother-in-Law. Although I have never done illegal drugs, nor have I ever even been drunk, I do not remember this incident at all.

In 2007, Husband, Brother-in-Law, and I went to see a documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival about stand up comedy. The film was done by the comic and actor Jamie Kennedy, who wanted to know why people don't find certain brands of humor funny. The first half of Heckler included many famous comedians talking about hecklers. The second part of the movie, however, focused on why critics hated Kennedy's movie, Malibu's Most Wanted. He hunted down critics and badgered them, insisting that they just didn't get it. (Husband said it was the worst movie he's ever seen at the Tribeca Film Festival, and I'm sure I hated it, but of course, I don't remember.)

Usually screenings at the Festival are packed. This one had only about ten people. Still, Jamie Kennedy came out after the movie to talk about it. Once Husband mentioned this part to me, I did recall that Kennedy was wasted on something. He heckled the audience. At one point, he asked us a question about what we find funny and why, and I made the mistake of raising my hand to answer it.

He did not like my response, whatever it was, and yelled at me. I yelled back at him. Apparently, we argued loudly for some time. Husband and Brother-in-Law found this hilarious.

I wish I could remember when I got into a verbal slam down with Jamie Kennedy.

If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

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

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

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

BOMB and Explosion

My friend Mark and I went to check out Brooklyn's Other Museum of Brooklyn (BOMB) after work this evening. (If you visit the website, note that the BOMB we went to and the BOMB depicted are different buildings. BOMB moves with the real estate market.) It is open every Tuesday from 7 - 9 pm.

The new BOMB is in a building that is not heated or necessarily finished. As I went up the staircase, I was slightly fearful that I would plunge through the boards. It was sturdy, though. When we were upstairs, the curator, Scott, offered us beers. When I said I don't drink, he sweetly said he also had cranberry juice and various flavored seltzers.

Basically, BOMB is a museum dedicated to promoting the historic preservation of Admiral's Row, which is a set of buildings in the Brooklyn Navy Yard that the Mayor's office wants to tear down, and a place for the curator to store things that he rescues from the trash. Here's what Mark and I saw (apologies for the blurry pics - I used my BlackBerry phone):

If you squint really hard at the upper right, you can make out a canister used during Prohibition to make alcohol. The twisty spigot is wrapped around a gumball machine. Near the furnace to the right, sort of behind the fireplace, is a long black cylinder which is a rusted out sewage pipe. The window shade is pulled back by a paper mache puppet that looks out the window and admires the neighborhood.

The bathroom counter is covered with items that Scott, the curator of BOMB, found on the beach. This includes a femur, many pieces of broken china, coins, and rocks.

This portion of the wall was part of a church steeple in the 1800s. I love it. Yes, that is a cow skull hanging in the center of it. The Disgruntled Cow uses Scott to express her displeasure at how the Mayor milks the City dry. The object with wheels is a racing car from 1920 that reminds me of a go-kart.

This torpedo used to hang outside the museum. I sort of like it in the niche at the top of the staircase.



Mark and Scott are far more knowledgeable about Brooklyn than I can ever hope to be, so I mostly listened to them chat as my feet went numb from cold. Scott gave us all kinds of goodies to take home. Of course, I loved every second of my visit.

The explosion on the subway ride home, though, was terrifying. As we sped through the tunnel, a passenger with a wispy white goatee suddenly blew up at another rider. He jumped in the man's face and bellowed, "Why are you staring at me? Get your eyes off me! Do you have a problem with me. I said stop looking at me. Are you sweet for me, huh? Are you a homo? DO you want me to shove something up your ass? Fuck you!"

A few months ago, someone was randomly stabbed on the subway under very similar circumstances, and even though I was at the other end of the car, my heart thundered away. The other passengers watched the scene unfold and looked nervous, but only I changed cars when the train stopped. The man who was harassed got off, whether it was his stop or not. I hadn't been that nervous on the train since I was caught in the middle of a fight during rush hour and a guy broke a glass bottle and brandished it at someone.

Time Vampire

Urban Dictionary's Word of the Day is Time Vampire. This is something that sucks away your time like a vampire does blood. I love, love, love this concept.

My thesis is a time vampire. Or at least it will be once I start working on it for real. My goal is to write 3-4 pages a day for the next two months, not including weekends for the most part.

Probably it is bad that I describe the writing of what I hope will be my next book as a time vampire, huh?

Go Figure

Yesterday my grandmother finally recovered enough from the sedatives given to her before her angiogram/angioplasty for my mom to tell her what happened. We expected Granny to be upset. My mom assured her that we would find her another doctor.

Upon hearing that her doctor forgot which stents he was supposed to use, my grandmother, apparently, shrugged. "Well, I like him. He doesn't talk to me like I'm senile or a child."

My mom was confused. "So do you not want a new doctor."

"No," Granny said. "I'm happy with this one."

While I hope that he does not commit a much bigger fuck up in the future, I'm relieved that she is not upset about what happened. This doctor got lucky. That's all I'll say.*

*Except that if he does anything to hurt Granny in the future, I will come after that fucker with everything I've got.

"I Am Not a Hero"

Miep Gies, one of five people who hid Anne Frank's family and four other people, died on Monday night. She was 100 years old. I read parts of her memoir, "Anne Frank Remembered," a few months ago when I went to research at the Holocaust museum in New York City.

"I am not a hero," she wrote. "I stand at the end of the long, long line of good Dutch people who did what I did and more - much - more during those day and terrible times years ago, but always like yesterday in the heart of those of us who bear witness."

If anyone can read those lines without crying, I don't understand how.

Today the New York Times published a letter from someone praising Mrs. Gies and lamenting the lack of "empathy, courage, and selflessness" that exists in people today, noting that these "were once the kinds of behaviors we valued most in human beings." This is a nice sentiment, but it is not true. It has never been true. If we really valued these behaviors, the Holocaust would not have happened. Years of institutionalized and individual racism would not exist because people would have stood up and said, "This is wrong," no matter what the cost. People were as narcissistic and self-involved back then as they are today. That is what makes Miep Gies so special.

Mrs. Gies said that she was "only one" of many who acted so humanely and courageously, but that is another indication of her generous nature. Then and now, people pay enormous lip service to the "sanctity of life." Most people will not risk their own lives to stand up for others. I think often about what I would do if I were in Mrs. Gies situation. I only hope that I would act as she did.

Speaking of Fame...

Obviously, this photo is of the crowd of shrieking 12 year old girls who lined West 75th Street on Friday night, the police cars that escorted a black SUV down the street to the stage entrance to the Beacon theater, and Nick Jonas getting out of the SUV.

I passed by the mob scene on my way home from work and thought it was hilarious enough to stand around in the cold for a few minutes and repeatedly mumble, "Oh. My. God. It's the Jonas Brothers!" as other startled Upper West Siders made their ways home. The best part is that I didn't know it was Jonas-related, but decided that it had to be, given the situation. (I guess it could have been for Taylor Swift, but then maybe boys would also be there.) I was only partly right - the show was Nick sans Brothers.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, I was a 12 year old girl. The New Kids on the Block were the hotties of the moment. The female tweens would line up on cold streets and shriek for their heartthrobs, but I didn't really get it back then, and I still don't today. This weekend, Dr. P and I discussed our wonderment at the crazed desire that girls threw toward Elvis. (We saw a clip of an Elvis flick on TV and she commented that he was sort of chubby, even before he was Fat Elvis.) Maybe if I was a youth when the Beatles first journeyed across the ocean would I feel compelled to participate in such behavior. I'm such a dork.

My Stash

I sorted my stash tonight, and made a horrific discovery. One of my maintenance inhalers (Qvar) expired in October 2006. Even I'm not messing around with that - in the trash it goes. I also discovered that the sample of my regular inhaler (Ventolin) given to me in December by my allergist expired in June 2009. Harumph.

Ironically, earlier in the evening, while chatting with Dr. P on the phone, I discovered a jar of pasta sauce that expired in December 2007. It was unopened. Dr. P advised me to toss it. I put it back in the pantry. (It was unopened!*) I did, however, toss out the jar of pasta sauce that expired in June 2009, which seems to be a busy month for products to expire in my household. (It was half empty, and I thought I spotted mold in it, although it was refrigerated.**)

Fortunately, my 'stache stash is stocked and ready to rock the world, should I ever need a clever disguise or seven. Steph gave Husband a new extra long fake mustache and a mini mustache comb for the holidays. Between the asthma meds and the synthetic hair and glue, we are good to go.

*God, I am turning into my aunt. If I ever serve salad dressing that expired two years ago, then claim it is fine because it is unopened, I give the recipient of said dressing permission to slap me.
**There is hope for me yet.

Bless the Internet!

Not long ago, I wrote about my mother's love of fruit cake (concluding that it takes one to know one), but I didn't mention that as she told me her tale of fruit cakeless woe on the phone, I plopped my ass down in front of the computer and ordered one online for her birthday. (I didn't want to spoil the surprise in case she read my blog before it arrived.) My blog friend Pamela kindly suggested a good online fruit cake source, but I had already secretly ordered from Hickory Farms. I believe that I will make online fruit cake ordering a new tradition. Next year: Pamela's suggestion, Collins Street Bakery. I love their history.

After I accomplished the fruit cake mission, I turned to the internet for some research. I was asked to contribute an article to an almanac about New York City. My assigned topic was a forgotten crime spree from the 1950s. The New York Times archives offered me articles from those days that gave me all the information I needed to complete my story. No microfiche! Hurray!

With the internet, is there ever a reason to leave home except to go to the gym, see people, or travel? (And the travel can be 100% planned through the internet!) I can do research, order gifts, and arrange for food to be brought to my doorstep. If only I could harness the power of the internet to work from home.

I love you, internet....

Ground Rules

Some time ago, I mentioned that when I was bored at a staff meeting in ye olden days, I decided to figure out which letter I would pick if I was forced to eat foods that only began with one letter for the rest of my life. After listing foods under each letter of the alphabet, I determined that C was the best option for me. Two main reasons: cheese and chocolate. Two secondary reasons: cookies and cake. S was a close second.

The problem with my system was that the rules were too loose. If someone picked S, would seafood count? How about sauteed mushrooms? Very tricky.

I gave this more thought this weekend when I said that if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be bureks. My friend's husband pointed out that bureks don't start with a C. Although I could have pointed out that this is a different challenge, I said I could eat cheese bureks, which are the best kind anyway.

This morning on the subway I refine the criteria to avoid cheating. The way it works is that if someone asks you what you are eating, and the answer makes sense, then it counts. For example, if someone chose F as her food, then went into a restaurant that had a fish special, she could order it if there was just one fish dish. It won't matter if it's salmon, cod, or trout. Her companion would say, "Hey, what are you getting?" and she'd say, "The fish." But no one goes into a restaurant and orders seafood. (Well, unless it is a seafood platter, so there's even wiggle room there.) If the category is too broad, it doesn't count. Specific brand names are OK, though. So I chose M and ate a Mars Bar, that would be OK, even if generically speaking it is a candy bar. (Which brings me back to why C is still the best option.)

Those are my rules, and I'm sticking to them!

Birthday Fiver

Despite the breakfast birthday cake and burek that sat in my stomach like a lead hockey puck, I accomplished my goal and ran five miles today. It took me slightly under 55 minutes, for which I'd like to blame the birthday cake and burek, but I'm just out of shape. It felt good to run, though.

Then I did what I promised myself I would do and sat on my ass for the rest of the day. It's a shame because it was gorgeous outside, but that's how it goes. I watched many home films from the olden days (early 1976 - about 1985) on my father-in-law's film projector. I have about 10 more to go, then I'm having them transferred to DVD as a gift to my parents. What was cool was that I watched movies from my 1st, 2nd, 4th, and 5th birthdays on my 34th birthday. What was not cool was how much I miss all of the relatives in the movies who aren't able to celebrate with me today.

Now I'm planning a trip home for January to see my grandmothers. I'm really, really worried about them. Husband told me that the TSA has new stupid rules that will do nothing to prevent situations like the one on the Detroit flight that inspired them, and he now refuses to fly. (Eye roll.) But really, forbidding people from using the bathroom during the last hour of a flight or having anything in their laps for the last 30 minutes is evil. I hope that some sanity prevails soon.

Whatever the case, my 33rd year pretty much sucked overall, so here's hoping that 34 brings better times. And thanks to everyone on Facebook for the awesome birthday wishes!!!

Mele Kalikimaka!

My friend from school invited Husband and I to Christmas Eve dinner last night. The food was excellent and company was fascinating. One guy belongs to a raw milk collective in NYC that contracts with an Amish farm in Pennsylvania to deliver raw milk and products to them. He said raw milk cottage cheese is unbelievable. He also said that donuts in Ireland are amazing. Interesting!

I've been fortunate enough to have some great Christmas Eves over the last few years. Husband and I were in southern California last year (although the temperature was freakishly low - in the 40s!). Actually, we were in New York on Xmas Eve - we left for California on the 25th. Two years ago (2007), we ate at a Denny's on the big island of Hawaii (hence the title, which is Merry Christmas in Hawaiian). That was an awesome trip. The year before that, we watched season one of The Wire on DVD. OK, we finished watching The Wire on DVD at our apartment on Christmas Eve before we left for LA in 2008, not 2006. In 2006 I was at my parents' house. I am so senile it is scary... And, finally, four years ago, we celebrated Christmas Eve with my friend Julie and her family in the Dominican Republic (2005).

Here's hoping that everyone has a lovely Christmas.

There's Goes That

I decided in October to grow my hair a little longer. The guy who cuts my hair said that he'd cut it so it would grow back in stages. I loved it. I actually decided to keep it medium short, and went in for a trim this morning.

"Hey, I just want a little trim," I told my stylist.

"Sure," he said. Then he went outside to check out the traffic situation because there was a lot of honking. A few minutes later, he ran out to move his car before it got a ticket.

With all that disruption, he seemed to forget what I wanted because I am sitting here at my keyboard 90 minutes later with really short hair, depressed and wanting a paper bag to put over my head because not only is it shorter than I wanted, but it also is not that great. There are worse things in the world, but it's really frustrating to think that I'm right back to where I was two months ago, except worse because he didn't even cut it in a way that will grow back nicely.

End of a Decade

I'm inspired by Count Mockula, who wrote a cool post about how her life has changed in the last decade. Here's the story of my last ten years:

In 2000, I earned my Masters in Public Administration from Columbia, and I began my career in community development, working to build more child care centers to serve low income families in NYC. Also, after a two year engagement, Husband and I get married. I was 24 years old. We moved out of the 200 square foot apartment with no stove or oven that we called home for the prior three years and into a mansion - 450 square feet! Husband leaves his job at Bear Stearns, turns down a job at Cantor Fitzgerald on the 103rd floor of the World Trade Center, and enters the world of private equity.

Husband and I went on a belated honeymoon to London. Since I was convinced that I will never have the chance to go again, I insisted that we go to about 40 places a day. We came back to NYC on Sept. 9. Two days later, I stood on the corner of 5th Avenue and 12th Street and watched the World Trade Center burn. A few months later, I was hired by another nonprofit to start a new program dedicated to changing the way child care centers are developed and financed. My grandfather (my mom's dad) died.

Overall, 2002 is unexciting. Husband and I buy an apartment. It cost $385,000, and is 900 square feet, with a large bedroom, huge living room, dining room, lots of closets, and a separate kitchen. A month later, the building manager sent a memo to all tenants that claims that common charges are rising by 50%, thus rendering the apartment unaffordable for us. I sobbed. Several days later, another memo comes, apologizing for the typo - the price increase is really only 5%. I developed a digestive ailment that prevented me from digesting fat, causing me to lose a lot of weight, smell like shit, and generally look like a zombie. It went away by the end of the year for the most part, and was never diagnosed.

Tycho the giant rabbit comes to live with us in 2003. That's about all I remember about 2003 and 2004. I was pretty miserable due to the Bush administration destroying anything that was good about the US. The Cubs broke my heart. I discovered that my grandfather's brother-in-law survived the Holocaust. Husband and I traveled to meet his family in France and Israel.

In 2005, my bestest friend Steph moved to North Carolina for graduate school. New York became 500% more boring. Husband and I celebrated being together for ten years. I joined the Haven Coalition, making two wonderful new friends, Sara and Mara. CUSS & Other Rants debuted Oct. 17, 2005. My cousin moved to New York to attend college. We hung out a lot.

After nearly five years, I burned out and left my job/threw my career into the toilet in Oct. 2006. (Before I quit, though, I went to Sacramento for a training, and met Count Mockula for dinner. My dad freaked out about me getting into a car with someone I met over the internet.) I decided to spend more time writing, and paid the bills with consulting gigs (and Husband's income). My first freelance articles appeared in Metro New York. I took a crazy internship with a magazine dedicated to selling condos and expensive strollers to rich parents to get more clips. I realized that I am not cut out for magazine work. BlogHer hired me as a Contributing Editor. I attended my first BlogHer conference, meeting the excellent Suebob, who I continue to be shocked that I did not scare away forever. The Mets broke my heart.

In 2007, Husband's boss started his own company. The good news: great opportunity for Husband! The downside: He has to commute to Connecticut. He obtained a red PT Cruiser to get to work, making me one of those New Yorkers who own a car upon whom I frown. My other bestest friend, Dr. P, moves to Florida for two years for a fellowship. Yet again, New York is 500% less fun. Steph moved back to the region, though, so that was good. The Mets broke my heart. Again.

My first book comes out in 2008! I also am accepted into the MFA program at the New School to study nonfiction after a stint on the wait list. Obama wins the presidency. Who are the Mets?

This past year, I had a disastrous experience re-entering the full-time workforce early on, but then got a much better position by year end. Despite Obama's victory, I was more depressed by the political situation than ever. Dr. P moved back to New York state! My sister had a baby! My brother-in-law's wife announced that she is pregnant! Husband and I renovated our apartment and installed a washing machine and dryer!

Throughout the decade, Husband proved me wrong when it came not only to returning to London (which I went to at least five more times), but also travel in general. I visited Argentina, Italy, India, France, Switzerland, Canada, the Dominican Republic, and Israel. Husband's parents took us on a cruise through the Caribbean. In the US, I went to Hawaii, Cleveland, Memphis, San Francisco, LA, various locations in CA, Miami, Orlando, Chapel Hill, Boston, Philadelphia, various locations in upstate New York, Vermont, DC, Delaware, and of course Chicago and Iowa City.

The aughts had a lot of ups and downs, but it was certainly an interesting run. Thanks to everyone (named and unnamed) who made the ups worth so much!

Swish

If I were a cat wearing corduroy pants, no one would need to tie a bell around my neck to warn the little animals that I was coming. The swishing sound that my pants make when my thighs rub together as I walk would alert them to my presence. Meow.

No matter what I weighed or looked like, "chub rub" (a term I learned from my friend Alex Elliot) has always bothered me. I can't wear skirts without putting something (tights, shorts, whatever) between my bare flesh, otherwise my legs are red and burning within a few hours. Warm up pants are even noisier than corduroys. SWISH!

Now that I've got that out in the open, I'm off to pluck out my chin hairs. Such is life.

Blizzard!

As of this middle of the night writing, New York City is expected to get up to 14 inches of snow. Husband and I had tickets to a Michael Jackson tribute show put on by my favorite cover band production house, The Loser's Lounge. Before I left, I spoke with my family (via Skype - I feel so tech savvy, years after the fact...), and they suggested we stay in.

"Dudes, this is NYC!" I assured them. "The subway will be no problem."

This was accurate. The subway came and got us there in a timely fashion.* It was actually nice to wander around as snow came down. The sidewalks and street were quiet, devoid of traffic. The show rocked. We had tea afterward, then journeyed through the blizzard home.

Anyway, the show was one reason why I hadn't made plans to travel home this weekend. (Another reason is that my in-laws were supposed to come to our place in the afternoon and have a belated Hanukkah celebration, but that was canceled due to said blizzard. The main reason, though, is that I'm exhausted from school and work and writing and just needed to sit around and rest.) My sister and nephew are at my parents' house this weekend, and I really wanted to go. Now I'm relieved that I didn't make plans. Even if I got out last night or this morning, I can't imagine being able to get back in time for work on Monday.

All that got me thinking about the passengers who are stranded at airports around the country due to the storm. I felt bad for them. Then I read an article on CNN.com that noted that Greyhound canceled 300 routes from New England to Jacksonville, FL, stranding lots and lots of people at Greyhound bus terminals. The Red Cross has been called for assistance. Yeah, that is one of my worst nightmares.

*This will no longer be possible in the spring. Thanks to gross mismanagement of the Metropolitan Transit Authority under 12 years of Republican "leadership,"** major service cuts are to be implemented.
**Although Husband points out that if Democrats were in control, the situation would be just as bad because the state is so fucking corrupt.

Copping an Attitude

When I walked into the subway at midnight, I discovered that all the turnstiles read "no entry." My writing workshop professor asked a man in the crowd assembled on the mezzanine what was going on. He shrugged. No one seemed to know how long both platforms would be closed.

A large white cop hustled back and forth, walking up the stairs to the street, then back down again. "Can you tell us what's happening?" Zia asked him. He stared at her. She asked again.

He made a face. "I can't tell you."

"Really? Not even a hint? Do you know when can we go back down?"

The cop stopped pacing. "Look lady, if you want to see two dead bodies, go right on down." He practically spat at us.

Geez, sorry for wanting to know what goes on in our city...

No Exaggeration

The intersection of 23rd and 6th Avenue is the only one I've ever passed through in Manhattan which not only has the standard "Walk/Don't Walk" lights to indicate when to cross the street, but also emits noises like a cuckoo clock. (Every intersection I encountered in downtown Oakland, Ca, on the other hand, makes noises.) This Manhattan intersection is different from the others because there is an institute for the blind on W. 23rd Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. (While I think it is great that the City made one intersection easier for blind people, I always wondered what happened if they came from the west side as opposed to east, but I digress.)

As I walked from work to school this evening, I crossed through the noise-emitting intersection. I continued south on 6th Avenue, and as I approached the doors of the Burlington Coat Factory, I nearly fell over. Leaving the shop was a blind man. He held his walking stick and emerged slowly from the store's double doors. Behind him, with her hand on his shoulder, was a blind woman, also gripping a red and white walking stick. Following her was another woman. She placed her hand on the middle woman's shoulder, and grasped a walking stick.

Wow, I thought as they turned left and made their way to the corner. It's the blind leading the blind leading the blind. You really do see everything in New York City.

Bye Bayh Repro Rights

Many of the bad things that are happening in the Senate today take me back to my earliest years in public policy. In the summer of 1995, the country was hotly debating welfare reform. I interned with the child care division of the Department of Public Aid in Illinois, and I followed the discussion closely.

By the time I returned the next summer, the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunities Reconciliation Act (PRWORA) had passed Congress and was signed into law by President Clinton. States wrangled with how they could meet the welfare for work requirements and move people off of public assistance programs as soon as possible. Next door, the governor of Indiana, Evan Bayh, embraced welfare-to-work so wholeheartedly that I was certain that he was a Republican. I'm fairly certain that I even had an argument with Husband about it. I was wrong.

These days, over thirteen years after I first cut my teeth on public policy work, Bayh is still causing me to scratch my head. Evan Bayh is now a pro-choice Democrat in the Senate. Yet he voted for the Nelson/Hatch amendment that would have essentially forbid health insurance plans to cover abortion services. On the flip side, Democratic Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid is anti-choice, but voted against the amendment. What the fuck?

Sen. Reid showed great initiative in explaining his position, finding common ground and recognizing the need for health care reform to be passed. I commend him for taking the time to do the right thing for more people than himself. Sen. Bayh offered no explanation for voting against the women that he has courted for votes. It’s baffling. OK, it's more than baffling; Sen. Bayh's lack of courage on this issue is pathetic.

I learned in 1995-1996 that I really couldn't count on Evan Bayh to make sound decisions when it comes to the health and welfare of women and children. A lot of time has passed since then. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Sigh.

Chopped Liver

At work on Friday, someone turned to one of my co-workers and said that she was the only person in the development department who was not sick. "Congratulations," he said.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" I shouted from across the room.

He blushed. "Oh, sorry. But really, why chopped liver? Have you ever eaten it? It's delicious! I don't understand that phrase at all."

"It's true that chopped liver is good," my other co-worker cut in. "But you know how when you have a party and you put out chopped liver, chips and dip, crudites, and crackers and cheese?* At the end of the night, the only thing that is still left is the chopped liver."

Chopped liver may be fabulous, but it is still less popular than other items. There's a stigma to it. I thought that is the greatest explanation for the "What am I, chopped liver?" expression ever.

*My answer is no, I do not know any parties in which people put out chopped liver, but I guess I do not hang out with the right crowd.

Knowledge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Venting

The air circulation in my new office is not very good. For the two days I've been there, I've used my special ugly office sweater* in the morning, and sweltered in the afternoon. Weirdly, this was also how it was at the job I left in 2006. I was just cold all the time at other jobs.

The reason I was always cold at my various places of employment is because I am inevitably seated directly under or just to the side of the air condition vent. Today I was pleased to think about how this new job was different in that respect. Then I craned my head all the way back and looked at the ceiling. Yep, I'm under the vent. It's gonna be a cold summer. (And winter, if like at my other jobs, the building blasts the heat so high that each office runs the air condition to counter balance the inferno. Yeah, energy efficiency at its finest.)

*At every job I've ever had, I've left a cardigan on the back of my chair in case I get cold. Since the sweater lives at the office, I don't want to waste a nice one, so I bring the ugliest sweater I own. This job's ugly office sweater is the one I obtained for free at this summer's BlogHer conference. Hideous, especially in navy & "Aztec gold."

More Butt Humor, Butt (ha!) Not Gross

While Dr. P was in Vermont with her family, she noticed a product at a general store called "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder." We watched two hilarious ads on YouTube for this excellent product, which I thought I would share:

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Jogger

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Biker (as in motorcyclist, which is even better than bicyclist)

I hoped to embed the short videos in CUSS, but no codes for embedding were available. Boo. Well worth clicking on, and safe for work!

Speaking on work, my first day at my new job is tomorrow. I'm nervous, but excited. I wish I had not down enormous quantities of Indian food last night, though, as my stomach doth protest. I need to quash the rebellion ASAP if I want to continue to have a job after my first day. No one wants to work with a gas bag.

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."

Four Bad Ideas in No Particular Order

1. My scary bear hat flew off my personage when a big gust of wind overtook me in London on Saturday. It landed in a muddy puddle at the edge of the curb. As I reached out to pluck it up, I realized that a bus was barreling down the road. I wondered if I could grab it before the bus got there. I snatched back my hand with a second to spare. Unfortunately, the bus ran over my poor hat. When the light changed, I picked it up again, sopping and dirty. All's well that ends well on this, as I did not lose my hand and the hat came out of the washing machine and drier as good as new.

2. For my lit class tomorrow, we are reading What Is the What by Dave Eggers. It is an excellent "autobiography" of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. (It also could maybe be about 100 pages shorter, but I still recommend it.) People stared at me while I read it on the subway and bawled.

3 & 4. Last night I defrosted a large plastic container of Daisy Mae's baked beans that I found in the back of my freezer. I plan on eating them tomorrow for lunch. It's double whammy of potentially bad ideas, as I probably should not eat a lot of beans before going to class, and the container has been in the freezer since my book party. My book party rocked the house in August 2008.

Best Cartoon Ever Revisited

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

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



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

Publishers Weekly Best Ten Books of 2009 - 100% Male

The problem with feminism is that it makes women crazy. We seem to believe that our words and our stories matter, and that we are not only capable of telling stories, but that we can excel at it. Our voices and our story telling techniques may differ from what has traditionally been viewed as great literature, but we think that doesn't mean that they are not equally good.

Of course, these beliefs are silly, and Publishers Weekly took great pains to remind people that women's work is just not up to par with that of (white) men. Their list of the ten best books of 2009 includes ten dudes, nine of whom are white. Some people bristled at this. Kamy Wicoff at She Write - an online community of women writers that is free and you should join - wrote:

Try to imagine if they had come out with a list of the Best Books of 2009 and it had included ZERO MEN. Try to imagine if Amazon had released its Best Books of 2009 and it had included only TWO men. I know it's hard. But just try.

Wicoff asked the She Writes community to take action. To protest this ridiculous list, we should all buy a book published by a woman in 2009, take a photo of ourselves with it, and explain why we bought it.



Here I am with the 2009 paperback edition of American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld. When the hardcover came out in 2008, it received glowing reviews. My friend Alex Elliot read it for her bookclub, and said that I would really like it. Sittenfeld and I are the same age, and I wish that I had an ounce of her talent.

I don't have pictures of myself with another two books that came out in 2009, but last night I attended a reading of A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein. I thought it was great. Deborah Copaken Cogan also read From Here to April, which came out in hardcover in 2008 and paperback this month. It was also excellent. Both works were funny and thought-provoking, as were their creators.

If you are also pissed about the Publishers Weekly list, join the She Writes community's protest. Once you post a picture of yourself on your blog holding a book you bought by a female writer that came out in 2009 (the deadline is Friday), send Kamy the link at kamy@shewrites.com. She Writes will send these links to the entire community (5000+) on Saturday. While the emphasis is on women writers protesting, I think anyone who cares about sexism should feel free to participate.

Living in Outer Space

As noted in previous blog posts, my memory is shot. I re-write entire stories, I forget birthdays and anniversaries (CUSS hit the four year mark on Oct. 19), and alternatively I believed that I was both 32 and 34 this year. Yesterday I had the ultimate space out day.

I woke up late, but was still tired and remained groggy while eating breakfast. While reading the newspaper, I drifted back into sleep. In hindsight, I think this was when the aliens focused their suction beam on me, but they were thwarted in their morning efforts to kidnap me when my friend Sara called and woke me up. She popped over for what was supposed to be a way to kill 30 minutes before yoga class, but turned into a morning chat fest that ended when I walked her to her noon appointment.

At that point, I was supposed to hop on the subway and meet my friend for lunch downtown. Instead, the aliens seized the moment and sucked me into space. Next thing I knew, it was 3:30 and I checked my BlackBerry life-organizing machine for the first time that day. Boy, did the aliens fuck me up! Still, I felt horrible missing my lunch date, and called my friend.

When I begged for her forgiveness, I left out the part about the alien abduction and took full responsibility for my pathetic inaction. But I'm not sure which is scarier - the fact that I let an afternoon pass and have no idea what I was doing during that time, or my wish that aliens abducted me so I could have some explanation for my spaciness.

Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females

A few days ago, as I walked home from Harlem, I passed a Gothic-looking building on Amsterdam between 104th and 103rd St. I knew it was the New York branch of American Youth Hostels, but noticed for the first time a little sign on a porch indicating the building's historic value. I climbed the stairs to get closer. I nearly fell down laughing when I read the header, "Association Residence for Respectable Aged Indigent Females." Wow, I would never be allowed in there! I thought.

The New York Historical Society explains that the organization:

Started in the fall of 1813 as a small association of women, the Society for the Relief of Indigent Respectable Females was formally established on February 14, 1814 in New York City. Intending to provide charity for a class of society they felt was neglected, the Society raised money largely through private donations to supply gifts of clothing, small stoves, and food for elderly women living in poverty. The Society was created out of religious obligation to a Christian ethic and continued to remain very close to the Christian faith throughout its history.

The sign on the building, though, specified that it was founded to help widows of soldiers felled in the American Revolution and War of 1812.

Setting aside the qualifications of widowhood, elderliness, and Christianity, the building would not have taken me because I have lots of opinions and voice them. It seems that respectable women are still not supposed to do that. Oh well.

Elections: Good and Bad News

For the second morning in a row, the day began with promise. I woke up early and with big plans. Then I picked up The New York Times.

At first I didn't understand what I saw. Why was that fucking anti-choice, social conservative idiot with no plans at all for how to govern New Jersey on the front cover of the paper? No paper puts a big picture of the loser, and as my friend said on Monday, a good sign that he is not intelligent is that his first and last names are more or less the same. (Maybe this would work in Scandinavia, but it is silly here, I agreed.) But no. The stupid fuck his his right-wing agenda and won. People in New Jersey chose a moron with no ideas other than attacking his opponent's plans to save their state from recession.* Good luck with that.

I was relieved, however, to learn that the Democratic candidate in a district in upstate New York won. For 150 years, this community was represented only by Republicans. (Of course, that meant something different 150 years ago when it was the party of Lincoln, but that's another story.) Crazy conservatives around the country banded together to smear the moderate Republican candidate because she had the audacity to support gay marriage and keeping abortion legal. She was supported by all the local Republican leadership. But it seems that what people want is not good enough for the fringe elements that control the Republican party, who know much better than everyone else what they want, and if you don't agree with them, you will be punished. After months of verbal assaults from the likes of Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh, who supporting a crazy right-wing third party candidate, the Republican dropped out right before the election and endorsed the Democrat. He won narrowly.

My interpretation of all this insanity is that people still do not want to elect hatemongers. Christie won in part because he hid his conservative agenda, and this is also true of the Republican who just won Virginia. They emphasized the economy, not hating gay people or women's reproductive rights. In upstate New York, when the candidate foisted onto the voters emphasized his intolerance of people not like him, he lost. See, Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh and the crazy bitch in the Times who praised the national coalition who imposed their will on a small area of New York, people do not embrace your so-called values. If you want to win and continue to oppress people with your evilness, you have to hide your agenda.

There may be hope yet.

*This reminded me why a story that we read in class that same night made me laugh. My classmate submitted a story about playing guitar in high school, and described his magnet school as offering an education to "the best and brightest of New Jersey." I thought he was making a joke about New Jersey's image as people with big bangs and a love of shopping malls, but it turned out he was serious.

Richard Peck Made Me Cry Today

The day started out well. I woke up a bit before my alarm sounded, feeling refreshed. After feeding Tycho the rabbit and myself, I ran three miles at the gym. Then I scurried home to purchase U2 concert tickets for Husband. For a concert on Sept. 16, 2010.

Ticket purchasing is not as easy as it sounds. First, he had to subscribe to the band's fan site. This runs something like $50. Then he received an email with a secret code that could be used to purchase up to four tickets before they went on sale to the general public. Since Husband was at a Very Important Meeting when his special group of bribe givers was allowed to give U2 more of their money, he asked me to click on the magic link, enter the code, and secure the best tickets available, at whatever cost.

Fine. How hard can that be? Except that he already used the code he provided me for tickets for a concert this past September. And I had no access to his U2 account to find his new entree to U2 happiness. The man asked me to do a simple task, and it distressed me to no end. He works hard. All he wants are some fucking concert tickets, and I could not provide. Two frustrating hours later, I finally bought the tickets. Yay.

However, I was late for everything else I had to do today. Among other things that did not get done in a timely fashion, I missed a call from an organization offering me a job. Yay for the job offer, boo for missing the call. I left the woman an overly enthusiastic message on her voice mail at 5:30.

Blah, blah, blah. Fortunately, I arrived at school on time to hear my favorite author from when I was in 4th grade. Blossom Culp, the main character in Ghosts I Have Been, was a hero to me back then. I wanted to be her. So all semester, I'd been waiting to hear Richard Peck. During his talk about writing, he said, "I write for lonely people looking for friends in books."

Thank you, Mr. Peck.

The Nightstand Dilemma: What Would CUSS Readers Do?

In Ye Olden Dayes, when people had questions about situations they faced, they traveled miles and miles on foot and donkey to seek answers. The Oracle at Delphi was popular with the ancient Greeks, for example. How lucky we are today! I am extremely grateful that I don't need to schlepp to the top of a mountain to find help for my thorny dilemmas, but instead can turn to the visionaries of the internet for their advice. This not only saves time and money, but does not require me to change out of my pajamas.*

So here, Great Sages and Visionaries of the Blogosphere, is my pressing problem: my nightstand of nine years broke. Given that I purchased it from Ikea, it's run as my bedside companion is very impressive. The drawers went a little off track a few years ago, but two weeks ago, the plastic snapped, and now the middle drawer rests in the bottom drawer.
This will not do. It is time to invest in a new nightstand.

I initially purchased a similar three drawer model from Ikea for $40. However, Husband and I managed to fuck up putting it together in rather inventive ways, and he told me never to buy anything that required construction from Ikea again. I went back to the internets and found two alternatives:

Option A:


Option B:


Now, there is nothing wrong with Option A. I could totally be fine, even happy, with Option A. It might even match a dresser that Husband has, which would be exciting. However, Option B is gorgeous. How can I not desire its sleek design and shiny wood? O, Oracle, how I covet it!

The problem is that Option B costs three times as much as Option A. Husband told me that it's OK to spend some money on nicer furniture (nicer furniture that will of course match nothing else we own, another bonus in my trashy eyes), but I can't help but feel guilty at spending so much money on a freakin' nightstand, even if it is the best nightstand ever made.

What would you do?

*To be accurate, I'm wearing my gym clothes. But whatever. It would probably be disrespectful to consult the Oracle in smelly gym pants.

NYC Marathon

Today is the New York City Marathon. In honor of the event, in which I am qualified to participate in any way, shape, or form, I carbo loaded yesterday. This involved eating three large, frosted Halloween cookies over the course of the day. I also ate some roasted corn purchased at a farm stand in eastern Long Island. Then I consumed many at least seven Tootsie Rolls and one Tootsie Pop, five mini Kit Kats, and one mini Twizzlers. At lunch I downed a lobster roll in an amazing buttery brioche roll, accompanied by salty chips and fresh guacamole. Capping off my day of marathon prep, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and matzo ball soup for dinner.

When I arose this morning, basking in my free extra hour of sleep, I was ready to hit the treadmill. The plan was to run as far as I could in 35 minutes. The gym had the marathon on TV. Although the women ran at double my plodding pace (a 5:47 mile versus my 11:00 one), I felt like I matched them stride for stride as they streaked across the TV. Since I had no sinus meltdown, shoulder pain, or intestinal cramps during my run, I felt like a champion. Wooooo hooo!

Now I'm pondering the upcoming year. I'll be 35 years old at the end of December. When I was in third grade, I had to be rushed to the emergency room after I ran the 880 dash at school and was the first girl to finish, coming in third overall. Twenty years ago, I could barely walk a mile in 30 minutes. At the age of 25 and in the best shape I'll ever be in, I could run a 9:13 mile. So it's been a spotty record, but I'm proud of it. I think I'd like to run a race sometime in 2010 to celebrate my birthday. Not a marathon, but maybe a 10k or 15k. Anyone want to join me? We can plod along together (or you can leave me in your dust if you run faster. I won't be offended.)

Happy Halloween

This Frankenstein cookie tastes as good as it looks. (Seriously, it was a good Halloween treat. I ate three of them.)

Mmmrrrgggaahhh (scary monster noise)! And don't forget to set your clocks back!

Dearest Room and Board

Dear Room and Board,

Remember me? I came to your store in SoHo with my husband on Aug. 8. After several salespeople ignored us, one woman finally deigned to take our order for a fancy new couch. This was only because she was incompetent and unable to properly enter it into the system. When I pointed out that the receipt did not reflect what we attempted to purchase, she consulted with the manager, who suggested that she add a note modifying the purchase order.

We were then informed that our fancy new couch would arrive at the Minneapolis warehouse in late September, and we would receive it by the end of October. I found this a bit odd, since the manufacturer is in North Carolina and Minneapolis seems a bit out of the way for a couch going to New York, but I accepted the verdict. At the time, I did not realize that there was also a warehouse in New Jersey.

The oddity of it all made me nervous, so in mid-September, I decided that I didn't care if I acted like a crazy paranoid lady, and called you to check on my order. Surprise, surprise. It was wrong. Adjustments were made, and you promised that the proper couch would arrive. An even bigger surprise was when your New Jersey warehouse called me two weeks later to schedule the delivery of said wrong item.

After much confusion, your staff told me that you would hold the couch in your warehouse until the proper sofa bed arrived and would be swapped for the wrong one. Since I was originally told that I would not have the couch until late October, this did not phase me much. I could wait.

However, when your warehouse again called to deliver the sofa this week, no one seemed sure what exactly I would get. One rep said a memory foam mattress would arrive sans sofa on Thursday (bad), and that a sofa with an air mattress would be delivered on Friday (bad). Another rep said I would get a sofa with an memory foam bed (good). A third said I would only get a sofa with an air mattress (bad.) Today your incompetent sales rep called to inform me that I would receive a sofa with an air mattress and that the mattress I actually ordered was on back order. One day in the future, that would be delivered to my home and the sofa bed swapping would ensue. She said you didn't want to delay my enjoyment of the couch.

I really wanted to ask WHAT THE FUCK THE COUCH WAS DOING IN YOUR WAREHOUSE FOR FOUR FUCKING WEEKS IF THE MATTRESS WAS ON BACK ORDER WITH NO DELIVERY DATE IN SIGHT, but I instead said OK and hung up the phone. Then I called my husband and suggested that he deal with you while I go to a job interview. We concluded that we don't really want your stupid fucking couch at this point.

Thank you,
Suzanne Reisman

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.

The Republican in My Apartment

I am not biased against all Republicans. In fact, I realized that I live with one. It was a little bit of a shock at first, but I sort of even adore him.

How did I figure out that there's a covert Republican in my household? I evaluated his key personality traits:

1. He is greedy. If offered a piece of candy or raisin, he gobbles it down without thanking the giver, as if he is owed the treat. Then he expects more and turns his back if additional bribes are not provided.

2. He makes messes and does not clean up after himself. However, he seems to be a moderate Republican, as I am not subjected to hypocritical griping about how other people need to take more responsibility for their actions. He just expects me to clean up after him.

3. His situation in life is inherited. He does nothing all day, yet lives a very nice lifestyle, thanks to other hardworking members of society who provide for him.

4. He seems to like the Yankees. (This is not definite proof that he is a Republican, as I know some excellent old school New Yorkers who are liberal and root for the greediest corporate welfare team in America.) While I watched the play off games, he emerged from his space and joined me a bit. He never did this when I watched Mets games in the past. Everyone knows that the Mets are the team of the people. (Yeah, losers like the rest of us chumps, but I digress.)

Here he is doing what Republicans do best, which is mooching off hard working, honest people after sitting around all day doing nothing to earn their keep:

Tycho is cute, though. And since e can't help his small-brained natural instincts for survival, I forgive him.

I Hear the Secrets that You Keep

Someone recently blogged that this song was stuck in her head (Count Mockula, I think?), but apparently I don't have to close my eyes and go to sleep to blab my lame "secrets." No, a low grade fever, a medium dose of insomnia, and a high level of rue for something stooopid I did, combined with Facebook status chatting, is all it takes. Last Thursday night/Friday morning, I confessed to my 7th grade (possibly part of 8th grade, I get confused about timing) crush that I liked him back in the day! Ooooooooooh.... (No, it wasn't "Arnold" from Always. I feel like such a slut. Ha! That's sadly about as slutty as I get - overlapping school crushes. Oy vey iz mir!)

Whatever the case, I sat at my computer blushing like an idiot. (Or maybe I was flushed from fever? It was not a super high fever, just a smidge above 99, although for me that's a bit higher than it is for others because my usual body temperature is 97.5 or something low like that. Husband says it is because I am a cold-hearted bitch. He is hilarious, no?) You know what's funny? For a second, I was actually sad when he didn't say that he had also had a crush on me. I had kinda believed, back in the day, that my crush was not unrequited. Like, this was over 20 years ago, but I still took it as a rejection.

On a related note, earlier in the week, I tried quizzing Husband about his junior high days to "get into the head of a 13 year old boy" so I could maybe fix up my young adult novel. He hesitantly submitted to my questions:

Me:"Did you go to junior high dances?"
Husband: "No."
Me: "Why not? Weren't you interested in them?"
H: "Yes, but no one would dance with me because I was a loser. Do I have to talk about this? I prefer not to relive those days."
Me: (Kissed him on the head) "Well, this cold-hearted bitch would have wanted to dance with you."
H: "Thanks."

Yeah, junior high just sucks.

PDA

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

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

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

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

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

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.

"Those People"

After days of cold rain, the sun is out today. Yay!

I went to the gym and had a good weightlifting session. Yay! (Or at least yay until I can't move my arms tomorrow.)

Two interviews that I went to last week yielded follow up interviews. Yay!

The shocking - shocking! -climax of Always is near. I should finish by the end of tomorrow. Yay!

So I was in a pretty good mood when I sat down to eat lunch. I read an article in the New York Times about Giuliani's stumping for Bloomberg in the mayoral election. He said:

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Mr. Giuliani said at a breakfast sponsored by the Jewish Community Council in Borough Park, Brooklyn. “This city could very easily be taken back in a very different direction — it could very easily be taken back to the way it was with the wrong political leadership.”

Not that I am surprised at all that he would say such a thing. His tactics led to enormous civil rights abuses and lawsuits against the city that cost taxpayers tens, if not hundreds, of millions of dollars, with no conclusive link to a drop in crime in the city. (Crime was down in large cities across the country, something Giuliani probably tries to take credit for, too.)

I've always hated Giuliani. He's always done his best to exploit fear and act as petty as possible in any given situation. The first thing I thought of after I threw the paper down and stomped around swearing was a recent post on BlogHer, Top Ten Reasons I Am Not a Racist by Nordette Adams. (The actual, brilliant top 10 list appears in Part 2.) I have no doubt that Giuliani would be offended at the mere suggestion that his tactics are racist. Sigh. You know how "those people" are.

Quote of the Month

Yes, I know it is early in October, but it would be very hard to beat out this excellent wisdom, as gleaned from my friend Dr. H's Facebook feed:

"Mustard don't change the word"
--significant other of a patient in response to her concerns that his sandwich was dripping onto the open Bible in his lap

New Mottoes

During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:

It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.

While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.

Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.