Naming Names: A Cautionary Tale

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

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

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

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

NaBloPoMo

November is National Blog Posting Month. I missed the Nov. 5 deadline to submit my blog as an official participant, but my goal is to blog daily anyway. My trip to London this weekend and my upcoming visit to my family in Chicago over Thanksgiving weekend may prevent me from achieving my goal, but whatever. I'm not on the blogroll, so I won't feel too bad about it.

In 2006, I volunteered as a NaBloPoMo blog reviewer. I was assigned to look at the participating blogs whose titles began with the letters H,I,J,K, and L. That was, uh, fun. If I wasn't so lazy, I would click on each of the blogs that I linked to and see how many are still around. Initially I was going to say that the best part of doing the reviews is that I "met" Eddie from Chicken Fat as a result, but I just realized that is not true. We met through some humor writing contest thing.

While I looked over my NaBloPoMo reports, I enjoyed the writing that I did in Nov. 2006. That was the month I issued my request for more information on Jewish pussy, which I deemed necessary because so many people came to CUSS while googling that term. I wanted to know what on earth they expected to find when searching for "jewish pussy." I still get comments on that, much to my enlightenment and amusement. (I think it is my most commented upon post, actually.)

November 2006 - good times!

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.

Truth or Dare

Two new chapters are up at Always. I must have been drunk with words as I typed them up, as I could not stop hiccuping. The force of the hiccups jerked my head and hands each time, so there are probably more typos than usual or intended. (I'm copying exactly what's in the notebook, so the punctuation is not great.)

Chapter 13 is all about a party that the main characters attend. It features, of course, the game "Truth or Dare." This is the second time that "Truth or Dare" appears in the story, but of course, nothing really interesting happens because I was/am a total nerd. It cracks me up. I was obsessed with this game through even the early years of high school. (And when the Madonna documentary came out, my dorky friends and I were rendered giddy by the title. Oooooh! "Truth or Dare!" How exciting!)

When I was in eighth grade, I once played a more risque version of Truth or Dare called Two Minutes in the Closet. Since were there three girls and only one boy, this was not such a balanced game. I was excited to kiss someone. That's about as far as I was willing to go. These days, it blows my mind how naive that was, although I am sure that there are plenty of geeks who also feel the way I did, just as I am sure that there were many kids who were doing all sorts of things that I barely even knew existed. OK, so I have no point except that I was a nerd whose heights of ecstasy didn't progress beyond slow dancing close to some guy. Whatever.

Going to Hawaii Again!*

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.

Invisible Stigmata*

During class last night, I spaced out a bit while the very intellectual professor recited a history of first person narratives from Roman times to today. What made me think about St. Catherine of Sienna is beyond me. The mind works in mysterious ways.

Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.

Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.

*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.

More to Love

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


Here we are in July 2009:


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

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

School Dance Dream

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

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

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

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

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

Another Day of Life*

Job hunt. Run errands. Go to gym. Attend to last class of the semester. Coo over adorable baby picture:



Dana, my sister, is on the left, her friend is holding Marcus, and I'm in - er, I mean, on - the right, in my Jody Davis jersey. Heh.

*Also the title of a very interesting book I read this semester by Ryszard Kapuscinski about the civil war that engulfed Angola when the Portuguese withdrew in 1975.

Names Changed to Protect the Formerly Young and Stupid

(With name changes, you know this will be a good one.) Facebook notified me that I received a message from Bob Gold. The subject read, "from someone long ago." "What? Who the fuck is that?" I wondered. This was not long after a girl with whom I had a Mean Girls-style friendship (I was the loser mean girl in the relationship, and the guilt has plagued me for years now) sent me a message on Facebook, so I was extra curious to see who else was crawling out of the woodwork.

Here's the message, typos included:

i couldn't help the thought of seeing if you remembered me and to see how your life has been.

i'll take you back in time and see if you can piece it together if the name hasn't struck your memory already ... was 1988/89-ish ...

Nope, still no clue as to who the hell this is. I read on:

Rachel, David, phone dating, bad breakup over the phone, a small mylar baloon broken into a bunch of pieces and sent back via envelope.

Oh my God! I totally know who this dude is. (If he hadn't referenced my friend Rachel and the other guy, though, I have to admit I would still not have the foggiest concept of who this person was.) This was when I was in 7th grade, and Bob and I were chatting on the phone a lot. I was supposed to go to a movie with him, but I backed out the night before. At the time, I freaked out for what seemed like no reason, but wizened 33 year old Suzanne knows that I was totally not ready to go on a date at the age of 12 or 13.

The mylar balloon, though? Zero recollection, although I laugh like a hyena every time I read that. Did I give him a balloon and he sent it to me to avenge his broken heart? I vaguely recollect receiving an envelope with a chopped up balloon in it, but I think that is due to the power of suggestion. It is equally likely that Bob gave me a balloon and, in a fit of pique, I chopped it up and sent it to him. I was totally dramatic like that. Oh, the hilarity of adolescent angst!

Anyway, the rest of the message was the usual, how are you, let's chat, blah blah blah. I messaged him back, but haven't heard anything yet. My lame little storied past is so amusing to recount. Not so much to live through at the time, but worth a good smile these days.

Beware of VD and Important "Marxist Feminist Dialectic" T-Shirt Info

As an early Valentine's Day gift, the landlord of the office building in which I work gave every employee a full size bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate on Thursday. This is a South Beach Diet eye poke if there ever was one. Does anyone ever dole out free, expensive chocolate when I can eat it? Of course not. I wanted to cry while everyone savored their chocolate, but I insisted that my cottage cheese and cherry tomatoes were delicious. (They were, but not as delicious as I am sure the chocolate was.)

It's not just this year that I feel like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulled the football away as he lifted his foot to kick it. I've always hated Valentine's Day. Like the other types of VD, I find it's treacly ookiness just infects everything. My freshman year of high school I griped about it so much that when sweet but decidedly odd Mark Weinberg (not Mark Weingarten, for those of you who know either of them and get confused, as my friends did when I later had a crush on Weingarten and had to clarify that Mark Weinberg was "the Wrong One" and Weingarten was "Not the Wrong One," but I digress) gave me what was probably the kindest card anyone has ever given me on VD, saying that he knew that I hated the holiday but he hoped I would have a good day, that I missed that he was interested in me. I don't know if I would have been interested in him, but man, did I waste that opportunity to thank someone for doing something really nice for me. (Fast forward to next VD when I was grounded and Mr. X [name removed at his request, 11/17/09] showed up at my house while I was doing laundry to give me a rose and I basically slammed the door in his face because I was a stupid insensitive fucking bitch and I will forever feel guilty about that because even if I didn't like him, I should have been nicer. But I digress again.)

The point is, VD annoys me and causes me to grouse and be even crabbier and more crotchety than usual. However, I hope that you are all having a lovely day.

More important, for those of you who like the t-shirt I got earlier this week - "My Marxist Feminist Dialectic Brings All the Boys to the Yard," it is still possible to order one at T-Shirt Hell, but only until Monday, Feb. 16. I am thinking of ordering another one just in case the one I got shrinks, as it is stretched to the max as it is. (For the record, the ringer t-shirts are a size smaller than the chart says.) This has been a public service announcement.

Turkey in the Pants

As per the heeelarious Shonda's request, here is evidence of my fear that I will be stopped at a grocery store for attempting to shoplift a turkey by stuffing it down the front of my pants:

Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.

Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."

For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.

(Fictional) Police Dramas

During the snow storm that hit NYC this past weekend and prevented me from getting to Massachusetts to see the Alex Elliot family, Husband, cousin Rebecca (who is staying at our place while on winter break, which is very handy as she will take care of Tycho Bunnae while we are away), and I watched six episodes of season one of The Wire. Husband and I received the DVD set from my parents for Hanukkah. We love, love, love it so far. The plan is to watch the last seven episodes on Xmas Eve while eating corned beef, Chinese cuisine, or some other traditional Xmas Jew-y food.

Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!

Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.

Barbie Sex

It's interesting, although not surprising, that all the comments I received thus far in response to my confession about Barbie confirmed that a lot of girls had their Barbies and Kens engage in sexual activities. We live in a culture saturated by images of sex and sexuality. If Barbie wasn't supposed to be knocking boots, then why would she have fuck-me heels, mini skirts, and giant boobs? (Of course, it's more complicated than that, but that's the message we get.) I'm particularly impressed by Bryna's Barbie house uses - pancake house by day, whore house at night. Hilarious.

All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.

I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:

Barbie Memories

Instead of going to bed when I got home from post-class hanging out (which I would do if I had better judgment), I farted around online for a while. "Why not check out the status of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on amazon.com?" I thought to myself. "Sleep is overrated, anyway."

I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:

What's Your Favorite Barbie Memory?
Over the past 50 years, Barbie has filled homes with memories and inspired millions of children to dream--to see themselves as astronauts, rock stars, doctors, fashion designers, professional athletes, and even female Presidents. Shop the Barbie Store for great deals just in time for the holidays.

Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.

That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.

Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.

Flashback: January 30, 2007

From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.

Good Old Fashioned Fun

Tavern Night at the Queens County Farm Museum was fantastic! Husband and I were seated in the part of the farmhouse built in the 1770s. We shared a table with three other people. Two of them have attended the event for the past 14 years. The other woman was also a tyro. We talked about international affairs, travel, things to do in New York (I think they should have written Off the Beaten (Subway) Track instead of me!), and the newbie's family.

More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.

At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.

As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)

Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.

Then

A friend posted this picture on Facebook. I think it is from the spring of 1994, but it could be fall (or even the early summer) of '93 . The two guys with me are John (red hair) and Jim (dark hair). We went to a photo booth. If the picture is from Spring 1994, I had a crush on Jim at the time. As usual, it was unrequited.

I have my hard copy of this picture in one of my photo albums. It's always been one of my favorites. I just love how it conveys the fun I had sometimes, back in the day. Plus, I look adorable (I usually hate how I photograph), and I can't get over how much damn hair I had.

Looking at this picture reminds me that while it was a pain in the ass to deal with all that hair, it was kind of fun to have, too. I'm seriously considering growing my hair out again. I just got another cut, and it is way too short. It's easy to care for, but honestly, I'm sick of falsely projecting that I am a dyke, and I never had that problem before I cut all my hair off.

Anyway, I just love this picture.

Wow, 2 Years Later, I Am Still Grossed Out

From November 7, 2006, although I can't believe that I didn't comment on how prepubescent the model looks, not only lacking pubic hair, but also hips:

From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.

Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.

Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.

There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?

Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.

(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)

Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

It doesn't feel possible, but tomorrow is finally election day! I am so excited and nervous. With a modicum of luck, the 2008 election season will end tomorrow, and with even more luck, the next president of the United States will be Barack Obama. My fingers are crossed.

At the same time, once the election is over, what will I spend too much time obsessing over? I'm going to need something with which to fill my free time. It's a good thing that I had a job interview last week...

So let's sing it:
Tomorrow, tomorrow
I love you, tomorrow
You're only a day away!

Reliving the Good Old Days

Being old and senile, I could not remember when I went to Israel for my friend Hanah's wedding. I swore I blogged about it while I was there, but that would mean that I did not go to her wedding in August 2005, as I didn't start CUSS until October 2005. The best way to find out was to check the archives, and lo and behold, there was a trip to Ocean City, NJ, and a trip to visit my sister in Iowa, but nothing on Israel. (Hence the wedding was August 2005, not 2006.) Still, I'm glad I checked because some of my old posts cracked my ass up! I think I was funnier when I was miserable at work and hated my life, before I had a book and went back to school to learn to be literary and shit. For example, here is my three post re-cap (conveniently combined into one, for an extra long treat) of the Iowa State Fair:

On Saturday, my sister, my brother-in-law (BiL), and I set out for the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines, which is about an hour and a half drive from their house. As we left a bit late, we were too hungry to wait to get to the Fair for lunch, so we stopped at a roadside Subway attached to a gas station. Kum & Go is also known to locals as “Ejaculate & Evaculate.” Ha ha ha. I love it.

After ingesting a low-fat sandwich, Diet Coke, and Baked Lays for lunch, I met my healthy obligations for the day and was ready for some serious Fair eating. Pork chop on a stick? Count me in! Taking BiL’s advice, I put a little bit of Cookie’s BBQ sauce on the chop, and an equal amount on my shirt. YUM! It was tasty on the chop. (Not sure about my shirt, though.)

After the chop, we headed over to the Agricultural Building. Sister and BiL assured me that there were many samples to be had. We tried various jellies and honeys, which were delicious. I bought a Dark Sweet Cherry jam, which Sister must ship to me because I could not bring it onboard the plane thanks to the terrorists. The Ag Building also housed the butter sculptures. Does anyone else find the butter cow slightly disturbing? I think it is the veiny udders and prominent ribs. I don’t hang out around many cows, so maybe I just don’t know what they truly look like, but this one is like some weird starving cow on the Ganges or an anorexic bovine. I just never picture cows with their ribs sticking out or bulging veins when I think about them. I like Superman and his butter bulge much better than the cow. (Sacrilege, I know!) Insert your own “melt in your mouth” joke here. I’m not sure who Mr. State Fair is, but he rounds off the troika of butter sculptures nicely. For some reason, I think he has something to do with the Riley of “The Life of Riley,” but like the anorexic cow, I could be making that up. On a final note regarding the butter sculptures, I was amused to see a book about Norma “Duffy” Lyon, the woman who has sculpted the butter statues at the Fair since 1960, was available to purchase.

The butter sculptures were not the only food art on display. Oh no siree! [Here's] the chocurkey. I actually think that this looks a little like a turd molded into a turkey shape placed on a spray painted gold cardboard disk. Gobble gobble!

These are just cute.

No state or county fair is complete without ginormous vegetables and animals. Iowa did not disappoint when it came to the veggies.

The rabbits, however, were not so impressive (although they were damn cute!!!). I mean, sure slightly under 18 lbs. sounds big for a rabbit, but last year at the North Carolina State Fair, I saw a 25 lb. Flemish giant. Tycho, my New Zealand white, is 13 lbs. of sleek fur and muscle. I think Tycho can totally take down that lame ass “Big Betty.”

The final highlights from the Iowa State Fair was spotted in the general store and in the Various Industries Building. As illustrated by this photo, the death penalty is not only barbaric for humans, but also for dolls. Is this not freaky? If I were a five year old girl, I think seeing a doll hang from the rafters of the general store in a noose would give me nightmares. I’m surprised that it didn’t give me nightmares now. On the other hand, every home (or apartment, even if it is a 200 square foot studio like my first one was) needs an “Infrared Health Cabin.”Hmmmm… is this not also known as a sauna? I like how they claim it can “balance” blood pressure (what the hell does that mean?) and lower your cholesterol. Is sweating your balls off really a way to lower cholesterol? If so, Husband, Brothers-in-Law (both of them, Sister’s Husband and Husband’s Brother), and various other men I know must have some of the lowest cholesterol known to man. At least it achieves something other than generating tons of laundry as they sweat through everything they own and change four times a day! Now if only sweatiness would reduce noxious gas emissions, they’d be set…

State fairs are supposed to be all about fun. People go to them to see the latest in tractors, ginormous vegetables, impressive animals, the projects of overachieving 4-H kids, and most importantly, to eat things that are fried or on a stick, or even better, both fried and on a stick. We do not go to them to be brainwashed. Or at least I don’t.

Imagine my horror when I passed by this scary booth: Worse, it was innocuously wedged between a display of whirlpools (for some reason, there were many such displays – hot tubs seem to be the coolest thing in Iowa after tractors and combines) and vacuum cleaners in the Varied Industries Building!!! What does crazy zealot brainwashing have to do with industry? Unless, of course, the state of Iowa is suggesting that the business of denying scientific evidence like evolution has grown into an industry. (And they would be correct in that suggestion.) I was completely offended. If I want to be offended, I watch Fox News. I don’t need to see this shit at a fucking state fair! I want pig races and other entertainment. Bah.

Just as I was calming down about the religious nutjobs, I saw something even worse: You can imagine the scene I wanted to cause. First, I wanted to point out that if you are printing ginormous, factually incorrect propaganda, get your fucking punctuation correct. The asterisk that footnotes whatever bullshit study you invented does not go before the 94%, it goes after it. Stupid fucks can’t get anything right, can they? I was tempted to tell them that there was a booth selling fried aborted fetuses on sticks, and that the teensy skulls have a nice crunch to ‘em. Then again, you never know how these life-loving loons might react. I could easily get shot and killed. I have found that anti-choice folks don’t have great senses of humor. Saving souls is fucking hard, serious work, you know? Maybe they should be outside the general store, protesting the hanging of the doll.

Speaking of the death of thousands of innocent people, I found this attraction at the carnival section of the fair to be in rather poor taste, albeit hilarious: I don’t think it is clear, but the kids climb up the middle section of the angled, sinking, inflated Titanic in a section marked “first-class only” and then slide down the deck. Who the hell thought of this? I admit it is sort of genius, although the class issue annoys me. (All the steerage folks of course were locked underground and drown like rats.)

Also on the offensive yet funny side: Sure, you can get a nice fountain, but why not go for broke and put your very own statue of a Vietnam vet on your lawn? (That is what the sign identifies this extremely white soldier as.) He's fending off the gooks for you and making the world safe for the George W. Bushes of the world to fuck up. What scares me are the people who actually do think that this is a great lawn decoration. They are usually those militant types I try to avoid, not to stereotype or anything.

Thus concludes my overview of my time at the Iowa State Fair. It’s been fun for me, and I hope you feel the same.

Ghosts

For years, Dr. P and I were close friends with Dr. P's roommate (DRM). After graduation, DRM went to grad school in the Boston area, Dr. P attended med school in NYC, as I enrolled in a masters program at Columbia University. Although we were somewhat scattered up and down the east coast, we kept in close touch with one another and a few other NYU pals (including Dr. F, who was in dental school at the time) through a listserv that we called laterchicas because Dr. P always ended her email with the phrase, "Later chicas."

It's hard to emphasize how much I valued laterchicas as I struggled to fit in at Columbia. Every break I had from class, I ran to the computer lab to check and see what the word was from my chicas. Those were good times.

Not long after I graduated from Columbia and got married, DRM dropped out of our lives with no explanation, although Dr. P and I suspect that it had something to do with her plans to marry a man she only knew for a few months. Over the last eight years, Dr. P and I have speculated about what happened and what she was up to. Then last night, she friended me on Facebook. While I am happy to hear from her and glad that she now has a lovely family, it really opened an old wound. I hope that we can resolve the past and rebuild our relationship.

On a not at all serious note, but continuing the theme of hauntings, I publicly announce that the Mets are dead to me for the remaining two games in the 2008 season. I spit on their symbolic team grave. If they somehow resurrect themselves and qualify for the post-season, I will now feel no conflict about cheering the Cubs to victory.

Hat Trick

As a lifelong Cub fan (although I believe that I swore them off last year, like any girl whose sweetheart repeatedly lets her down, I never really meant it), I am excited that my team is going to the playoffs yet again this year. In celebration, I cracked out my Cubs cap, so nicely modeled by Theo. The hat was a giveaway at a game I went to in 1985. Until a few days ago, I called it my lucky hat, but then I realized that in the 23 years I owned it, the Cubs have never even advanced to the World Series. Instead, the hat brings luck to the opposition team. (Which is why I wore to school last night - the Mets need to win some games so they can join the Cubs in the playoffs, where I am sad to admit, they will be handed their asses and sent home, but still. Both my home teams in the playoffs would be awesome!)

Anyway, the hat is in a sorry state after two decades and three years. I attributed the filth to dirt and sweat from 23 years of rooting for my team, but yesterday it occurred to me that what really caused the grime are 23 years of dashed hopes and broken dreams. Maybe this year will be different.

Destiny and Alaska

College application time in the Reisman household was something of a battle of wills. We made a nice little tour of schools in the summer of 1993, motoring east to Boston to visit Boston University, then hopping a train to New York City to check out New York University. I think my dad hoped that once I saw how noisy, disgusting, and evil New York City was, I would come to my senses and shun the place. Instead, I left my heart in Greenwich Village, and my dad left the City with much stomach acid.

Upon the family's return to our quaint domicile at the side of the Edens Expressway (because there is nothing noisy or disgusting about living by a highway), my parents sat down with me at our ancient dining room table to discuss where I would apply to school. I read them my list, from first to last choice: NYU, BU, George Washington University (in DC), University of Iowa, and University of Illinois. "You are not applying to NYU," my father informed me.

Long story short, there was much yelling. A few weeks later, the University of Alaska at Fairbanks sent me a letter informing me that my ACT test scores qualified me to attend their fine institution of learning for free. I decided that if I could not apply to NYU, I would take them up on their generous offer and run away to the frozen tundra. My dad wrote me a check for NYU's application fee that night.

I reflected fondly on this piece of history today after reading the story and viewing the photos of yesterday's anti-Palin protest at Daily Kos. Had things turned out differently, I might have been bundled up and carrying my protest signs with Theo rather than wandering around a book festival sweating through my underwear in downtown Brooklyn on an uncharacteristically humid and sunny mid-September Sunday. Rock on, my fellow progressives!

Oh, To Be 16 Again!

Here I am, 32 years old and married, living out the dreams I had a half-life ago. At 16, I worked at a small Jungian publishing company, and often sent books to a store at the King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania. Giant malls appealed to my teen self, and I hoped to visit this mecca of shopping some day. On Saturday, January 26, Husband and Steph made my dream a reality. The mall was every bit as mall-rific as I'd hoped.

Last week saw another teen dream come to pass for me. On our way home from the house Husband rented in the Catskills, we stopped in Woodstock. Ever since I painted hippie logos - a white dove, hearts, and peace signs - on the yellow plastic trash can in my childhood bedroom, I longed for the day I could commune with my like-minded (albeit drug using) fellow '60s leftovers. Little did I know that my future in Woodstock would involve paying $7 for a peach smoothie in which vanilla soy milk was substituted for peach nectar because the hippie cafe ran out of the pivotal ingredient for a peach smoothie (they also ran out of bananas, which are in every other smoothie on their menu), but I needed to pee and thus was willing to fork out for access to a clean toilet. Seriously, almost every store in the town was outrageously expensive (except for the tie-dyed t-shirts), which is about par for the course for the biggest sell-out generation in America overall. (Which is not to say that everyone is a sell out, but if I see one more AmeriTrade commercial cashing in on boomer nostalgia - congratulating folks for rock 'n' roll and their current interest in their own financial security, I may punch my TV screen.)

Anyway, Husband took this picture of me in Woodstock:I like the sentiment of the sign a lot. The brown bag I have in my armpit contains a book I saw in the window of the Woodstock Quiltsupply shop, and felt compelled to purchase: Dirty Wow Wow and Other Love Stories: A tribute to the threadbare companions of childhood." The book (and the quilt store, which was very cute) puts the warm fuzzies back into my thoughts about Woodstock, idealism, and youth.

The Legendary Mall of King of Prussia, PA

Until I was old enough to get a real job, I relied on babysitting to generate some cash flow, but it wasn't my preferred way to earn dough for my mall excursions. In much the same way I looked forward to putting my charges to bed so I could be free to watch TV or talk on the phone, I was eager to get a real job and start contributing to Social Security so I could retire. Even before my first job, I knew that working sucked.

A few months before I turned 16, I registered with the Village of Wilmette's youth employment program, WilWork. (And now that I write that, it makes me think of the propagandistic names for welfare-to-work programs, which is creeping me out, but I digress.) One of the employment notices WilWork sent me (through snail mail! Man, them's days were primitive...) was for an office worker at Chiron Publications, a Jungian psychology publishing company. It paid slightly above minimum wage, was right off the public bus line that went by my high school, and seemed like a far more interesting opportunity than working at a fast food joint - or babysitting. I called immediately to set up an interview.

Long story already too long, I got the job. My duties were too process orders for their various bizarre-o titles, type up invoices in triplicate (seriously!), package the books, and send them to the buyers. Many of these orders came from a bookstore located in the King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania. This was one of the largest malls in the country, and I became fascinated with it. "Some day," I thought to myself gazing out of the office window at the el station across the street, "I shall visit this mall, and see what riches it offers."

Years passed. When I became friends with Steph in college, who originated in PA, I learned that the King of Prussia Mall was every bit as fantastical as I imagined. Yet I still did not visit. Until today, when Husband and I are taking Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and motoring out to meet Steph in the Promised Land. She said we will eat in various food courts and gaze upon wondrous quantities of merchandise. It'll be a dream come true.

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!!!)

The Thorn is Out

When I applied to law school in 1996, the process was pretty straight forward. If you did well on the LSAT, had a decent GPA, and proved to be the slightest bit interesting, you were getting in somewhere. I applied to four schools, and was accepted to two second tier programs with scholarships, and waitlisted at two top tier schools. At the end of the day, I was glad that I did not get into my top choice program, as I suspect I would have felt compelled to finish law school and begin a miserable career as an attorney.

In 1997, when I applied to public administration programs, I knew that schools preferred people with some work experience. I hoped that my single year would be enough to get me through the doors of the two programs to which I applied. Immediately, I was accepted at one school and given a scholarship. The program I preferred to go to waitlisted me. Although I ultimately was accepted, I hated that the program was more business-focused than public service oriented, which struck me as odd for a public administration and policy school. I worked while I schooled, finished my two years there, and began a miserable career as a child care policy expert.

Given my history with graduate education, I am not sure why I expected it to be different this time. If anything, the admissions qualifications are even murkier: demonstrate talent. What the fuck does that mean? I tried my best, and sent my writing sample to two programs, knowing that only six people are admitted at one of them.

I knew that I didn't make the cut at Hunter when I didn't get a call in February (hence all my blather about silent bad news), but I didn't have an official rejection, either. At first, I just wanted it to be over with. The longer I lived in limbo, the more I knew that rejection would hurt. This morning, I sent an email to the program director, noting that I understood that the six spots were filled, but if something opened up in the late spring or summer, I would love it if they would consider me. She emailed me back a few hours later and said that she would keep me in mind.

Imagine my surprise when I found my rejection letter from the program in the mail when I got home from work. I realize that suggesting that they eat shit is inappropriate, but I sort of can't help but think it anyway. Fuckers.

Again?

Wow, it just struck me that I have to go to the same job again today and tomorrow. The best thing about consulting was the variety of settings in which I worked and the different types of work. I'll miss that. The best thing about my former employer (possibly the only good thing) were my co-workers. Until they all quit, and then pretty much everything sucked for 8 months until I finally also left. Then the best thing was the location. The South Bronx is not such a fabulous location, although I do find it interesting. I don't know my co-workers enough yet to look forward to seeing anyone.

OK, so I just gotta get through the next nine hours, then tomorrow, then Friday I get to work for myself on the book. Not to mention sleep for another 40 minutes.

Hope everyone has a joyous day full of happiness, good news, and fun.

Bueno Sera, La Fortuna

Here I am eating my last French bread pizza and lemon cookie at Cafe La Fortuna. In the summer of 1997, Husband I moved to the Upper West Side so that I could live near Fordham Law School, which I was to attend in the fall. (That lasted for two days. I came to my senses and dropped out of law school first thing in the morning of my third day.) We were not thrilled about leaving behind the Village, where we had met while undergrads at NYU. The family-friendly Upper West Side seemed boring and sedate compared to the cafe culture of the Village.

Cafe La Fortuna was the first place I went to that made me feel like I could not only survive on the Upper West Side, but actually enjoy it. It was John Lennon and Yoko Ono's favorite cafe. Opera memorabilia adorned the cozy walls, arias played over the sound system, and on warm days, there was a lovely backyard in which to sip iced tea and eat scrumptious desserts. Best of all, they had French bread pizzas for only $3.00! No one was ever in a rush at the cafe. It was a soothing and delightful place.

Over the past 11 years, Husband and I came to love the homey feeling of the Upper West Side. We have lived in three different apartments in the neighborhood, all within 10 blocks. Sadly, we also watched gentrification encroach upon our adopted mixed income neighborhood. It's nearly impossible to buy a one bedroom apartment for under $600,000, and renting one will run about $2,500 a month. Lately, the spread of wine bars, designer boutiques, and Pinkberry frozen yogurt shops has happened so fast I sometimes don't even comprehend the net loss.

Thus it is with Cafe La Fortuna. As you can see below, a combination of rising rents and devastating personal loss led to the closing of my favorite neighborhood refuge. Today was its last day of business, and it was packed with people like us who wanted to say good-bye. My French bread pizza was more like $7 or $8, but it tasted every bit as good as it did when I first took a bite 11 years ago.


Thanks, Cafe La Fortuna, for 11 years of good eats and good times. We'll miss you.

13 Years

On February 23, 1995, Husband and I went on our first date. A few days prior, I asked him if he would join me for a movie. We decided on Pulp Fiction at the East Village Cinemas. (Very romantic, no?) I was not sure if Husband knew that I intended this to be a date, but when we arrived at the theater, he immediately paid for both tickets. Still, I thought maybe he was just being generous to a friend.

After the film, I invited him to a cafe - my treat this time. We headed over to Cafe Borga, in the West Village, for the worst hot chocolate either of us have ever, to this day 13 years later, consumed. The mint hot chocolates we ordered must have been made with Swiss Miss and Halls. That stuff was mentholated. Incidentally, the cafe went out of business some time in the last 13 years.

After our nasty snack, Husband walked me back to my dorm. Although a chilly drizzle began to fall, we stood on the corner talking for another hour or more. Cabs kept stopping and waiting for us to get in, then driving off in a huff, not that we flagged one down. I guess they assumed that no one would be dumb enough to stand outside in the cold rain. Finally, around 4 am, Husband gave me a hug, and we went our separate ways for the weekend.

Last night, Husband and I sort of re-created our first date. We went to see a violent but acclaimed film (No Country for Old Men) at a small independent theater (Lincoln Cinemas) near where we live. Afterward, we went to Cafe La Fortuna, a fabulous little cafe that John Lennon and Yoko Ono frequented back in the day, and shared a plate of fancy cookies while drinking steamed skim milk with Orzata (almond syrup). We've loved Cafe la Fortuna since we moved to the Upper West Side in 1997. (Very, very sadly, after 31 years in business, Cafe la Fortuna is closing. It was founded by a couple in 1976, after the wife died a month ago, the husband decided it was too painful to continue without her.) Finally, around 11:30 pm, Husband and I gave Cafe la Fortuna a psychic hug, and the two of us went home together for the weekend and hopefully the rest of our lives.

Grade 8: My Hair Can Conquer the World!

Hurray! After a weekend of sweat, swearing, and the Giants' victory, Husband got the laptop up and running again. Without further ado, I bring you my eighth grade school portraits. {Trumpet call}



I got contacts that year, so sadly, there are no hilariously huge glasses to mock.

From left to right:

The first picture is the regular school day picture that appeared in the yearbook. I think my mom still wears the shirt that I donned that day. It's amazing how much hair I had when I was younger. I don't know what's with my nose in this, but I look like W.C. Fields. Strange.

For graduation, the photographer came back at some point during the year to take "special" pictures. For the life of me, I cannot understand what I was thinking, but at the time, I thought this dark and creepy backdrop rocked. It's oddly pretentious, and also like something out of the murder mystery movie and board game Clue. However, I do understand the sweater I wore. It was my favorite at the time and I sort of miss it to this day, even if I might not wear a collared shirt under it these days. (I'm all about turtlenecks under sweaters now.) The thin bracelet I'm wearing was cool, too. It had a little whistle charm that really worked. I think I got it at The Limited. The awkward look on my face says it all.

The last picture is of me in my graduation robe. Weirdly, we never took official pictures with the cap on. Or maybe I just never did because my hair was so fucking huge the cap couldn't fit on it. Damn, that is just an overwhelming amount of hair. I swear it is all natural. I basically washed it, dried it with the hair blower, and brushed it a bit. FOOF! Out it went. I am almost certain that the necklace I'm wearing is a nameplate. Long before Carrie Bradshaw came around and made nameplates cool, there I was wearing and extremely cheap one that I bought at some five and dime in Golf Mill Mall in Niles, IL. I had a series of them, actually, as they kept snapping in the middle between the "a" and first "n." However, it was pretty rare to find things (barrettes, necklaces, etc.) with my name on it, so I inevitably dropped the six or so bucks for a shiny new replacement. Not that anyone ever saw anything, as my ginormous hair was so distracting.

And there you have my youth to early teen years. (Puberty really screwed me good, I tell you.) Incidentally, except for the five years after my wedding to when I cut all my hair off and went short, I have always worn my bangs parted on the right and leaning left. Bangs are like politics that way.

The Junior High Years

I am proud to present grades 5-7. Eighth grade has three separate pictures (what being a graduation year and all), so I'll deal with that separately.



From left to right:

Ah, fourth grade. The year the shit really hit the fan. I started junior high, meaning the day began earlier, there was no playground at "recess," and we didn't get Halloween, winter holiday, or Valentine's Day parties. Puberty sneaked up on me, practically incapacitating me with depression and punishing me with acne. (See: spot on cheek.) I ate a lot to drown my misery and escaped in books. That fugly dress, which for some reason I thought was awesomely puritanical (seriously, I thought Pilgrims might have worn something like it and thus thought it was cool - I went through a weird Puritan obsession at that age, which now strikes me as sort of fitting given what I was going through) didn't fit me much longer after the picture was taken. Fourth grade was also the first year that my chronic absences from school resulted in poor performance. When I earned a 49% on a long division test, it was the first time I flat out failed something. The only good thing about that year is that my friend Julie moved into a house on my block. I met her on April Fool's Day, which if you know her and her family, is very fitting. She's my oldest friend.

The middle picture is from 6th grade. (I couldn't locate a picture from 5th grade, but I'll quickly describe it: fat face, big ugly blue glasses - like in 6th grade and 7th grade- black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt, black stirrup pants. You wouldn't have seen the pants, anyway. Overall, 5th grade was a non-entity year, so you're not missing much.) Other than the weird dorky smile, I think this is cute. I lost a lot of weight the summer before 6th grade by riding my bike everywhere with Julie and restricting myself to a diet of Cocoa Pebbles and carrots. I'm not sure how I came up with that nutrition plan. Thanks to the weight loss, I bought some better clothes (it was the first time I could wear jeans since 3rd grade). I would totally wear that outfit today if I had it. Sixth grade was a pretty good year, although if you take a look at my forehead, you'll see that the zit plague was in full force. I met my friend Rachel at Hebrew school; she's my second oldest friend today. Rachel gave me a measure of self-confidence. That year, I also became interested in The Enemy (aka boys). I had a lot of fun and, as previously noted, some cool clothes that upon which I reflect fondly, like the outfit in the picture.

Finally, here I am in 7th grade. Oy vey. The hair! The zitty forehead! The glasses! The bad make-up application, which is the exact technique I use today! The sweatshirt had a pink skirt to match the collar, and I wore the outfit to a few bar/bat mitzvahs. I loved that fucking sweatshirt. Who knows why? Seventh grade was an adequate year, so there's nothing else to say.

Tomorrow: 8th grade - the year my hair was so big (naturally; I didn't tease it) that it didn't fit in the picture.

The Early Years

When I visited my parents in early December, I gathered up photos that best document my primary school years. Partly inspired by Suebob, who has been scanning her childhood and family photos into her Flickr account, I planned to scan them as soon as I returned to New York. Of course, I didn't get around to it before I left for Hawaii, as I was rather busy finishing my MFA applications and watching the first season of Hunter on DVD. Anyway, I decided it was now or never because who knows how busy I'll be once I get more consulting gigs/a part-time job, so between catching up on what is happening in Des's dramatically changing life, planning my February class, and seeking other paying opportunities, I invested some quality time with my $35 Canon scanner from Staples. That's right - it's school picture days here at CUSS!



From left to right:
The first photo is me in kindergarten. Seriously fucking adorable, right?

In the middle, I am in second grade. No, I didn't skip first grade. (In fact, the classist fucks who ran my schools wouldn't even let me be in the highest level reading group, even though I thought I should be. Us Jewish white trash kids clearly don't belong with the really smart kids, but the slightly smart kids, but I digress.) There's no photo of me from first grade because I couldn't find any wallet size pictures from that year. Honestly, it's for the best because I looked like shit. If memory serves me correct (and if it doesn't, my mom will let you know in the comments), I just got out of a multi-day hospital stay from my first asthma attack. It was scary shit. As for second grade, I had a fight with my mom that morning because I really wanted to wear this cute outfit that my great aunt and uncle brought me when they came to visit us from California. It had a red and white striped skirt and a red tank top. It was cold that day, so my mom wouldn't let me go to school in a tank top. I insisted on wearing this yellow Lemon Meringue sweatshirt with the red and white striped skirt. I thought I looked like a cheerleader. Yeah. My mom let me win the battle, perhaps understanding that I was providing fodder for mocking myself some 25 years later. At any rate, I am sad that you can't see the skirt. Let's not comment on the puckery eyes or buck teeth. I was just a kid, damn it, although I sort of see why I later wound up with braces instead of only a retainer to fix my overbite.

The last picture is from third grade. I think I am pretty damn adorable again. For some reason, I remember deciding that morning that I must not show any teeth when I smiled. I don't even think I was conscious of the buck tooth look, but maybe I was. The shirt had a cute matching pink shirt and I wore these sweet maroon Mary Janes. I'd totally wear shoes like that today.

Stay tuned for the upcoming horror show: the junior high years. (No, I didn't skip fourth and fifth grade, either. My school was fucking evil and retarded in more ways than one. To make space for an early childhood center in the elementary school, they moved fourth and fifth grade to the junior school. Trust me, this sucked about as bad as sounds. By the time my sister was in fourth grade four years after me, the school realized that this plan fucked kids up and moved the lower grades back to the elementary school where they belong and remodeled the junior high to house an early childhood wing, which from my current professional view, is far less ideal than keeping the very young children also at the elementary school but still works out OK enough. Blah blah blah.

1994: The Year of Hair

Damn. My friend from high school recently posted this photo of me in his Facebook album. I think this was taken in 1994 somewhere in suburban Chicago.


Those sunglasses were my mom's from the 1970s. (One of the lenses cracked or I'd probably still use them today. They rock!) Today I'm about 30 pounds less than I was when I was 18, and now that I look at this shot, I think about half of that weight came off when I cut my hair. (I do miss those long, long pigtails.) Another 6 or so pounds came off when I had my breast reduction. That surgery resulted in my shoulders looking about half as broad as they did back then. Craziness.

The Boob Tube

Back in my house that my parents requested that I no longer refer to as "Jewish white trash," we used to have a small B&W TV in the kitchen. It sat on the china hutch behind my dad's chair at our cramped kitchen table until I was about 7 or 8. (The generic canned grape juice and fruit punch was stored under the table next to my dad's feet and the heating vent.) I nearly late for the bus every morning because I sat, my eyes glazed over at the "woody Woodpecker" cartoons that blared at me while cereal dripped out of my mouth due to the trance induced by toy commercials. This was not acceptable, according to my mom. Further, my mom decided that watching quality programs like "Tic Tac Dough" and "Joker's Wild" were not better than family discussions. The TV was whisked away. (She was wrong, of course. Much dinner table talk revolved around whether there were boogers in the Kool Aid, as my sister maintained, or not.)

Sources (i.e. - my mom) also claim that in my youth, I used to watch an enormous amount of cartoons on Saturday morning and ask for every damn toy that was advertised. The answer was always, "No." Eventually I stopped being a brat, but I didn't stop watching the cartoon lineup. While I could barely get my little ass out of bed for school during the week, every Sat. morning I woke up at 6:30 like clockwork so that I could begin my day of leisure with the craptastic show known as "Zoobilee Zoo." (Sometimes I even got up earlier and stared at the colored bars that dominated the screen before the station went back on the air. Man, that was a long time ago when stations didn't have 24/7 programming.) To be fair, I acknowledged that this show was shit. However, I did not want to miss risking "Gummy Bears," which I think was on at 7:00, followed by "Snorks," "Smurfs" (totally the best, although the presence of only one girl Smurf puzzled my burgeoning feminist mind), "Foofur," and god only knows what else. Whatever live action shows came on interested me not a whit.

Through the November Blog Exchange, my friends Alex and Amy Jo are having a civil debate about whether or not kids should watch TV. While I turned out fine (sort of, anyway), I think I embody the downsides of both of their arguments. I am so proud.

The Week in Preview

Is October almost halfway over already? Sometimes time crawls by on its hands and knees like a dehydrated person seeking rehydration pills from a crabby pharmacist in a horrid chain pharmacy. Other times, it passes me by like all those assholes who refuse to stop their cars at red lights.

Sorry, I got carried away for a moment there. The point is that October is almost over and that means that this upcoming weekend is my brother-in-law's wedding. In terms of how that affects the hilarious stories that I strive to write for CUSS, I am happy to announce that the whole mispucha (the entire gang, i.e. - my whole family) will be trekking out east for the celebration. Yes, everyone - Mom, Dad, Bubbe, Granny, Sister, and Sister's Husband. (And of course cousin Rebecca will be there too, although she only has to take the train down from her school in Westchester County.) There is no doubt in my mind that stories will be generated. I'll build the anticipation by pointing out that Bubbe has been looking forward to meeting my 13 lb. pet rabbit Tycho for five years, and that she used to raise and cook rabbits when she was a girl in the Old Country.

This week I also hope to complete my second draft of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (I finished the first draft last Wednesday and wound up my pen-and-paper revisions on Friday.) I'm fairly happy with what I've got. The goal is to write something that is fun, amusing, and informatively inspiring, and I think I did a good job with that. Things need to be prettied up, though, before I have to turn it into the publisher on Nov. 1, which will be here before I know it.

To prove how quickly time flies, on Monday morning I'll be going to the grand opening ribbon cutting of an affordable housing development with a child care center. It seems like just yesterday that I had a job in which I provided a small grant for the child care portion, then stood with my friend Maria in a treeless empty lot on a 110 degree day while politicians spent 10 minutes each talking about how their speeches will be short because it is so hot out during the groundbreaking ceremony. Things have changed so quickly. It's amazing.

The Magic Number is 92

My cold is 92% over. When I finally printed a clean list of all the places that are included in the book, I realized that I miscounted how many there were. (Too many side notes all over the sheets threw me off.) There are 100 sites (how coincidentally round!) and as of yesterday, I wrote about 92 of them. I can take the afternoon off with a clean conscience.

My friend Hanah is in town for her brother's wedding. We have been friends since 1990 (not a 92, but close), although we've lived in the same place for only four of those years. Last night as I thought about our friendship, I cracked up as I recalled writing letters to her during my English class while I was a high school senior and she was a freshman in college. Letters! Who writes letters these days? I could not wait to go to college myself and get one of those new-fangled "e-mail" accounts. Given my reliance on email now, those days seem like 92 light-years ago.

This afternoon, Hanah and I plan to wander around the city and sample chocolate, then have tea. How civilized. I can't wait to see her.

The Summer's Over

Technically, summer doesn't end for a few more weeks, but I always think of Labor Day as the social end of summer. Darkness falls sooner, people re-gear up for work, and school gets underway. As usual, I look back and wonder where the hell the summer went.

Now that it's fall, I'm officially freaking out about finishing the book. It is due Nov. 1. I know that it will be done and fine and there's no need to worry. Fall makes everything seem so much more serious, though.

In the meantime, I enjoyed my first weekend of autumn. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets roar back from their pathetic five game losing streak. Saturday, we took a semi-private Pilates lesson and found it invigorating. Then we watched the Mets game until I left to join Steph at a scavenger hunt at the Met. Sunday, I ran four miles on the treadmill then a bunch of fine friends came over and watched two Muppets classics - The Muppet Movie and the greatest dramedy of all time, The Great Muppet Caper - and ate ice cream. (I stole the idea for Muppet Sundae from Count Mockula. Brilliant.) Today, Husband and I drove Rebecca up to school in Westchester and then went to the gym and now will watch the Mets game.

Other than my front lower tooth breaking (again!), I can't complain at all. Happy Labor Day.

"Everybody's taking dick up the ass except me."

My friend Dianne, who is a muralist, is staying with me this week while she paints two kids' rooms in Tribeca.* Dianne reads D Listed. They had this completely fucking insane rant embedded on their site (warning: it is totally offensively gut bustingly funny in its stupidity):



"Maybe she's just pissed that she can't get a date?" Dianne suggested about 3/4 of the way through the madness.

Vagina Power!

*As a reminder, I met Dianne when we became roommates as snarky NYU undergrads. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we only spent a semester together (maybe that is good or else she may not still talk to me), but we had a great time and got into zesty trouble because people like us should not be allowed to live together. One afternoon, we decided that we should give some sexist guys a taste of their own medicine and decorate the outside of our door with little pictures of men that we cut out from Playgirl and gay porn mags. The thing was, our door directly faced the elevator, so every time the door opened, people got an eyeful. Not that pictures of men holding enormous flaccid cocks while watering flowers are erotic. No, they are hilarious, except to the people who complained that they were offended. Eventually, Steve the Imbecile RA summoned us to his door and demanded that we remove the pictures. I was well aware of why this was a reasonable request, but I hated his ass and told him that I didn't understand what the problem was.

"People are offended by the photos," he said.

"So if anyone complains that they are offended by something, the images have to be removed?" I asked innocently.

"Yes," he said. He was pleased that this was going to be easy.

"Well, the images on your door offend me," I said, gesturing at his photocopied Star Wars pictures. "I think you need to take them down."

"How can this offend you?" He was stunned.

"Well, they are holding light sabers, which depict violence, and I am very sensitive to violence." (If I had been thinking, I could also have pointed out throbbing light sabers are very phallic, and if I can't have big dicks on my door, neither could he.)

"I am not taking them down!"

"Then I am not taking my pictures down. Why do my complaints not merit the same response as other peoples'?"

The conversation went back and forth for a few minutes, with him increasingly frustrated because he knew I was fucking with him but had no idea what to do about it. Eventually, Dianne and I drew little fig leaves and stuck them over the wieners, just as Michaelangelo's naked figures in the Sistine Chapel were censored by the Vatican for a time, except in our case, people could flip up the paper cover-ups and check out the goods if they so dared. Those were fun days. It's a miracle we were not kicked out of the dorm.