More Reading

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

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

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

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

Deep, Dark Secret #439: I Don't Read Books

OK, so my title is slightly misleading. I do read books, but not nearly as many as I should. In recent years, I became super lazy and spent most of my reading time on magazines, newspapers, and blogs. While I believe that many of these sources have superior writing (well, not newspapers - it's fucking pathetic how awful news reporting is these days), they also are not providing me with models for what makes a good book with a plot, which I hope to write some day.

Fortunately, my friend invited me to join her book club a few years ago, so I've read one quality book about every month or so. As it became clear to me that learning to write is not just done in writing workshops, I decided that I should make an effort to read more books to see what works and what doesn't. In the past few weeks, I found that the best-selling memoir A Girl Called Zippy by Haven Kimmel is nothing more than a few short essays sort of strung together; that some of the most best character development can take place in "trashy" popular fiction, as I adored Bangkok 8 by John Burdett (its sequel, Bangkok Tattoo, is not quite as good); and that I still believe that The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson is a masterpiece of creative non-fiction.

One of the things I most dreaded about MFA programs was the mandatory literary criticism coursework. This is both because I am an intellectual slacker at times, and also because I am afraid that such coursework will demonstrate that I am, in fact, a clueless idiot. Now that I better understand the value of dissecting books to learn from them as opposed to just enjoying them while I read (or worse, skim), I hope that I get into a program so that I can challenge myself with this work.

If I am not accepted off the wait list at New School, my plan is to apply to low residency programs (basically, you live at home, and twice a year for two weeks, you attend intensive on-campus seminars, workshops, and lectures, then are assigned a mentor with whom you develop a contract; you go home, do your reading and writing, and correspond with your mentor) that emphasize reading as well as writing. Probably I should have applied to low residency programs when I also applied to New School and Hunter last fall, but I stupidly did not do so.

Anyhow, if anyone has any suggestions for well-crafted books, I'm all ears.

If the Moon is Made of Green Cheese, Mars is Chocolate, Nougat, and Caramel

The New School logo on the small envelope jumped out at me when I reached into our mail slot to gather today's haul of junk mail.

"Alright, so I'm rejected," I thought to myself as I grabbed it. "At least I can eat the fucking Mars bar already."

I decided to open it in the hallway of the building. This was not such a great idea, as when I read, "I am happy to inform you that you have been wait listed for the concentration in Nonfiction for the Fall 2008 semester," I started jumping up and down. Had someone turned the corner, I might have knocked her over. I skipped through the lobby. At least I didn't squeal until I went into my apartment and shut the door.

Next order of business: attack Mars. Sure, I technically still have no idea if I'll be attending an MFA program in the fall (the wait list is active until June 30), but I wasn't outright rejected. A celebration of caramel, chocolate, and nougat was definitely in order. Especially after I ate a little sandwich bag that I packed with baby carrots, then noticed the insect in it as I was throwing the "empty" baggie away. Healthy is, like, sooooo overrated. And, according to the Mars bar wrapper, Mars bars are, "Suitable for Vegetarians," so everyone except those uptight vegans can indulge. :) Mmmmmm....

Now, back to waiting.

It's For the Best

As I re-read my blog post from yesterday, it occurred to me that whenever I was rejected by my top choice educational program, it always winds up being to my benefit in the long run. Had I attended NYU's law school, I likely would be a lawyer today. If I hadn't talked Columbia into taking me off the waitlist for the MPA program, I would've gone to NYU, had no debt from grad school (or very minimal debt), and been tapped into a much stronger and connected alumni network. So while my rejection from Hunter stings, I am looking at the positive side of it. It clearly was not meant to be.

Now we'll see if my tarot card reading was right. She strongly felt that I would be attending New School in the fall, and while I woulod be very overwhelmed at first, it would ultimately be a good fit for me. (Of course, she also thought I would get into Hunter, but the vibes from New School were stronger. We all know how Hunter worked out...) Hopefully, I'll get some notice yea or nay from them this week.

In the meantime, back to my exciting data entry and database management work. Thank goodness for mind-numbing repetitive tasks, right?

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.

Happy March!

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

God, I love metaphors.

Call for Submissions. Period.*

Brilliance is inspiring. Two days ago, I read a very funny/mortifying story by Jessica, who is hilarious, about how she learned how to use tampons. It occurred to me that many of us delightful women bloggers have shared these "my first period" stories with the wide world of the web at some point. I love reading them. Everyone has a different experience, and yet they are so easy to relate to and universal in their own horrifying ways. It's good stuff.

As I tried to leave a comment for Jessica about how much I enjoyed reliving her painful adolescence (fucking Blogger ate it), it dawned on me: we should put together a book of essays about getting our periods. Or about coping with getting our periods, as some of the better stories don't involve that first fateful day of doom. Maybe a book like this already exists since it's not exactly an original concept. (A quick search on Amazon for books about menstruation yielded only treacly guides for girls and anthropological and cultural studies and criticism, but not fun essay books. I jaunted over to Barnes & Noble and saw nothing on the topic, either.) Even if it does, we can spin the book as the first book of essays about getting our periods written by non-famous blogging women. (How can any publisher resist?)

If this idea interests you, speak up and I will investigate how to get this off the ground. Since I love reading all your blogs (and the writing of my non-blogging friends, several of whom I think would come up with really awesome essays), I know this will be great. If not as a book (for which you'd get paid for your contribution!), then maybe we can have one of those blogging carnival things that always happen but I don't understand at all. We'll call it Bloody Bloggers Day or something.

*Apologies for leaving out the two or so men who read CUSS. Maybe you can write a funny essay about your first nocturnal emission or something equally embarrassing. Actually, that would be an awesome book/blog day, too...

Shaking It Out

Once or twice a month (or more, depending on my anxiety level, so generally more), I have hyper-realistic dreams about failing school or being involved with people who I have known since my elementary school days. Two night ago, I dreamed that I kept missing the bus because I left my backpack at Target, where I stopped to look at some clothes before school. This was significantly less intense than my usual school-anxiety dreams, which tend to center around me not going to a specific class (German, Spanish, or more recently, math) for the entire semester and then panicking as finals approach because I am so far behind that I don't even remember where the fucking classroom is. I can't explain how I ever let it get so far, and I generally wake up in a sweaty state of dread which takes me the better portion of the day to overcome.

The other intense dreams that occur when I go to bed feeling apprehensive about something involves people I haven't seen in years. Last night I dreamed that I was involved to varying degrees with three guys, two of whom I was buddies with in elementary school and one of whom I was friendly with my freshman year of high school. (The last time I saw the guys from my days of early childhood was at my high school class reunion in 2004. I haven't seen my pal from high school since senior year, and we weren't really friends at that point any longer.) Whenever I have these dreams with people from the past, I am almost consumed in the day time by the urge to find them online and try and strike up a conversation with them. I spend hours finding them, and then am smart enough (for once) to not do anything about it. The funny thing is that at least one of these guys is a regular in my subconscious anxiety dump.

I guess I am trying to go back to more secure times in my life, even if they get weirdly updated to being adults. (The subconscious is truly one fucked up bitch.) I am all bothered these days because I want so badly to be accepted into a particular MFA program, and terrified that my trite stories will be laughed at by the graduate admissions committee. If anyone is willing to read 30 pages of stories from my youth and today (involving getting - and losing - boobs and my period), I would welcome your feedback.

My (Not So) Dumb Ass

Since the book is done for now, I am turning my attention to my applications for graduate creative writing programs. Yes, I am psyched that I wrote a guidebook/travelogue, but next I want to write something with a plot and characters and all that jazz. To do that, I gotta learn more about writing and shit.

One of the schools I am applying to requires the GRE, which I never took. (When I hustled off to policy school, the places I applied to took my LSAT score, sparing me the agony of learning GRE math.) The admissions decisions are not really based on test scores, but I still need to do well enough that the university at large agrees to let me enroll in the case that I am admitted to a writing program. I bought a study book from Kaplan and took my diagnostic exam this morning. For the 12 math questions, I basically guessed on every one. I managed to get half correct. The verbal portion went much better, although not the results were not sterling at 75% correct. I did unusually poorly in reading comprehension, so I'll chalk that up to a fluke. More studying to come.

I also learned this morning that Nov. 29 is officially recognized by the United Nations as the International Day of Solidarity With the Palestinian People. Fuck that. The same New York Times article mentions that "711,000 left Israel-controlled territory in 1948 and 1949" and in 1948, "856,000 Jewish residents left Arab countries." The World Jewish Congress submitted a memo to the United Nations Economic and Security Council in 1948about the danger facing Jews in the Middle East in response to a 1947 draft law composed by the Arab League "that called for measures to be taken against Jews living in Arab countries" including "imprisonment, confiscation of assets and forced induction into Arab armies" as well as beatings, officially incited violence, and programs. However, the memo was buried by the Lebanese ambassador and president of the council.

I don't need a good GRE score to understand how unfair and biased the world is.

2 Years of CUSS!

With all the excitement that is going on these days with the book, applying to writing programs, and the imminent arrival of my family for Brother-in-Law's nuptials, I nearly forgot that today is the two year anniversary of the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants. Two years ago today, I was a frustrated, dissatisfied do-gooder on the way to meet another do-gooder friend for French onion soup. My day had been particularly distressing, as was often the case with my former career, and I found myself sitting on the subway seething over an ad for bikini waxing. Moments later, I formulated a plan: instead of stabbing people, I needed a blog to vent, and it needed a catchy title. Somehow the whole CUSS acronym popped into my feral mind and I knew that I found a way to salvation.

I disembarked from the subway and ran to tell my friend about it. The bar we were meeting at gave crayons to patrons (how perfect is that?) and I drew a little diagram on my placemat outlining the CUSS credo. When I got home a few hours later, I posted my very first blog entry.

Since then, I've loosened my no-waxed/shaved-snatch stance a bit because I met so many awesome women who explained to me why they preferred trimming, waxing, or shaving their cooters. None of them did it because some cretins think that pubic hair automatically makes women dirty or smelly, so who the hell was I to tell them how to deal with their boxes? Understanding other people - this is what I consider progress. I'm glad that CUSS opened me up to new ideas, not only about landing strips, but on a wide spread (heh heh) range of topics. It led me to meet so many awesome people who I am proud to call friends.

Now I'm getting all choked up. The truth is that I'd probably blog whether people read my blog or not because I discovered that I find writing to be fun and therapeutic. However, it would be far less meaningful if it wasn't for the select segment of the blogging community in which I've become a part. Here's to the next two years.

One Year Later

One year ago today, at about this time, I packed up the Powerpuff Girl figurines, the pictures of Husband and my sister, and a squishy stress-relief ball shaped like a green paper advertising the Child Care and Adult Food Program, and I left my job at a nonprofit community development financial reinstitution after nearly five years. It took me two years and two previous attempts to quit, but mounting frustration, seething rage, and desperation at working in an agency that took 40 cents of every dollar that I fundraised to cover overhead costs while offering me absolutely zero support took its toll. Every year I received glowing reviews from my direct and indirect bosses about how I continually exceeded expectations and single-handedly oversaw a program to build more child care center for low income kids in New York City, but not once was I ever offered a job promotion or job title that reflected the full amount of work I performed. While my peers and externally partners respected me, I was rewarded with suspicion and wrath from the upper echelons of the agency for not fundraising enough to cover their five-figure bonuses and six-figure salaries. (This is not secret info, by the way: it is all public in the agency's Form 990.)

My bosses liked to tell people that I left to write my book about unusual things to see in do in New York City, and that is partly true. Within 8 months, a small publisher in Nashville bought my book, I published several articles in local newspapers, and began writing a memoir about puberty and other bodily betrayals. Not working for those wretched fucks improved my mood for the first time in years, but I didn't fully escape their tentacles. Since these wonderful accomplishments didn't pay very much and I felt guilty about living off my husband (something I swore from a young age that I would never do), I agreed to consult for a City agency, working closely with my friend who took my old job. Obviously, there has not yet be enough distance for me to get over my experience yet.

Still, today is a day I am celebrating because I took important steps toward a new career. I indulged in a piece of guava bizcocho Dominicano, a traditional yellow cake with frosting so sweet that I actually felt the sugar granules in the neon pink frosting crunching in my teeth. Husband and I then headed out to the Queens County Farm Museum, the last site I plan to visit for my book. (Yay!) We toured a farmhouse that has been on the site since the late 1700s, pet sheep, and wandered around in the seasonal three acre corn maze. The unseasonably warm day of fun was capped off with gyros (pronounced with a hard "g" in Chicago, a soft "g" in New York, and a "y" in Greece).

As we trudged out of the farm, sweaty and full of meat, a family passed us on their way in. Their teenage son was wearing a t-shirt that read, "I (heart) hot moms." Husband and I exchanged glances. "That shirt would not be disturbing if the guy who was wearing it was not 16," Husband remarked.

You can say all that again. Here's to another wacky and weird year of change.

Write, Write, Write Your Stories

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

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

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

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

Thank goodness I amuse myself.

The Competition

This evening, I took another step toward hopefully entering an MFA program for creative nonfiction writing next fall, and attended an open house at The New School with two women from my writing group. Generally, we agreed that the program sounded interesting and exciting (although I was slightly concerned at how inarticulate two out of the three student panelists were), and I am definitely applying there. The highlight of the evening came during the question and answer session:

Audience Member 1: How important is the writing sample when applying?

Program Director: The writing portfolio is the most important part of the application, followed by the statement of purpose, followed by the letters of recommendation.

Audience Member 2: So do we need a writing profile to apply?

After a few more exchanges along these lines, the event ended. I called Husband to tell him I was on my way home to watch the Mets lose yet again. (Seriously, this is killing me.)

"Oh, well, they are up 3 to nothing," he reported, albeit guardedly.

When I walked into my apartment 20 minutes later, Carlos Delgado hit a home run and the Mets were up 6 to nothing. Hurray! About an hour or so after that, we lost 9 to 6. I really need to stop watching for the rest of the season.

Goals/Gaols

Today's goal is to finish writing up all my lower Manhattan site visits. As I was thinking about my goals in general, my head got the word confused with "gaol." "Ha ha ha," I thought to myself, "isn't it weird that the two words are spelled the same way?" Then I remembered that they weren't spelled the same way, although sometimes goals are like little gaols that trap you, aren't they?

Maybe I need to get out more.

Laxatives, Chicken Feet, and Bloody Jesus: A Day in the Life

Wednesday and Thursday were chock full of exciting site visits for my upcoming book on things to do that are off the beaten path in New York City.

On Wednesday, I bought an awesome magnet depicting Louis Armstrong sitting on a toilet shilling for Swiss Krissly laxatives. (Satchmo-Slogan: Leave It All Behind Ya) at the Louis Armstrong House. As I learned on the tour, Armstrong took Swiss Krissly laxatives every day. Yes, every day. He also smoked a lot of pot and once fooled Richard Nixon into carrying his trump case, stuffed with the wacky weed and his instrument, through airport security in France. The whole house tour and strange rituals sort of reminded me of that other Southern musical sensation who died 30 years ago yesterday. (Sorry, Ma, but Graceland seems even tackier compared with Armstrong's house, even though it has some over-the-top elements as well.)

At the end of the day, I stopped by El Indio Amazonico botanica that someone told me would be perfect for the book. Unfortunately, the website is no longer up, but this place scared the fucking shit out of me. (No need for Swiss Krissly here.) The window had a picture depicting a close up of Jesus's face and the cross he is nailed to behind his head. As the picture rotated, his eyes flipped open and shut, thanks to the high tech working of whatever material it is that causes images to shift when the angle changes. (Not and saina hologram, but I can't think of the term.) There were oodles of Jesus statues with blood gushing from their sad eyes to welcome me when I stepped inside. What I didn't notice, however, was the painted chicken foot attached to a string of beads dangling from the ceiling. It would up slightly tangled in my hair. Chicken feet weren't the only talismans available, though. Horseshoes with shit glued and/or nailed on them were everywhere. Photos show El Indio Amazonico healing people, and the pile of abandoned crutches in the front corner of the shop seemed to testify to his success. This would have cracked me up had the statue of some saint with blood gushing from numerous gaping wounds stared accusingly at me. I bought a candle that would bring good luck (it has pennies glued to the outside and stuck within the wax, and I am sure that they charged the gringa at least double for it) and got the fuck out of there.

Thursday afternoon's odd adventure is told so well by Super Des that you should just read it there. I am so glad she joined me for the fun. Damn, I love this kind of shit.

Yeterday in "Metro New York" and Today's Dumb Ass Letter

An article I wrote on how Bush is no Hitler, but rather an incompetent Mussolini, was printed in yesterday's Metro New York. I'll reprint it here since the link is not direct, although if you want to see a very dyke-y picture of me, by all means click on the link and scroll to page 10.

Comparing Bush to Hitler goes to far
No beating around the Bush: I think that George W. is the worst president in the history of the United States. His lack of regard for the Constitution, his enrichment
of the powerful and wealthy at the expense of the rest of the citizenry, and his maniacal pursuit of war in Iraq makes him just a cut above the others when it comes to the long-term detrimental effects his actions will have on the country.

In fact, I suspect Bush may secretly wish to outdo atrocities committed against democracy by 20th century Presidents Woodrow Wilson (the Sedition Act of 1918
made it illegal to use “disloyal, profane, scurrilous or abusive language” about the government, and/or armed forces during war), Herbert Hoover (whose corruption came to light during the Teapot Dome Scandal, regarding noncompetitive bidding for an oil field on public land) and Franklin Roosevelt (who demonstrated flagrant disregard for constitutional and human rights when he authorized Japanese-American internment
during WWII). Bush certainly has the edge on these presidents once his defiance of Congress, alienation of the international community and commitment to government
in secrecy is added to his record.

Yet during a recent trip to Italy, when I saw a poster that equated him with Adolf Hitler, I was offended. Referring to Bush as Hitler is very popular with protesters in the U.S. and abroad. In doing so, protesters denigrate the true evil that Hitler wrought on this planet. Bush may be a terrible person, and his policies have undeniably led to the deaths of many thousands of people, but he never systemically ordered mass murder. Bush’s intention is not genocidal, and to claim otherwise is an insult to people who have experienced a direct attempt to permanently eradicate their cultures.

That said, there are figures from the Second World War to which Bush may be compared. Italians should know better than most that Bush has a striking resemblance to their very own fascist leader Benito Mussolini. Mussolini exploited a fearful population while promising security and order. He exercised censorship and mastered the use of propaganda, something Bush is trying very hard to emulate. While
Mussolini discriminated against minorities (in this case Italian Jews), he never sent any to death or labor camps. The parallels are thus uncanny — although
Mussolini was at least successful in getting the trains to run on time, whereas Bush is busy destroying national infrastructure, including entire cities.

I think it is very clear that I think Bush is an evil fearmonger who discriminates against different groups of people, just like Mussolini. However, unlike Hitler, Bush has not planned and executed genocide. Of course, today's letter to the editor misses the entire point completely. My friend Michael Boyajian wrote:

Regarding Suzanne Reisman’s column “Comparing Bush to Hitler
Goes Too Far” (July 25): Reisman may have it wrong. There are strong parallels between Bush and Hitler. Both used fear to reach certain ends, launched long, unjust
wars, broke the rules of democracy and targeted scapegoats — Hitler committed genocide against the Jews and Bush fostered hatred against the gay community. Yes, a close scrutiny indicates that there is some rationale to this comparison.

Michael, if your thick little head finished reading the column, you will see that I agreed with you on all of your points except that Hitler is so evil HE KILLED MILLIONS OF PEOPLE IN DEATH CAMPS. Has Bush rounded up gays and killed them? No? Then I guess the parallel is not nearly as close to HItler as it is to Mussolini and other fascist leaders who don't go that one special step further and launch genocide campaigns.

What the fuck is wrong with people that they can't understand that discrimination is a vile, morally repulsive and terrible thing, but it is not the same as killing nine million people? And this, my friends, is why I hate people.

Dotting the T's and Crossing the I's

It's 50% official. Last night I signed a contract to write an eclectic guide to eclectic New York City for Cumberland House Publishing, a small extremely eclectic press in Nashville, TN. I'm dropping the contract off with my agent (a friend of mine) later today. Needless to say, I'm pretty gosh tootin' excited about the whole thing. Little old me is going to have a published book out sometime this spring!

Yep, I said this spring. My manuscript is due on Nov. 1, so I'll be bopping around the City for the rest of the summer (when I'm not trying to fix the City's publicly funded child care system or in Chicago, that is) and most of the fall. Quite a bit of the sites have been visited already, as I worked on the proposal and sought a publisher, but there are still numerous places to see. This afternoon, por ejemple, I'll be hitting up the National Museum of Catholic Art and History in East Harlem, as well as watching kids fish in Central Park, and hanging out with free roaming peacocks in the garden of the largest cathedral in the US that may also be the country's longest ongoing construction project.

Hopefully, CUSS readers will vicariously enjoy the journey. Good times ahead!

Staten Island: A Borough from Another Planet

I spent the day exploring some of the more intruguing sites that Staten Island has to offer. This is research for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York City (more on that later). For those of you unfamiliar with New York's outer boroughs, Staten Island is the borough that is really a suburban wasteland of guido Republican Yankee fans masquerading as a part of the city. Still, I completely enjoyed my time on this island of mystery and intrigue. I went to a ridiculous science museum that displayed petrified rabbit turds in a matchbox, a lesbian Victorian era photographer's house, the craziest grotto shrine I have ever witnessed (and that is saying a lot), a museum dedicated to bolstering the case of Antonio Meucci as the true inventor of the telephone (I went in thinking they'd be crackpots, I left cursing that theiving Bell), and finally a labrynth at a Moravian church. Good times.

The thing that truly blew my mind, though, was when I got on a public bus and asked the driver if he stopped at Hodges Pl. (I knew the route went by it, but it was my way of passively asking him to alert me when we got there, a very common practice among NYC bus riders.)

He looked me in the eye. "I don't know the names of the streets this bus stops at."

"Excuse me? You don't know where this bus stops?"

"I only know it goes down Victory Boulevard," he said and smiled.

Now that scares the crap out of me way more than the Staten Island Ferry crowd.

Preparing to Meet My (Book) Maker

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

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

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

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

"You wore a suit?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

Big Excitement

Out of the blue on Monday, I received an email from a publisher that I had sent a proposal to back at the end of January. I've been working (on and off, mostly off) on a book about fun and wacky things to see and do in New York City. The guy who emailed me (let's call him Publisher for now) said he'd be in NYC for BookExpo and hoped to have lunch with me to talk more about my idea. One of the things he specifically mentioned was where other than bookstores I thought might sell my book, which is of course why I asked everyone for ideas, albeit in a cryptic and vague way.

I just got back from our lunch, which was delightful. My main point was that I want to write this book because I really love all the places that I included, and I want other people to know about them and share my enthusiasm. In that vein, I will do anything I can to promote it and get it into people's hands. He seemed pleased by my eager beaverness. Publisher also said he thought a book like this could have a very long, steady life, especially if I am willing to do updates, which I totally am. We're both from the Midwest originally. Not that that really has anything to do with anything except my willingness to use the phrase "eager beaver" in an un-ironic way.

Nothing is a done deal quite yet, but he's going to get in touch with my agent. (My friend who helped me draft the proposal, and most recently opened my eyes about my lack of polish when it comes to writing memoirs.) So we'll see what comes of it, but I am pretty gosh darn psyched.

Oh Shit

I just read that the MFA program at Hunter College only accepts 5% of its applicants. The New School accepts 10.7%. Sometimes I wish that I drank, because I suspect a stiff drink would be very nice right now. I feel like puking, I'm so nervous. So much for my newfound lack of anxiety.

Side Vaginas and New Potential Life Plans

Friday afternoon was mild, so I decided to take a five mile walk home from work despite the threat of rain. Along the way, I used my cell phone to call my friend who is a literary agent to see what he thought of some work that I sent him. As we spoke, the sky opening up, both literally and metaphorically, and I huddled under the awning of an apartment building in Greenwich Village as he told me that what he read was not good writing.

By the time I hung up, the rain stopped and the sun shone brightly (but only literally, not metaphorically at the moment). I walked the remaining three miles home and burst into tears when I walked through the door into the dank sanctuary of my apartment. (We always keep the curtains closed because we live on the ground floor.) Husband was returning from his trip to California that night, so I decided I'd put on my pajama bottoms, eat enormous quantities of junk food, watch the Mets game, and sulk around the apartment for the evening.

Long story short, Dr. H called and cheered me up. She reminded me that it takes hard work to become good at whatever you do, no matter what your talent level is to start. I ran over (i.e. – took a cab to the other side of the park) to the Upper East Side to have a quick late night snack with her and Dr. P. We laughed over calzones about different types of deformed uterus structures (some people have what Dr. H called a "side vagina") that Dr. H was studying. Then I ran back (i.e. – cabbed it again) to be home for Husband.

I spilled my guts to Husband immediately about everything my lit agent friend said. (I couldn't help myself.) He thought it over, then gave me some very good pointers about the specific places in the work that he felt that character development was lacking, among other thoughts. Once he said that, I felt better. Knowing exactly where the text was lacking made me realize that I could address it. It also, for the first time, made me understand the value of an MFA program. Having consistent feedback from other writers and writing professionals would be very valuable to me. When I finally drifted off to sleep on Friday night, it was in a calm state of mind. I had a new potential plan.

I Know It is Not Easy, But This Really Sucks

Ever see a movie where someone is outside getting bad news on her cellphone and then suddenly the sky opens up and she is getting her bad news in a very symbolic rainstorm? I always think stuff like that never happens. Oh, how wrong I was.

Wednesday evening, I got an email from a friend who is a literary agent. He said that he wanted to talk to me about the two book chapters I sent him and would call me the next day. Based on the terseness of the email, I assumed that he wasn't planning to tell me I had just written a best seller, so I prepared myself. We didn't catch up until a few mintues ago, when I called him while I was walking home from work.

"Let's start with the bad news," I said optimitically.

"Well, there's not bad news per se, but not great news either," he began. I braced myself. "There's no narrative arc. It seems like you just put two essay together. Also, there doesn't seem to be a lot of character development. You are telling me a story, going from one line to the next zinger, which is great when you tell me a story, but not good writing. That's a minor flaw - the writing is not good."

"Uh, a minor flaw?" I said laughing painfully as rain drops splattered around me. "It seems like a big fucking problem to me."

"Well, you've never written a memoir before, so don't be too hard on yourself," he said kindly.

I swear as I hung up it stopped raining. It was weird, and while i was glad to not get soaked and appreciative of his brutal honesty, I have to say it sucks. I thought that I had made major improvements in showing, not telling and all that. Look, I know that I didn't become a miserable child care facility expert overnight. It took years before I was utterly miserable but super knowledgable. I'm sure that the writing thing works that way, too, and I haven't even been at it for a year. But this is really disheartening. Sometimes I think either you have the talent or you don't, and if you don't have it, there's no amount of practice that will make you good. I am really fearful that I just don't have what it takes.

At least its not raining any more and I can finish walking home. (Yeah, I stopped at my gym, which has internet access, on the way home since I was so upset.)

More Criticism

Today’s letter to Metro New York confirms my fear about the column: that I didn’t do a good job expressing my view, which is sort of unforgivable given that it is an op-ed piece (regardless of yesterday’s letter writer’s opinion):

Columnist Suzanne Reisman compares the egregious treatment of Native Americans in the 19th center to that of Palestinians in Israel-Palestine, asking us to reflect a bit more about our own collective complicity in the ongoing wrongs committed against Native Americans.” Is she really asking us to lower our moral standards to the level of those who wiped out the Native American race? She may as well tell us to ignore Darfur, or condone the past the genocide in Bosnia, all because our distant ancestors committed worse crimes. When defending Israel, about the worst card one can play is to compare Israel’s treatment of Palestinians to our founding fathers; genocide of Native Americans. I doubt Israelis would be flattered by the comparison. – Justin Samra

Actually, now that I reread his letter while I typed it, I realize that it is not as good as I first thought, although clearly better than my friend Nicky.

Either way, my problem is this: my goal was not to compare Israel to the founding fathers, but rather to call out the hypocrisy of Americans who call for Israelis to abandon their country under the pretenses of illegal occupation when those same Americans are likely living on land obtained illegally. Why should Americans not live up to the high standards they are setting for Israelis? These people should be fighting for land restitution to Native Americans if they are so upset about illegal occupation of land. I certainly am not justifying past actions or unfair actions, but saying that if you call out one group, you need to take a close look at what your life is like. Clearly, I failed to convey that point, so that sucks. I do have to say that my original closing line, which was cut, was, “The end to illegal occupation begins at home.” Maybe that would have helped get my point across? I don’t know, but it is not there, so it doesn’t matter. Wah.

"Pure Propaganda" Doesn't Get Any Purer!

Without further ado, I present my newest published op-ed! Incidentally, the title was not my idea.

Now that the "work" is out there, on to the fun part. There is nothing that I love more than idiots who accuse me of being an idiot! True, the article was not one of my best pieces of work (sorry, Father-in-Law, it isn’t going to nab me that Pulitzer Prize!), but dear god, what is this man even talking about? I took the liberty of italicizing my favorite parts of this hilarious letter:

Ms. Reisman: You really don’t have much of a point. Exactly what are you saying? That two wrongs make a right? That because the Jews confiscated Palestinian lands, then it’s OK because early settlers ripped off Native American territory? The usurpation of Native American lands is one of history’s great injustices, but through a nice little verbal song and dance, you conflate that horrible chapter with another. In the end, might makes right. It’s whomever’s will to power is stronger. If I were a betting man, I would place my money on the Palestinians, because as Arab historian Ibn Khaldoun so astutely pointed out: The intensity of a group’s connection to the land trumps everything. Your opinion piece is pure propaganda, meant to stir feelings of crowd identity on the anniversary of Israel’s unjust acts over the Palestinians. You’re trying unsuccessfully to make the case that because America’s defeat of the Native Americans is fait accompli, then so too should people deem Israel’s illegal occupation also to be an accomplished fact. It simple isn’t. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings. –Nicholas Donald Smith

Oh, Nicky! Where do I even begin? I love your use of SAT vocabulary words. They did add a certain je ne sais quoi to your incoherent ramblings. And I appreciate that you addressed me directly, but with a respectful title. Thanks for the chortle.

I am hoping that another letter appears in Thursday's edition. Good times.

When the Cat's Away...

Squeak, squeak.

Husband is in California this week, which means two things:
1. I miss him; and
2. I keep crazy hours.

This happens every time he goes away. My insomnia is extra outrageous. I’m not even bothering to fight it this time. In fact, I decided to use it to my advantage. Since I knew I’d never fall asleep at a normal time tonight, I slept in this morning, fooled around for most of the day, and then cracked down to work this evening. Maybe it is not a great idea to work on complicated Excel formulas at 11 pm, but I fucked the worksheet up pretty badly on Friday afternoon (I was tired from an irritating meeting and not paying enough attention, thus did not notice when I sorted the data that it only sorted one column and not the whole damn thing), so why not try it in the middle of the night? I won’t mention that I was also on the phone with my sister as I did some data entry or with Steph at the end when I was formatting shit….

On a related note, is it even possible to while away a day and not spend money? I managed to spend:

- $35 on alterations on a suit jacket that I bought back in January
- $2 on a subway ride to meet someone for Haven business
- $6 for lunch during the Haven meeting
- $2.11 for a book for my bookclub (after I returned another book)
- $35 for alterations on the stunning punjabi that I bought in India
- $1.50 for kulfi, which is a nutty ice cream

Just as I was feeling guilty about the fact that Husband was off working while I gallivanted about and spent all his hard earned money, I made an important discovery. For no real reason, I grabbed a copy of Metro New York to see if they decided to run an article I wrote about Israel and submitted back in February. I opened right to the op-ed page, and noticed a picture of an extremely butch-looking dyke in a black long sleeve shirt, pink corduroy pants, and pink boots. Yeah, it was me. I was quite pleased that they ran the article. (As soon as it is online, I’ll put up a link in case you are dying to know how Americans and Israelis are alike when it comes to “illegal occupation.”) I earned some money and had a new article published, so I felt better about the whole spend-a-thon I engaged in earlier, and thus decided to ask a friend to dinner and drop another $16. (And of course I have my little consulting gig, so it’s not like I’m not working at all, but that’s another story.) Thrifty I am not.

Next: catching up on a month’s worth of recorded CSI:Miami episodes. Good times!

Gratitude

While I may not be the best writer in the world, I really love it and I hope that someday I might be able to eke out some sort of living from it. However, I’m very insecure about the whole thing. It upsets me that I depend entirely on Husband to support me, and that while he commutes to Connecticut (and around the world) to work hard, I’m ditty bopping around home or wherever earning nothing. Granted, he loves his job and wants me to do something that I enjoy as well, so he’s fine with the situation for now. Most other people understand that I am lucky to be in a situation where I can take time off and try to start over. No one seems to think that I am a leech mooching off of Husband except for me, yet I worry about incessantly. (Obsessive worrying is one of my talents.)

Logically, I know that Husband’s Parents do not think that I am coasting on their son’s coattails, but I can’t stop myself from (no longer) secretly harboring concern that they frown upon my mostly unemployed status. Especially my father-in-law (FIL), who is an engineer and already thinks that I am a lunatic, but in a nice way. So I was super touched when I received an email from Mother-in-Law at the end of April that said:

Thought you'd be interested in the following. I was telling [FIL] that my director's husband had just won a Pulitzer prize, and that was probably as close as I was ever going to get to a winner of this award. [FIL] said, that that was true, until Suzanne won one. He didn't say" if Suzanne wins, but rather, "when Suzanne wins." See, you have many fans and people rooting for you.

Reading that leaves me speechless for so many reasons. No one leaves me speechless!

Thanks, FIL, for your faith in me. I am so lucky to be part of your family in so many ways. Now ignore me while I get all choked up and sentimental in the corner… There’s nothing to see here.

Oh.My.God.

"Oh my God" is one of those phrases that requires context. In some settings, it expresses indignation or irritation. In others, it conveys mortification or embarrassment. It can also be used to show different types of excitement, if you get my drift.

While I say, "Oh my God," frequently in all ways, yesterday the link between "Oh my God" as please-ground-open-and-swallow-me-this-minute and heavy breathing formed in my mind. I was working on my book about the trials and tribulations of growing up, and began a chapter on sexual awakening. As I wrote about the time I asked my mom how babies were made when I was in fourth grade, I was immediately transported back in time…. (Cue flashback/excerpt.)

I turned to my mom for enlightenment. Every fall and spring, we had a "girl's night out" where she took me shopping for new clothes for the upcoming season, as I generally outgrew everything from the prior year. It was just the two of us, my dad staying home with my sister. In the fateful year of the bra, I decided to revisit the whole where babies come from issue while were shopping for t-shirts and shorts that I could stuff my roly poly figure into without looking obscene.

Really, though, by the spring of 1986, did any kids still ask their parents where babies come from? No! Most had enough common sense to learn about it in less embarrassing ways: from older kids or by digging through the library for books like, "Where Did I Come From?" Kids who were even nerdier than me might have waited an extra year and figured this shit out in the "sex ed lite" we were given in 5th grade, with the boys herded off to one room with the male junior high teachers and the girls shuttled into another, so we could learn about wet dreams, periods, and where babies come from. (Some kids probably learned about sex by reading their dad's stashes of porn mags, but I'd argue that this does not actually teach anyone where babies come from, so it doesn't count.) The point is, I am the only fourth grader dorky enough to decide to ask my mom.

Closing time was approaching at Old Orchard mall, and my mom and I walked toward one last shop before the clock struck 9:00, and I turned into an unclothed pumpkin for the summer. The April air was cool on my face. I appreciated that it would be hard to see my face in the dark. The time was right. I took a deep breath.

"Mom," I said began nervously, then spat out the rest, "How are babies made?"
I grabbed her hand and held it tightly once the words escaped my lips, but I could not look at her.

She grabbed my hand back just as tightly, maybe out of surprise that I asked, but definitely uncomfortable. "The parents have sex," she replied in a straightforward manner. "The husband places the penis in the wife's vagina."

Oh my GOD! What was I thinking, asking her this? I wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and die of embarrassment. No wonder my other friends preferred to hear crazy stories from other kids. I had to play it cool, though.
"Oh, OK." I said. Maybe I asked some follow up questions, but if I did, I blocked them out of my memory for good reason.

For the rest of the day, I was mortified. Last night, I told Husband about what a freak I was and asked how he found out how babies were made.

"Did you ask either of your parents?" I inquired.

He laughed. "No! I'm not a fool! I waited to learn about it in school. It wasn't a burning question."

Um, thanks. Here's my question to you, Dear Reader – how did you find out how babies were made?

And?

After my roller skating escapade, I walked down to the Bugaboo office in the Garment District. The editor asked me to come in and help finalize a special issue we are putting out in May on Central Park.

I ranted about people's poor grammatical skills before. I don't care if things are perfect or follow grammar rules to the T when it comes to blogging because these are things that people write for themselves and as shared journals of a sort. However, if you are going to write for a formal publication, please fucking follow some damn standards. For example, despite my previous blog post below (which falls into the blog exemption for grammar, anyway), sentences should not begin with the word "and." Maybe I can deal with it once in awhile, but certainly not as the last line of every fucking paragraph. Same goes for "but."

It is driving me crazy that I am sitting in a stuffy office on a stunning Sunday afternoon reading such drivel. Grrr... No more "ands" or "buts." (Ifs, however, are fine.

Something's Rotten in the State of Florida

Husband and I went to a Marlins v. Mets game at Dolphin Stadium last night. We were pleased to find that at least half of the audience consisted of very vocal Mets fans. The Mets also smashed the Marlins to tiny pieces of stinky fish, winning 11 to 3. It was fun.

However, the Marlins have desecrated baseball. Problem #1: they don't have vendors wandering around in the seats selling food or beverage. What is baseball if no one comes by to sell delicious hot dogs in steamed buns, Cracker Jacks, Diet Whatever (for me), or Beer (for normal adults)? It is crap, that's what it is. You have to get up off your lazy ass and go to a concession stand, where the hot dog has been roasting on those stupid heater roller things and is overcooked and nasty and mustard does not come in packets, but in a big vat that your squeeze onto the tray. Harumph.

The other abomination perpetuated by the Marlins to the good name of baseball is so horrifying I can barely bring myself to write about it, but I must be brave and bring the truth to the masses, who are probably here looking for Jewish (or lately I've had some hits for Hindu) pussy anyway and won't care. But I digress… The Marlins have cheerleaders!!! Cheerleaders! To paraphrase Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own, one of my favorite movies, there are no motherfucking cheerleaders in baseball! Have you ever heard of such a thing? These ladies wore tiny little short shorts that were smaller than the bikini underwear that I was wearing and bizarre tops with their tits hanging out. Sexist, not sexy, and not cool. Every time they appeared with their stupid silver pompons and shook their asses, I felt the spirit of baseball die just a little bit more.

Regardless, Husband and I were in a very good mood at the end of the game. Mets won (yay!), and earlier that day I finished a chapter of a memoir about puberty and other medical disasters that have befallen me. (That's my progress report tucked into this complaint.) Unfortunately, we almost lost our rental car in the parking lot because there are no signs so we wandered around aimlessly. Once we found it, we discovered how truly fucked up driving in southern Florida is. We had to go through a tool booth, which didn't indicate until it was pretty much too late which lanes were open or closed. Thus cars kept swerving across four lanes of closed toll lanes to get all the way right tot the two that were open. Most merged at the middle of the line, but an uncountably large number of drivers drove to the very front of the line and attempted to cut in. It was madness, I tell you! Madness!

On a positive note, grocery stores in Florida sell the most ridiculously delicious concept in 100 Calorie Packs: Hostess Cupcakes. Yes, you get three mini cupcakes, complete with frosting and cream filling, for only 100 calories and 3 grams of fat. I have no idea how that works, but it is scrumptious genius. They must start selling this shit in NYC immediately.