Hello giant David Wright! You are like a cuddly teddy bear! Even though you have not been playing very well (not that your teammates are any better), I want to hug you.
Yes, I know it must be hard to be a popular baseball player. Not only do attractive women throw themselves at you, but so do ones who look like 12 year old boys whose voices crack when they get excited.
Life must be very hard.
I came across this old post today while I was looking for something else and I cannot stop laughing. Unfortunately, the treasures depicted below were destroyed in a flood a few years ago. Tragedy.
Welcome back to Casa de Padres de Suzanne! For Part 2 of the tour of this fine piece of real estate, we shall visit the bathroom in the basement.
Beginning with what actually belongs in a bathroom, please direct your gaze to the right-hand side of the photo. Isn’t the toilet a lovely shade of peach? I know that the beige lid doesn’t match. Heck, it isn’t even the correct size. (It’s a smidge too large.) After the old one cracked, Sister’s Husband tried to buy a new seat at the flea, but the toilet seat dealer insisted that peach colored seats have not been available for years now. He did the best he could. At least the toilet usually flushes.
I’m not sure what the ginormous red bucket is for, but I suspect it is for when the ceiling leaks. Perhaps my parents would be kind enough to explain its function in the comments section, despite what I believe will be their extreme displeasure with this tour.
Moving the left, up against the wall is a snack table on wheels. I hope it is not down there so that people can enjoy a nice meal while they do their business. On the other hand, I hope it is not brought out of the bathroom to serve food to unsuspecting visitors in other rooms. Ever.
To the front of the snack tray and to the left are two partially broken lawn chairs. Obviously. Everyone stores their lawn furniture in their large second bathroom. I don’t even know why I am pointing it out.
The tool boxes are in front of the lawn chairs. If you are ever in the middle of a shit and need the peen of a hammer to pry it out, you are in luck! If you ever need a hammer while someone is in the bathroom taking a crap, you are literally up shit’s creek. Hopefully, the project can wait. (Perhaps this is why a nail was never driven into the living room wall so that Dennis Franz could be properly framed and hung?)
Another worthwhile object (Husband’s favorite) in the tool bucket is the hedge clipper. Now you know where to go to trim your bushes! (Ha ha ha ha!) Another one of Husband’s interests is the random outdoor lamp that is sitting just behind the enormous broom. And is that another snack table that the tool boxes are pinning to the wall all the way to the left? Why yes, I believe it is. Delicious!
Thanks for joining me on the tour of my parents’ downstairs bathroom. It has many things that a person might need to survive a disaster. Or at least bust out of the room after reclining on lawn chairs and dining off the snack trays. I’m sure that you cannot wait to visit someday!
There’s an excellent post over at BlogHer by Catherine Morgan about a new emergency contraceptive. Since it will do good things like help women not become pregnant if they don’t want to, ant-choice groups are protesting its approval. This is nothing new. What is news, though, was a comment left about how vitamin C can act as an abortifacient.
Can you believe that shit? Vitamin C is sold at pharmacies everywhere. Wal-Mart even has this dangerous baby killing weapon. Wal-Mart! They are baby killers, too! The FDA is in close cahoots with feminists, I tell you. Who knew that “alleviating the severity of a cold” was a euphemism for “yes, this will kill the innocent baby developing harmlessly inside your stomach, your cold heartless bitch.”
To put an end to this abomination, I am advocating to ban the sale of Vitamin C to women. Women are are essentially pre-pregnant at all times, and I would not want to do anything to let them control their destinies, like deciding whether or not they should reproduce and when.
Boycott the vitamin C industry and the fascist manhating women who run these businesses! Save the innocent unborn!
“I’m sorry you married a crazy person,” I said to Husband as I kissed him goodnight last night.
“That’s OK,” he replied. “I knew what I was getting myself into.”
“I didn’t mean crazy-fun. I meant having a life long struggle with depression. It’s not like I brought that up on the first date. That would be seriously stupid.”
“Actually, I think you might have.”
“Yeah…”
Fortunately, my dating incompetence worked out in this situation. Yeesh.
A raspberry bush grows in my parents’ backyard. It’s been there for at least twenty years, faithfully returning with its offerings of red gems every summer. As far as I remember, it just sprouted up one day and my mom thought it was a weed at first. Or my bubbe may have planted it. She did things like that in those days, just came over and planted herself in the grass and began seeding or transplanting.
When I was visiting my parents in July, my mom told me that the bush was bursting with fruit and I should pick some. One morning, I went outside with a plastic blue cereal bowl and filled it. Some of the raspberries were so ripe they crumbled as I pulled them off the stem. Others had little bugs on them or were partially eaten by whatever wildlife beat me to it.
I brought my brimming bowl inside. The raspberries were small, about half the size of those grown commercially. It had been a long time since I had fresh ones from the backyard. I popped a few in my mouth. The sweetness surprised me. The berries were small, but full of flavor. It made me sad that the ones at the store – even organic ones that sell for $5 or more a pint – were only half as delicious.
Maybe it is the pollution from the highway in front of my parents’ house that makes the raspberries so sweet.
In a post about abortion access, the following spam comment appeared:
“Also, if you are/have experienced diarrhea as an early pregnancy symptom, how early in the pregnancy did you experience it???”
Perhaps it is a sign that I have had a challenging week, but I find this hilarious.
I proofread the penultimate version of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on my way down to DC a few years ago. It inspired Maurice (the hamster that runs on the wheel that powers my brain) to hustle a bit. This led me to wonder how far I could go riding public transportation. Could I get all the way to Florida from New York City? Unlikely. Subsequent research stranded me somewhere in Maryland.
For no good reason, I pondered the subway/bus/commuter train idea this afternoon again. Could I get from Boston to New York City on public transit? How about Montreal? I was willing to walk ten miles if I had to do so in order to link a broken transit system and make it work. But what about my luggage? Would it endure?
Then I thought I could use some new luggage. If I mapped out some crazy trip, could I get a sponsor? Hey Samsonite! Would your toughest suitcase survive a several hundred mile trip using only public transit? Don’t you want to find out? Call me.
An airline could challenge me. Given all the bad publicity they have, I could demonstrate that people are still better off flying than taking public transportation as far as it can go. Another option is public transit authorities, but they are pretty low on funds these days. The US Postal Service already wastes their time on Lance Armstrong, but how awesome would it be to trust me with a sack of mail to be delivered in another geographic region via public transit? It would be like the pony express, only with less horseshit to deal with and more subway musicians singing off-key. Someone could outfit me to prove that their clothing really stands up to being worn five days in a row. I will try not to spill on my shirt.
I’m open to suggestions. This could be brilliant. It is sort of like “Eat. Pray. Love.,” but with granola bars and other snacks, praying that I don’t miss a connection that forces me to wait an hour for the next bus, and falling in love with a subway rat. (That would be Maurice’s love connection, not mine.) In the movie version, I will be played by Natalie Portman and Husband will be a Muppet. He’ll stand on the platform on 72nd Street as I board a 2 train to Penn Station and forget to wave me off with a white handkerchief because he’s busy using it to mop off the rivers of sweat cascading down his face. Seriously brilliant…
Me with Bruce Jenner. I like that my face is at the level of his armpit. He’s almost as tall as my giantess friend Steph. I did not ask him if the Kardashian girls were responsible for his corpse-like appearance. Now that I wrote something rude, I will say he was very gracious and nice.
Hee hee!
The milk mustache is not from Bruce Jenner nor the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Perverts.
Padma Lakshmi from Top Chef prepares for a demonstration of high end cooking at the Hillshire Farms display.
Yes, these are just a few of the exciting people/brands I’ve met at BlogHer today. Tonight my friend AV is joining Mar and me at my apartment. AV has shoes with heels that are made out of butt plugs.
Although my friend Steph has had a relationship with Husband’s associate Jean-Claude D. Pollack for ten years, he once again stood her up at the house we rented in upstate New York this work. Fortunately, he arranged a special delivery for her. The letter says:
1 Auguste 2010
My Cher Amour,
While I am sure you are enjoying the little place in Hoodsen, it is unfortunate that I cannot join you on the anniversary of our 10 years being romantic. As you know, I typically summer at Chantilly for solitude since, unlike the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, ugly ladies are not permitted. Handsome and wealthy, yes I bear a burden. Once I burdened a bear with the sharp end of a Laguiole knife, but that is another story about my manliness that is also the reason I am not allowed at the zoo in Stockholm any longer.
How sad that I have such an allergy to common people or I might be able to feign interest in meeting your friends. Although they cannot experience me in person, they will probably want to dream about the opulence of my lifestyle. To help them envisage this unobtainable fantasy, I am enclosing a lavishly illustrated guide to my fair estate. I know they will enjoy reading about the place where I spend so much time being sexy.
Beyond the very important book, I also include a small gift that is also a riddle. During my exciting and very dangerous work being a thief of secrets held by international peoples who wish to do France harm, I would often use my heart as a Trojan horsey. First, I give a woman my love and then I could search her drawers. Here, I do much the same, except I am presenting you with my secret. What is it? I hope you catch my meaning you silly and very elevated lady friend of mine,
A kiss on each side of your face,
Jean-Claude
The package contained a book about Chantilly with a new interpretation about the sexy Lord of the Manor, and a necklace with a pendant that concealed a USB memory card with videos of Jean-Claude’s mustache at the estate.
Husband and I went to Pennsylvania to celebrate Steph’s 35th birthday on Saturday night. The plan was to stay overnight in the area, then the three of us would drive over to the first birthday party of the son of our friend (and talented artist) on Sunday afternoon. After gorging ourselves on fondue, we went to put our bags in Steph’s trunk. When she opened it, I saw a full size suitcase with the lid propped open.
“Uh, is that suitcase filled with underwear?” I asked. (I had to be sure – what if I ate too much and the cheese was obscuring my vision? )
“Of course,” Steph said. “I did my laundry at my parents’ house and it wasn’t dry before I left,* so my mom told me that it would dry in the trunk because it is so hot out.”
Of course! Why had that not occurred to me? Who doesn’t have enough underwear to fill an entire suitcase?
*Note that she was 20 minutes late to her own birthday dinner.
Subscribe Feed (RSS)
Comments Feed
Name: Suzanne Reisman
Location: New York, NY
I'm a misanthropic humanist. While I'm a do-gooder by training and profession, I sort of also loathe people. Now I write, too.
COPYRIGHT: Please note that everything on this page is covered by my Creative Commons License, and should not be quoted without attribution, reproduced for profit, or altered in any way. Thanks.
CUSS swag is now available at the CUSS Store at Cafepress! You know you want it and will throw away your money on other crap anyway. Why not show the world that you love fuzzy beavers with stylish CUSS gear?
CUSS stickers are still free! Email me 
and I'm more than delighted to send some your way. Spread (ha ha!) the word!
I also write at:
