Who Loves Ya, Baby?

Last night I went to see Inside Man with Husband and Dr. P. It was a fun movie, and very New York, as many of the characters are quite testy. When the movie was bring filmed, though, I swore I would not see it. It was filmed down the street from my office, and people were always gathering on the sidewalk to gawk, and I could not get by. (If you see the movie, you’ll see what I mean. The street is T-shaped, with Wall Street as the crossbar of the T. There’s a barricade set up at one side of Wall Street in which extras are gathered, and if you look beyond that, you’ll see on the other side of Wall a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.) Very annoying.

Anyway, one of the previews that played before Inside Man was for the new Jennifer Aniston/Vince Vaughn movie about a Chicago couple that owns a condo, then breaks up and continues to live together in it. It seems that Jen’s character wants to lure Vince’s character back. What is the demented “sage” advice she is given to do so? Some older woman tells her to see her waxer and get the “Telly Savalas.”Next scene shows Jen lying down on a table a ripping sound, in which she yelps as her pubic hair is yanking out. (I wonder if this scene, when shown in full, is played for laughs the way Steve Carrell’s chest waxing was in the The 40 Year Old Virgin. Somehow I doubt it will be, and I am not sure if I think that is good or bad. Probably bad because it shows that it is a normal procedure that all women should go through.) Then she walks through the apartment naked as Vince gawks.

Excuse me? It’s not good enough to look like Jennifer Aniston and walk around naked? A person has to look like Jennifer Aniston when she was 10 in order for a guy to desire her? This culture is fucked up. Fucked up!

LA Is Not in the Crapper

I am surprised by how much I liked LA. Even some of the toilets seemed very interesting, such as this one in the women's room with a super stylish flusher at the Davidson Conference Center at USC, where I presented on Thursday:Other than fascinating bathrooms, I did not get to see too much, due to the fact that I was working, I had no car, and I was staying in an area where I was told by multiple people (including those from LA) that I should not wander around by myself at night. That said, on Wed., I got to see a bit of downtown, which struck me as sterile and boring, and a bit of Silverlake, which I loved. (We had dinner at this super yummy place there.) Friday night before I left, I had dinner with some people in the architecturally interesting Union Station, and also walked around in Little Tokyo for a bit before heading to the airport. My friend took me to an amazing Japanese roof garden at a hotel. I would actually love to back to LA sometime soon to spend more time in Silverlake and other neighborhoods, including the surrounding area. There is a home-based bunny museum run by some delightful-sounding nutjobs obsessed with all things rabbit in Pasadena. It’s a must for me.

At any rate, I am glad to be home now. I got back at 8:30 this morning and crawling into bed felt great. I must take advantage of it, as next week I am off to Rome and Florence with Dr. P and Future Dr. H, which will be awesome. Last Saturday I purchased a very cool little guide to Florence, which consists of a bunch of fold out maps and quick blurbs about what there is to do, see, and eat in the area of the map. I knew this was the guide for me, as each map has a category for “Cafes, Ice Cream Parlors.” Clearly, the authors know what is important. I may need to pick up one of these for Rome…

LA Shriners Support Crips (Not Bloods)!

Down the street from the conference center that I am doing training at in LA is the Shrine Auditorium. In front of the entrance is a charming statue of a Shriner holding a crippled little girl in the crook of his arm. I know that the cause is good (raising money for children’s hospitals), but damn if that ridiculous statue of a guy in a fez holding a girl in an severly unstylish frock with 1950s leg braces and her one crutch does not make me giggle:
Here's a closer shot of the braces:Now that I take a better look, I realize the the girl is one fugly lass. Did the poor kid not have enough problems as a disabled child with super frumpish clothes that the sculptor had to make her ugly as well to emphasize that Shriners not only help cute diabled girls, but also weird-looking ones?!? We already understand that the Shriners are Good. No need to drill it in.

On the other hand, if we could not figure out the Goodness of the Shriners from the statue, the sign below reminds people of the noble cause and has the emblems of both the Masons and the Shriners:In keeping with the mysticism of the Masons, the Shrine Auditorium (also known as Al-Malaika Temple) is an extremely funky-looking building, with onion bulb towers, Arabian doorways, and Moorish stonecuts in the facade. I wanted to see what it was like inside, but unfortunately, the doors were locked.

Another amusing sign near my hotel and conference center is this car dealership’s:
I feel like it is very L.A.

******

On another note, there is nothing like staying in a college dorm to make me feel like a lame old lady. Seriously, I hate this hotel immensely.

C'est Bon in Los Angeles

I had no idea that I was staying at a French hotel in Los Angeles until I took a shower this morning. It seems that the C on the water faucet stands for chaud, not cold as I had foolishly assumed. I am not sure what the H represents, as I am fairly sure that the French word for cold begins with an F.

My April 26 in Words and Pictures

7:50 AM Wake up 20 minutes earlier than planned

7:52-8:20 Check email and do research online

8:25-8:50 Shower, get dressed, finish packing

8:55-9:00 Check out of hotel and complain about tampon wrappers on bathroom
floor; get $50 off bill

9:00-9:10 Hang around and wait for co-workers

9:11-9:29 Load into white mini van and begin trip with co-workers to see Salk Institute in La Jolla

9:30-9:59 Hang around Salk Institute, a funky modernist complex with white boxy buildings that has stunning view of ocean; watch architect friend/colleague
swoon; buy other co-worker coffee and eat banana

10:00 Begin roadtrip to Escondido to visit Lawrence Welk Museum

10:35-10:49 Hang around Lawrence Welk Museum; watch colleague who grew up in
Minnesota watching Lawrence Welk Show swoon; take pictures of ginormous champagne glass, cardboard cutout of Lawrence Welk posed in life-like manner in front of fake ABC TV camera; read a bit about Lawrence Welk and learn that he begged father to buy him $400 accordion when he was 17, which he repaid by promising to work on the farm until age 21 and give dad any earnings from weekend accordion gigs; wonder where the hordes of old folks are


10:50-10:53 Buy postcard in gift shop as well as $2.95 emory board with picture of Welk on it as gift for co-worker

10:54-11:00 Go back to museum and use bathroom; leave just as massive tour bus full of elderly people pulls up

11:00-11:58 Drive to LA in silence so that co-worker can participate in conference call via cell phone

11:58-12:36 Begin chatting while conference call is adjourned for lunch; become enraged at insane things that are going on; yell a lot about various injustices; dub mini van “the white hot mini van of bitterness and rage;” laugh hysterically

12:37-12:49 Drive in silence again so co-worker can finish call

12:50-3:00 Arrive at LA office and get lunch; eat; check voicemail; engage in call that causes anger to swell inside

3:01-3:45 Leave with architect friend/colleague and have mini meltdown; go to crappy mall; leave crappy mall and head over to interesting-looking central library

3:46-5:00 Return to office; hang out and chat with LA staff

5:01-5:45 Head over to hotel across street from USC; learn that 5 out of 12 floors of hotel are used as dorm rooms for undergrads; check into hotel in resignation

5:46-6:03 Go with co-workers to park white hot mini van of bitterness and rage in garage across street; notice SUV and remember again why I am a misanthrope
6:04-6:28 Download day’s photos onto computer

6:29-9:35 Meet co-workers for dinner; pile into white hot mini van of bitterness and rage; get lost looking for restaurant, but see sign that makes me laugh because I am being immature; find restaurant and have delicious dinner, including amazing moon pie for dessert;return to hotel and go to crappy gym

10:00-present Download new photo; type day’s events and post with pictures in effort to amuse and entertain others

In the Land of Dairy Queen

Co-Workers and I went to Dairy Queen for appetizers before dinner tonight. Not only was it the best DQ architecturally (it was a former Der Wienerschnitzel – rumored to be the first in San Diego), but it also had butterscotch dip cones. How amazing is that?!?! Not even the DQ by my parents’ house has butterscotch dip. I went for the standard chocolate dip cone, though, as a throwback to my youth.

While I did enjoy my DQ experience immensely, I was crushed to discover that Mr. Misty is now known as an “Arctic Crush.” What kind of shit is that? How can you fire Mr. Misty? (Come to think of it, I didn’t see Dilly Bars on the menu either, but I may just have missed that.)

After DQ, we headed to La Jolla, which I only learned on Sunday is not La Jolla that rhymes with Holla, but of course sounds like Hoya because it is Spanish. How I did not figure that out earlier is pathetic! On the other hand, the only reason I had heard of it at all is because I used to read trashy teen mags way back in the day, and the always had little ads for a fat camp in La Jolla. I also knew it was a place that evil Republican voters lived. We stopped by the beach and saw the sea lions hanging out. They were cute, but smelled awful.
Tomorrow we hit the road to Los Angeles, with a stopover in Escondido for the Lawrence Welk Museum, possessor of the World’s Largest Champagne Glass. Mr. Misty, I will raise a toast in your honor tomorrow!

Disturbing Things about the Hotel I Am Staying at in San Diego

This morning when I went to the bathroom, I noticed part of the wrapper for an o.b. tampon on the floor. As I noted yesterday, it is my "time of the month" now. But I don't use o.b. I figured it was just really bad housekeeping (note to self: do not walk barefoot on bathroom floor) and went about my day. This evening when I returned to the hotel and used the bathroom again, I noticed a second, new o.b. tampon wrapper on the floor. Now I remembered that there was a hair in the tub before I used the shower...

You know, I don't require luxury in my hotels. But I find is disturbing when a hotel room I stayed in the DR for $20 a night that had a pair of jeans stuffed in a broken window was slightly cleaner than this one, and I am even counting the ants that lived in the bathtub.

Whipped Cream and Krispies and Pizza - Oh My!

Last night I went with my co-workers to Old Town in San Diego for dinner. Although we didn’t really explore much since we were all tired from traveling (and in my case, also from wandering around Balboa Park and the Zoo for hours), I liked Old Town a lot. It was cute and seemed like it had some interesting stores and museums. I was sad that the Sheriff’s Museum was not open, but I probably was too tried to properly enjoy it anyway. We walked by the Whaley House (not sure if I am spelling it correctly, but I don’t have time to look it up right now), which is supposed to be one of the most haunted houses in the US. It seems that the building was constructed on a site where criminals were formerly hung. We stopped in the gift shop, which sold cute and ridiculous historical-type items. I purchased some suitably silly things for Husband’s 30th birthday.

Today we conducted training all day, at which I somehow managed to consume a tasteless Danish, a sugar-topped muffin, a cup of hot chocolate with light whipped cream, a refill of the whipped cream, a Rice Krispie treat, a caramel apple, a s’more, and a fruit tart. (I justify it all because I am on the rag, although I know it is a lame excuse.) After the training, we all walked along the boardwalk to Pacific Beach. It was great. I was a bit surprised that people live right along the boardwalk in houses with huge windows you can look right into. I was fairly mortified that people didn’t close their shades or blinds but lived on display to the rest of the world. Weird. I also learned that every night, people gather on the beach to watch the sunset and clap appreciatively. Other than all the frat boys and toothpicks – I mean, young ladies – hanging around drinking heavily, it seemed like a really fun place.

Thanks to Leslie’s brilliant suggestion, we had a fantastic pizza dinner at Filipi’s. As we walked there, we passed a Denny’s with outdoor seating. I have never seen a Denny’s with a sidewalk café. It cracked me up. We also passed a Dairy Queen on the way back. I LOVE DQ. Damn, that brought back happy memories of childhood when my parents used to take us for a walk on a summer evening and we’d wind up at DQ. There is seriously nothing like a chocolate dipped cone. Tomorrow one of my co-workers (originally from Minnesota, so she understands the beauty of DQ) and I will hustle over there after the training. I am psyched.

It's Been a Hard Day's Travel... I will Be Sleepin' Like a Log

If today does not count as jam-packed, than nothing does. It began at 4:30 AM New York time, when I got up to go to the airport for my business trip to San Diego and Los Angeles. I left my apartment at 4:50 and discovered it was pouring rain. Fortunately, a cab picked me up before I was completely soaked, although I did forget my umbrella in the backseat. One less $3.00 umbrella in our absurdly large crappy umbrella collection, I guess. Worse things could happen.

The flight was mainly uneventful. I slept for about 30 minutes. My original plan was to begin reading Far Pavilions by M.M. Kaye so that I will finish it by June 25, when Book Club #1 is meeting to discuss it. The book is a mere 955 pages long. However, I could not resist reading Magnificent Corpses, a book about one woman’s travels to 22 cities in Europe to view saintly relics. As noted in my previous post about my visit to the St. Francis Xavier Cabrini shrine, this was right up my ghoulish alley. Plus, I figured I could learn some great places to go when I hit Rome in two weeks with Dr. P and Future Dr. H.

The book was 90% highly entertaining, 10% extremely annoying. The author, Anneli Rufus, spends too much time mocking people and places around the church. Sometimes she was just too mean. (Hard to believe I am saying this, right?) Mostly I just didn’t care and wanted to get to the goods (the saints). Also, she used too many fucking similes, which began to drive me insane. Rufus did get some major bons mots in, though. To wit:

• Example 1: “Three Italian pilgrims… are taking turns posing in front of it for photographs. Standing before the glass that shields Thomas’s fingerbone and a thorn from the Passion and splinters of the True Cross, they grimace, unsure what expression is appropriate. They are happy to be there… Yet they know it might not be right to smile next to nails that pierced Christ.”


• Example 2: Set in a will on the waxwork’s left is a niche. Mounted within… is what appears to be the detached head and shoulders of a corpse… Swathed in a cowl, the taut-skinned head tilts as if listening lightly to music… Its cheeks and chin are gaunt but well-defined, its lips partly ajar, half-smiling with eyes closed as if to say Oh well, I’m dead. It must be awkward, though, to cut a body just below the shoulders.


• Example 3: Some devotees say that God chose to render Germaine’s body incorrupt in order to teach a lesson that ugly girls are really beautiful inside. If any country needs to learn this lesson, it is France.

Yes, mere snippets of the great snarkiness that is contained in this book. Others involved describing preserved body parts (hearts, tongues, etc.) as resembling sausage patties, puppy chow, or “a small exotic cactus.” At any rate, this book passed the time on the plan and if you are a horrible, sacrilegious, bad person like me, you would probably derive much pleasure from it as well.

I arrived in San Diego around 9:45 and was at my hotel by 10:30. Unfortunately, checkc in time was not until 4 pm. I dumped my stuff off and grabbed a cab to the zoo and Balboa Park. I am sorry, but I will never complain about the price cabs in NYC again after this little jaunt. The ride was maybe 15 or 20 minutes, but the fare (including tip) ran me $24 there, and $30 to get back (slightly more traffic). What kind of criminal enterprise is this?!?!

I did have a great time, though. The zoo is awesome. I saw a hippopotamus (one of the most dangerous animal in the world, responsible for more deaths in Africa than any other animal; seriously) up close as it sat in its pool next to the Plexiglas viewing area. I believe it was a female, and seeing it made me feel better about my whiskers. Damn, that thing had course snout hairs! I also particularly enjoyed the elephants. People can stand exhilaratingly close to the pen. The giraffes were also cool, but I’m jaded now because I once was given a behind the scenes tour of a zoo in Boston by a friend’s wife, and I actually pet a giraffe. (I’ll post pictures when I get home at the end of the week.) The koalas and pandas also rocked.

I will say that zoos are a tad less fun when you are by yourself. The main problem is that when I said things like, “What a cute meerkat!,” I was talking to myself. The slightly smaller problem is that no one seems to go to zoos by themselves, and I was slightly regarded with suspicion. Commenting out loud about the animals did not help. At all. (Side note: I did not understand why a child’s meal that came with burger/cheeseburger/chicken fingers, animal crackers, raisins, potato chips, and a small carbonated beverage in a souvenir cup, all in a souvenir bucket, cost $6.95 while a regular burger with fries cost $7.75. After paying $22 to get into the park, that seemed like an absurdly good deal. I enjoyed it immensely!)

I wandered the zoo for a little over four hours and as I was leaving, realized that I should have put on sunscreen. Ooops. By that point, it was late afternoon and too late, so I wandered over to the amazing, stunning, and beautiful Balboa Park. There was a big Earth Day celebration taking place, with dozens of vendors/special interest groups. I figure the entire liberal population of San Diego must have been there. As I explored the park and the festival, I discovered that the San Diego Model Railroad Museum is in Balboa Park. I could not resist checking it out before I headed back to the hotel.

Thanks to Earth Day, admission to the museum was free. There were four huge historic model railroads on display. It was pretty damn cool. It reminded me of the giant model railroad at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. They also had an interesting little exhibit/sidebar on the role of women in the railroad industry with some cool pictures from World War II. As for the gift shop, I was a bit disappointed. They had some cool shit, but the one thing I totally loved – a reprint of a Barnum & Bailey Circus poster boasting how many cars were on their trains – was $40. I also considered buying Husband an expired RR bond as a small part of his 30th birthday gift, but decided that it was not clever enough as part of a gift to warrant $15.

I arrived back at my hotel and checked into my room at 4:30, and now I await the arrival of my coworkers. I hope we go to the Gaslight District for dinner. One thing is for certain: I will sleep hard tonight.

The Past Present Participle

It is scary how quickly I can be transported back to my high school years.  A few months ago, I went to a Turkish restaurant on the Upper East Side with Brother-in-Law, BiLG, and Big O.  As we sat down at our table, I found myself across the restaurant from my ex-boyfriend from high school.  This was not the first time I ran into him in NYC.  About 16 months prior, I was crossing 9th Avenue to the west side of the street when I noticed someone who looked like my ex crossing toward me.  I started to mutter a pleasantry, but he looked the other way and started walking faster.   So while I knew that he would never approach me, I immediately, I felt like I was going to vomit and wanted to hide.  I could barely concentrate on the menu.  Only when he left about 15 minutes later was I able to relax.

There’s no meaningful lesson or rant here.  I just am completely amazed the power that people can have over others.  I’m just glad that I am not that pathetic lovesick 16 year old any more.  Sometimes it takes small moments like this to remind me just how far I have come, and how lucky I really am.

Did Someone Fart in Here or Am I Smelling My Own Hands?

At lunchtime today I went with my co-worker to Bath & Body Works. She wanted to buy some yummy smelling lotion and soap for a woman at her church and also restock her supply. While she picked out all the proper bottles and tubes, I wandered around the store in horror. (I just don’t understand why anyone would pay $12 for an 8 oz. bottle of honeysuckle soap or $24 for a 24 oz. vat of “aromatherapy” soap, although I did think the packaging was quite attractive on the “aromatherapy” stuff.) I tried to be patient and wait for V. like a good girl, but after awhile, I could not resist the urge to touch things. I touched a tin of orange mint foot balm which smelled like it would taste really good. (No, no Suzanne!) I popped open caps on shower gels and inhaled. I sprayed various perfumey concoctions in the air and then sniffed the general area where I thought it might smell. I’m sure I looked crazy as I sniffed the air, but I refused to spray myself and reek for the rest of the day. Plus, as I wanted to smell a bunch of different sprays, I couldn’t spray myself or they would get all jumbled up.

As V. was paying, I decided that my hands were slightly dry and that I should try some lotion. I grabbed a tester for eucalyptus and mint lotion, which the label claimed was “relaxing.” Unfortunately, I squeezed out three times the amount I needed on accident. I tried to put the excess lotion back in the tube, but when I screwed the lid off the tube to do so, I realized that the tube had a very small hole and I couldn’t squeeze the ginormous plop of lotion in my hand back into it. Since I did not see any tissues in the store, I was forced to smear the lotion on the inside of the cap, screw it back on, and hope for the best for the next tester.

The other problem with the lotion was that my hands reeked for the next several hours. And sort of itched. Nor did I find the scent remotely relaxing, but rather nauseating. I tried very hard to ignore it, but eventually I was forced to run into the bathroom and wash my hands using the gross cheap neon pink smelly soap in the dispenser to get rid of the stinking hand lotion. Now they carry the combined fragrance of nasty crappy soap and expensive perfumed lotion. Peeee-eewwww. Reminder to self: do not touch the expensive smelly products.

CUSS Origin Story

One rainy evening in October, I met my friend for what promised to be a night of oddity. First, we met at a pub for a snack/dinner (incredible butternut squash soup) before checking out Rev. Jen’s Anti-Slam. I would normally walk the short distance to the pub from my office, but it was cold, windy, and wet outside, so I took the subway. I was in a pissy funk when I got on the train, and some sexist ad for something set me further off. “I should start a blog where I can rant about the stupidity of life, organized in principle around some theme,” I fumed to myself. I decided that the perfect theme which I could radiate my anger around would be Brazilian and bikini waxes. I cheered up a bit at the thought.

I really love creating amusing acronyms. I have a semi-successful track record of doing so when called upon for inspiration. When I was in college, I interned at a government agency in Chicago for two summers. One summer, the department was rolling out a new program to serve an increased number of low income children, and they wanted a snappy name with an even snappier acronym for it. On the el home that night, I scratched out Childcare Resource and Assistance Program (CRAP). The next day, I explained to my superiors that the program’s slogan could be, “Don’t got CRAP yet? We’ll give it to you!” They were highly amused, but went with some name that spelled out CARE.

Last year ago, I was filling out a grant application and needed a smart little name for a sub-program which required funding. After an afternoon of pondering, I pulled Financial Education for Early Childhood Educators (FEECES) out of my ass. This cracked me up, so I actually wrote it in the draft proposal and emailed to my boss and the development associate for proof reading, as usual. I knew that my boss opened it a few minutes later when I heard hysterical laughter emanating from his office. Later that day, the development staff member called me, very concerned. “You are not really serious about the program name, are you?” she asked in a disturbed voice. I assured her that while I thought FEECES was a brilliant name, I knew that it would have to be changed before the proposal was sent in. She was relieved that I was not a total fucking maniac.

All this brings me to the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS). As I sat on the subway, I musing over the idea for a blog. By the time I walked into the pub, I had the blog’s title and purpose mostly laid out in my mind. There was a big sheet of paper on the table that M. sat at that served as a table cover, as well as a few crayons for patrons to amuse themselves with as they waited for food. I took a crayon, drew it all out for M, she liked it, and the next day, the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants premiered on Blogspot. The rest, as they say, is (a mere incident that is unlikely to impact) history.

Warriors Women are Hairy

Cousin and I are watching The Warriors as I write this because she has never seen it, and I feel you can never see it enough. It is only on this, my second viewing this week, did I realize that one of the Warriors makes a reference to unshaved snatch. Basically, the Warriors are prepping to go to their gang summit in the Bronx, and excitedly chatting to each other about what might happen. Ajax, the toughest and horniest member of the Warriors (played by James Remar, who later went on to be known as Samantha’s boyfriend on Sex and the City, says

"Maybe we’ll get some new wool on the way back."

Or he might possibly say

"Maybe we’ll meet some new wool on the way back."

I didn't quite hear it, but whichever the proper phrase (I’ll have to watch another time to get the exact words), I will always appreciate that demented gang members wearing leotards under their orange leather vests in the late 70s liked their women hairy.

Happy Trails to Me

Next week I am off to San Diego and Los Angeles for work. My flight for San Diego leaves at 6:40 am on Sunday, which let me assure you I am not thrilled about. However, I have never been to San Diego before, so I am looking forward to having a full day to explore. My plan for now is to drop my stuff off at the hotel, and head over to Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo. I would also like to see Old Town and the Gaslight District before moving on to LA, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to squeeze it in.

As with my last trip for work, my co-workers and I are making a stop at a wacky attraction on our way to our next training site. Last trip, we went to the Sacramento Valley Medical History Museum, which was hilarious and fun, although it smelled like formaldehyde. This time around, we will hit the Lawrence Welk Museum in Escondido. I read on Roadside America that it has the World’s Biggest Champagne Glass. AOL City Guides claims that the Museum is packed with octogenarian groupies. (This was also the case when Husband and I visited the Jell-O Museum in LeRoy, NY in 2002.) Dear Lord, how I love this kind of cheesiness. I am soooo excited.

As for LA, my final destination on the work trip, I was there once before, during the summer between 5th and 6th grades. I liked it enough at the time, but I’m not really looking forward to going back. I can’t stand the thought of the car culture, the plastic surgery, the obnoxious divide between the haves and the have nots, and the segregation. (I’m not saying that New York doesn’t have its problems, but pretty much everyone rides the subway together. It is a lot more democratic.) I do look forward, though, to seeing some friends for dinner. I will also try to get to the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City, but I don’t think I will have time.

I Learn Something New Every Day

"There does not exist any case in which the life of the mother would be in danger, because technology has advanced so far." - Julia Regina de Cardenal, organizer of the Yes to Life Foundation in El Salvador, explaining why abortions should not be permitted to save the life of the mother.

Seriously, I had no idea that El Salvador's medical technology and expertise is so much more advanced than that in the US.

(Is it wrong that I hope that Julie Regina de Cardenal gets pregnant and dies as a result?)

Warriors were Here

This weekend, I watched the director’s version of the 1979 cult classic The Warriors with Future Dr. H, D., and M. I had been nervous that the new animation which opens each scene would detract from the cheesy hilarity of the movie, but it actually in some cases added to the ludicrousness of the whole endeavor. M. seems to be something of a Warriors expert because she noticed that some of the scenes in the director’s version were a bit longer than the ones on her VHS version. I can’t say the longer scenes made a difference in the film’s quality. We all enjoyed the ridiculously pretentious extras the DVD provided with the crew and cast seriously discussing the movie as if it were Citizen Kane.

It never ceases to amaze me how much NYC has changed since the Bad Old Days. D. did some further research and found a fan site Warriors Movie Site) that compares locations in the movie to what they look like today. A scene that supposedly took place at the 96th Street 1,2, and 3 station clearly was shot on 72nd Street, not far from where I live. (It has a very distinct entrance, so it’s obvious to any New Yorkers watching the movie.) Anyway, I borrowed two pictures from the site.

In the picture from the movie, we see one of the gang members (a Baseball Furie) standing on the street corner. In the picture from today, we see the Sleepy’s store where Husband and I bought our new mattress. I am fairly sure that if I saw someone dressed in face paint and a baseball uniform hanging out on that corner today, I would assume he was a lunatic and give him wide berth. I’d definitely laugh my ass off about it later, though. Times definitely change (my little subway adventure yesterday not withstanding - maybe those girls on the train were part of the Lizzies, a girl gang featured in The Warriors that I kept thinking were called the Lezzies), although I am glad that the newsstand is still there. Comfort in consistency.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Find Out What It Means to Me

Yesterday evening as I left my office, the weather was extremely pleasant – sunny and in the low 70s.  I considered calling Dr. P and seeing what she was up to, but I decided that it would be better to just get home, go to the gym, and then do some work for the volunteer group that I help organize.  As I proceeded up the street to the subway, I strongly considered just walking the whole seven or so miles home.  It was that nice out.  Then I worried that Tycho, my giant pet rabbit, would get hungry if I came home too late, plus I was pretty tired, so I went with my usual route home.

Since it was the peak of rush hour, the subway was incredibly crowded.  I tried reading my Entertainment Weekly, but I became motion sick, so by the time the train pulled up to 34th Street, I was ready to be home.  Only two more stops, I thought to myself, relieved.  Oh, how sweet those few seconds of calm were.

As the train departed 34th Street, three young women, probably in their late teens or early twenties, started arguing with the middle-aged guy sitting next to them.  By the time we got to Times Square, they were full out yelling at him about not respecting them, blah blah blah.  (I just love when people bitch that they are being disrespected and then proceed to disrespect the other 60 or so people trapped in the train as they school someone by swearing and yelling about the need to respect them.)

The next stop after Times Square is mine.  Usually the express train takes a few minutes as the train speeds through the tunnels to get there.  I was getting extremely pissed at these yelling assholes, who were carrying on behind me as we left Time Square.  That’s also about the same time that the train slowed to a crawl and the three girls decided to jump the guy.  

I discovered quickly that there are several major problems when three crazed bitches decide to beat down a guy on a packed rush hour train.  The biggest problem was that I was in the middle of them and the guy.  As they rushed each other, I did my best to hold both parties back, and asked them to please sit down.  I reminded them that they were not the only people on the train.  They were blinded by rage, though, and in their eagerness to hit him, I was punched in the chest and shoulder.  My efforts to separate them were not working well, so I somehow managed to move out of the way.  Everyone else on the train was trying the same thing, though, and let’s face it, there is not much room to maneuver on a crowded rush hour train in NYC.

We were barely beyond 50th Street (the next local stop) when the guy broke the Snapple bottle he was carrying.  Grape juice sprayed anyone unlucky enough to be in an 8 inch radius.  (Meaning: a lot of people.)  Worse, we tried to get the psychos to back off by waiving the broken bottle at them.  Glass was all over the floor.  People began yelling at the girls to back off.  This only made them threaten to take on everyone else in the train.  

I’m not sure how word got to the conductor, but as we pulled into 72nd Street, there were six cops waiting on the platform for the train to stop.  The second the doors opened, at least ten people began yelling for the cops to get in.  The po-po wisely urged everyone to exit the train first, which I gladly did.  For a second, I dawdled on the platform, curious about what would happen.  Then I decided that I didn’t care and got the fuck out.  Damn, that was scary.  Fortunately, I do not think anyone was hurt.

It's What's Inside that Matters

I just received an email from The Left Coast about some surgery she had on her hip. She was fortunate enough to avoid a catheter, and lucky enough to have a doctor who showed her a picture of all the shredded cartilage and torn ligaments that they removed. I love that kind of stuff.

When I had my breast reduction surgery in 1998, I was very disappointed that I would not be awake to witness the surgery. Although not long after that, MTV had a special about plastic surgery that featured a breast reduction procedure. The show happened to be on TV while I was in the gym, and I nearly vomited when the surgeons started pulling gooey fat out of someone’s boob.

A few years ago, I had to have a colonoscopy to determine why I had barely shit over the previous 12 months. I was excited to be awake enough that I could watch the procedure on the screen. Nothing is cooler than seeing your own guts. My GI gave me a color print out with several pictures of my healthy colon, which I proudly showed off to as many people as possible. (I only wish I still had the pics. I'd scan them in and post them up. Alas, I foolishly tossed them after people repeatedly avoided me for fear of being forced to look at pictures of my colon.)

Several months after the successful colonoscopy, I was crushed when I was knocked out completely just as a tube was being shoved down my throat for an endoscopy. That GI didn’t give me a picture, either, so that totally sucked. What fun is an unpleasant medical procedure if you don't get to see inside yourself?

The Great Thong Trap

For months now, I have been pondering why on earth the sport shop in my gym sells $18-$25 Cosabella thongs and g-strings along with yoga pants, sports bras, and tank tops. Forget even that wearing a g-string or thong while working out is insane. Who would want to wear a pair of $20 underwear mesh/other synthetic material to work out and sweat in? It sounds ruinous, both to the underwear and the wearer.

Finally, I figured it out. The crafty shop does not sell the pricey lingerie for people to wear when they work out. That would be stupid. Instead, it peddles them to people who plan to shower and change at the gym when their workouts are done, but who forgot to bring a change of underwear with them. Really, it is brilliant! The gym has a captive and potentially desperate audience. If someone is in a hurry to get elsewhere from the gym, what are her choices?

1. Go commando


2. Wear sweaty smelly underwear


3. Resign self to paying crazy amount of money for fancy piece of string worn in ass.

As I wrote several months ago, I once found myself in this situation. I was at a conference in downtown Chicago and planned to go to the gym straight after my workshop. As I was fiddling in my bag on the way over, I realized that I packed everything but a change of drawers. Fortunately for me, Water Tower Mall was right across the street, and Lord & Taylor was having a big sale. I was able to scoop these up for a mere $3.00:The downside was that I was not able to wash my new undies before wearing them. Still, I felt it was the best option that I had. I would have been so pissed if the only other non-stinky underwear available to me were crazy expensive thongs.

Exciting New Non-Thong Underwear Purchases!

While Husband and I were in Worcester, MA at the end of February for my friend's 30th birthday party, we stopped by a Target to do some shopping. (I know that I am supposed to be boycotting Target since they let pharmacists violate my rights by imposing their religious beliefs on me by refusing to fill birth control/emergency contraceptive prescriptions, but it was very convenient...) I happened by the underwear section and I noticed that Hanes had a new cute style of undies they call Hipsters. Hipsters are some sort of cross between briefs and boy shorts. The price was right, too: four pairs for under $7.00. The leg holes are only minorly elasticized, which I think my mother might even appreciate. (She hates tight elastic bands.) The only bad thing about them is that two of the four pair have hideous patterns. Below, Theo models one of the cuter, albeit extremely bright, colors:I also recently invested in some new granny underwear. I have long appreciated granny underwear when it is time to wear dresses. Basically, lower cut underwear like bikinis or low rise tend to create a second belly bulge because of where and how they lie on my gut. This looks like shit in a dress, but I can avoid the double bulge by wearing granny undies that come up high on my waist and thus create a smoother line.

I only had one pair of granny undies left from my fat days (on Theo, below), so I went to Duane Reade two weeks ago and bought a pack of three pair of new granny undies. Cost: under $6.00! The colors are all semi-dark versions of pastels, which I like. Unlike the fluorescent Hipsters, there is no risk of being blinded when I put them on in the morning. The problem is that I bought a size too big. I didn’t realize that granny undies are cut a size bigger than Hipsters. While they are clearly weighing Theo down (below), I decided that while they are big, they are not nearly as big as the older pair I have, nor are they so big that they are baggy on me, and it is nice to have underwear that are not tight.:I plan to wear these to my friend's wedding on May 6. Yep, that's the kind of exciting life I lead: I plan my underwear schedule weeks in advance.

Check out the Po-po!

I haven't written about my visits to off-beat museums in a while, so I thought that I would get back to that this morning. I went to the New York City Police Museum some time ago. It was a trip.

What is really great about the New York City Police Museum is its complete randomness. Everything from old dispatch equipment to police motorcycles to ornamental batons dripping with tassels and, of course, guns are on display. Signage and explanation of items on display are scattershot. You, too, can be a detective as you try to figure out what the hell you are looking at. Reading a sign about an old motorcycle did not explain why it was called an “Indian” motorcycle, but a close look at the bike itself revealed a small Indian head attached to the front fender. Hands down, my favorite display (also lacking signage and explanation) is the case filled with sinister and creative weapons. Not that I ever want to get hit with one anyway, but baseball bats look just that much more lethal when a horseshoe is nailed onto the end or when metal spikes are stuck all over the body. An ice pick, nunchucks (or at least I think they were nunchucks), brass knuckles, and other charming instruments of death and destruction are also on display.

A giant camera from 1910 used for mug shots, taken sometimes as a group photo, is on display close to actual mug shots from the early 1900s. The mug shots are neat in what they reveal about the times: people were allowed to wear their hats in some of them, including a woman with an enormous black hat and veil, and the back of the pictures describes their physical characteristics. The same exhibit room also has a real barbershop pole next to a recreated fortune teller’s store front window. Next door to the fortune teller is the window of a fabric store. Why? I have no idea, but I love it. A parking meter and lamppost can be found on the periphery of the room for no discernable reason.

If you’re feeling generous, the suggested admission is $5. If more people paid it, maybe they could buy some explanatory signage, so I hope you’ll pony up on your visit for the good of future generations.

New Furniture is Dangerous

This is our wonderful new bed. As you can see, Theo enjoys it as much as we do. It is very comfy, although the frame is a bit longer than the mattress and box spring, so there is a good half inch of empty space at the foot of the bed.
This is the corner of the foot of the bed. It sticks out rather far.
This is the bruise that developed on my fat thigh after I unpleasantly walked into the corner of the new bed that I otherwise enjoy immensely.

Gives Me a Negative Charge

This Easter morning, I am sitting in my living room watching my giant pet rabbit Tycho hop around like a maniac. He seems to have far more energy than usual. He certainly has far more energy than I do right now. Did I ever have this much energy? I think back to my days as a youth. While I think about the good old days, it reminds me of being young and not as stupid as credit card companies hoped I was.

Not long after I graduated from college, entered and dropped out of law school, and began working, I received a letter from my credit card company. The letter informed me that my credit limit was raised from $1,000 to $2,500. Since I had never even come close to my lower limit, I did not particularly care. I was about to chuck the paper when I saw something that made me freeze in my tracks.

The letter congratulated me on my credit increase, and advised me to “think of it as a raise” that allowed me to buy things I could not previously afford. Outrage surged through my body. Who was the fucking asshole who wrote this irresponsible admonition?!?! I wondered how many other people received this same letter and racked up huge debts because they did not, in fact, get a raise and therefore still could not afford to buy shit.

Back to today, I am now pissed thinking about the letter (and wanting a chocolate egg). Once again, regular people just bend over and beg to get fucked. The credit card industry sends out letters with bald-faced lies, encouraging people to get into financial trouble, and fucking Republicans in Congress pass laws years later to protect the credit card companies’ interests when it comes to collecting debt. I shake my fist at you, evil empire!

Moses Said, Let My People Go

Last night at the Passover family dinner, Husband’s uncle insisted that Melanie Griffith is “the greatest actress in the world.”  This is because she “played Jews so perfectly in Shining Through and Strangers Among Us.”  While Cousin and I fell on the floor laughing, my aunt encouraged his poor line of thinking by agreeing that Strangers Among Us is a work of art.  Husband’s uncle also tipped us off to the fact that Walgreen’s house brand of cigars are the highest quality cigars available, and yet he cannot believe how cheap they are.  All cigars, apparently, used to be this good and cheap until yuppies and women discovered them and ruined the industry.  On a final note, he had a long discourse about how everyone in Hollywood is either Jewish or black Irish, and remarked upon the “freakish good looks” of the black Irish, holding Gregory Peck up as an outstandingly handsome specimen. I really am not sure how Husband maintained a straight face throughout this one-sided conversation.  Oy vey.

Your Tax Dollars at Work!

An employee in Halliburton's Houston, TX office, using an ISP server called Level 3 communications, did a google search for snatch yesterday afternoon, during work hours. According to my little traffic tracker, this person spent 49 seconds looking at six pages on CUSS & Other Rants, presumably looking for snatch pictures. I suspect this person was disappointed, although he/she did click off the page by looking at my profile, possibly to find out who caused him/her to waste 49 seconds of time that could have been spent jerking off on reading feminist rants about bikini waxes.

Aren't you glad to know that Halliburton has been paid jillions of dollars in recent times to rebuild Iraq? Of course, audit after audit has shown that they have been paid for work that was never done and never intended to be done. Now we know why - too busy masturbating!

Equality Hurts

Finally! Men are becoming as stupid as women when it comes to crotch hair maintence. Denise Mann, a fine journalist at DERMADoctor Newsletter report:

Men Go Nuts for Brazilian Bikini Waxes: Growing numbers of men opting for Brazilian waxes

...When I casually mentioned to my husband David that growing numbers of men were now getting the male equivalent of the Brazilian bikini wax, he almost veered off the road.

“Don’t ever mention that again,” he said, giving a collective shiver for his fraternity brothers as well as the entire male population.

Isn’t that ironic?

David certainly does not complain when I get a Brazilian bikini wax before a beach vacation including our honeymoon in Hawaii. I can't help but throw in a quick comment here: your husband sounds like a complete fucking asshole who could care less about your health and comfort as long as he gets to fuck someone who looks 12. Just my two cents. Enjoy the rest of the fine educational article before I butt in again. -Suzanne

And now media reports suggest that in several major metro areas including New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta and Washington, DC., men are paying up to $100 for bikini waxes that take it all off. Why? Apparently, men claim it makes for a more sensual experience and without the hair, everything down there looks bigger.

For women, the Brazilian wax chiefly involves the buttocks, pubic area (inside and out) and just about everything else save for what some describe as a landing strip about an inch long just above the vaginal area. In men, well use your imagination .. and then some.

According to Newsweek magazine, straight men are getting the equivalent of the Brazilian bikini wax. While some gay men have been waxing their genital area for years, it seems that heterosexual or metrosexual (as the case may be) men are paying about $100 to have waxists pour hot wax on their genital area, apply strips of cloth and then remove the hair – all of it!. And no this isn’t considered S & M, it’s all in the name of vanity. Suzanne here again. I guess its normal for women to do ridiculously painful things to look good, but when men do it, it's masochistic. Right.

..But as women know all too well, waxing, especially in the bikini area, comes with certain problems including ingrown hairs and worse, wax burns... For me, pre-op alone for a Brazilian wax involves taking at least three Advil’s, multiple deep breaths, experiencing several aborted panic attacks as well as mental exercises to distance myself from my body to deal with the pain and the utter shame that I will surely feel as the waxist molds me into certain, inhuman positions.Um, then why do you do it? You must seriously hate yourself.

You'd think that as a dermatological site, it might give advise people to avoid doing things that cause ingrown hair and wax burns. Of course, I forget that the medical industry now offers these procedures themselves and make lots of money from it. Silly me. It was too much to hope that it would conclude by suggesting that this is a bad idea (as is is evident from the paragraph on prep alone) that both men and women to spare themselves the pain and expense and just let it all hang out. Sigh.

Beware the Feathered Gang

I went outside for lunch today to soak up some sunshine and take advantage of the supremely pleasant weather. I finished my insanely tasty (and messy – tahina sauce was dripping everywhere) falafel sandwich and was reading Entertainment Weekly when I heard a commotion in the small planted area behind my bench. About 10 tiny brown birds (wrens?) were chirping their little heads off in excitement as one bird chased another around the small bushes and mini trees of landscaping. It looked like the bird was ready to give the other a serious beat down if he could catch him. That’s when I realized that the noisy onlooker birds were actually chirping, “Fight! Fight!” like a group of eighth graders in the school yard, only in Birdish. More proof that most species are just a few strands of DNA away from each other.

Vote for Change in Both Senses of the Word

If you hate the state of the world as much as I do, you know that we need as much help as we can get to fix shit. That's why my friend J. (the one who took me all those awesome places when I visited her in the Dominican Republic) is going to grad school for an MPA. I received the following request from her:

Hey suz,
I found a great yet fucked up scholarship opportunity (I can't help but crack up every time I think about how ridiculous this scholarship is).

So in order to find the last $1K that I need to cover this year's tuiton at Carnegie Mellon, I have applied for a Scholarship Frenzy Scholarship. There, I have nominated Tom's of Maine as Business of the Year (as a condition of the application).

In order for me to win the scholarship, I will need people to vote for me at: Scholarship Frenzy.com Business of the Year Nominees. The idea is to vote early and vote often for Tom's of Maine, business of the year. (There's NO LIMIT to the amount of times you can vote!!).

It'd be great if you could pass this along to EVERYONE who might want to see me win this year's prize.
Best of luck to me.
Thanks!!
J.

You need to VOTE FOR ME to get this scholarship: MULTIPLE TIMES, OFTEN, so that I WIN! Go to this page: Scholarship Frenzy.com Business of the Year Nominees and KEEP VOTING FOR ME! I am the "Tom's of Maine" contestant!
THANKS!

I cannot think of a more ludicrous way to finance education, but welcome to America. However, I do love the vote early, vote often Chicago-style philosophy embraced by this insane scholarship contest.

Passover Decent Conversation for A Better Seder

Somehow I suspect that the Seder I was at last night was one of the few Seders at which people discussed the commonality of elephantitis of the scrotum (it is the most common body part to suffer from elephantitis) and what happens when someone puts his erect dick in a 20 ounce bottle of Coke.  (According to my friend, the bottle neck works like a cock ring, preventing blood from draining from the engorged penis.  It can best be removed by cutting away the bottom of the bottle and draining the blood from the penis with a syringe.)  

Wackiness also seemed to ensue at my parents’ Passover dinner in Chicago.  While I was talking to my grandma (not bubbe – my other granny) on the phone, she started yelling at my mom to stop touching her butt.  I’m not really sure what was going on there, but it sounded dangerous and possibly entertaining.  

Yep, if you want some excitement at Passover, invite one of my family members to join you.

Only in NYC

Husband and I are excited because the guy in the apartment above us died. We think that he had a rent stabilized apartment, which means that it is owned by the sponsor of our co-op. Perhaps we might be able to buy the apartment on the cheap and form a duplex. How exciting would that be? How sad is it that we are glad that someone died so that we might be able to purchase his apartment? Is it even sadder that we are sure that the people in the apartment above the dead man’s have already thought the same thing? I doubt I will be the only person calling the management company to inquire about its status. (What is really creepy, actually, is earlier in the day someone in my second book club emailed me to say that her cousins live two floors above us, and I responded by saying that when the apartment below them/above us is available, they better keep their grubby hands off. Of course, I was joking. Sort of…)

I find it funny that my first thought was that we should try and buy it, and yet I have been freaking out over whether we can really afford the new bed that we bought for $340, including delivery. (It arrives today!!!! Hurray!!!) In reality, there is no fucking way we will be able to afford that apartment (although I still have devised various schemes, just in case it is really cheap), and we certainly can afford a new $340 bed frame. I worry about the most fucked up things sometimes.

Baaaa-d Idea

This story is actually sad because at its heart, it is a story about an elderly woman getting badly scammed. That elderly woman happens to be my bubbe, so of course it ends with something insane, although it is still a depressing tale.

Several months ago, some fucking asshole convinced my bubbe to buy a Bowron sheepskin bedding set. Since I have never heard of these things before, I looked it up online. Bowron is some sort of New Zealand company that sells, oddly enough for a company in New Zealand, sheepskin rugs, bedding, and other sheep products. It seems that the set my bubbe bought for over $1,000 (yes, you read that right – one thousand dollars) consists of an “underlay,” which may or may not be a mattress (I can’t tell from my internet research) and a duvet. One online Bowron bedding seller describes the “underlay” thusly:

Experience what thousands of others are discovering - one of the oldest and most natural materials known to mankind can enhance your comfort and improve your well-being.

Warm in Winter, cool in Summer - millions of resilient springy fibres - supporting your body, giving you the comfort you need for a better night's sleep so that you wake up rested and ready to enjoy life to the full.

Genuine sheepskin encourages good health and can help improve quality of life by:
-providing a natural solution for problem sleepers
-encouraging good circulation, helping muscle relaxation and avoiding chills
-soothing pain experienced by sufferers of rheumatism, sciatica and backache
-giving added comfort to those confined to one position for long periods of time.

Your underlay supports you on a cushion of millions of resilient springy fibres through which air continuously circulates, naturally eliminating pressure points which could cause restlessness. Wool's ability to absorb moisture without feeling damp keeps you dry and fresh and due to the natural lanolin in pure wool your underlay feels marvellously soft against your skin. The wool fibres allow a continual circulation of air, keeping the temperature constant and assisting wool's ability to absorb excess moisture.

(This same vendor, incidentally, sells the underlay for $624.40 and the duvet for $80.65, which when I do the math, adds up to significantly less than $1,000.)

Anyway, the crook who sold the set to my bubbe also told her that it is important to sleep naked in this bedding. She began to do so, and raved to my parents about how comfortable it was. That is until two months later, when she randomly decided that she is allergic to wool and could no longer use it. This is the sad part of the story.

Now comes the insane part. In March, my bubbe called me up on my cell phone while I was walking to the subway. She told me that since she no longer uses the bed, she wanted to sell it online. She asked me to place an ad on “the internet.” (She meant Craig’s List, which I used successfully in the fall to sell her car for her.)

I tried to explain to my bubbe that people do not buy used bedding, particularly used bedding that requires dry cleaning and has been slept on by a naked person. I said that it was too gross. Nope, she insisted that since this bedding is so expensive, people will jump at the opportunity to get it cheap. She wanted to know how much to ask for it. I told my bubbe to take the best offer, as I was sure that no one was going to want it at all. And back and forth we went.

The whole conversation took place while I was on the sidewalk. As I was telling my bubbe for the umpteenth time that people do not buy used bedding, a middle-aged guy walking in front of me turned around. He said, “Definitely used bedding is gross. No one will buy it.” She didn’t believe him, either. So, anyone want some used sheepskin bedding for cheap? Sigh.

What a Jerk (Off)!

I was super delighted this evening because my beloved former co-worker (I seriously think of him as the cool older brother that I never had) who moved to Azerbaijan is back in town for an important family event.  He stopped by the office at the end of the day, and  I went out with him and another co-worker for drinks.  (Well, they had real drinks and I had my usual Diet Coke.)  My pseudo older brother told us a great story about a woman in his Azuri language class.

One weekend, she decided to go to a market that was on the outskirts of town.  After she had been walking along the road for a while, she noticed a guy following her.  This continued for some time, and then she realized that he was not only following her, but had his pants open and was masturbating as he walked along the road.  No one else seemed to notice or find it extremely odd that a guy was walking around with his dick in his hand pleasuring himself in public.  Needless to say, she was extremely disturbed.

On Monday in class, their teacher asked them about their weekend.  The woman did not have enough Azuri to describe what happened, so she told the teacher in English about the stalking masturbator.  Unfortunately, the teacher’s English was not good enough to understand the story (and the woman was too shy to use the universal symbol for jerking off), so she nodded and said, “Oh, so you made a friend!”  

No Orgies, Please

One day while I was in high school, I invited mixed company over to my house without checking with my mom first. Unfortunately, it turned out that she had to go somewhere and was not happy about leaving boys and girls alone. It was too late, though, as my friends had arrived and gathered in the living room. She decided that the least she could do was give us a stern talk before she left. She stood on the landing of our bi-level house and yelled, “There will be no orgies while I am gone! Got that?!?! NO ORGIES!!!” Everyone’s jaw dropped. It seemed that other parents did not casually warn them against orgies. I was damn proud to have such a forward and interesting mom.

Look to the Cookie!

Normally, I stay as far away as possible from any cutesy internet quizzes, but I was doing research for my volunteer role as a contributing editor for travel and recreation at BlogHer when I came across this cookie quiz, and I could not resist.

You Are a Black and White Cookie

You're often conflicted in life, and you feel pulled in two opposite directions. When you're good, you're sweet as sugar. And when you're bad, you're wicked!

What Kind of Cookie Are You?

I'd have to say that it pegged me sort of well through a simple six questions about my cookie indulgences. Not to be nitpicky, though, I have never seen such a fancy black & white cookie. (In fact, I'd never seen one at all until I moved to NYC in 1997. We don't have these tasty treats in Chicago.) Usually the cookies have one half slathered with white frosting and the other half with black, but there is a definite line that is not crossed. No fancy ying-yang mingling, which brings me to my next thought about Seinfeld.

The quiz cookie also cracks me up because sometimes I feel like the whole world is obsessed with Seinfeld, which I stopped enjoying one night about 15 years ago when my mom pointed out that all the characters were fairly horrid people. Also, I really loathe the sense of entitlement George has and the way he constantly judges women on their looks. (Hello! You are short, fat, bald, and completely detestable. Only on TV would any hot woman go out with you since you are not rich, either!) I felt it was way too close to how I feel about people in real life, and thus not a good 30 minutes of escapism. The black & white cookie episode of Seinfeld is the only one that I can remember enough about to quote. Coincidentally, I was just talking about this episode on Saturday night, and Future Dr. H reminded me that the episode ended with Jerry getting a bad stomach ache from the black & white cookie. All very apropros.

Put that Ass Away, Young Lady!

Yes, I know that this incident happened eons ago (or a week ago, same difference in this fickle world) and that D. even tipped me off to it the day it hit the papers, but what can I say? Sometimes I am slow. Now that I awake up with insomnia, though, I had no excuse not to persue this case that proves that thongs are evil. (Thanks to *Egotastic! for posting a downloadable picture.)

For anyone who does not yet know, this is Lindsay Lohan at the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards. If she were wearing a normal, ass covering pair of underwear, this ugly incident would not have happened. And no one can give me some bullshit about needing a thong to avoid "panty lines." You might notice that the drapery - er, dress - she is wearing would hide an illegal immigrant that Congress is trying so hard these days to punish. Pause for a moment and be glad that Lindsay does not have assne (zits on the other face). Can you imagine how horribly more embarrassing it would be to flash hundreds of tweens with an assne condition?

Let this be a lesson to all women: thongs are not your friends. They are only a breeze or seam split away from betraying the blue ring around Uranus to the rest of the solar system.

Quick Correction to Prior Lunacy

I should probably never bring this topic up again, but I removed my misguided post about sex changes after I had a lengthy conversation with Dr. P this weekend about it. It seems that I didn't manage to convey remotely what I had been thinking about sex and gender, and instead just looked like a stupid narrow-minded fucking asshole. (I'm paraphrasing Dr. P here.) I also received an email from D. about it in which she was mortified that I would be such a stupid fucking asshole (again, paraphrasing). It's not that I don't think people should disagree with me or that I mind being called a stupid fucking asshole, it's just that it seems that I am being called a stupid fucking asshole for the wrong reason due to my own inability to convey what I was thinking. At any rate, I learned an important lesson about the limitations of blogging.

Visiting Saints and Rabbis

Today on my way to my bookclub meeting, I stopped off at the Shrine of Mother Francis Xavier Cabrini. Mother Cabrini is the first American saint and the patron saint of immigrants. The shrine allows her venerators to pay homage to her waxed-over body, which is on display in a glass coffin in an alter. I have been wanting to go for quite some time, and when I last attempted to visit the shrine, it was closed. (The website, now defunct, had posted the wrong hours.) Today the shrine was packed because, unbeknownst to me, it was Palm Sunday.
Really, it is just her skeleton, which was waxed over and given a new head. Her original head is somewhere in Rome and her heart is in the town in Italy in which she was born. A small room at the back of the chapel displayed some of her personal items, like nightgowns, an eyeglass case, and a "spring from dentures."

The place had an awesome gift shop, where for a mere dollar I was able to purchase a centimeter square of cloth that touched her body encased in plastic. I also got a Mother Cabrini sparkly sticker and a postcard, also $1 each. Holy water was sold for $1.38 plus tax, as well as rosaries, medallions, and plastic statues of Mother Cabrini. I had a nice chat with the lady in the gift shop about where to see other dead saints.

One of my minor complaints about Judaism is that we don’t have these types of fascinating relics. Seriously, I love this kind of stuff. I first learned about saintly reliquary when I went to Italy on a school trip in December 1995. While I was in Florence, I came across the “incorruptible” body of a male saint whose name I cannot recall in some church or monastery, and the finger of St. Catherine in Siena. I’ve also been to two gruesome sites, one in Rome and the other somewhere in the Czech Republic, where the skulls and bones of crusaders and other church faithful were used to make scary designs in weird subterranean chambers.

The closest I’ve come to this kind of weirdness in Judaism was in Tiberias, Israel, when we randomly stopped at the tomb of Rabbi Meir Ba’al Ha’ness and his pupils. People definitely were there to venerate the dead rebbe, who was supposed to be able to perform some miracles.
(One of my major complaints about Judaism – rampant sexism and discrimination against women – is evident in the sign at the tomb’s entrance, albeit in a hilariously unexpected manner.)

A tomb shrine, even with ridiculous discriminatory requirements, is not nearly as cool as bodies, limbs, or digits on display.

Mattress Activity

As I reported a few weeks ago, Husband and I purchased a real mattress and threw out our futon of 8 years. When we bought the new mattress (which we love), we did not buy a new bed at the same time because we had not yet found one we liked. Instead, we figured that we could just use the crappy metal frame that Sleepy’s sold us for $25 until we found what we wanted.

Unfortunately, the $25 crappy metal frame has wheels and we have a wood floor. That means that any time there is activity in the bed, it rolls away from the wall. (By “activity” I mean anything from turning over while sleeping to sitting up against the wall while reading a book to other more exiting movement.) Not only is this annoying, but we fear that one night we might roll across the room right into the TV.

I mentioned this issue to Dr. P and she told me that she took the wheels off of her crappy Sleepy’s frame. I tried to do that, only to discover that it is not possible to do on our bed frame because there is some weird medieval cross bar that props the middle of the bed up to the same height as the four corners and it is calibrated to only work when the wheels are on. Husband and I needed to find a bed fast if we were to stop our nightly glides. We became slightly less picky, and quickly agreed that this new bed would look exceptional with the rest of our completely mismatched hodgepodge of furniture. It arrives on Wednesday. Happy Passover to us!

I Bring You Only the Most Important News...

Husband emailed me with a super important news article this morning:

New ring around Uranus is blue, scientists find

If you are hard at work and don't have time to read this critical article about Uranus, I have excerpted the most important parts and provided commentary for you below.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - The newly discovered outer ring of Uranus is bright blue, for the same reason the Earth's sky is blue -- it is made up of tiny particles, astronomers said on Thursday...

I think astronomers are a little confused. Particles around any anus, including Uranus and mine, are probably brown. Those same particles are the reason it is important to close the toilet lid before you flush. If you don't the brown particles are sprayed around the bathroom.

Like Saturn's ring, the Uranus ring also has a small moon in it, called Mab. But Mab is too small and too cold to be spewing a geyser of ice that contributes to the ring as Enceladus is now believed to be doing.

Again, scientists surprise me with their findings. I would suspect any object in Uranus's ring would be very warm, and not always small depending on what you ate a few hours before it appears. Once in a while, my anus spews a shit geyser, so it does make sense that Uranus does not spew ice. If Uranus does, I'd suggest seeing a gastrointestinal professional immediately!

"The outer ring of Saturn is blue and has Enceladus right smack at its brightest spot, and Uranus is strikingly similar, with its blue ring right on top of Mab's orbit," said Imke de Pater, a professor of astronomy at the University of California Berkeley, who helped lead the study.

"I think there is no chance that the blue ring is caused by geyser activity," added de Pater, whose report is published in Friday's issue of the journal Science.

No shit! We already know that Uranus's ring would absolutely be brown if caused by geyser activity!!!! There's plenty of empirical evidence on underwear around the country for that.

"We don't know what the composition of the particles is."

These scientists must have been hired by the Bush administration. Most medical professionals and lay people know exactly what the composition of people's 'anus particles are.

Mab is probably covered with water ice, like the other moons of Uranus, but that has nothing to do with the ring's color, said de Pater.

"They are blue because they are tiny particles," De Pater said in a telephone interview.

Hmmm... maybe only the big particles are borwn.

Most other rings around planets in the solar system are red, because of the size of their particles. This is why Uranus's outer ring was missed for so long -- scientists were looking for it in the infrared light spectrum...

All I can do is laugh hysterically at the folly of looking for Uranus's ring with an infrared light spectrum. Clearly, a colonoscopy would have discovered it much more quickly, if not a short-term study of the underwear of sloppy wipers.

...Rings are always easier to see when they are edge-on, de Pater said. "The interesting thing with Uranus is that in 2007 the rings will appear edge-on," she said.

I don't realize the rings of Uranus were related to hard-ons, but then again, Future Dr. H did remind me that more Americans engage in anal sex than reported.

And there you have all the hard hitting news you need for today.

Ending a Cruise Early

Yesterday while I was feeling sorry for myself, I began whining about the cruise again. I would up going down a semi-humorous, semi-morbid path. (There's a name for that, isn't there? Lately I've had terrible vocab recall. I think anxiety really screws with the ol' brain.)

The biggest problem I had with the cruise that I was on was the length of the trip. Ten days is about five too many to be stuck on a boat. There were at least a few times when I wondered what would happen if I didn’t get back on the ship at one of the port calls, but flew home instead. (Although the only stop in which this was even a slightly realistic fantasy was Puerto Rico. I can’t imagine how much it would cost to fly back from St. Martin!) I mentioned this to Husband last night, which made me wondered what types of incidents I would have been willing to endure as long as it got me home earlier. Compared to other recent cruise happenings:

Rogue wave – Given that no one was actually hurt in April 2005 when a 70 foot wave hit the very ship I traveled, I think a rogue wave would have been a very interesting way to end my trip early. Sure, it would be scary and some people’s things were damaged. But everyone got a full refund (and a discount on a future cruise, which my in-laws would be pysched about) and those who wanted out were flown home when the ship reached Charleston, saving them a day at sea. I’ll take it!

Fire – This one is a little trickier because someone actually died when Carnival Cruise Line’s Star Princess caught fire and burned out over 100 cabins. Everyone was offered a refund and a 25% discount off a future cruise. If my ship did catch fire, I would have been pretty upset. But I’d still be glad to be off the boat and on my way home.

Legionnaire’s Disease – If an outbreak of illness happened on my ship, I’m not sure that they would have let people fly home and risk infecting others. I wonder if everyone gets hospitalized at a port call. If that is the case, and then you get to fly home, I might be willing to deal with it. I’m not sure what the long term consequences of Legionnaire’s Disease are or if any died from it when it happened on a ship last year. It seems like it would probably be better to avoid and stay on the entire cruise.

Death – Sadly, this did happen to a ten people on a Celebrity Cruise last week when their excursion bus plunged off the road in Chile. I hate cruises, but not enough that I would have wanted to die rather than be on the ship.

Clearly, most things that have happened in the past to cut cruises short are horrible. I’m not wishing them on anyone. Yet given the cabin fever I experienced, I can’t help but wonder if there weren’t any passengers on those cruises who were a bit relieved to be home sooner as a result.

Lesson Learned

Hair (pun intended) is an important lesson I learned this evening:

If you have a major hair cut and then meet up with a friend you have not seen in a few weeks who is known for being blunt to the point where she is offensive and her main comment is that she almost did not recignize you because you cut your hair, do not, under any circumstances, ask that friend if she likes it. She does not like it at all or else she would have told you that she thought it was cute in the first place. In fact, she will then almost make you cry because she is so fucking mean about your eyebrows, insisting repeatedly that you cannot have a short hair cut unless you do anything about them because your face is so exposed. You will then have to keep reminding her that you don't give a fuck about your eyebrows becauses it is not like you have a unibrow.

Look, I'm not an idiot. I have eyes and my brows are not so big that they block my vision and cause me to not know what I look like. I just don't care about stuff like that. I never have and I never will. They are fucking eyebrows. I'm not going spend a jillion dollars every few weeks to have them ripped off my face. Everyone has her limit. Back the fuck off.

Snatch in the OR

As the stitch from my breast reduction surgery wends it ways out of my body 7 ½ years after it was sewn into me, I cannot help but to reflect on the experience (again). I have to say that had I known in advance that I had to be totally naked during the surgery, I may have postponed it, although I was pretty desperate to get the load off my shoulders, so maybe I would not have delayed any further.

Anyway, when I arrived at the hospital for my surgery at the crack of dawn, I expected that I would be wearing my undies during the surgery. After all, the surgery was on my boobies, but they asked me to strip completely. What?!?! Why would my cooch need to be exposed to the OR? It turns out that my cooch needed to have a catheter shoved in it since I would be under general anesthesia. In retrospective, of course, this makes perfect sense. At the time, I was beyond mortified. I mean, waxed or unwaxed (and we all know what the answer is here), who the hell wants a bunch of strangers knowing her business? I was pretty fucking embarrassed.

Today, thanks to the wisdom of Dr. P, I know that everyone who goes under general anesthesia will be totally naked, regardless of type of surgery, just in case something goes wrong and they need to do other shit fast to save you and your new small boobies. Also, and I may be making this up since my memory stinks and I can’t always distinguish something that someone actually told me or that I really read from something that I dreamed, you don’t want your undies catching on fire if they use the defibrillator on ya, especially is they are not cotton and the synthetic fabrics would melt. Knowing these risks, I feel better knowing that my crotch exposé was not because the surgeon was a gross weasel who had a fetish for snatches with catheters in them.

Poor Little Rich Newsie

Do you think Matt Lauer has abandonment issues now that Katie is gone, or does he feel shitty and undervalued by all the money and fuss that is going to that flighty twat Meredith Viera? I’d be pretty fucking pissed on both counts if I were him.

Snowman in the Hood

There was a freak snowstorm today in New York.  (By the afternoon, it was sunny as if nothing had happened, and none of the snow stuck.)  At the height of the mini-blizzard conditions, I had to go to a lunch appointment, and as I made my way to the subway, I was literally covered from head to toe with snow.  I felt like a little snowman.  I also felt vindicated in my insistence that any outerwear I purchase must have a hood.  After all, you never know when a random snowstorm will hit.

Woe is Me

The cruise that I went on with my family ended almost two weeks ago, but I am still struggling with one of its side effects. Since the cruise was to the Caribbean and I had signed up for two shore excursions that required me to wear a bathing suit, I had to deal with my bikini line because basically all women’s bathing suits are cut in a way that require that you shave/wax/laser your bikini line. (Although I am glad that bathing suits are no longer made out of wool, I wish that they still cut them like they did in 1920.) So I caved in and shaved my stupid bikini line.

I know that I am not alone in what happens after I shave my bikini line. Within 24 hours, a nasty, angry red rash appears. The problem is that it does not go away once the hair starts growing back. Instead the bikini line becomes hairy and rash-infested at the same time. There is nothing remotely sexy about it.

Every time I go through this process, I swear that I will never do it again, and that I will buy swim trunks to wear over my suit for next time. Unfortunately, it is so rare that I shave my bikini line that I forget what happened last time, and the whole thing repeats itself. At least I have a written reminder this time, as well as people who will read this testimony of despair and hopefully remind me next time I even think about doing something so common for many women, and yet so dumb.

A Stitch in Time Reappears

On Dec. 29, 1998, two days after my 23rd birthday, I had breast reduction surgery in Chicago to finally stop the excruciating pain in my neck, shoulders, and upper back. My boobs were sewn up after the operation with dissolvable stitches, or should I say, stitches that dissolve in normal people. In August 2004, two days before I was to leave on a road trip to Vermont with Dr. P, I noticed a small lump along the line where my stitches had been holding my tit halves together. Further investigation indicated that a 5 ½ year old stitch from my surgery was surfacing.

I called Dr. P. “Uh, I think a stitch is somehow still left in me and is now popping out,” I eloquently told her. She said while that it was weird, it is not too unusual for that to happen. In fact, people who are in car or other major accidents will often absorb pieces of glass, only to have the shards start poking out years later. She told me to cover it up with a bandage and monitor it.

The next morning at work, I felt a bit uncomfortable. I went into the bathroom and checked out my boob. The bandage was oozing with pus. Most displeasing, if I do say so myself. I called Dr. P again. “Yeah, there’s like pus oozing out of it now,” I said as quietly as possible so as not to notify my cubicle mates that I had pus seeping out of my tit. (Yet I wound up chatting with them about it later anyway.) Dr. P thought I might need antibiotics. Seeing as how my gross weasel surgeon was back in Chi-town, and I could not get a doctor’s appointment elsewhere before I left for Vermont the next day, I went to the ER at New York Downtown, a small community hospital near my office, on my lunch hour. Ha! Like you can get in and out of the ER in an hour. Something like 3 hours later, a semi-useless ER resident saw me and gave me some antibiotics.

The next day, I was on my way with Dr. P in a dark orange rental car that we picked up at the New Haven MetroNorth Station, saving us oodles of money and traffic issues. We had a lovely time driving up to Vermont, eating at a random BBQ pit that served it’s ‘cue out of a converted school bus, and generally relaxing. The next night, however, while we were at a coffeehouse (possibly Starbucks), I got that bad feeling again. I went into the bathroom to check, and found that the pus was everywhere. I put my boob away, got Dr. P, and brought her into the bathroom. She agreed that things did not look so good, and we went back to her parents’ house, where I lay on the floor while she squeezed pus out of my tit. (The great thing about being friends with a resident is that she travels with latex gloves.) I am sure that it would have been quite an erotic sight to someone who did not notice the latex gloves or pus. Anyway, the stitch came out along with geysers of pus, we cheered and went on with our vacation. (And what a great vacation story this makes!)

Last night, 1 1/2 years after the Vermont pus-y (or is it pussy?) boob incident, I felt something strange in my tit while I was in the shower. A closer look seemed to indicate that it was another stitch. I hope that Husband can be as brave as Dr. P when it comes time for the pus volcano.

The Nielsons Must Be at an All-Time Low on Tuesdays at 9:30

Wow, Teachers has to be the worst show on TV. It hurts; it hurts in ways that I cannot possibly describe. Help! Save me. It is so inane and awful. Yet I cannot look away. It's like an accident: how much worse can it get?

If I can hang on another 20 minutes, I will be able to watch Benson get fucked up on Law & Order: SVU.

Hurray for Brother-in-Law!

Brother-in-Law is my technology hero. Thanks to him, CUSS has its own domain with a shorter URL, which will make it easier for me to print stickers. Also, thanks to him, the old blogspot server links to the new site. And, thanks to BiL, the page has stopped refreshing itself every 2 seconds. Finally, BiL linked the archives to the new site.

All hail Brother-in-Law, Tech God!

Real Desperate Housewives and Other Women Who Need Assistance

Do I wish that abortion was not ever necessary? Yes, but the world is fucked up and complicated, and sometimes shit happens. If you are as outraged as disgusted by the total abortion ban hatched in South Dakota (and on the way in several other women-hating states) as any person who can think for herself should be, you probably have been wondering what you can do to help. If you have any spare change - even as little as five bucks - you can help make a big difference for women desperate to control their own lives and destinies.

On April 3, the National Network of Abortion Funds (NNAF), an association of grassroots groups that raises funding for low-income women seeking abortions, announced the launch of the National Reproductive Justice Fund to help low-income women affected by the South Dakota and other state abortion bans. “We will not allow politicians in South Dakota to deny women the right to make decisions about their lives and their futures,” said NNAF Executive Director Stephanie Poggi. “Our new national fund will ensure that women have the resources and help they need to obtain abortions – no matter what the South Dakota legislature does.” In addition, NNAF supports efforts to overturn the ban including the ballot initiative and the election of pro-choice candidates to the state legislature.

The National Reproductive Justice Fund will also assist women facing other extreme obstacles, including women in the eight other states that have similar abortion ban legislation pending – Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Missouri, Ohio, Oklahoma, and Tennessee. Poggi noted that “as with South Dakota, in these states low-income women will be most affected.” People seeking to donate to the National Reproductive Justice Fund can do so online at www.nnaf.org
or by calling NNAF at (617)524-6040.

Ch-ch-ch-changes at CUSS

Exciting news! With many, many thanks to Brother-in-Law, CUSS & Other Rants is now at www.cussandotherrants.com. You can access your favorite crotch jokes and feminist rants either way - by going to its current site, cussandotherrants.blogspot.com or the new site with the shorter URL, cussandotherrants.com. Now that I have a site with a shorter URL, I can have some cool stickers made, which will be available as downloads or by emailing me and asking for pre-printed ones on vinyl or whatever the hell they print stickers on. I'm thinking something with a cute picture of a cartoon beaver and pussy, buddying it up. (If anyone knows a graphic designer who can help me for a nominal fee, that would be great.)

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In other news, there was an article in today's New York Times about a documentary called "All Aboard! Rosie's Family Cruise." It is about a cruise that Rosie organized for gay couples with kids. You'll never guess which cruise ship they took - that's right, none other than the Norwegian Dawn, the very same boat that I took in March, and that was hit by a 70 foot tall rogue wave in April 2004. For the most part, people seemed to have a much better time than I did. The sad news is that the film shows the boat being met by protesters in Nassau, who carried signs declaring "We don't welcome sissies in the Bahamas," and harrassed children. I would really love to know what the fuck is wrong with people.