In our household, Husband and I unofficially have our own set of maintenance chores. We tends to wash and dry the laundry (sometimes with my assistance), and we each put our own clothes away. He also is in charge of ridding our apartment of the trash. I do all the vacuuming and floor washing. We each generally wash whatever dishes we are responsible for dirtying as soon as we are done using them. No dishwasher here. Since we rarely cook a shared meal (how childless New York of us!), it is more or less obvious who made a mess. Sometimes dishes pile up, and one or the other of us will just wash everything (and then gripe about it).
In the nine years that Husband and I lived together thus far (man, where does time go?!?!), I still cannot bring myself to do one chore: put away the dishes that are in the drying rack and dry, especially silverware. Things will pile up as I clean my dishes, glasses, spoons, forks, and knives, and I just let them sit there, clean and ready for reuse, until Husband yells at me because he has no room for his stuff.
Years ago when we went through this battle at our first apartment, a 200 square foot space with no stove or oven, but a huge sink and decent amount of counter space (which was taken up by the microwave, toaster oven, and two burner hot plate we used for “cooking”), Husband asked me what my psychological barrier to putting away clean dishes was. I claimed that the dishes confided in me that they were afraid of the dark. Every time I would go to put them in a cabinet or drawer, they would sob and beg me in a terrified voice to let them stay out in the open space.
Is it my fault that they didn’t trust Husband to share their deepest fears with him? I don’t think so.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Say It Like Gollum
Thursday afternoon I gathered as much courage as I could muster, took a deep breath, and went into the Nanette Lepore boutique. I hate boutiques. I am completely uncomfortable among the snobby salesladies and pricey items. I know I don’t belong, and they know I don’t belong. At any rate, I went to try on some items. I had no intention of actually buying anything in the store, but in order to snag some good rags on eBay, I needed to figure out what size I was.
Upon entering the shop, I was greeted by… no one. This was odd. Usually salesladies are watching me like I’m Winona Ryder with a large shopping bag. Instead, they were all gathered in the back by the fitting rooms loudly griping about their working situations, leaving me to browse on my own without the dragon ladies breathing free down my neck as I looked at price tags and cringed. Very nice.
Paradise was short lived, however, when one of them broke free from the bitching session and sauntered over to me. Her bright fake smile almost distracted me from noticing that she had a blue eye and a brown eye. “Can I help you?” I pointed to a cute dress, and indicated that I wanted to try it on. She told me that it was not a dress, but a jumper and that I’d need to wear a blouse under it because it was too low cut and I had boobs. Let me say right here that this item was $275. Who the fuck has ever heard of a $275 jumper? Jumpers are the things that kindergarten teachers wear so they don’t look to threatening. Damn.
Anyway, couture confuses me, so I was not sure if I was supposed to wear the shirt under or over the dress. (I refused to call it a jumper.)
“Oh, aren’t you precious!” she said.
“Um, no. I actually was asking a serious question,” I replied.
“You wear it under. You’re so cute!”
It occurred to me at that point that she might have thought that I was 14 or so. I was wearing a pair of gym shoes, light blue flared leg jeans, the adorable baseball t-shirt with pink sleeves and a picture of a red stapler with the phrase, “Damn, it feels good to be a gangster,” on it. Topping off the look was my ginormous light blue backpack. At least I untied my jacket from around my waist before I went in.
Still, precious? That is funny.
Upon entering the shop, I was greeted by… no one. This was odd. Usually salesladies are watching me like I’m Winona Ryder with a large shopping bag. Instead, they were all gathered in the back by the fitting rooms loudly griping about their working situations, leaving me to browse on my own without the dragon ladies breathing free down my neck as I looked at price tags and cringed. Very nice.
Paradise was short lived, however, when one of them broke free from the bitching session and sauntered over to me. Her bright fake smile almost distracted me from noticing that she had a blue eye and a brown eye. “Can I help you?” I pointed to a cute dress, and indicated that I wanted to try it on. She told me that it was not a dress, but a jumper and that I’d need to wear a blouse under it because it was too low cut and I had boobs. Let me say right here that this item was $275. Who the fuck has ever heard of a $275 jumper? Jumpers are the things that kindergarten teachers wear so they don’t look to threatening. Damn.
Anyway, couture confuses me, so I was not sure if I was supposed to wear the shirt under or over the dress. (I refused to call it a jumper.)
“Oh, aren’t you precious!” she said.
“Um, no. I actually was asking a serious question,” I replied.
“You wear it under. You’re so cute!”
It occurred to me at that point that she might have thought that I was 14 or so. I was wearing a pair of gym shoes, light blue flared leg jeans, the adorable baseball t-shirt with pink sleeves and a picture of a red stapler with the phrase, “Damn, it feels good to be a gangster,” on it. Topping off the look was my ginormous light blue backpack. At least I untied my jacket from around my waist before I went in.
Still, precious? That is funny.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Continuing to Bring You Only the Most Disturbing News
Here is something guaranteed to give a reasonable person nightmares: vaginoplasties/labiaplasties. According to Dr. 90210’s website, “Many women are embarrassed by the length of their inner vaginal lips.” Really? I know lots and lots of women, of all ages and cultures, and never once have I heard any of them say that their “inner vaginal lips” humiliated them.
My first question is why anyone would let this cocky bastard operate on any part of them, let alone their precious poonanie? However, it seems that some very impressionable idiots have been talked into believing that they have ugly vaginal areas that need to be fixed. The evidence is at the Photo Gallery on his website.
If you think my “cum on a cookie” (a.k.a. “ookie cookie”) post was disturbing, don’t click on the photo gallery link. I’m not kidding. Don’t go there unless you want to lose whatever remaining faith you have in humanity. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m very serious.
My first question is why anyone would let this cocky bastard operate on any part of them, let alone their precious poonanie? However, it seems that some very impressionable idiots have been talked into believing that they have ugly vaginal areas that need to be fixed. The evidence is at the Photo Gallery on his website.
If you think my “cum on a cookie” (a.k.a. “ookie cookie”) post was disturbing, don’t click on the photo gallery link. I’m not kidding. Don’t go there unless you want to lose whatever remaining faith you have in humanity. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m very serious.
He Just Seems Normal
A few years ago, I bought a fresh lobster. Before I threw it in a pot of boiling water, which made me feel nervous and guilty, I did some research on the internet. I heard that lobsters scream while they are bring boiled to death, which made sense to me because I am pretty sure that I’d be yelling my fucking head off if the situation were reversed and I was thrown alive into a pot of boiling water by a human-eating band of lobsters. I hoped this was not going to happen. Screaming dying things ruin my appetite, and I paid $12 for my dinner.
My research indicated that lobsters had no nervous systems and thus felt no pain. As for the screaming, nothing was mentioned. Common sense would indicate, however, that of course, lobsters don’t scream, as lobsters don’t have vocal cords. Whew! I set the pot aboil, put the cooked lobster in the fridge, and the next night had myself a fine meal.
Husband, however, tried to torment me about my murderous ways. First, he insisted that he saw the lobster’s ghost haunting our refrigerator. Then, a letter from the lobster’s mother mysteriously arrived in our mailbox. “Henrietta the Lobster” heard through the seaweed vine that I ate her son, and she wanted me to know what he had been liked before he was snatched by a lobsternapper from the ocean floor and delivered into my killer’s hands. I noticed that despite a return address of “Under the Sea,” the handwriting looked suspiciously like Husband’s, although he denied knowing anything about it.
The next time I mention one of my zany plans or shenanigans I recently engaged in and you feel sorry for Husband, think about this story. We are a perfectly matched couple.
My research indicated that lobsters had no nervous systems and thus felt no pain. As for the screaming, nothing was mentioned. Common sense would indicate, however, that of course, lobsters don’t scream, as lobsters don’t have vocal cords. Whew! I set the pot aboil, put the cooked lobster in the fridge, and the next night had myself a fine meal.
Husband, however, tried to torment me about my murderous ways. First, he insisted that he saw the lobster’s ghost haunting our refrigerator. Then, a letter from the lobster’s mother mysteriously arrived in our mailbox. “Henrietta the Lobster” heard through the seaweed vine that I ate her son, and she wanted me to know what he had been liked before he was snatched by a lobsternapper from the ocean floor and delivered into my killer’s hands. I noticed that despite a return address of “Under the Sea,” the handwriting looked suspiciously like Husband’s, although he denied knowing anything about it.
The next time I mention one of my zany plans or shenanigans I recently engaged in and you feel sorry for Husband, think about this story. We are a perfectly matched couple.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
666 - The Post of the Devil
Wow, I write a lot. This is because I have an ongoing narrative in my head at almost all times. I think it is why I dream often and vividly.
The only problem with my interior discussion is when I forget to keep it in my head and start talking to myself out loud. This happened for the first time when I was in grad school and ran to Kinko’s at 2 am to make copies of a group project that was due later that day. As I walked by the southwestern portion of Central Park, I noticed that there were a lot of mentally ill homeless out and about. “Wow, there are a lot of people out here talking to themselves,” I said as I walked. “And I am one of them. Hmmm…”
The other particularly notable time I chatted myself up in public was back in April when I went to the San Diego for work, and killed a lovely Sunday afternoon by going to the zoo alone. At various animal compounds, I managed to make several remarks to no one in particular about their inhabitants. “Damn, I’m talking aloud again!” I swore after oohing and aahing to myself about the vicious, but innocuous-looking koala bears. (An animal I identify very closely with, despite our vastly differing diets. I’m so not into eucalyptus leaves these days.) I believe at that point, a father moved his daughter further away from me.
So it goes.
The only problem with my interior discussion is when I forget to keep it in my head and start talking to myself out loud. This happened for the first time when I was in grad school and ran to Kinko’s at 2 am to make copies of a group project that was due later that day. As I walked by the southwestern portion of Central Park, I noticed that there were a lot of mentally ill homeless out and about. “Wow, there are a lot of people out here talking to themselves,” I said as I walked. “And I am one of them. Hmmm…”
The other particularly notable time I chatted myself up in public was back in April when I went to the San Diego for work, and killed a lovely Sunday afternoon by going to the zoo alone. At various animal compounds, I managed to make several remarks to no one in particular about their inhabitants. “Damn, I’m talking aloud again!” I swore after oohing and aahing to myself about the vicious, but innocuous-looking koala bears. (An animal I identify very closely with, despite our vastly differing diets. I’m so not into eucalyptus leaves these days.) I believe at that point, a father moved his daughter further away from me.
So it goes.
Milk (and Honey) Money
Sister relayed an amusing anecdote when I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She works at a school, and the custodian approached her during the day to ask her if any of the parents she works with had lost money, as he had found $30. (You know that this did not take place in NYC because the custodian did not try and pocket his found treasure. Which I would totally do if I randomly found money in a hallway, unless I knew whose it was, and this honest dude had no idea.) She did not think so, but a few hours later, a parent called in a panic and asked Sister if anyone had found $30. Sister assured her that it was there, and the parent could get it from her when she arrived to pick her kid up at the end of the day.
Later, when the parent arrived, Sister handed over the wad of cash. The woman thanked her profusely and then unfortunately explained how she lost it in the first place. “I put it in my bra. My husband told me not to put it in my bra, but I did anyway. It must have gotten loose and fallen out,” she explained while she pulled her shirt away from her chest and again stuffed the money in her bra as Sister’s jaw dropped to the ground. “Thanks for finding it, though.”
Not only was a lesson clearly not learned (and I hope that the custodian does keep it next time), but Sister was grossed out that she handled titty money. Could be worse, though, I advised. She could’ve kept it in her thong or g-string. Now those would be some funky bills.
Of course, this makes me wonder about the cash stuffed in the g-strings of strippers and reminds why money is dirty and you should not put it in your mouth and definitely wash your hands after handling things that have been put in places you don’t want to know about.
Later, when the parent arrived, Sister handed over the wad of cash. The woman thanked her profusely and then unfortunately explained how she lost it in the first place. “I put it in my bra. My husband told me not to put it in my bra, but I did anyway. It must have gotten loose and fallen out,” she explained while she pulled her shirt away from her chest and again stuffed the money in her bra as Sister’s jaw dropped to the ground. “Thanks for finding it, though.”
Not only was a lesson clearly not learned (and I hope that the custodian does keep it next time), but Sister was grossed out that she handled titty money. Could be worse, though, I advised. She could’ve kept it in her thong or g-string. Now those would be some funky bills.
Of course, this makes me wonder about the cash stuffed in the g-strings of strippers and reminds why money is dirty and you should not put it in your mouth and definitely wash your hands after handling things that have been put in places you don’t want to know about.
Neosporin Saves the Night, or Not
Husband is convinced of the miraculous powers of Neosporin. Got a paper cut? He will immediately rush over to you with Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Have a sore throat? He will frown and wonder how you can get Neosporin in there. Perhaps with a Q-Tip…Asthma attack? Now he’ll really be concerned because there’s no way to get Neosporin into your lungs, but hopefully your inhaler will work. And any mysterious digestive ailments would definitely be fixed if one could shove some Neosporin up one’s ass.
For the last three weeks, I have had bouts of very aggravating insomnia. I really am to the point where rubbing Neosporin on my eyes seems like a good idea. (Perhaps that is due to sleep deprivation more than desperation, but still.) Mara, who is visiting from London and staying with us, also woke up last night (she’s preggers and has to pee a hundred times a night) and advised me to try going through the alphabet and matching an animal to each letter. It worked pretty well, although some of the animals I came up with were scary. (H is for hyena; J is for jackal.) Burned less than Neosporin, at any rate.
For the last three weeks, I have had bouts of very aggravating insomnia. I really am to the point where rubbing Neosporin on my eyes seems like a good idea. (Perhaps that is due to sleep deprivation more than desperation, but still.) Mara, who is visiting from London and staying with us, also woke up last night (she’s preggers and has to pee a hundred times a night) and advised me to try going through the alphabet and matching an animal to each letter. It worked pretty well, although some of the animals I came up with were scary. (H is for hyena; J is for jackal.) Burned less than Neosporin, at any rate.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Why I Did Not Ever Date You: Another Expose of My Fetishes
People are always blathering after meeting and rejecting a potential partner, justifying their decisions by saying things like, “Oh so-and-so is just not my type.” Fine, whatever. You can’t help who you are attracted to. I always thought that I didn’t have a “type,” but I’m wrong. I just have a very strange type.
First and foremost, if a guy is not witty, brainy (a.k.a “nerdy”), and politically savvy (i.e. – not a conservative), I am not very interested. Sure, I’ll stare at someone who is stereotypically hot for hours on end, but for the most part, I don’t waste much time pining for the Tom Cruises of the world.
Next, it helps to have any of the following characteristics: a big nose, red hair, height of 6’2”, and/or trombone playing skills. If you want to win over my heart and loins, you don’t need all of them, but looking back on my (lackluster) romantic history, these features play a prominent role. Other than Husband (who is 5’9” and does not play the trombone, but has a cute prominent proboscis and red hair), I only dated guys who were 6’2”. It just worked out that three young men who happened to be 6’2” somehow wound up in a relationship with me. Of those three, one had red hair, and two played the trombone. It is almost like a fetish. None of them had big noses, although many of my unrequited crushes did (Alex was cruelly referred to by idiots at my high school as “Gonzo,” and the aforementioned Jeremy who I watched Hunter with over the phone, had quite the schnozz, - oddly, both were blond, but I digress) and if Adrian Brody is not sexy as hell, I don’t know who is.
So, if you happen to be a guy who ever had a crush on me (unlikely, certainly) and it didn’t work out, now you know why.
First and foremost, if a guy is not witty, brainy (a.k.a “nerdy”), and politically savvy (i.e. – not a conservative), I am not very interested. Sure, I’ll stare at someone who is stereotypically hot for hours on end, but for the most part, I don’t waste much time pining for the Tom Cruises of the world.
Next, it helps to have any of the following characteristics: a big nose, red hair, height of 6’2”, and/or trombone playing skills. If you want to win over my heart and loins, you don’t need all of them, but looking back on my (lackluster) romantic history, these features play a prominent role. Other than Husband (who is 5’9” and does not play the trombone, but has a cute prominent proboscis and red hair), I only dated guys who were 6’2”. It just worked out that three young men who happened to be 6’2” somehow wound up in a relationship with me. Of those three, one had red hair, and two played the trombone. It is almost like a fetish. None of them had big noses, although many of my unrequited crushes did (Alex was cruelly referred to by idiots at my high school as “Gonzo,” and the aforementioned Jeremy who I watched Hunter with over the phone, had quite the schnozz, - oddly, both were blond, but I digress) and if Adrian Brody is not sexy as hell, I don’t know who is.
So, if you happen to be a guy who ever had a crush on me (unlikely, certainly) and it didn’t work out, now you know why.
Partly why I haven't been to a movie theater in eons
I was ingesting my brain candy (a.k.a. Entertainment Weekly) on the subway ride home from work last night when I came across an article on Brian De Palma. “Oh, how interesting,” I thought. His new movie, The Black Dahlia, seems right up my alley. Ever since there was an episode of Hunter (my favorite show after The Golden Girls when I was in junior high; I loved watching Hunter while I babysitting, and often called my Hebrew school crush Jeremy Weiner and we’d watch it over the phone together) about the Black Dahlia, I have been intrigued by this gruesome unsolved mystery.
Anyway, one of my favorite features in Entertainment Weekly is when a famous director or actor goes over his/her track record of past movies, and this is what the article about De Palma entailed. Unfortunately, as a result, I hate Brian De Palma. He incurred my unquenchable wrath by saying:
When I am a famous director, I think I would find it much more interesting to show Brian De Palma naked and getting fucked up by some demented killer. Chicks in lingerie getting raped and killed are so cliché. Make like the douche bag you are, sir, and get some fresh ideas. Just a suggestion.
Anyway, one of my favorite features in Entertainment Weekly is when a famous director or actor goes over his/her track record of past movies, and this is what the article about De Palma entailed. Unfortunately, as a result, I hate Brian De Palma. He incurred my unquenchable wrath by saying:
In any movie, as soon as you see a girl, you’re waiting for her to take her clothes off. You’ll sit there and watch her forever for this to happen. I get attacked for putting women in jeopardy and having them get attacked, but I’m sorry, if I’m going to photograph someone in peril, showing a woman in a negligee holding a candelabra is a lot more interesting to me than some guy walking around with a flashlight.No, I’m sorry. You, Mr. DP, might go to movies and wait for women to get naked, but I sure as fuck don’t go to movies for that reason. I’m fairly sure that a sizeable chunk of the population (oh, let’s say about 50%) don’t see a woman (not girl, you shit fuck, unless you are directing child porn) and wait with bated breath for her titties to appear and for a glimpse of the cooch. Maybe your career has seen its ups and downs since you seem to have absolutely zero regard for entertaining the audience, which is probably something a filmmaker might want to consider.
When I am a famous director, I think I would find it much more interesting to show Brian De Palma naked and getting fucked up by some demented killer. Chicks in lingerie getting raped and killed are so cliché. Make like the douche bag you are, sir, and get some fresh ideas. Just a suggestion.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Pleasurable Choices
Since I must be off the Pill so that I can take my menopause test on Nov. 2, Husband and I recently found ourselves faced with the task of buying condoms for the first time in years. When we approached the pharmacy counter, we stared with our mouths agape at the range of products now available that did not seem to exist the last time condoms were required in our household. (OK, at least I did. Maybe not Husband. I was not looking at him because I was blinded by the display of colorful boxes and dazzling packages with big, fun lettering, as if condoms were being marketed to four year olds.) Anyway, things have changed a lot. It’s not just deciding between “ribbed for her pleasure” versus “extra sensitive” (a.k.a. “ultra-thin”) any more. Now consumers need consider “twisted pleasure,” “extended pleasure,” “mutual pleasure,” and “warm sensations” as well. We felt like clueless, nervous 19 year olds again.
Guess what we wound up buying? That's right - Elexa. I've been educated well. Not that I fully remember the last condoms we used, but these seemed to work out rather nicely. Other than my rant about the free t-shirts given out at BlogHer, I fully repent for my angry blatherings about this product. (Like I would if I observed Yom Kipur, which is around the corner, I am asking for atonement.)
Guess what we wound up buying? That's right - Elexa. I've been educated well. Not that I fully remember the last condoms we used, but these seemed to work out rather nicely. Other than my rant about the free t-shirts given out at BlogHer, I fully repent for my angry blatherings about this product. (Like I would if I observed Yom Kipur, which is around the corner, I am asking for atonement.)
My Most Private Parts
This post exposes some private, exciting parts of me that no one ever gets to see. Is it odd that I have no compunction about showing off my internal organs for the world to see, but I could not imagine letting most people see me naked on the surface? I do find that strange. But it is too cool (in my mind anyway) not to share. Without further ado, more of me (and apologies for the odd angles at which these were scanned...)
The last one is totally my favorite because it is juicier. The good news is that these organs are all normal. The bad news is that they are all normal, so I am still not sure what is wrong with me. (Digestively, I mean. I know the other things that are wrong with me.) Still, I love really looking inside myself.
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The last one is totally my favorite because it is juicier. The good news is that these organs are all normal. The bad news is that they are all normal, so I am still not sure what is wrong with me. (Digestively, I mean. I know the other things that are wrong with me.) Still, I love really looking inside myself.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Extra, Extra! Read All About It! Virtual Book Tour Stop: Amy Güth
For the first time ever, CUSS is hosting a virtual book tour stop! Please welcome Amy Güth. As you can see from her bio at Guth-a-Go-Go!, as a self-described “urbanite, smart-ass, feminist, anti-socialite” (my super favorite type of person), Amy Güth has lived all over the country. As she notes, “ask her where she's from and you'll get a shrug. When she says a's people think she's from New York. When she says e's people think she's from the South. When she says o's people think she's from the Midwest. Whatever. Most of her roots are on the east coast and she moved from New York City to Chicago a few years ago.” Her novel, Novel Three Fallen Women, by is now available from So New Media Books. At any rate, many thanks to her for stopping in at the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch & Other Rants.
As part of the virtual book tour, I virtually asked Amy a few questions about Three Fallen Women. (Meaning: I sent her questions via email, she sent me replies; I asked her more questions, and she sent me more replies. Not meaning: I made this all up, as “virtually asked” might imply.) My interest in the book was piqued by the fact that one of the characters has an abortion, which you rarely, if ever, see in works of any fiction (books, TV, movies) these days, so I started from that vantage point.
Suzanne: What made you include an abortion in your book?
Amy: It fit. I never thought, "Oh, I have to have an abortion in my book." I just let characters develop and make logical and in-character choices for them to construct plot development. It's funny to me that so many people are latching onto this character's abortion-- it's almost mentioned in passing, it's such a small part of her whole story. She's a herion addict, and dying throughout the book. Her sense of self-awareness is so damaged and so undeveloped that it doesn't even occur to her to do anything to save herself, rather she just sorts of exists and fades away. So, the abortion she gets is little more than a device-- the more important factors are her reaction to it, the reaction of people she has surrounded herself with ad the like. It's almost a metaphor to me. But, my loudest critics, the people latching onto the word abortion, admit to never having read the book, so there is a lot of dialogue about it, but it's totally out of context.
Suzanne: How do you feel about other women writers who, when their single heroine gets knocked up, always has them give birth and live happily ever after? (I must admit that I really loved the Jennifer Weiner book "Good in Bed," in which that exact scenario happens, but that book was good for other reasons than the puke ending.)
Amy: I know how it is. As a writer, you sort of follow your characters and make decisions for them that are in character. For some characters, it makes sense to do something you, the writer, would do, sometimes it's something you wouldn't or haven't done. So, what I think is that those writers made intelligent decisions based on what was called for in terms of plot and character development. I don't know many writers who judge their characters. For most of us, I think our characters just sort of are whoever they are.
Suzanne: Actually, I think your response to my abortion question is interesting because when I think of people who chose an abortion, I think that they are ultimately saving themselves, their other children (if they have any, and 60% do), and the baby itself from poverty (emotional, mental, whatever...). Yet you see her choice in the opposite way - as not saving herself. Any thoughts?
Amy: I agree with you. In reality I think there are many reasons why a woman opts to terminate a pregnancy, mostly the ones you list. In the case of the Carmen character, the abortion isn't so much a case of her saving or not saving herself, as it is with her addiction, but more about her reaction and thoughts about it. But, honestly, as I said before, writing about her abortion was more of a plot and character development tool than much else.
I have to say for the record, this book isn't about abortion. In fact, Carmen is the more minor character of the three women. I think Three Fallen Women covers far broader social issues than abortion. It just so happens that a character has an abortion.
Suzanne: OK, so what is the take home message you'd like CUSS readers to have about the book?
Amy: I wrote Three Fallen Women at a time when I was seeing a few people around me unable or unwilling to enforce their personal boundaries in various ways. I think most of us learn this lesson through trial and error, sure, but suddenly I was noticing a lot of people who didn't seem to have a grasp in that direction at all. The more I saw this, the more I started noticing things people were enslaved to. Food, pain, drama, clutter, money, misery, people, rotten partners-- it was everywhere! So, I ended up writing a lot about the freedom that comes from setting boundaries and practicing self-reliance and ended up doing it through the mouthpiece of these characters.
It's funny, because everyone who reads it thinks it is about something a little different. I feel like it is about boundaries and crossroads and the extreme situations that arise from not asserting and enforcing your boundaries. But, some people think it's about identify crisis, others think it's about gender identity, so I feel like it has the ability to be a very personal book in that way. Maybe readers will take from the book what is on their own radar at the time.
Suzanne: Your message really hits home with me these days, as I have been letting my employer take advantage of me and finally said, "No, I'm not going to take this bullshit any more. Fuck off!" last week. Setting boundaries is so important in life! I'm not sure where this will go or what I'll do next, and it is scary to sort of set off in an uncharted direction (I'm generally too uptight for that), but there is a level of relief that comes with standing up for yourself.
Amy: I couldn't agree more. I hope that's an exact quote from the showdown with your boss...?
Suzanne: I wish! I think the message got through, though... Moving along, any closing thoughts?
Amy: Thanks so much! I enjoyed my visit to CUSS. You know, I think I spent the entire interview thinking I was about to be asked about my own, ahem,
shaving habits. I was gearing up for a whole rant about vagina pride, American beauty standards and armpit hair. Ah well, I had such a nice time visiting that I didn't even notice.
Suzanne: You are certainly welcome to discuss that here any time!
Anyway, Three Fallen Women is available at www.Amazon.com starting October 2nd, but sales from the publisher are going strong, so if you want to be part of the advance buzz, you can buy it for the bargain price of $12 at So New Publishing now! For more (free) Amy, check out her sarcastic rantings on her blog, Big Mouth Indeed Strikes Again. (It goes so nicely with CUSS!) Or, you can score an issue of the paperless magazine, Outcry, and read her monthly socio-feminist column. She is guaranteed to use the f-word often. She does that.
We (we=me) here at CUSS so love both of the f-words (that’s “fuck” and “feminism,” friends), so a big thanks to Amy Güth for virtually coming by.
As part of the virtual book tour, I virtually asked Amy a few questions about Three Fallen Women. (Meaning: I sent her questions via email, she sent me replies; I asked her more questions, and she sent me more replies. Not meaning: I made this all up, as “virtually asked” might imply.) My interest in the book was piqued by the fact that one of the characters has an abortion, which you rarely, if ever, see in works of any fiction (books, TV, movies) these days, so I started from that vantage point.
Suzanne: What made you include an abortion in your book?
Amy: It fit. I never thought, "Oh, I have to have an abortion in my book." I just let characters develop and make logical and in-character choices for them to construct plot development. It's funny to me that so many people are latching onto this character's abortion-- it's almost mentioned in passing, it's such a small part of her whole story. She's a herion addict, and dying throughout the book. Her sense of self-awareness is so damaged and so undeveloped that it doesn't even occur to her to do anything to save herself, rather she just sorts of exists and fades away. So, the abortion she gets is little more than a device-- the more important factors are her reaction to it, the reaction of people she has surrounded herself with ad the like. It's almost a metaphor to me. But, my loudest critics, the people latching onto the word abortion, admit to never having read the book, so there is a lot of dialogue about it, but it's totally out of context.
Suzanne: How do you feel about other women writers who, when their single heroine gets knocked up, always has them give birth and live happily ever after? (I must admit that I really loved the Jennifer Weiner book "Good in Bed," in which that exact scenario happens, but that book was good for other reasons than the puke ending.)
Amy: I know how it is. As a writer, you sort of follow your characters and make decisions for them that are in character. For some characters, it makes sense to do something you, the writer, would do, sometimes it's something you wouldn't or haven't done. So, what I think is that those writers made intelligent decisions based on what was called for in terms of plot and character development. I don't know many writers who judge their characters. For most of us, I think our characters just sort of are whoever they are.
Suzanne: Actually, I think your response to my abortion question is interesting because when I think of people who chose an abortion, I think that they are ultimately saving themselves, their other children (if they have any, and 60% do), and the baby itself from poverty (emotional, mental, whatever...). Yet you see her choice in the opposite way - as not saving herself. Any thoughts?
Amy: I agree with you. In reality I think there are many reasons why a woman opts to terminate a pregnancy, mostly the ones you list. In the case of the Carmen character, the abortion isn't so much a case of her saving or not saving herself, as it is with her addiction, but more about her reaction and thoughts about it. But, honestly, as I said before, writing about her abortion was more of a plot and character development tool than much else.
I have to say for the record, this book isn't about abortion. In fact, Carmen is the more minor character of the three women. I think Three Fallen Women covers far broader social issues than abortion. It just so happens that a character has an abortion.
Suzanne: OK, so what is the take home message you'd like CUSS readers to have about the book?
Amy: I wrote Three Fallen Women at a time when I was seeing a few people around me unable or unwilling to enforce their personal boundaries in various ways. I think most of us learn this lesson through trial and error, sure, but suddenly I was noticing a lot of people who didn't seem to have a grasp in that direction at all. The more I saw this, the more I started noticing things people were enslaved to. Food, pain, drama, clutter, money, misery, people, rotten partners-- it was everywhere! So, I ended up writing a lot about the freedom that comes from setting boundaries and practicing self-reliance and ended up doing it through the mouthpiece of these characters.
It's funny, because everyone who reads it thinks it is about something a little different. I feel like it is about boundaries and crossroads and the extreme situations that arise from not asserting and enforcing your boundaries. But, some people think it's about identify crisis, others think it's about gender identity, so I feel like it has the ability to be a very personal book in that way. Maybe readers will take from the book what is on their own radar at the time.
Suzanne: Your message really hits home with me these days, as I have been letting my employer take advantage of me and finally said, "No, I'm not going to take this bullshit any more. Fuck off!" last week. Setting boundaries is so important in life! I'm not sure where this will go or what I'll do next, and it is scary to sort of set off in an uncharted direction (I'm generally too uptight for that), but there is a level of relief that comes with standing up for yourself.
Amy: I couldn't agree more. I hope that's an exact quote from the showdown with your boss...?
Suzanne: I wish! I think the message got through, though... Moving along, any closing thoughts?
Amy: Thanks so much! I enjoyed my visit to CUSS. You know, I think I spent the entire interview thinking I was about to be asked about my own, ahem,
shaving habits. I was gearing up for a whole rant about vagina pride, American beauty standards and armpit hair. Ah well, I had such a nice time visiting that I didn't even notice.
Suzanne: You are certainly welcome to discuss that here any time!
Anyway, Three Fallen Women is available at www.Amazon.com starting October 2nd, but sales from the publisher are going strong, so if you want to be part of the advance buzz, you can buy it for the bargain price of $12 at So New Publishing now! For more (free) Amy, check out her sarcastic rantings on her blog, Big Mouth Indeed Strikes Again. (It goes so nicely with CUSS!) Or, you can score an issue of the paperless magazine, Outcry, and read her monthly socio-feminist column. She is guaranteed to use the f-word often. She does that.
We (we=me) here at CUSS so love both of the f-words (that’s “fuck” and “feminism,” friends), so a big thanks to Amy Güth for virtually coming by.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Now I Know My (Porn) ABC's...
These were the subject lines of four spam emails that I received yesterday. I had a few more like them in the previous weeks, too. I know that they are not supposed to be funny, but I can’t help but crack up when I see them in my junk mail box.
The first thing about these spam emails that tickle me is the arbitrary array of letters. I wonder if the sender really thinks that the message will wind up in my inbox instead of junk mail merely by inserting random letters at the front of the subject line before all the sexy talk. The other thing that is hilarious is the awful grammar. For this reason, I like the fourth email best because I have no fucking idea what a “bukkake” is. Is that even a word? I suppose I should look it up.
[time out for quick research]
Oh. According to wikipedia, Bukkake is:
Bukkake is a group sex practice wherein a series of people take turns ejaculating onto someone. There can be strong overtones of erotic humiliation in this practice. Various styles exist, but a common form of bukkake seen in such publications will involve a woman or man sitting, lying down, or kneeling while men (or functional transsexuals) approach to masturbate until they ejaculate on her/his body, primarily on the face or in the mouth. The semen is left on the face as another man repeats the routine... One urban myth purports that the practice originated in feudal Japan as a method of punishing women who had committed adultery. Fetish "forced bukkake" movies are popular in Japan. The typical plot features a young woman acting as a naïve, uniformed student or a demure pantyhosed office lady somehow finding herself in the predicament of being tied up and drenched with semen against her will.Damn, I hate when something semi-amusing turns totally depressing upon the receipt of further knowledge. I still think the email subjects are funny in their own right, but once again am filled with serious contempt for people, in this case, men specifically. I’ll never understand why humiliating and demoralizing another human being is a turn on. Oh. Sorry, I forgot that women aren’t human in most cultures. Never mind. Sigh.
[Later] I wrote this up on Friday and thought I was going to have to end this post on a horribly depressing note, but fortunately, when I told Husband about bukkake later in the evening, he guided the discussion in a further demented, but significantly less depressing, way. I think it happened when I asked him if the American version of bukkake is the game known to jocks and other vile male creatures as “cum on a cookie.” Cum on a cookie (now known to me as Bukcookie – ha ha!) is “played” like this: a group pf guys stand around a cookie. (I’m not sure if one person holds the cookie or if it is on the ground.) They then simultaneously jerk off on it. (A circle jerk, but with a goal.) Whoever comes last is forced to eat the cookie.
Husband wondered what size the cookie is, and if that determines how many guys can participate and how it affects the game. For example, if it is a Chips Ahoy cookie, then there is significantly less room to stand around it, thus fewer guys can play. If fewer guys play, the odds of coming last and thus being forced to eat the jizz cookie are much higher than if the cookie is a giant cookie from the Cookie Factory or another bakery that would allow more guys to be part of the insanity, and thus lessen any individual’s chance of having to choke that sucker down. Of course, the statistical loser would have to consume that much more jizz.
We also wondered whether the type of cookie makes a difference. Would a chocolate chip cookie be a better match for jizz than an oatmeal raison? If the jizz is a vile frosting of a sort, than perhaps a sugar cookie or ginger snap might be the best type of cookie to use. I’d even through out the idea of Nilla Wafers, but I don’t think they are available in larger than bite size, so that would ruin the game, so to speak.
In the end, I have to wonder what the hell is wrong with males that they would want to do anything like this. On one hand (heh heh), I am intrigued that men/boys feel comfortable enough with their sexuality that they would stand around in a circle masturbating in front of one another. One the other, what the fuck is wrong with anyone who would use their sexuality in that way?
I’m just glad that women have not ruined any cookies for me.
Heaven on Earth
From now on, anyone who comes to visit me in NYC will be taken to Max Brenner: Chocolate by the Bald Man. As I was walking home from my feminist reading last night (the first night of Rosh Hashanah), I noticed this restaurant and store for the first time. I have yet to eat there, but the menu looks beyond Willy Wonka and it has something like 20 locations in Australia, so how can it not be amazing? The menu for chocolate drinks (like hot chocolate with essence of orange) alone is 10 pages!!! Someone pass me a napkin, ‘cause I am salivating just thinking about it.
While I did not eat in the restaurant yet (but can’t wait to try the chocolate crepes and waffles…), I peruse the shop at the front. What struck me immediately as I looked at the little tins of chocolates were how familiar they appeared. Where had I seen something like this before? On my travels to California? Other places? No, I didn’t think so. Very odd. At any rate it all looked tasty and fattening and so I left and bought some low fat LesserEvil black and white kettle corn at Whole Foods instead. (It is supposed to fend of “snackcidents” – ha ha ha. It definitely almost saved me last night.)
I say that the popcorn almost saved me from a high cal, high fat incident because when I arrived home, I realized that I knew why I recognized the packaging at Max Brenner. Two years ago when my friend visited me from Israel, she brought me a tin of Max Brenner pralines. (The tin says NUTS, and then everything else is in Hebrew, so she kindly made a note on the label that inside were “Chinese” pralines covered with cocoa and nougat.) Shocklingly, there were three left, so I ate two of them. Delicious, even after sitting on my shelf for two years or so. This bodes well for the restaurant, I think.
There are two points to this story. One, what is wrong with me that I can’t recognize a person I’ve met at least eight times at various events, but I immediately know I’ve had a type of chocolate two years ago? (I’m sure it helps that I glance the package at least once a day, but still, I fear that lately I wouldn’t even recognize my own mother walking down the street…) The second point is that Rosh Hashanah is celebrated with something sweet. Traditionally, that something is apples and honey, but I think from now on it should be chocolate-covered pralines or other ridiculously unhealthy treats.
Happy New Year 5767! May it be as sweet, but not as sickening, as pounds of chocolate ingested in one sitting.
While I did not eat in the restaurant yet (but can’t wait to try the chocolate crepes and waffles…), I peruse the shop at the front. What struck me immediately as I looked at the little tins of chocolates were how familiar they appeared. Where had I seen something like this before? On my travels to California? Other places? No, I didn’t think so. Very odd. At any rate it all looked tasty and fattening and so I left and bought some low fat LesserEvil black and white kettle corn at Whole Foods instead. (It is supposed to fend of “snackcidents” – ha ha ha. It definitely almost saved me last night.)
I say that the popcorn almost saved me from a high cal, high fat incident because when I arrived home, I realized that I knew why I recognized the packaging at Max Brenner. Two years ago when my friend visited me from Israel, she brought me a tin of Max Brenner pralines. (The tin says NUTS, and then everything else is in Hebrew, so she kindly made a note on the label that inside were “Chinese” pralines covered with cocoa and nougat.) Shocklingly, there were three left, so I ate two of them. Delicious, even after sitting on my shelf for two years or so. This bodes well for the restaurant, I think.
There are two points to this story. One, what is wrong with me that I can’t recognize a person I’ve met at least eight times at various events, but I immediately know I’ve had a type of chocolate two years ago? (I’m sure it helps that I glance the package at least once a day, but still, I fear that lately I wouldn’t even recognize my own mother walking down the street…) The second point is that Rosh Hashanah is celebrated with something sweet. Traditionally, that something is apples and honey, but I think from now on it should be chocolate-covered pralines or other ridiculously unhealthy treats.
Happy New Year 5767! May it be as sweet, but not as sickening, as pounds of chocolate ingested in one sitting.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Telling It Like It Is
Bluestockings Bookstore, a radical bookstore on the Lower East Side that for the life of me I do not know why I have not been to before tonight, hosted a reading of Bitchfest. Bitchfest is comprised of some of the delightful articles that have appeared in Bitch Magazine. Rebecca and I thought this would be a good event at which to spend our evening, and so we headed downtown.
The tiny store was filled with feminists of all shapes, sizes, and genders, which was nice, although ethnic diversity was severely lacking. The reading entertained and provoked thought sufficiently, although I did not agree with everything they said. (Another reason why I love Bitch - it challenges!) The best line of the evening – and probably my week – was when one of the editors said that, “We should start calling anti-choice advocates what they really are – the forced childbirth movement!”
Cackle, cackle. Brilliant!
The tiny store was filled with feminists of all shapes, sizes, and genders, which was nice, although ethnic diversity was severely lacking. The reading entertained and provoked thought sufficiently, although I did not agree with everything they said. (Another reason why I love Bitch - it challenges!) The best line of the evening – and probably my week – was when one of the editors said that, “We should start calling anti-choice advocates what they really are – the forced childbirth movement!”
Cackle, cackle. Brilliant!
A Conundrum (Not Really, but It Sounds Good to Say)
A truck whizzed by me up Amsterdam Ave. as I waited to cross the street and go to the gym. There is nothing odd about trucks driving up Amsterdam, as it happens many times in an hour with varous trucks making deliveries or returning from deliveries or what have you. What was different about this truck, though, is that it was a moving billboard advertising the new TV show Betty the Ugly. That as its only purpose. It had no other cargo or even room to carry anything, as the back was a very narrow but tall rectangle with huge posters on each side. The cab was a regular truck cab.
Gas in Manhattan is at least $3.00 per gallon, and not much cheaper in the boros or surrounding areas. Trucks use lots of gas and emit many fumes as they cruise around, hurting the environment. Now, does it make sense to use a truck to drive around a fucking billboard under these circumstances? No it does not. I am sure that there are just as productive ways to promote the show and not be so wasteful and destructive. Bah!
On the other hand, one might fairly accuse me of hypocrisy. Here I am at a highly air conditioned gym, about to use a treadmill or other cardio equipment requiring lots of electricity, when I could just go outside and exercise for free in the lovely weather. My consumption of energy also harms the environment. In my defense, however, I point out that the air is too polluted from all the trucks and seasonal allergens for me to run outside. It would not be good for my asthma.
Gas in Manhattan is at least $3.00 per gallon, and not much cheaper in the boros or surrounding areas. Trucks use lots of gas and emit many fumes as they cruise around, hurting the environment. Now, does it make sense to use a truck to drive around a fucking billboard under these circumstances? No it does not. I am sure that there are just as productive ways to promote the show and not be so wasteful and destructive. Bah!
On the other hand, one might fairly accuse me of hypocrisy. Here I am at a highly air conditioned gym, about to use a treadmill or other cardio equipment requiring lots of electricity, when I could just go outside and exercise for free in the lovely weather. My consumption of energy also harms the environment. In my defense, however, I point out that the air is too polluted from all the trucks and seasonal allergens for me to run outside. It would not be good for my asthma.
Fun Times at the GI's Office
Before the anesthesiologist pumped me full of a sweet afternoon nap, the GI suggested that I not drive, operate heavy machinery, or make any financial or personal decisions until the next day. I reassured him that I try to avoid driving as much as possible any way; that while I wish I could find some interesting heavy machinery to operate in general, I have never been lucky enough to do so; that I already made a big person decision on Tuesday; and that almost all of my financial decisions are entrusted to Husband. Thus I was good to go.
The doctor explained that first he would put on a white plastic apron and “look like an employee at Blimpie’s.” I responded that was great, as I had not eaten in 19 or so hours, and could really use a sandwich. We all chuckled, the anesthesiologist let the anesthesia flow, the room spun for a second, and I had a lovely sleep for what seemed like 3 minutes before I was being shaken awake. Oh, how I would have loved to sleep for another 30 minutes or so.
In the end, everything appeared to be fine on the surface. I received a print out with five exciting pictures of my esophagus, stomach, and duodenum. (As soon as I can scan them, you better believe I will proudly post them up.) A sample is being sent to a lab for biopsy, and the results will be back in about a week. I ate a pack of cookies, compliments of the doctor, and then was greeted by my beloved co-workers who came to pick me up. We took off and I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a jelly donut. (Why not? I had eaten only Jell-O before 9 am and then the cookies.)
The weird thing is that once the procedure was over, I had to take a crap. That is not right, as I had not eaten anything in a very long time and my system should have been clear. So we’ll see what happens.
The doctor explained that first he would put on a white plastic apron and “look like an employee at Blimpie’s.” I responded that was great, as I had not eaten in 19 or so hours, and could really use a sandwich. We all chuckled, the anesthesiologist let the anesthesia flow, the room spun for a second, and I had a lovely sleep for what seemed like 3 minutes before I was being shaken awake. Oh, how I would have loved to sleep for another 30 minutes or so.
In the end, everything appeared to be fine on the surface. I received a print out with five exciting pictures of my esophagus, stomach, and duodenum. (As soon as I can scan them, you better believe I will proudly post them up.) A sample is being sent to a lab for biopsy, and the results will be back in about a week. I ate a pack of cookies, compliments of the doctor, and then was greeted by my beloved co-workers who came to pick me up. We took off and I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a jelly donut. (Why not? I had eaten only Jell-O before 9 am and then the cookies.)
The weird thing is that once the procedure was over, I had to take a crap. That is not right, as I had not eaten anything in a very long time and my system should have been clear. So we’ll see what happens.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Turn the air conditioning off, please
Only in the past year did I figure out that padded bras serve a purpose other than to make your chest bigger. For many years, I’d see padding in huge bra sizes. As I busty girl myself, my strategy was to do everything in my power to minimize the rack, so I couldn’t imagine who would want to endanger the sight of small children by wearing a padded size 44 DD bra. Not that they would go blind by seeing a woman with boobs each the size of Mt. Kilimanjaro, but that their eye-level is lower than that of adults, and a woman wearing such a contraption might accidentally poke their eyes if she was not looking where she was going.
Then I discovered that some padding is merely added to help hide erect nipples. It seems that while some women have no problem keeping the cherries on top of their scoops of ice cream in check, many of us can’t rely on our nipples to behave in public and not poke through our shirts. I never had problems with this until a few years ago, and I didn’t know what to do about it. It’s just too weird to go to work and have your chest be perkier than most of your co-workers are before they’ve had their first cup of coffee. One of my wise friends informed that me a bra with light padding would keep me respectable. (What would I do without friends?)
On the other hand, the people who dictate “fashion” to us seem to love big pointy nipples on big boobs. It seems that nipplage is in style. I walked down the street in San Francisco recently and saw a mannequin in a store window with nipples the size of acorns, jabbing through a sweater. Personally, I wasn’t sure that any real woman had nipples that impressive, and if she did, why she’d want them practically begging for spare change through her top.
Then I remembered Steph’s friend who we’ll call Kitty. Kitty really did have nipples that big, if not bigger; her nipples were totally out of control. That didn’t stop her from wearing extremely tight shirts, though. Sometimes you’d be in a room with her and her nipples were so prominent that it seemed like she had attached a rock on top of each boob. I suppose that some find that sexy (nipples are always rock hard and ready for some tweaking in porn movies), but this was just freaky. Husband said it was like her nipples were watching you; like the eyes of a portrait in a haunted mansion, they’d follow you around the room. “I couldn’t escape the glare of her nipples, wherever I went,” he complained after a party.
There’s no point to this. I just find it funny.
Then I discovered that some padding is merely added to help hide erect nipples. It seems that while some women have no problem keeping the cherries on top of their scoops of ice cream in check, many of us can’t rely on our nipples to behave in public and not poke through our shirts. I never had problems with this until a few years ago, and I didn’t know what to do about it. It’s just too weird to go to work and have your chest be perkier than most of your co-workers are before they’ve had their first cup of coffee. One of my wise friends informed that me a bra with light padding would keep me respectable. (What would I do without friends?)
On the other hand, the people who dictate “fashion” to us seem to love big pointy nipples on big boobs. It seems that nipplage is in style. I walked down the street in San Francisco recently and saw a mannequin in a store window with nipples the size of acorns, jabbing through a sweater. Personally, I wasn’t sure that any real woman had nipples that impressive, and if she did, why she’d want them practically begging for spare change through her top.
Then I remembered Steph’s friend who we’ll call Kitty. Kitty really did have nipples that big, if not bigger; her nipples were totally out of control. That didn’t stop her from wearing extremely tight shirts, though. Sometimes you’d be in a room with her and her nipples were so prominent that it seemed like she had attached a rock on top of each boob. I suppose that some find that sexy (nipples are always rock hard and ready for some tweaking in porn movies), but this was just freaky. Husband said it was like her nipples were watching you; like the eyes of a portrait in a haunted mansion, they’d follow you around the room. “I couldn’t escape the glare of her nipples, wherever I went,” he complained after a party.
There’s no point to this. I just find it funny.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Endoscopy Eve
Endoscopy Eve should be a new holiday for anyone who is having an endoscopy. It just sounds catchy.
Anyway, I'll be having my endoscopy Thursday afternoon. My plan is to write something about nipples (no, that has nothing to do with the procedure, but I've been pondering them this week) in the morning. I assume that I'll be too doped up to write anything meaningful in the afternoon. I'm not sure what my excuse is, though, for every other day. Ba dum dum cha.
I'm rather looking forward to the anaesthesia. I have had wretched insomnia for the past week or so, and I could use a good rest. Last time I had an endoscopy (maybe 3 years ago), I woke up long enough to get home. Hibernation set in for the rest of the night. As Tweeder would say in a Texas twang in my favorite horrible movie, Varsity Blues, "Nice. Very nice."
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Speaking of non sequitors, does anyone know how to force Technorati to actually update your ping when it claims it is doing just that but clearly is not, as it insists that you have not written anything for 18 days when you obviously have been bursting out with brilliant blog thoughts? If so, I would most like to learn your secrets/magic powers. Thanks.
Anyway, I'll be having my endoscopy Thursday afternoon. My plan is to write something about nipples (no, that has nothing to do with the procedure, but I've been pondering them this week) in the morning. I assume that I'll be too doped up to write anything meaningful in the afternoon. I'm not sure what my excuse is, though, for every other day. Ba dum dum cha.
I'm rather looking forward to the anaesthesia. I have had wretched insomnia for the past week or so, and I could use a good rest. Last time I had an endoscopy (maybe 3 years ago), I woke up long enough to get home. Hibernation set in for the rest of the night. As Tweeder would say in a Texas twang in my favorite horrible movie, Varsity Blues, "Nice. Very nice."
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Speaking of non sequitors, does anyone know how to force Technorati to actually update your ping when it claims it is doing just that but clearly is not, as it insists that you have not written anything for 18 days when you obviously have been bursting out with brilliant blog thoughts? If so, I would most like to learn your secrets/magic powers. Thanks.
So Much to Do, So Little Time
Ever read or learn about something just at the perfect time in life to fully process and appreciate the information? This morning I picked up my bathroom reading, The New Book of Lists, which my mother-in-law gave me for Hanukkah last year. I love The Book of Lists series and The People’s Almanac sets, which I were introduced to me by a friend while I was in high school. These books are just chock full o’ random facts, and I learned the weirdest things from them. I completely adore them.
Anyway, this morning while I was reading The New Book of Lists, I came across a list of 42 Very Odd Jobs. Excellent, I thought to myself. I could use some career guidance at this very moment. I am sad to report that while nearly all the job titles were impressive, the job functions usually were rote and boring. Still, here are my favorites:
Sadly, many of these jobs will most likely be impossible to find in New York City.
Anyway, this morning while I was reading The New Book of Lists, I came across a list of 42 Very Odd Jobs. Excellent, I thought to myself. I could use some career guidance at this very moment. I am sad to report that while nearly all the job titles were impressive, the job functions usually were rote and boring. Still, here are my favorites:
- Ant Catcher – “Digs up live ants for use in plastic ant farms.” My friend Elli was just showing me the ant farm she bought for herself – er, I mean her son – when I visited her this past weekend. She was waiting for the ants to arrive in the mail to place in the farm. Now I know that somewhere out there, an ant digger supplied them. Cool.
- Ball Picker - “Picks up unclaimed baseballs, golf balls, and the like to keep recreation areas clean.”
- Boner - “Inserts stays (bone or steel) into prepared pockets of women’s foundation garments, such as corsets and brassieres.” Don’t you love how underwear is here described as “foundation garments?” The good old days!
- Bosom Presser - “Clothing presser who specializes in pressing bosoms of blouses and shirts.”
- Bottom Bleacher - “Applies bleaching liquid to bottom of leather outsoles of lasted shoes, using brush or cloth, to lighten color outsoles.” In my mind, this title also seems apt for anyone caring who young children who changes diapers and wipes the doody off babies’ asses.
- Chick Sexer - “Inserts a light to examine the sex organs of chicks, them separates the males from the females. A university degree in chick sexing is offered in Japan.” This is my favorite of all the jobs. Not that I want to shove a light up the genitals of cute little fluffy chicks, but the title and clientele (the chicks) are too cool.
- Hooker Inspector - “Inspects cloth in a textile mill for defects by using a hooking machine that folds the cloth.” In Amsterdam, where prostitutes are required to get medical tests every few months or so to certify that they are healthy, this job is called “gynecologist.” The job description also sounds a bit more like what a chick sexer does.
- Queen Producer - Raises queen bees. Also known as a parent raising a bitchy girl. Also also known as the producers of Queen, one of the greatest musical groups ever. “We are the champions” indeed.
Sadly, many of these jobs will most likely be impossible to find in New York City.
Greener Pastures, Sort of
Welcome to the airport in Cedar Rapids, IA. I took this picture standing in front of the terminal (there’s only one) while waiting for my sister’s husband to pick me up. (He was delayed by traffic, a plague even out here when there’s an accident of any sort.)What struck me about it is that it is possibly the only place I’ve ever flown into or out of that is not surrounded by suburban sprawl, mega-highways, and/or strip malls. (Although there is a strip joint not far away.) As I waited for SH, I stared at the fields (and a power plant’s smokestack in the distance that is just out of the frame of the picture), it is oddly comforting and unnerving at the same time.
This is a nice metaphor for me today.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The Party's Over...
Sometimes it takes so long to do something that by the time it happens, it is completely anti-climactic. Thus it was this afternoon when I quit my job. Again. This time, though, there is no going back. The whole sordid affair has come oddly full circle.
It started in November 2005 when I discovered that someone who did not have nearly the same level of responsibility as I did had the same job title. Not only that, but I had been there twice as long. My request for a revised job description and title that accurately reflected the intense work I was doing was met with hearty approval by my direct boss and my direct boss. When they sought approval from the other cheeses, they were told that despite the fact that I single-handedly managed an entire start-up program, I could not possibly be called a “Program Manager” because I did not manage any staff. Now, one might point out that the title “Program Manager” indicates that you are, in fact managing a program, but it seems that people are actually mere components of programs. I settled for Senior Program Officer, but was not thrilled about it.
In March, right before I left for my family vacation Caribbean cruise, I went ballistic when I read the job description for a new program manager. It mentioned nothing about managing staff and listed all of the duties that I already had been balancing for four years. In response to my inquiries, I was told that although the job description made no mention of any staff, this manager would oversee a part-time admin assistant. I noted that I oversaw a part-time graduate student intern. Nope, sorry, I was told. You don’t manage any people. It seems that a graduate student intern is not a person, but a graduate student admin assistant is a human being who needs to be managed.
At the same time, I was reassured that a team of consultants was hired and working very hard to analyze everyone’s job description and normalize titles across the board based on our level of responsibility. If I could just wait an indeterminate amount of time, then the work I was doing would finally be officially recognized. Had I known that the same douche bags who wrote the staff survey for our June retreat was in charge of this, I would have held out no hope.
At any rate, I quit in that interim, only to be persuaded to stay part-time. Now, a whopping six months later, the new job titles have been revealed. Guess what? Not only did the new person in charge of the program not get the proper title based on the unbelievable amount of high level policy work she is doing (with me loyally by her side two days per week), but it turns out that the very same person who had the same job title as I did that provoked me to complain about my title in the first place was given a new title – Senior Program Officer. His job description has not changed in any way. Hmmmm….
No, this is the last insult. As my boss was out of the office and not returning my phone calls, I resorted to sending up an email saying that I’ve officially had it, and I am outta here. (As of this writing, I received no response.) I’ll write a longer letter of resignation tonight, and move on to being a productive person in the field at another agency. I like working part-time being a do-gooder, there are lots of interesting things going on right now that I would like to be a part of. Working part-time and writing part-time go very well together. I’ll make it work again.
It started in November 2005 when I discovered that someone who did not have nearly the same level of responsibility as I did had the same job title. Not only that, but I had been there twice as long. My request for a revised job description and title that accurately reflected the intense work I was doing was met with hearty approval by my direct boss and my direct boss. When they sought approval from the other cheeses, they were told that despite the fact that I single-handedly managed an entire start-up program, I could not possibly be called a “Program Manager” because I did not manage any staff. Now, one might point out that the title “Program Manager” indicates that you are, in fact managing a program, but it seems that people are actually mere components of programs. I settled for Senior Program Officer, but was not thrilled about it.
In March, right before I left for my family vacation Caribbean cruise, I went ballistic when I read the job description for a new program manager. It mentioned nothing about managing staff and listed all of the duties that I already had been balancing for four years. In response to my inquiries, I was told that although the job description made no mention of any staff, this manager would oversee a part-time admin assistant. I noted that I oversaw a part-time graduate student intern. Nope, sorry, I was told. You don’t manage any people. It seems that a graduate student intern is not a person, but a graduate student admin assistant is a human being who needs to be managed.
At the same time, I was reassured that a team of consultants was hired and working very hard to analyze everyone’s job description and normalize titles across the board based on our level of responsibility. If I could just wait an indeterminate amount of time, then the work I was doing would finally be officially recognized. Had I known that the same douche bags who wrote the staff survey for our June retreat was in charge of this, I would have held out no hope.
At any rate, I quit in that interim, only to be persuaded to stay part-time. Now, a whopping six months later, the new job titles have been revealed. Guess what? Not only did the new person in charge of the program not get the proper title based on the unbelievable amount of high level policy work she is doing (with me loyally by her side two days per week), but it turns out that the very same person who had the same job title as I did that provoked me to complain about my title in the first place was given a new title – Senior Program Officer. His job description has not changed in any way. Hmmmm….
No, this is the last insult. As my boss was out of the office and not returning my phone calls, I resorted to sending up an email saying that I’ve officially had it, and I am outta here. (As of this writing, I received no response.) I’ll write a longer letter of resignation tonight, and move on to being a productive person in the field at another agency. I like working part-time being a do-gooder, there are lots of interesting things going on right now that I would like to be a part of. Working part-time and writing part-time go very well together. I’ll make it work again.
Who's Afraid of Naked Men?
It seems near impossible to go to a movie these days and not see gratuitous boobage flying around the big screen. Granted, things aren’t as bad these days as they were in the ‘70s and early ‘80s, but once Halle Berry decided that baring her nips would somehow enhance the lame plot of “Swordfish” (which I did not see, but is seems like a very safe assumption that the Berry boobies didn’t add much to the film as characters), the cups in other movies began to floweth over. While I am sure that many guys did drop $9.50 just to see Halle’s Oscars, it strikes me that approximately 50% of the population could have cared less. Or does everyone really love titties? If so, why?
Many years ago I was griping to Dr. P about the prevalence of female nudity and lack of naked men in popular culture and art. “If I want to see a naked women, I’ll take my clothes off and stand in front of my mirror,” I crabbed. “If someone’s gotta be naked for no reason, can’t they throw me a bone once in a while and get a guy to strip down?” Dr. P opined that the female figure is much more beautiful and sensual than the male form.
I thought her explanation was a cop out. There is nothing inherent about beauty – it is created by the norms of society. As long as our social norms are created by straight men who act like horny 15 year olds, of course it will seem natural to have naked women everywhere and easily justify it by saying that naked women are more socially acceptable than men. (Gay guys just prove my point. Somehow, men look beautiful and sensual in their porn movies.) At any rate, there is clearly a higher comfort rate with naked women than men. Most women are inured to seeing naked women, and naked women are even used to sell things to other women.
I can’t help but think that some of our social comfort and even expectation to see women naked stems from the familiarity that both sexes have with nude females. Women tend to be with children more often than men in their daily lives. That means when young boys are out with their moms running errands and need to go potty, they use the women’s bathroom. When they go to the pool or beach, they use women’s locker rooms. They accompany their moms into women’s fitting rooms at department stores. (I cannot express how much I hated this when I was younger and at the pool changing out of my bathing suit, at a store trying on new clothes, or just in the bathroom. Sure, I’d go into the stall and shut the door or curtain, but inevitably some bratty 4 year old boy would yank it open or look under. Even though he was a kid, I had to resist the urge to poke his prying eyes out of his head. Come to think of it, I probably should have and therefore could have prevented future Peeping Toms.) Many children also bathe with their mothers, regardless of their sex. Girls never, or extremely rarely, find themselves with their dads in the men’s restroom, and certainly never in men’s locker rooms. I’ve seen dads ask strange women to take their daughters into bathrooms and women’s locker rooms instead.
I figure this leads to two outcomes: 1) women in various states of undress are common to everyone at all stages of life; and 2) men’s nudity is private, hidden, and afforded more respect. (Unless they are teenage boys hazing each other, but then they are not men, anyway.) Certainly more mysterious.
Many years ago I was griping to Dr. P about the prevalence of female nudity and lack of naked men in popular culture and art. “If I want to see a naked women, I’ll take my clothes off and stand in front of my mirror,” I crabbed. “If someone’s gotta be naked for no reason, can’t they throw me a bone once in a while and get a guy to strip down?” Dr. P opined that the female figure is much more beautiful and sensual than the male form.
I thought her explanation was a cop out. There is nothing inherent about beauty – it is created by the norms of society. As long as our social norms are created by straight men who act like horny 15 year olds, of course it will seem natural to have naked women everywhere and easily justify it by saying that naked women are more socially acceptable than men. (Gay guys just prove my point. Somehow, men look beautiful and sensual in their porn movies.) At any rate, there is clearly a higher comfort rate with naked women than men. Most women are inured to seeing naked women, and naked women are even used to sell things to other women.
I can’t help but think that some of our social comfort and even expectation to see women naked stems from the familiarity that both sexes have with nude females. Women tend to be with children more often than men in their daily lives. That means when young boys are out with their moms running errands and need to go potty, they use the women’s bathroom. When they go to the pool or beach, they use women’s locker rooms. They accompany their moms into women’s fitting rooms at department stores. (I cannot express how much I hated this when I was younger and at the pool changing out of my bathing suit, at a store trying on new clothes, or just in the bathroom. Sure, I’d go into the stall and shut the door or curtain, but inevitably some bratty 4 year old boy would yank it open or look under. Even though he was a kid, I had to resist the urge to poke his prying eyes out of his head. Come to think of it, I probably should have and therefore could have prevented future Peeping Toms.) Many children also bathe with their mothers, regardless of their sex. Girls never, or extremely rarely, find themselves with their dads in the men’s restroom, and certainly never in men’s locker rooms. I’ve seen dads ask strange women to take their daughters into bathrooms and women’s locker rooms instead.
I figure this leads to two outcomes: 1) women in various states of undress are common to everyone at all stages of life; and 2) men’s nudity is private, hidden, and afforded more respect. (Unless they are teenage boys hazing each other, but then they are not men, anyway.) Certainly more mysterious.
Monday, September 18, 2006
So You Want Raw Dick? You Got It!
Since I aim to please, I will honor Dianne’s request for the raw dick story. I wrote about it back in November, but here it is again. I gave my ex-roommate a new fake name and I edited it a bit more, just shake things up a bit. Enjoy.
Once my roommate in college, Kay, shocked me and my other roommate Dianne by insisting that she would never have sex. Generally, this was a very progressive and intelligent person, so I asked what the reasoning behind this was. She said didn’t believe in birth control, and pointed out that the Pill pulls a serious number on a woman’s body by messing with her hormone levels and menstrual cycles. I thought that was a fair enough point, but also noted that there are forms of birth control that don’t involve altering a woman’s body, such as condoms. Kay could not have been more horrified by this suggestion. No, she told us very matter-of-factly, her older sister told her that it is not worth it to have sex if you use condoms because you can’t feel a thing.
Both having had sex using condoms, Dianne and I said that that was not true and that many people enjoy sex even more with condoms because some of the worry factor was removed. And while dick socks clearly reduce some sensation, it’s not like numb rubbing someone. Otherwise, why would anyone bother? Yet hundreds of thousands of condoms are used successfully and discarded every year. This threw my roommate into a rage. “RAW DICK!!!” she bellowed. “I ONLY WANT RAW DICK.”
Somehow, Dianne and I did not fall down laughing until much, much later when recapping this insane conversation for other friends. Subsequently, I find it hard to look at certain uncooked vegetables and not think about raw dick.
Once my roommate in college, Kay, shocked me and my other roommate Dianne by insisting that she would never have sex. Generally, this was a very progressive and intelligent person, so I asked what the reasoning behind this was. She said didn’t believe in birth control, and pointed out that the Pill pulls a serious number on a woman’s body by messing with her hormone levels and menstrual cycles. I thought that was a fair enough point, but also noted that there are forms of birth control that don’t involve altering a woman’s body, such as condoms. Kay could not have been more horrified by this suggestion. No, she told us very matter-of-factly, her older sister told her that it is not worth it to have sex if you use condoms because you can’t feel a thing.
Both having had sex using condoms, Dianne and I said that that was not true and that many people enjoy sex even more with condoms because some of the worry factor was removed. And while dick socks clearly reduce some sensation, it’s not like numb rubbing someone. Otherwise, why would anyone bother? Yet hundreds of thousands of condoms are used successfully and discarded every year. This threw my roommate into a rage. “RAW DICK!!!” she bellowed. “I ONLY WANT RAW DICK.”
Somehow, Dianne and I did not fall down laughing until much, much later when recapping this insane conversation for other friends. Subsequently, I find it hard to look at certain uncooked vegetables and not think about raw dick.
My College Pussy Posse
I attended NYU for undergraduate school, where legend has it that the statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square Park will bow to any virgin woman who graduates. (To date, no one has ever observed this happen.) At any given time, I lived with two single, attractive female roommates. I had three cute best friends. However, it seems that I hung out with NYU’s goody-two-shoes virgin posse.
One of my roommates, Amelia, was completely grossed out by the idea of foreplay – she thought it would be great if couples could share some chaste kisses (sans tongue, of course) and then get right to fucking to minimize the amount of exposed body fluids. My other roommate Karen decided that she would save herself for the obscure rock star Glenn Danzig (of the Misfits and subsequent singer of the banned-from-MTV song “Mother”); she felt that he would not be able to resist her “golden snatch” if she kept it untouched for him. She also had a fascinating collection of hard core porn, but only because Glenn was on the cover. She kept it locked up in a file cabinet lest her lustful roommates or crazy thieves attempt to masturbate on Glenn’s face or something equally heinous.
My best friends at NYU were also virgins who shared a room. Jessica was a fundamentalist Baptist who didn’t believe in premarital sex. (She’s in a cult now and no longer speaks with me or any of our other friends.) Janice was a pathological liar who swore that she was so pure that she could only wear white underwear and sleep on white sheets. (She was caught hiding sexy black lace lingerie in her desk drawer in the middle of the night.) Ilana resisted the terrible come-ons from horny fellow pre-med students, eventually hooked up with an amazingly hot guy with tattoos, but only after I graduated from NYU. Stella is still a virgin. She graduated over eight years ago. Enough said.
I love that I am the only person in the world who flees the confines of conformist suburbia to the Big City, and manages to find the strangest chaste people on the planet.
One of my roommates, Amelia, was completely grossed out by the idea of foreplay – she thought it would be great if couples could share some chaste kisses (sans tongue, of course) and then get right to fucking to minimize the amount of exposed body fluids. My other roommate Karen decided that she would save herself for the obscure rock star Glenn Danzig (of the Misfits and subsequent singer of the banned-from-MTV song “Mother”); she felt that he would not be able to resist her “golden snatch” if she kept it untouched for him. She also had a fascinating collection of hard core porn, but only because Glenn was on the cover. She kept it locked up in a file cabinet lest her lustful roommates or crazy thieves attempt to masturbate on Glenn’s face or something equally heinous.
My best friends at NYU were also virgins who shared a room. Jessica was a fundamentalist Baptist who didn’t believe in premarital sex. (She’s in a cult now and no longer speaks with me or any of our other friends.) Janice was a pathological liar who swore that she was so pure that she could only wear white underwear and sleep on white sheets. (She was caught hiding sexy black lace lingerie in her desk drawer in the middle of the night.) Ilana resisted the terrible come-ons from horny fellow pre-med students, eventually hooked up with an amazingly hot guy with tattoos, but only after I graduated from NYU. Stella is still a virgin. She graduated over eight years ago. Enough said.
I love that I am the only person in the world who flees the confines of conformist suburbia to the Big City, and manages to find the strangest chaste people on the planet.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
The People You Meet in Life, College Edition
Husband and I led boring lives in college, a pattern that continues to this day. However, he did have one friend his freshman year that blew the roof off their dorm with her adventures. She arrived at NYU a modest Muslim girl from DC. When Husband befriended her during orientation week, she told him that she was saving herself for marriage. Not a month later, Husband’s Friend (HF) had a boyfriend who died his goatee and pubes purple (in honor of NYU, I think, which disturbs me a bit upon reflection) with whom she had lots of violet-stained sex. Then they broke up and she became a club kid. Many types of drugs and outrageous tales went along with this transition.
My favorite story, although it does not involve sex: One night HF went out clubbing and met two gay guys who were visiting from Miami. They told my HF that one was a customs official who had stolen a kilo of coke from a bust and hoped to earn enough money from the sales to open a dance school in Boston. However, they were not really getting any sales.
HF felt bad for them and offered to help them sell their stash. She informed them that they’d have to give out free samples if they ever expected to sell anything. With her assistance, they quickly ran through the small amount of coke they had brought with them, so one of the guys had to return to their hotel to get more. After he was gone for an absurd amount of time, HF and his partner became worried and went to the hotel to look for him. They found him in the hall with his head bashed in and the hotel room trashed. When he regained consciousness, he told them that a rival drug seller had followed him from the club and demanded the rest of his stash. When he refused to give it up, the guy assaulted him and searched the hotel room. Unbelievably, it seems that the guys hid the coke in a Tupperware container under their bed, the one place the drug dealer did not bother to look.
Over the next few days, HF and her new gay pals went to other clubs and sold the rest of the drugs. The men earned enough money to move to Boston and fulfill their dream. Many air kisses were exchanged.
Although the end is happy, eventually, they also figured out that the reason they ran out of drugs so quickly in the first place was because one of them accidentally dropped a large amount of cocaine on the floor. I hope they are better dance instructors.
My favorite story, although it does not involve sex: One night HF went out clubbing and met two gay guys who were visiting from Miami. They told my HF that one was a customs official who had stolen a kilo of coke from a bust and hoped to earn enough money from the sales to open a dance school in Boston. However, they were not really getting any sales.
HF felt bad for them and offered to help them sell their stash. She informed them that they’d have to give out free samples if they ever expected to sell anything. With her assistance, they quickly ran through the small amount of coke they had brought with them, so one of the guys had to return to their hotel to get more. After he was gone for an absurd amount of time, HF and his partner became worried and went to the hotel to look for him. They found him in the hall with his head bashed in and the hotel room trashed. When he regained consciousness, he told them that a rival drug seller had followed him from the club and demanded the rest of his stash. When he refused to give it up, the guy assaulted him and searched the hotel room. Unbelievably, it seems that the guys hid the coke in a Tupperware container under their bed, the one place the drug dealer did not bother to look.
Over the next few days, HF and her new gay pals went to other clubs and sold the rest of the drugs. The men earned enough money to move to Boston and fulfill their dream. Many air kisses were exchanged.
Although the end is happy, eventually, they also figured out that the reason they ran out of drugs so quickly in the first place was because one of them accidentally dropped a large amount of cocaine on the floor. I hope they are better dance instructors.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
It Takes Guts
For the first time since I lost 40 pounds seven years ago, I am contemplating buying a gut sucker. You might know this rumored miracle product by its more conventional name, girdle, or more pleasantly euphemistically, “body slimmer.” Too much fried goodness and other treats this summer and too little exercise (or early menopause, depending on what my tests indicate, although certainly the former causes are indictable) resulted in my midsection swelling up like a beached whale.
As a FoFaW*, I’m often overly sensitive to any fluctuation in my weight, but this actually this growth in girth is measurable. Some of my pants and blouses are too tight to button, depending on where they fall on my abdomen. Most of my dresses look like I put them on over an inner tube.
Maybe I can just tell people I’m prepared in the event of a flash flood. Or I can go out and buy a gut sucker.
*Count Mockula reminded me in the comments that I forgot to spell this out: Formerly Fat Woman. This is what happens when Husband is rushing me. Not that he was wrong, as we did need to leave for our road trip to see Elli, her hubby, and super cute kids, but still.
As a FoFaW*, I’m often overly sensitive to any fluctuation in my weight, but this actually this growth in girth is measurable. Some of my pants and blouses are too tight to button, depending on where they fall on my abdomen. Most of my dresses look like I put them on over an inner tube.
Maybe I can just tell people I’m prepared in the event of a flash flood. Or I can go out and buy a gut sucker.
*Count Mockula reminded me in the comments that I forgot to spell this out: Formerly Fat Woman. This is what happens when Husband is rushing me. Not that he was wrong, as we did need to leave for our road trip to see Elli, her hubby, and super cute kids, but still.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Irony Does Not Get More Ironic Than This
Insomnia struck again. (Cause: job distress. At least I slept well last night.) I wandered out of the bedroom without any visiual aids (i.e. - contacts or glasses), thinking petting Tycho, the 13 lb. household pet rabbit, might soothe my anxieties. It worked until Tycho hopped away, leaving me anxious and alone.
Knowing that reading the paper would not help, I did so any way, and found this priceless tidbit in Friday's NY Times:
Man, if this is not a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is.
Knowing that reading the paper would not help, I did so any way, and found this priceless tidbit in Friday's NY Times:
Catholics for a Free Choice has also filed complaints alleging prohibited political activity against Priests for Life, a religious order on Staten Island, and Catholic Answers, a lay Catholic evangelical group.There is nothing like a group of people who stand outside clinics, block entry ways, and harrass and intimidate women trying to exercise their right under the federal law accusing another group of using the IRS to intimidate them. Do you think he is totally clueless or phrased his objection so perfectly on purpose so that I would laugh and laugh.
Jerry Horn, media director of Priests for Life, declined to comment "because this is a common tactic of Catholics for a Free Choice to try to intimidate people into not exercising their rights under the federal law."
Man, if this is not a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is.
Watch Bush Squirm. Laugh. Be Sad.
Wow, Bush has been busier this week than he has in his entire tenure as King of the US. First, he showed up at all three memorial services on Sept. 11. Then he addressed the nation on TV. Finally, he had a press conference today. My, my, my. That's a lot of defending he's been doing lately.
During his press conference this morning, I was at the gym. (I ran 5 miles! Granted, it took me 53 minutes, but I still feel accomplished.) Anger is a good fuel, although to be honest, I was not really watching it. A man with silver hair was jogging on a treadmill in front of me. I heard him snicker and laugh out load on several occasions.
Guess King George, the Phoney King of the America, needs to work on his presentation a bit more.
During his press conference this morning, I was at the gym. (I ran 5 miles! Granted, it took me 53 minutes, but I still feel accomplished.) Anger is a good fuel, although to be honest, I was not really watching it. A man with silver hair was jogging on a treadmill in front of me. I heard him snicker and laugh out load on several occasions.
Guess King George, the Phoney King of the America, needs to work on his presentation a bit more.
Speaking of Vaginas...
Yesterday I went for my annual “well woman” exam. (Yes, my insurance actually calls it that and it is free. Nice!) I actually don’t mind going to these yearly appointments (as much as it is possible to not mind medical equipment being crammed up your snatch while you lie with your feet splayed in stirrups and a semi-stranger’s face up close and personal with the poon; really, how on earth can people go through this for a wax?) because I like my doctor. She’s a feisty one.
The last time I got my period without medicinal interference was August 1993. In the ensuing year, I sometimes wondered if I was going to wind up as the second Virgin Mary. The odds were slim, although I was not, and I didn’t notice any physical signs of pregnancy, but then again, I was 30 pounds overweight at that point and may not have. After 11 months, I realized I was not only a pregnant virgin, but one with an extremely long gestation period. I hoped I was not going to give birth to an elephant or some other animal. My mom dragged me kicking and screaming to the gynecologist at that point. Fortunately, it appeared that I only had something wrong with me, not that I was going to be the first cross-species virgin mother.
I reminded my doctor about all this before the unpleasant part of the visit, as the doc reviewed my chart. She looked at me, looked back at the chart, looked at me, frowned, twisted a strand of long black hair around her finger, and asked me about my period. She nodded, squinted back at the notes, and asked me about PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome), a label that had been slapped on me because no one could figure out why I didn’t get my period and had chin hairs, although no cysts were ever detected. That’s when she threw me for a loop. “Has anyone ever mentioned Premature Ovarian Failure?” she asked. She explained that it was basically when a young women goes into menopause. The consequences are varied, from infertility to osteoporosis. Since I am not particularly inclined to have kids, she thought I didn’t need to bother going off my meds to get tested. At the time, I agreed, and that was that. She shoved the speculum in me, swabbed me, and then checked to make sure my uterus had not randomly fallen out or misplaced itself. It hadn’t, so I was good to go.
Reflecting on the ridiculous aspects of my job (I conducted a site visit to a child care center project that was a boondoggle of impressive proportions. I was impressed that anyone would be insane enough to use a lilac and black color scheme in a place for young children. Ever since I read Starring Sally J. Friedman as Herself by Judy Blume, and Sally’s dad says that someone’s lilac and black bathroom reminded him of a bordello, I have associated this decorating scheme with whorehouses. It seems that the person who designed the child care center never read this fabulous book - one of my faves as a kid - or had a sick sense of humor.) and plotting to get rid of an annoying “collaborator” by dropping a banana peel under his feet before we went to a meeting took up most of my limited brain power during the day, so it was not until I got home that I decided to read a bit more about Premature Ovarian Failure. A quick web search brought me to a very nice site – earlymenopause.com- with a list of symptoms. My mouth dropped open as I scanned the list.
Hot flashes? Check – I’d been bitching to Husband that I kept getting “hot flashes” or something for the last few months. Maybe I was. Night sweats? Check – I seem to need to air conditioning blasting at night or I wake up all gross and unable to sleep. Weight gain (especially around your waist and abdomen)? Check – lately none of my dresses seem to fit me around my waist, and I just wrote something about how lately I look like I forgot to take my swimming inner tube off before I got dressed. Increase in facial hair? Check – CUSS and BlogHer readers know all about that already. And so on and so on. (I think the emotional symptoms are harder to credit to menopause, as I have always been an irritable, tired, and memory deficient bitch. Or have I?)
Given the circumstantial evidence, I decided to call the doctor back and ask to get tested. It would be good to know what is going on with the old broken machine I live in. On the bright side, I have been worried that, given the amount of chin hairs and ‘stache I currently sprout, what kind of mountain man beard would I generate after I went through menopause. If I really am in menopause, this might be as bad as it gets. Ain’t gonna complain about that.
The last time I got my period without medicinal interference was August 1993. In the ensuing year, I sometimes wondered if I was going to wind up as the second Virgin Mary. The odds were slim, although I was not, and I didn’t notice any physical signs of pregnancy, but then again, I was 30 pounds overweight at that point and may not have. After 11 months, I realized I was not only a pregnant virgin, but one with an extremely long gestation period. I hoped I was not going to give birth to an elephant or some other animal. My mom dragged me kicking and screaming to the gynecologist at that point. Fortunately, it appeared that I only had something wrong with me, not that I was going to be the first cross-species virgin mother.
I reminded my doctor about all this before the unpleasant part of the visit, as the doc reviewed my chart. She looked at me, looked back at the chart, looked at me, frowned, twisted a strand of long black hair around her finger, and asked me about my period. She nodded, squinted back at the notes, and asked me about PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome), a label that had been slapped on me because no one could figure out why I didn’t get my period and had chin hairs, although no cysts were ever detected. That’s when she threw me for a loop. “Has anyone ever mentioned Premature Ovarian Failure?” she asked. She explained that it was basically when a young women goes into menopause. The consequences are varied, from infertility to osteoporosis. Since I am not particularly inclined to have kids, she thought I didn’t need to bother going off my meds to get tested. At the time, I agreed, and that was that. She shoved the speculum in me, swabbed me, and then checked to make sure my uterus had not randomly fallen out or misplaced itself. It hadn’t, so I was good to go.
Reflecting on the ridiculous aspects of my job (I conducted a site visit to a child care center project that was a boondoggle of impressive proportions. I was impressed that anyone would be insane enough to use a lilac and black color scheme in a place for young children. Ever since I read Starring Sally J. Friedman as Herself by Judy Blume, and Sally’s dad says that someone’s lilac and black bathroom reminded him of a bordello, I have associated this decorating scheme with whorehouses. It seems that the person who designed the child care center never read this fabulous book - one of my faves as a kid - or had a sick sense of humor.) and plotting to get rid of an annoying “collaborator” by dropping a banana peel under his feet before we went to a meeting took up most of my limited brain power during the day, so it was not until I got home that I decided to read a bit more about Premature Ovarian Failure. A quick web search brought me to a very nice site – earlymenopause.com- with a list of symptoms. My mouth dropped open as I scanned the list.
Hot flashes? Check – I’d been bitching to Husband that I kept getting “hot flashes” or something for the last few months. Maybe I was. Night sweats? Check – I seem to need to air conditioning blasting at night or I wake up all gross and unable to sleep. Weight gain (especially around your waist and abdomen)? Check – lately none of my dresses seem to fit me around my waist, and I just wrote something about how lately I look like I forgot to take my swimming inner tube off before I got dressed. Increase in facial hair? Check – CUSS and BlogHer readers know all about that already. And so on and so on. (I think the emotional symptoms are harder to credit to menopause, as I have always been an irritable, tired, and memory deficient bitch. Or have I?)
Given the circumstantial evidence, I decided to call the doctor back and ask to get tested. It would be good to know what is going on with the old broken machine I live in. On the bright side, I have been worried that, given the amount of chin hairs and ‘stache I currently sprout, what kind of mountain man beard would I generate after I went through menopause. If I really am in menopause, this might be as bad as it gets. Ain’t gonna complain about that.
Ain't No Mountain High Enough, Ain't No Valley Low Enough
If men worry to much about their dicks being too small, I think women worry too much about their vaginas getting too big (i.e. – stretched out) over time. People kid around about having doctors stitch women back up after giving birth so that they are as tight as when they were virgins. I can understand how shoving something the size of a watermelon, but heavier, can stretch a vagina out. But can repeat intercourse with men with dicks the width of Coke cans have the same effect? (A friend of mine who is a nurse told me about another nurse who works at her hospital. The nurse was dealing with a guy who was under general anesthesia and thus required a catheter. She discovered that his flaccid penis was as thick as a Coke can. She was sure that no one would believe such a specimen existed, so she brought Nurse Friend to the unconscious patient’s bed to verify that she was not exaggerating.)
Not to worry – the vagina is an amazingly elastic muscle. A few rounds of Kegel exercises every day should keep your average vagina in tip top shape. As mentioned before, birth presents a larger challenge than guys with really big dicks, but Kegels can help and most women worry too much about these things anyway. Unless you are as loose as a Hefty sack, which would be quite an accomplishment, I don’t think that guys really notice how tight you are. They are just glad to be fucking someone other than themselves.
Too tight, though, is no good either. Women who are too tight are going to hurt, even with the slightest endowed lover. Any guy worth fucking will notice his partner crying out in pain, if he even gets that far - he may have a difficult time getting in. (Husband just reminded me that there’s a brand of lube called just that, Get In. Imagine if all products were that direct!)
Also not to worry: tight vaginas are also curable through the miracle of exercise. I know this because I had a friend whose vagina was severely damaged by scar tissue due to Crohn’s Disease. Because chronic inflammation of the intestine can lead to scar tissue forming and affecting other parts of the body that happen to be nearby scar tissue, she could not be penetrated. Even using small tampons was agonizingly painful. Her doctor gave her a set of weights, starting with super tiny ones. She had to put a weight in each day, gradually working up to wider ones as her crotch stretched out. Voila! Problem solved, or at least made tolerable enough to allow her to have some semblance of a normal sex life.
See? It’s all good. No more excuses for bad fucks!
Not to worry – the vagina is an amazingly elastic muscle. A few rounds of Kegel exercises every day should keep your average vagina in tip top shape. As mentioned before, birth presents a larger challenge than guys with really big dicks, but Kegels can help and most women worry too much about these things anyway. Unless you are as loose as a Hefty sack, which would be quite an accomplishment, I don’t think that guys really notice how tight you are. They are just glad to be fucking someone other than themselves.
Too tight, though, is no good either. Women who are too tight are going to hurt, even with the slightest endowed lover. Any guy worth fucking will notice his partner crying out in pain, if he even gets that far - he may have a difficult time getting in. (Husband just reminded me that there’s a brand of lube called just that, Get In. Imagine if all products were that direct!)
Also not to worry: tight vaginas are also curable through the miracle of exercise. I know this because I had a friend whose vagina was severely damaged by scar tissue due to Crohn’s Disease. Because chronic inflammation of the intestine can lead to scar tissue forming and affecting other parts of the body that happen to be nearby scar tissue, she could not be penetrated. Even using small tampons was agonizingly painful. Her doctor gave her a set of weights, starting with super tiny ones. She had to put a weight in each day, gradually working up to wider ones as her crotch stretched out. Voila! Problem solved, or at least made tolerable enough to allow her to have some semblance of a normal sex life.
See? It’s all good. No more excuses for bad fucks!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Damn. Just damn.
Ann Richards died. You probably knew that already, but the news really upsets me. I always respected her for being a broad who tells it like it is with an extra dash of wit. The stock of really awesome mouthy ladies who don't take crap from the Bush family or anyone else is getting awfully depleted.
Also, Air America Radio is declaring bankruptcy. Was there some sort of covert attack on interesting liberals today? Man, it just sucks.
I'm not a believer in the afterlife, but if there is anything out there, I hope that Ann will be useing Air America Radio to give the evil right-wing a piece of her mind.
Also, Air America Radio is declaring bankruptcy. Was there some sort of covert attack on interesting liberals today? Man, it just sucks.
I'm not a believer in the afterlife, but if there is anything out there, I hope that Ann will be useing Air America Radio to give the evil right-wing a piece of her mind.
Size Matters, but Not Everyone Wants a Supersized Meal
Catherine the Great, the Empress of Russia from 1762 to 1796, had a voracious sexual appetite and was way ahead of her time in demanding that it be sated. It is a fallacy (snigger) that Catherine died while having sex with a horse when the horse fell on her, but her adoration of huge dicks is well documented. Her two most trusted court ladies were expected to audition lovers for Catherine, passing on only the biggest and most satisfying cocks for her to enjoy. Catherine figured out ways to accommodate the giants in her average sized vagina, but not without health risks. At least one lover had a penis so huge that it fucked around her cervix and banged the uterus directly. Her physician eventually had to ban Catherine from having sex with men like this because of the internal damage it caused.
Despite Catherine’s experience, I’d never thought about the potential upset that happens when people who want to get it on discover that one size does not fit all. I was minding my own business reading Entertainment Weekly one day a few years ago when my friend Steph called. I knew she had some juicy gossip because she started cackling evilly the moment that I got on the phone. It seems that Stella’s friend Maggie started dating this (creepy) guy who had a ginormous cock. I thought that would please Maggie, but she told Steph that she was worried because Ned preferred women with “big vaginas” since he was so impossibly humongous. Maggie herself had a small vagina and preferred men with small dicks because they didn’t painfully bump her cervix as much during sex. Could they be compatible, or would her small vagina not accommodate enough of his immense schlong, causing irreparable blue balls and the end of the relationship?
They did break up eventually, but I don’t think that it was due to the genital size mismatch directly. (It was because he was caught fucking his ex in the ass in the shower. My guess is that Ned’s ex’s ass was no larger than Maggie’s vagina, hence the smallness of her orifice could not even be used as a pathetic excuse for him to cheat on her.) The important point is that until Maggie confided in Steph, and Steph shared it with me (and possibly everyone else she knew because she hated Ned and doubted that his dick was anywhere near as big as he claimed), I hadn’t given a lot of thought to size. Thus, I suppose that size does matter, but not in the way that people usually assume.
I hope that this conclusion will be widely adopted by men, and that will then stop the enormous amount of junk mail that I receive from spammers informing me that I can “enlarge my penis” with their product. As I said ages ago, I am very happy with the size of my penis, thank you very much.
Despite Catherine’s experience, I’d never thought about the potential upset that happens when people who want to get it on discover that one size does not fit all. I was minding my own business reading Entertainment Weekly one day a few years ago when my friend Steph called. I knew she had some juicy gossip because she started cackling evilly the moment that I got on the phone. It seems that Stella’s friend Maggie started dating this (creepy) guy who had a ginormous cock. I thought that would please Maggie, but she told Steph that she was worried because Ned preferred women with “big vaginas” since he was so impossibly humongous. Maggie herself had a small vagina and preferred men with small dicks because they didn’t painfully bump her cervix as much during sex. Could they be compatible, or would her small vagina not accommodate enough of his immense schlong, causing irreparable blue balls and the end of the relationship?
They did break up eventually, but I don’t think that it was due to the genital size mismatch directly. (It was because he was caught fucking his ex in the ass in the shower. My guess is that Ned’s ex’s ass was no larger than Maggie’s vagina, hence the smallness of her orifice could not even be used as a pathetic excuse for him to cheat on her.) The important point is that until Maggie confided in Steph, and Steph shared it with me (and possibly everyone else she knew because she hated Ned and doubted that his dick was anywhere near as big as he claimed), I hadn’t given a lot of thought to size. Thus, I suppose that size does matter, but not in the way that people usually assume.
I hope that this conclusion will be widely adopted by men, and that will then stop the enormous amount of junk mail that I receive from spammers informing me that I can “enlarge my penis” with their product. As I said ages ago, I am very happy with the size of my penis, thank you very much.
The Biggest Health Problem Facing America
In America, we like our women’s breasts like our SUVs and serving sizes of food: the bigger, the better. This has led to enormous growth in the breast implant industry. God forbid any woman should have to live with the shame and sin of having small or even medium-sized tits. Such mistakes of nature can and should be fixed! Financing is available, of course.
The problem with fake boobs is that they all too often look, um, fake. Really bad fake boobs float like oval balloons embedded in someone’s chest with nipples grafted on to them. I’m not sure what makes them attractive to anyone, particularly when they are so big that they visibly stretch the skin to its elastic limit. I’d be terrified to handle boobs that look like they’d explode into my face like a saline Mt. St. Helens. I also seriously question the ethics of doctors who agree to give a woman breasts that are each the size of a small child. Putting fake boobs on people that could flood a small town if ruptured poses some serious risks posed to both society at large and to women’s bodies. Doesn’t the Hippocratic oath say “Do no harm?”
Like the waxed snatch trend, I’m not going to stop any adult women who really feel that breast implants will improve their lives in some way. The more women who buy into this demented idea that big boobs will solve your problems, the more pressure there is on other women to look that way to fit in or whatever. And the fact that money seems to flow for shit like this when there are so many real medical problems out there that are consistently ignored is even more troubling. Is it not a bit fucked up that you can easily secure financing for the life threatening condition of too small boobs but not for a mastectomy for women with breast cancer?
Just saying.
The problem with fake boobs is that they all too often look, um, fake. Really bad fake boobs float like oval balloons embedded in someone’s chest with nipples grafted on to them. I’m not sure what makes them attractive to anyone, particularly when they are so big that they visibly stretch the skin to its elastic limit. I’d be terrified to handle boobs that look like they’d explode into my face like a saline Mt. St. Helens. I also seriously question the ethics of doctors who agree to give a woman breasts that are each the size of a small child. Putting fake boobs on people that could flood a small town if ruptured poses some serious risks posed to both society at large and to women’s bodies. Doesn’t the Hippocratic oath say “Do no harm?”
Like the waxed snatch trend, I’m not going to stop any adult women who really feel that breast implants will improve their lives in some way. The more women who buy into this demented idea that big boobs will solve your problems, the more pressure there is on other women to look that way to fit in or whatever. And the fact that money seems to flow for shit like this when there are so many real medical problems out there that are consistently ignored is even more troubling. Is it not a bit fucked up that you can easily secure financing for the life threatening condition of too small boobs but not for a mastectomy for women with breast cancer?
Just saying.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
I'm a math genius - ha ha ha ha
| You Passed 8th Grade Math |
 Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct! |
What scares me about this is that I am somehow both proud and embrassed that I scored 90% on an 8th grade math test. And how long it took me to think about some of the answers...
Like many artsy young ladies, I never liked math. In part, I stank at it because I missed a lot of school and as a result had some serious gaps in the math foundation. In part, I hated it because at heart I have always been a lazy student and never worked hard at things that didn't interest me. I remember my freshman year of high school I studied for an algebra test by opening the text book, skimming a few pages, then snapping it shut and declaring, "Yep, I'm going to fail" before moving onto reading a book or magazine that captured my attention better. (Granted, it is likely that whatever I was readding was intellectual in its own way. Or Stephen King, who I think is an amazing writer of people. But I digress...)
The crowning glory of my math career was my junior year of high school when my teach er recommended that I take pre-calc in a lower track than I had previously been on. I was so offended at the suggestion that I enroll in a class with average students (who in my mind were imbeciles not on my overall level) and I sneered, "I don't need math. I'm going to be a lawyer."
Fast forward to me sitting in a grad school economic class in the fall of 1998. Yeah, it hurt. That was the first time I relly busted ass in a class that required real math skills. I met with the TA and a group of other students every week for remedial help. At that point in my life, it was easier to admit that I was a fucking idiot when it came to advanced math. I no longer felt a need to prove that I was as good as the richer kids who always got to be in enrichment programs while my parents were told there was not enough room for [little white Jewish trash] me.
Fascinating, also, how a post about my lack of math smarts led to my seething resentment of wealthy people. Anyway, the second semester of econ and the various stats classes I took were easier for me because they were grounded in practical problem solving. The same with all the little financial analysis things that I became adept at doing for work. (Excel is a great love of mine, despite being from the Evil Empire of Malfunctioning Programs that Often Format Your Things for You When You Don't Want It To.) My brain just does not function on the abstract proof level. Abstract, sure. Proof? Fuck that(along with the "I Hate Math" Talking Barbie)!
Speaking of Richard Gere...
One of the many wonderful things about living in New York City, or at least Manhattan anyway is a zoning regulation that requires the presence of a 24 hour bodega/deli/small grocery on the corner of at least every five blocks. OK, this is not really a zoning requirement, but one might get that impression because of how many corner stores there are here. While usually overpriced, they have their important uses, whether for an emergency package of sugar at 2 am or a bagel and cream cheese any time of the day.
Back in the quaint ‘90s, when our president’s worst misdeeds involved cheating on his wife rather than starting unwinnable wars with countries that did not attack us, opening secret prisons and torture chambers in foreign countries, kidnapping people, and shredding the Constitution while patting our heads and telling us it is for our own protection, I was a student at NYU. I lived in a dorm that had formerly been a hotel that housed Mark Twain, which was located on the corner of 5th Avenue and 10th Street. Within a two block radius from my dorm lived such luminaries as Matthew Broadrick and Sarah Jessica Parker, Richard Gere, and Ricki Lake.
Anyway, my favorite deli was also within this two block radius, and one evening Dr. P, her roommate (and our friend at the time) The Evangelical, and I decided we were in desperate need of reinforcement sustenance, having previously eaten an unsatisfactory dinner of dorm sludge. We walked over to University Place and 9th Street to grab some goodies. While we were ordering, The Evangelical grabbed our arms and excitedly whispered, “Look! There’s Richard Gere!”
The way delis often work is that a customer will order his or her sandwich or bagel by the deli counter, and when it is ready, the sandwich guy takes the food directly to the cashier without first passing it to the customer. Hence, we got in line behind Richard Gere and his woman friend (who was, in my opinion, way too young for him) to pay and waited for the food. When The Evangelical’s bagel arrived at the register, the cashier began to ring it up with Richard Gere’s grapes.
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” Gere told the cashier. He held the bagel up and turned to us. “Is this yours?” he asked The Evangelical. She nodded, struck speechless for the moment by the dazzling white teeth Gere exposed in a smile as he queried her. “What kind is it?” he asked for no particular reason.
“It is toasted sesame with butter,” our friend replied. “You see, I wanted chicken soup, but they didn’t have any, so I asked if they had cinnamon raisin, but they were out, and I really needed comfort food because blah blah blah,” our friend babbled on nervously.
Richard Gere nodded, took his grapes and young thing, and said good night. We giggled and giggled and giggled that Richard Gere not only spoke to our friend, but he handled her aluminum foiled bagel.
I always thought that it would have been nice of him to pay for it though.
Back in the quaint ‘90s, when our president’s worst misdeeds involved cheating on his wife rather than starting unwinnable wars with countries that did not attack us, opening secret prisons and torture chambers in foreign countries, kidnapping people, and shredding the Constitution while patting our heads and telling us it is for our own protection, I was a student at NYU. I lived in a dorm that had formerly been a hotel that housed Mark Twain, which was located on the corner of 5th Avenue and 10th Street. Within a two block radius from my dorm lived such luminaries as Matthew Broadrick and Sarah Jessica Parker, Richard Gere, and Ricki Lake.
Anyway, my favorite deli was also within this two block radius, and one evening Dr. P, her roommate (and our friend at the time) The Evangelical, and I decided we were in desperate need of reinforcement sustenance, having previously eaten an unsatisfactory dinner of dorm sludge. We walked over to University Place and 9th Street to grab some goodies. While we were ordering, The Evangelical grabbed our arms and excitedly whispered, “Look! There’s Richard Gere!”
The way delis often work is that a customer will order his or her sandwich or bagel by the deli counter, and when it is ready, the sandwich guy takes the food directly to the cashier without first passing it to the customer. Hence, we got in line behind Richard Gere and his woman friend (who was, in my opinion, way too young for him) to pay and waited for the food. When The Evangelical’s bagel arrived at the register, the cashier began to ring it up with Richard Gere’s grapes.
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” Gere told the cashier. He held the bagel up and turned to us. “Is this yours?” he asked The Evangelical. She nodded, struck speechless for the moment by the dazzling white teeth Gere exposed in a smile as he queried her. “What kind is it?” he asked for no particular reason.
“It is toasted sesame with butter,” our friend replied. “You see, I wanted chicken soup, but they didn’t have any, so I asked if they had cinnamon raisin, but they were out, and I really needed comfort food because blah blah blah,” our friend babbled on nervously.
Richard Gere nodded, took his grapes and young thing, and said good night. We giggled and giggled and giggled that Richard Gere not only spoke to our friend, but he handled her aluminum foiled bagel.
I always thought that it would have been nice of him to pay for it though.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
The Results Stink
A few years ago, I began seeing a GI about extremely noxious gas that I emitted. Then (as now) it smelled like a small furry animal somehow died in my ass (I swear I am no Richard Gere and have no idea how it got there!) and the odor of its rotting corpse was seeping out. My GI did not want to do an endoscopy because he felt that it would be inconclusive and he didn't want to subject me to an invasive procedure. While I appreciated the sentiment, I decided after about a year that I should seek a second opinion.
The new GI I saw wanted to perform an endoscopy immediately. At that point in time, however, I was on a modified diet and thus - surprise, suprise - the endoscopy came back inconclusive. I hung my tail between my legs and went back to my original GI, who through various medicines kept things mostly under control. Lately things have been worse than usual though. It is not good when you are going through a roll of toilet paper every other day. (Forget the toll on my body, do you know how expensive toilet paper is in NYC?!?! I'll be broke if I don't stop shitting!) The GI decided it was time for an endoscopy.
I'm not leaving things to chance this time. I suspect that what triggered my latest series of shit geysers was a scrumptious BBQ seitan (wheat gluten used for fake meats) sandwich I ate a few weeks ago. Since I want plenty of evidence for this endoscopy, I decided I should eat as much seitan as I can before the test on Thursday. Hence I had a yummy lunch of balck pepper seitan this afternoon.
You do not want to enter my apartment this evening without a gas mask.
The new GI I saw wanted to perform an endoscopy immediately. At that point in time, however, I was on a modified diet and thus - surprise, suprise - the endoscopy came back inconclusive. I hung my tail between my legs and went back to my original GI, who through various medicines kept things mostly under control. Lately things have been worse than usual though. It is not good when you are going through a roll of toilet paper every other day. (Forget the toll on my body, do you know how expensive toilet paper is in NYC?!?! I'll be broke if I don't stop shitting!) The GI decided it was time for an endoscopy.
I'm not leaving things to chance this time. I suspect that what triggered my latest series of shit geysers was a scrumptious BBQ seitan (wheat gluten used for fake meats) sandwich I ate a few weeks ago. Since I want plenty of evidence for this endoscopy, I decided I should eat as much seitan as I can before the test on Thursday. Hence I had a yummy lunch of balck pepper seitan this afternoon.
You do not want to enter my apartment this evening without a gas mask.
Advice for the Upcoming Elections - Don't Fuck It Up, Please
Today is primary day here in New York, and I’m concerned about the next few elections. Supposedly, the race in November is for the Democrats to lose, but we all know how they excel at that these days. For the love of the Constitution and all that remains working in our pseudo-democarcy these days, I am begging the Democrats to get off their high horses and go back to cheating on Election Day. In the good old days, both parties engaged in fraud and malfeasance, and the party who did it better “won” the election.
As recently as 1960 (crap, was that really almost 50 years ago already?), crafty Democrats in Chicago way outmaneuvered sneaky Republicans in the southern part of Illinois, and Kennedy was thus the victor. These days, Republicans just get their friends at Diebold to manufacture voting machines so that no matter who you vote for, you vote for a Republican. An independent investigation into the 2004 Presidential election results from Cuyahoga County (Cleveland, OH) revealed that the computer codes in the voting machines had serious anomalies and security gaps. Plus, Republicans had their little lackey Secretary of State to ensure that absentee ballots didn’t count unless you basically used pure silver ink on 14k gold paper, or voted Republican.
Where is our can-do spirit on the Democratic side? Sure, we all know that we can’t rely on the so-called “liberal media,” since conservatives invented it to scare idiots into not reading the news, and then the actual media conglomerates began producing nothing worthwhile anyway. Still, I am sure there are some industrious minds and willing hands and wallets out there. Get to it! Trying to play “fair” and “be honest” is a fucking waste of time.
As recently as 1960 (crap, was that really almost 50 years ago already?), crafty Democrats in Chicago way outmaneuvered sneaky Republicans in the southern part of Illinois, and Kennedy was thus the victor. These days, Republicans just get their friends at Diebold to manufacture voting machines so that no matter who you vote for, you vote for a Republican. An independent investigation into the 2004 Presidential election results from Cuyahoga County (Cleveland, OH) revealed that the computer codes in the voting machines had serious anomalies and security gaps. Plus, Republicans had their little lackey Secretary of State to ensure that absentee ballots didn’t count unless you basically used pure silver ink on 14k gold paper, or voted Republican.
Where is our can-do spirit on the Democratic side? Sure, we all know that we can’t rely on the so-called “liberal media,” since conservatives invented it to scare idiots into not reading the news, and then the actual media conglomerates began producing nothing worthwhile anyway. Still, I am sure there are some industrious minds and willing hands and wallets out there. Get to it! Trying to play “fair” and “be honest” is a fucking waste of time.
What's in a Name? (Part II)
Given my strong feelings about changing one’s name (see Sunday for Part I's rant), it has taken me a very long time to adjust to the current trend among women my age to eagerly take their husband’s name upon marriage. Almost all of my friends, both male and female, are very progressive, so it surprises me that I know a mere handful of women who didn’t change their name. It just seems weird to me that a woman would invest so much time in her education and work life, building a reputation under an identity and accruing props along the way for her achievements, and then suddenly become someone else. Sure, she’s not really someone else. A rose is a rose by any other name, right? Even dunderheads like me know that. But it is confusing and takes explaining when you walk into someone’s office and call her Dr. Blahblah or what have you, then notice that the medical degree posted on the wall is to Susie Sunshine. Who the fuck is that? The mental reconciliation process kicks in, starting with, “Shit, am I seeing a fraud?” to “Oh, maybe she is using someone else’s office” to finally, “Ah, she’s married. I am in the right place after all.”
Anyway, after beating people over the head with blunt objects in an attempt to force them to respect my choice, I realized that I should back the fuck up when it came to judging my friends’ decisions about what they want to be legally known as. Now I don’t bother getting bent out of shape unless I am reading some article about the new “trend” of women not changing their names (I don’t think at any point in time more married women in the US had their own names than their beloved’s, so I am not sure how this marks a “trend”), which more often than not will site a return to “values” (seems that brazen hussies like me who kept their names don’t have values – who knew?) and the death of the failed feminist experiment. Usually the article includes a quote from some twat to prove that feminism is useless, and she’ll say something brainless like, “If we have the same name, we’ll never get divorced because it will bring us so much closer.” Yeah, I’m sure if Christie Brinkley had insisted that the media refer to her as Mrs. Whatever-her-cheating-husband’s-name-is, he never would have shtupped his teenage intern.
Do what you want about your name, but don’t be a moron, or I will still make fun of you.
Anyway, after beating people over the head with blunt objects in an attempt to force them to respect my choice, I realized that I should back the fuck up when it came to judging my friends’ decisions about what they want to be legally known as. Now I don’t bother getting bent out of shape unless I am reading some article about the new “trend” of women not changing their names (I don’t think at any point in time more married women in the US had their own names than their beloved’s, so I am not sure how this marks a “trend”), which more often than not will site a return to “values” (seems that brazen hussies like me who kept their names don’t have values – who knew?) and the death of the failed feminist experiment. Usually the article includes a quote from some twat to prove that feminism is useless, and she’ll say something brainless like, “If we have the same name, we’ll never get divorced because it will bring us so much closer.” Yeah, I’m sure if Christie Brinkley had insisted that the media refer to her as Mrs. Whatever-her-cheating-husband’s-name-is, he never would have shtupped his teenage intern.
Do what you want about your name, but don’t be a moron, or I will still make fun of you.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where are our priorities? Just curious.
One more Sept. 11th-related piece of commentary and then I’ll stop obsessing. The more I think about that article I read in the New York Times today about the vast sums of money that have been invested in the process of rebuilding the WTC site and the lack of anything substantive resulting from it due to bureaucratic stupidity, selfishness, and egocentric politics, the more it ires me. On my way home from my first magazine writing class (how to pitch articles) this evening, the thought about the cost of the proposed memorial alone was enough to make me want to slap someone.
According to the article and other recent press, Mayor Bloomberg finally came to his senses and shut the sky-high dreams down by putting a $500 million cost cap on the site. Of course, this was only after the price tag reached one fucking billion dollars. Yes, a BILLION bucks to create a memorial. Are these people insane?
I noticed that many of the people who believe that price is no object for the memorial to their brave departed son/daughter/wife/husband/sister’s best friend’s uncle’s neighbor do not actually live in New York City. Thus having a random 16 acre site that generates no income for the municipality is not their problem. Too bad for those of us who actually live here and have real needs, like child care, health care, pensions, rent assistance, etc., etc. that require some regular stream of revenue to meet. Even worse for those of us who actually work downtown and would like to see some life brought back to the area. Dear God – why should we have access to a lively community when their loved one is dead? What on earth is wrong with me?
Another issue that seems to be conveniently ignored is just who the fuck is paying for this thing. I am happy to help pay for a reasonable memorial. The World War II memorial, which I just saw this summer on the Mall in DC, is gorgeous, elegant, and an important shrine to the 16 million Americans who served in the armed forces and 400,000 who died fighting tyranny in World War II. According to the National WWII Memorial homepage:
Should there be a memorial? Absolutely. How could there not be? Something horrendous and traumatizing and life-altering happened at the World Trade Center. An appropriate memorial that puts the events into context and helps us remember those who lost their lives by merely going to work one day is essential. Is an elaborate shrine to a specific person’s dead loved one the best way to convey the enormity and gravity of the events? Not so much. I would rather see my money go to help the living continue to live (see: immense needs of the citizens of NYC, above) than to build a tomb to the dead.
Again, I am sorry to anyone who lost someone dear to them that day. I know that I would be crazy with grief and very possibly as demanding if I were unlucky enough to be in your shoes. Sept. 11 is a big event and it means a lot of things to a lot of people, but we need to stop holding the needs of the living hostage in order to over-serve the dead.
According to the article and other recent press, Mayor Bloomberg finally came to his senses and shut the sky-high dreams down by putting a $500 million cost cap on the site. Of course, this was only after the price tag reached one fucking billion dollars. Yes, a BILLION bucks to create a memorial. Are these people insane?
I noticed that many of the people who believe that price is no object for the memorial to their brave departed son/daughter/wife/husband/sister’s best friend’s uncle’s neighbor do not actually live in New York City. Thus having a random 16 acre site that generates no income for the municipality is not their problem. Too bad for those of us who actually live here and have real needs, like child care, health care, pensions, rent assistance, etc., etc. that require some regular stream of revenue to meet. Even worse for those of us who actually work downtown and would like to see some life brought back to the area. Dear God – why should we have access to a lively community when their loved one is dead? What on earth is wrong with me?
Another issue that seems to be conveniently ignored is just who the fuck is paying for this thing. I am happy to help pay for a reasonable memorial. The World War II memorial, which I just saw this summer on the Mall in DC, is gorgeous, elegant, and an important shrine to the 16 million Americans who served in the armed forces and 400,000 who died fighting tyranny in World War II. According to the National WWII Memorial homepage:
The National World War II Memorial was funded almost entirely by private contributions, as specified in Public Law 103-32. The campaign received more than $197 million in cash and pledges. Support came from hundreds of thousands of individual Americans, hundreds of corporations and foundations, veterans groups, dozens of civic, fraternal and professional organizations, states and one territory, and students in 1,200 schools across the country.So it seems that we can spend $182 million to get a great, thought-provoking memorial to 16 million people, but we need to spend $1 billion – a huge chunk coming from taxpayers -to memorialize less than 3,000? I don’t think so.
Donated and pledged funds were used to cover the total project costs of approximately $182 million. These costs include site selection and design, construction and sculpture, a National Park Service maintenance fee required by the Commemorative Works Act, groundbreaking and dedication ceremonies, fund raising, and the 11-year administrative costs of the project from its inception in 1993 through completion in 2004.
Should there be a memorial? Absolutely. How could there not be? Something horrendous and traumatizing and life-altering happened at the World Trade Center. An appropriate memorial that puts the events into context and helps us remember those who lost their lives by merely going to work one day is essential. Is an elaborate shrine to a specific person’s dead loved one the best way to convey the enormity and gravity of the events? Not so much. I would rather see my money go to help the living continue to live (see: immense needs of the citizens of NYC, above) than to build a tomb to the dead.
Again, I am sorry to anyone who lost someone dear to them that day. I know that I would be crazy with grief and very possibly as demanding if I were unlucky enough to be in your shoes. Sept. 11 is a big event and it means a lot of things to a lot of people, but we need to stop holding the needs of the living hostage in order to over-serve the dead.
The Aftermath of Sept. 11: Hold Your Wallet Close Edition
If you are trying to lose weight, I suggest you read Broken Ground: The Hole in the City’s Heart by Deborah Sontag. The obscene amount of time and money (and remember, time also equals money) that has gone into the “rebuilding” of World Trade Center site will make you so sick you will either not want to eat in the first place or you’ll want to puke up whatever you did ingest. No one involved in this process comes out clean. It is the filthiest, vilest, lowest level of politics this side off the Bush administration.
The utter levels of self-interest are stunning. Somewhere along the way, the people involved forgot that there is a whole public out here whose needs differ from what the narrowly interested want, and who ultimately are going to pay for whatever is built. It is a must read.
The utter levels of self-interest are stunning. Somewhere along the way, the people involved forgot that there is a whole public out here whose needs differ from what the narrowly interested want, and who ultimately are going to pay for whatever is built. It is a must read.
Today's Sept. 11 Ceremony Miss
I watched the September 11 ceremony at Ground Zero this morning. As the names of the deceased were read by the significant others of those who died, it seemed that at least one-third of the dead were women. (I confirmed this was the case at New York Metro, which offers thought-provoking info on 9/11 by the number.) Yet the overwhelming number of name readers were women. Usually I like to hear women’s voices ringing out loud and clear, but in this case, many women whose voices are permanently silent did not have the same opportunity to have a loved one speak for them the way that the deceased men were spoken for by a grieving spouse.
For a fair representation, one out of every three name readers should have been a man. (This is not counting same-sex couples, although I was pleased to note that two gay men were included as name readers and a lesbian eulogized her partner.) It gave a weird impression that no women died that day. Where were the voices of the husbands and other male partners? Were they not invited to speak or did none accept the invitation?
I know this is terrible to say, but it became very numbing to hear the widow parade bemoaning the loss of their men one after one. At least there was a respectable amount of ethnic diversity among the women readers, but more male voices would have added depth and perspective to ceremony.
Regardless of who was picked to read, why, and how, it didn’t work as a strategy for honoring everyone. It only led to some people going on and on about their loved ones, holding pictures of their dead spouses up the entire time they read other people’s names, terrible (if heartfelt) poetry, two semi-outrageous political statements, and worst, people’s names not read at all because the readers were too upset or focused only on their dead loved one. The last two readers had to read a list of names of people who were skipped. Not cool.
For a fair representation, one out of every three name readers should have been a man. (This is not counting same-sex couples, although I was pleased to note that two gay men were included as name readers and a lesbian eulogized her partner.) It gave a weird impression that no women died that day. Where were the voices of the husbands and other male partners? Were they not invited to speak or did none accept the invitation?
I know this is terrible to say, but it became very numbing to hear the widow parade bemoaning the loss of their men one after one. At least there was a respectable amount of ethnic diversity among the women readers, but more male voices would have added depth and perspective to ceremony.
Regardless of who was picked to read, why, and how, it didn’t work as a strategy for honoring everyone. It only led to some people going on and on about their loved ones, holding pictures of their dead spouses up the entire time they read other people’s names, terrible (if heartfelt) poetry, two semi-outrageous political statements, and worst, people’s names not read at all because the readers were too upset or focused only on their dead loved one. The last two readers had to read a list of names of people who were skipped. Not cool.
Five Years Ago
May 2000 – Husband offered job at eSpeed, a divison of Cantor Fitzgerald on the 103rd floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. Husband turns it down due to low salary, despite lack of other offers at the time. This made me both relieved and nervous. Relieved because I knew that we’d have some financial issues if my non-profit salary made me the breadwinner, but nervous because nothing else was in the horizon and unemployment is worse than a moderate income.
July 2, 2000 – We get married.
August 2000 – Husband receives job offer from small private equity firm in midtown Manhattan. He is very pleased with the opportunity and begins in September.
Sept. 9, 2001 – Husband and I return from belated honeymoon in London. We had a great time.
Sept. 11, 2001 – It was a picture perfect day with the sun beaming down on the City; the type of day that makes you happy to be alive as the sun warms your nose while you walk down the street. I went to my office early that morning, as we’d been on vacation and I wanted to catch up on some work before I went to an afternoon meeting with a city official downtown. The office was empty except for one other early bird. Around 8:45 am, he came into my tiny office with a weird look on his face. His mother had called him from Rochester, where she heard on the news that some sort of plane crashed into the World Trade Center.
We tried to log on to the internet, but all the news sites were overloaded. The street became full of the high-pitched scream of sirens as emergency vehicles sped downtown. Eventually, news reached us in bits and pieces as other people arrived at the office. We heard that it was a small personal plane, like a Cessna. Then word arrived that it was a commercial airline. Still, it could have been a horrible accident. No one was sure. Then we heard about the second plane and now we knew. It was not an accident. A graduate student intern arrived upset because the second plane flew overhead while she walked to work. She saw it slam into the south tower.
My office at the time was located on the corner of the 14th Street and 5th Avenue, with a perfect view down Fifth of the towers. Years before, I had lived in an NYU dorm on 5th and 10th, and I used to lean out the window at night and look down 5th Avenue at the Twin Towers to my south, and the elegant Empire State Building to the north. These buildings bracketed a section of Manhattan and served as a compass for downtown. Now the southern compass point had been attacked. I went outside to see for myself.
Small clumps of people were standing around talking quietly on every corner. At Cardozo Law School, on the northeast corner of 12th and 5th, I stood and watched the buildings burn. There was an inferno at the tops of the towers. I thought, “No one above that fire is going to make it out alive.” That’s where Husband would have been, had we not been greedy. I sat down on the curb and cried. Never once did it cross my mind that an hour later, the buildings would collapse upon themselves. Who but an engineer could contemplate such a horrific thing?
After a few minutes, I dried my eyes and went back inside. Some time passed, with people trying to find news. We heard that one of the towers came down. Shock. Then people began to leave. A co-worker decided to walk to her parents’ apartment on the Upper West Side, and we left together. We headed as far west as we could, lest other attacks were planned on buildings in midtown. (Who knew at this point what was going to happen? Anything seemed possible.) As we trudged in the bright sunlight to the West Side Highway, we heard that the second tower fell, too.
At the pedestrian and bike path on the West Side Highway, we quickly joined the exodus of people. Mostly I remember the bright reds, oranges, and blues of the stock traders’ coats. There seemed to be an infinite number of them pouring out of downtown. People were trying to call loved ones, but cell phone signals were hard to come by. No one spoke much.
I worried about my friend who was visiting from Israel with her boyfriend. That morning they had planned to go to the Statue of Liberty and the World Trade Center. A few days ago, I had advised them to go to the Statue of Liberty first, as I had heard that the lines could take hours if you did not arrive at the island on one of the first boats out. Besides, the observation deck at the WTC did not open until later, so they might as well go to the Statue first. Where were they? She did not have a cell phone with her, so I could not even try to reach her. I hoped they would call me as soon as they got back to my friend’s aunt’s house in Brooklyn.
By the time I arrived at my apartment, Husband had already been home for quite some time. I don’t think that I had ever been so happy to see him. All I could think about was the inferno on the top of the towers, and how utterly lucky I was that he was here with me in our apartment. Husband had even taken the time to stock up on bottled water and cash from the ATM. He always thinks ahead, and while the water was never a problem, ATMs ran out of cash in the following days. What would I do without him?
In the ensuing hours, we watched TV constantly. We heard from friends. It is amazing how many people were “late” to work that day, and thus safe. (The terrorists may have chosen the hijacked flight well, and they may have succeeded in destroying several buildings and killing thousands, but they did not understand the work culture of New Yorkers – who rarely get into work before 9:30 – and thus they did not kill multiples of thousands more.) My friend eventually called me. She had been boarding the ferry to the Statue when the planes flew overhead. In the chaos that ensued, they fled over the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before the Towers fell and covered them with dust. It took several more hours to get home, but she was safe, too.
I was lucky – everyone I loved was safe, especially Husband. The New York Times ran pictures of the deceased with little stories for months. Husband saw a picture of the man who would have been his boss. Whenever I think about it, I want to throw up. Even though it was not really a close call, as he turned down the job over a year before the attacks, it still feels too close to me.
In some ways, September 11, 2001 feels like yesterday, and in others, it feels like forever. The exploitation of the events of that day by the Bush administration continues unabated. Whenever some idiot tells me I should be grateful for President Bush, “or else there might be more terrorist attacks,” I stare at him blankly. Whenever I read about the latest violation of the Constitution, I bitterly feel that people deserve what they asked for when they voted for Bush. In those instances, I know that the terrorists won.
rocketboom911
July 2, 2000 – We get married.
August 2000 – Husband receives job offer from small private equity firm in midtown Manhattan. He is very pleased with the opportunity and begins in September.
Sept. 9, 2001 – Husband and I return from belated honeymoon in London. We had a great time.
Sept. 11, 2001 – It was a picture perfect day with the sun beaming down on the City; the type of day that makes you happy to be alive as the sun warms your nose while you walk down the street. I went to my office early that morning, as we’d been on vacation and I wanted to catch up on some work before I went to an afternoon meeting with a city official downtown. The office was empty except for one other early bird. Around 8:45 am, he came into my tiny office with a weird look on his face. His mother had called him from Rochester, where she heard on the news that some sort of plane crashed into the World Trade Center.
We tried to log on to the internet, but all the news sites were overloaded. The street became full of the high-pitched scream of sirens as emergency vehicles sped downtown. Eventually, news reached us in bits and pieces as other people arrived at the office. We heard that it was a small personal plane, like a Cessna. Then word arrived that it was a commercial airline. Still, it could have been a horrible accident. No one was sure. Then we heard about the second plane and now we knew. It was not an accident. A graduate student intern arrived upset because the second plane flew overhead while she walked to work. She saw it slam into the south tower.
My office at the time was located on the corner of the 14th Street and 5th Avenue, with a perfect view down Fifth of the towers. Years before, I had lived in an NYU dorm on 5th and 10th, and I used to lean out the window at night and look down 5th Avenue at the Twin Towers to my south, and the elegant Empire State Building to the north. These buildings bracketed a section of Manhattan and served as a compass for downtown. Now the southern compass point had been attacked. I went outside to see for myself.
Small clumps of people were standing around talking quietly on every corner. At Cardozo Law School, on the northeast corner of 12th and 5th, I stood and watched the buildings burn. There was an inferno at the tops of the towers. I thought, “No one above that fire is going to make it out alive.” That’s where Husband would have been, had we not been greedy. I sat down on the curb and cried. Never once did it cross my mind that an hour later, the buildings would collapse upon themselves. Who but an engineer could contemplate such a horrific thing?
After a few minutes, I dried my eyes and went back inside. Some time passed, with people trying to find news. We heard that one of the towers came down. Shock. Then people began to leave. A co-worker decided to walk to her parents’ apartment on the Upper West Side, and we left together. We headed as far west as we could, lest other attacks were planned on buildings in midtown. (Who knew at this point what was going to happen? Anything seemed possible.) As we trudged in the bright sunlight to the West Side Highway, we heard that the second tower fell, too.
At the pedestrian and bike path on the West Side Highway, we quickly joined the exodus of people. Mostly I remember the bright reds, oranges, and blues of the stock traders’ coats. There seemed to be an infinite number of them pouring out of downtown. People were trying to call loved ones, but cell phone signals were hard to come by. No one spoke much.
I worried about my friend who was visiting from Israel with her boyfriend. That morning they had planned to go to the Statue of Liberty and the World Trade Center. A few days ago, I had advised them to go to the Statue of Liberty first, as I had heard that the lines could take hours if you did not arrive at the island on one of the first boats out. Besides, the observation deck at the WTC did not open until later, so they might as well go to the Statue first. Where were they? She did not have a cell phone with her, so I could not even try to reach her. I hoped they would call me as soon as they got back to my friend’s aunt’s house in Brooklyn.
By the time I arrived at my apartment, Husband had already been home for quite some time. I don’t think that I had ever been so happy to see him. All I could think about was the inferno on the top of the towers, and how utterly lucky I was that he was here with me in our apartment. Husband had even taken the time to stock up on bottled water and cash from the ATM. He always thinks ahead, and while the water was never a problem, ATMs ran out of cash in the following days. What would I do without him?
In the ensuing hours, we watched TV constantly. We heard from friends. It is amazing how many people were “late” to work that day, and thus safe. (The terrorists may have chosen the hijacked flight well, and they may have succeeded in destroying several buildings and killing thousands, but they did not understand the work culture of New Yorkers – who rarely get into work before 9:30 – and thus they did not kill multiples of thousands more.) My friend eventually called me. She had been boarding the ferry to the Statue when the planes flew overhead. In the chaos that ensued, they fled over the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before the Towers fell and covered them with dust. It took several more hours to get home, but she was safe, too.
I was lucky – everyone I loved was safe, especially Husband. The New York Times ran pictures of the deceased with little stories for months. Husband saw a picture of the man who would have been his boss. Whenever I think about it, I want to throw up. Even though it was not really a close call, as he turned down the job over a year before the attacks, it still feels too close to me.
In some ways, September 11, 2001 feels like yesterday, and in others, it feels like forever. The exploitation of the events of that day by the Bush administration continues unabated. Whenever some idiot tells me I should be grateful for President Bush, “or else there might be more terrorist attacks,” I stare at him blankly. Whenever I read about the latest violation of the Constitution, I bitterly feel that people deserve what they asked for when they voted for Bush. In those instances, I know that the terrorists won.
rocketboom911
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