Last Day of February, and All's Well

Tomorrow is the first of a new month. I say it is about time. I was getting sick of February already. In 23 days, I am going to India. I had shots, filled prescriptions for anti-malarial and “just in case of explosive bloody diarrhea”drugs, and purchased lots of bug spray, some of which is very scary (you spray your clothes and it hangs around for 2 weeks to kill bugs, but the directions for use are along the lines of “don’t breathe while you spray this or for 10 minutes afterward, as a cloud of insecticide will surround your head”), so I am really ready. I need to go before I think about what this prep for the trip means and chicken out.

Anyway, the important thing about a new month for blogging purposes is that the first of the month is the Blog Exchange! I have prepared an extremely excellent piece (in my humble opinion) in fitting with the Exchange theme (“Pick a song, use the title as your post title, and write a post…”), which you will find at my new friend Laura’s blog, My Beautiful Life. It’s got comedy, injury, and tragedy, so check it out! A finely written piece from Laura will appear here at CUSS, which I am excited about.

In the meantime, happy last day of February.

Another Adventure in Ambien

Husband and I were watching Heroes (BEST. MINDFUCK. SHOW. EVER! Or at least in recent times…) when an Ambien commercial came on. It deceitfully depicted a man and woman in bed tossing and turning, and then after taking Ambien, sleeping restfully and peacefully. No one was shown in a midnight raid on his fridge that seemed like a grizzly bear scavenged through a campsite. There was no one seen sitting at her computer ordering $400 of crap on the internet. Neither actor in the ad projectile vomited a digested ham and cheese sandwich and apple that she ate at the airport before boarding her flight to London and an extremely oily chicken and pasta dish, iceberg lettuce “salad,” and roll that she ate on the plane. I can’t believe they are allowed to lie about their product so blatantly!

What I did learn from the advert (as they’d say in London) was that people are not supposed to take Ambien unless they can commit to at least seven hours of sleep. Huh. So when I downed the pill an hour or so into a six hour flight, that probably was not so good. It also probably explains why I was so out of it for the rest of day. After I threw up in the potted plant while going through passport control at Heathrow, I insisted that if I just put my contacts in, I’d be fine to take the subway (aka “tube” aka “underground”) to Mara’s place. Needless to say, Sara was rather skeptical about this assertion.

We stopped at the bathroom, and she waited with our stuff while I peed, and vice versa. I put my glasses away and put in my contacts, waiting for what passes for normalcy for me to return to my senses. When Sara came out of the bathroom, I was still waiting. Shocked, I told her that somehow wearing my contacts did not cure me of my wooziness, and I agreed to take a taxi. She was very relieved that I somehow arrived at a logical conclusion. When we got into a taxi, I basically passed out for the entire ride.

Yeah, so as Dianne pointed out last night when I told her about the rest of my Ambien tripping, it is pathetically obvious that I never experimented with any sort of drugs in my life, nor should I consider doing so.

Rollin' on the River

Before Williamsburg, Brooklyn became a hipster Mecca, Mara lived out there. She liked to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge to work in the morning, but it required extra caution. First, the bridge at that time was in serious disrepair. The walkway was patched with irregularly sized metal sheets, so she had to watch where she was walking. At the same time, she couldn’t solely look down at the sidewalk because she needed to be alert to the bridge masturbators. She said that there were about four men jerking off on the bridge every morning.

What is it about waterfront views that make men so overcome with desire that they are compelled to choke the chicken in public? Or is it only the East River? Once Steph and I went to the Socrates Sculpture Park in Astoria, Queens, which is right on the East River. As we were wandering about, keeping an eye firmly on the ground to avoid dog crap (the sculpture park was also an official New York City park that people walked their dogs in and rudely did not clean up despite the dozens of signs telling people to clean up after the dogs; I swear one sign even had shit at its base, but I digress), we turned a corner. There, mere feet in front of us, was a guy jerking off into the bushes. Naturally, we screamed and ran away. Then we laughed and laughed.

Maybe this is a tale about life in New York. As my mom says, keep your eyes peeled.

Sci Fi Adventure!

My flight home from London was scheduled to be 8 hours long. We were delayed for over an hour before we left (some of the time in the terminal, where I marveled repeatedly at the funky beverage dispenser that worked like something out of a Wallace and Grommit ‘toon), so Sara and I realized that we’d be back late. What we couldn’t know was that our plane would defy the laws governing time.

While various time counting mechanisms, such as my watch and the clock on my computer, showed time as it passed, it seems that the plane entered a special space where every hour that passed was counted as a minute. I somehow watched Flushed Away twice, edited two articles, and finally in desperation, sat through most of Marie Antoinette, which absolutely deserved its Oscar for costume design but also could be used as a torture device. (Maybe it was partially responsible for making the flight seem longer…) When we landed and the crew announced that it was 8:30 pm (only one hour later than our scheduled arrival time), Sara turned to me and said, “They must mean 8:30 on Thursday.” My hair was certainly greasy enough for me to believe that I had been on the plane for 5 days. You can’t convince me that we did not go through some hole in the time-space continuum.

Still, I had a great time. It was wonderful seeing Mara and her hubby, and meeting their new adorable baby. I had such a nice time there, I even offered to vacuum the apartment before I left. (Note: When I got home, I neither unpacked my suitcase nor put away my laundry that Husband washed while I was gone, so this voluntary domestic helpfulness is uncharacteristic of me.) I can’t wait to go back. I promise not to throw up in any more potted plants at immigration.

I'm Safe Again

Fortunately, I only puked on the plane and in a plant at immigration. (For which I was so out of it, I forgot to apologize to the agents. Happily, they let me in anyway.) I've been feeling much better, and even ate a fantastic Indian dinner last night. Thanks for the well wishes!!!

This afternoon, we are heading out for tea and hopefully, if all goes well, we can convince Mara to journey over to Brick Lane for bagels with salt beef (corned beef). Mara took me to this Jewish place last time I was in London (Jan. 2006) and I salivate just thinking about it. Then, hopefully, on to Harrod's so Sara can buy her mum-in-law some perfume and we can poke around the food section, which always entertains me to no end. Also perhaps an exhibit of functioning adult slides at the Tate Modern.

No puking=good time. No octopodes involved. (I only wrote that so I can use my cool octopus label. Although I do hope that Husband had the sense to throw away the remaining octopi/octopodes that I left in the refridgerator...)

Cheers! Now Duck!

While Mara gives her kid medicine and changes her diaper and Sara naps, I thought I'd share my barfing adventures. After Sara and I arrived at the airport, we sat down for a quick bite. We were cahtting so animatedly that we nearly missed boarding the flight! Once we were on it, however, we learned that it was dealyed, and we chatted more. Our plan was to eat a second dinner, take an Ambien, and then sleep for the rest of the night. That was a good plan in theory.

I've taken a sleeping pill on a plane once before. It did not make me sleep. Instead, it gave me restless leg syndrome and some surreal out-of-body experiences. But it was over the counter, so I thought maybe a prescription pill would be better. After the restless leg syndrome and out of body experiences, I did seem to sleep.

I woke up as I projectile vomited all over myself. Normally, I would snap into action and do something about the viscous orange-brown goo that I had on my pants, socks, pillow, and Sara's blanket, but thanks to the Ambien, I could not focus. I beeped the flight attendant. They helped me get up and I stumbled into the bathroom and barfed more. Then I crawled over Sara somwhow and blacked out. When I woke up, I had a giant garbage bag to barf in and a fancy business class pillow. Sara had a nice fluffy duvet from first class. I felt awful. I drank water. I threw it up. Not cool.

Anyway, after throwing up in a plant at the immigration check, I conceded that perhaps we should take a cab to Mara's, not the tube. She gave us tea and then I took a nap. Now I feel a bit better, but still not 100%.

I don't think the Ambien caused my projectile vomit-o-rama, but prevented me from thinking clearly. I will stay away from these substances in the future.

Pre-Flight Question

I know that the Ralph Fiennes-flight attendant bathroom tryst is old news, but if someone can explain why anyone would want to have sex in an airplane bathroom, I would be grateful. I have used airplane bathrooms before, and I find that they are smelly and gross. Even in first and business class. Although once someone did thoughtfully leave a copy of Town & Country in the first class lav.

Also, if you clicked on the link and read the interview with the flight attendant who had unprotected sex with Fiennes in a plane bathroom, did you not think of two questions:

1. Why? (Yeah sure he's hot. I get it. But still.)
2. If you enjoyed the experience as much as you clearly did (which is cool), why are you now regretting that he might have "used" you? You seem to have used him, too. So the fuck what?

I can guarantee that my flights to London and back will be sex free. (Sorry Sara. I do promise we can snuggle up at Mara's if it is cold, though. You may not, however, put your cold tushie on me. I am not your hubby - I'm not warm enough to warm it up.) Just the thought of getting it on in a germy, tiny, smelly bathroom are enough to kill the libido.

On another note, does anyone else get irritated by the phrase "make love?" I hate that expression. It's so damn trite.

Oooh! The Mystery! The Glamour!

Husband and I had a small masquerade shindig at our apartment a few weekends ago, of which after the fact I thought about at least 10 people who we should have also invited. (If you are one of those people, I apologize for my disorganized stupidity over this. Have no fear - the problem will be rememdied for our next shindig. Oy.)

Anyway, I thought this was a nice pic of Dr. H, me, Dr. H's friend Dr. H, and Dr. P in disguise. Also, I don't mind if my parents turn the tables on me and use this picture to make good-hearted fun of my apartment, which is a fine candidate for mocking, starting with the mess that is visible in the upper right corner of the picture.

I'll be in London with Sara this weekeend, so I hopefully will not have time to blog because we shall be gallivanting about. Although I am taking my laptop with me, since I no longer seem to be able to function without it. It's like an articifial limb that props me up. Or maybe an artificial brain?

Need Sleep Now

Every once in a while, I am ridden with horrible anxiety and can't sleep. Tonight I spent some quality time with Tycho, my giant pet rabbit, and then I gave in and fired up the computer. After reading blogs for an hour or so, I googled "Campaign for Unshaved Snatch" and discovered that CUSS was included in a college newspaper in their sex slang dictionary (see post below for link). Then I decided to see what was up with my little CUSS online shop. Tears of joy seriously leaked out of my tired eyeballs when I noticed that two people who are not me or my mom bought CUSS shirts. (My dad wears his CUSS hoodie proudly. At least in the house.) I don't even know one of the two. Damn, that is awesome. Thanks, shoppers! You rock.

I need to go to sleep now. I will not be very functional tomorrow when I wrap up my article gushing over unsustainable and impractical luxury condo developments for Bugaboo Magazine. (One day, if I am not careful, I am going to fuck up while I interview someone for an article and forget to use its real name.)

Perhaps I will sleep well on my overnight flight to London, where Sara and I are headed to visit the queen (Mara) and her family. Yay!

Into the Voting Booth

Should I be honored or disturbed that CUSS wound up in this slang dictionary? Amused is a third possibility.

I'm leaning toward 60% honored, 30% amused, and 10% disturbed.

Lunch

I ate octopus salad for lunch today. And for dinner last night after I bought it at the seafood counter of the local grocery emporium. Usually, octopus salad involves teeny octopi, so I was rather surprised when the guy behind the counter began scooping 4-5 inch long octopi into my container. I almost canceled the order, but I told myself to be brave. (Had I also known that the salad is inexplicably chock full of my arch enemy herb, cilantro, I would definitely have told him to forget it.)

However, it is one thing to eat calamari or little things with tentacles. It is quite another when a long tentacle falls off the corpse and sort of waves at you.

Two Peas in an Extremely Out of Place Pod

I must bring attention to a comment that my mom left on my post about being uncivilized:

Suz, remember when I chaperoned your 7th grade dancing lessons? It was right before the holidays, and Vanessa's mother requested I dress up and wear a skirt. My response:"That will be fine if you want to see my hairy legs!" Bottom line- I wore pants.

Incidentally, Vanessa’s mother was a former Miss Illinois who lived in a mansion. (A lot of kids who went to my school lived in manse-like estates, though.)

I think this comment explains so much about me, but let me say more because it also explains the community in which I grew up. The “7th grad dancing lessons” my mom refers to were known as “social dancing” (and I swear it was in 6th grade, not 7th – I shall confer with the Sauce, who I have been chums with since 4th grade, about this). It involved teaching the eager adolescents of Marie Murphy Junior High School important things like the cha cha, fox trot, and some other stuff I forgot/blocked out of my mind. It was not taught as part of gym class, but as an evening class that cost money. You had to go, though. Even the Sauce signed up. It was the whacked out social event of the year. (Which is why I think it was 6th grade, not 7th. By 7th grade, the bar/bat mitzvah circuit opened up and a new type of social event of the year took place. By 8th grade, the bar/bat mitvah circuit was been-there-done-that, but I digress.) If you didn’t go, you were ostracized. In my case, I was ostracized anyway, so I might as well have saved the money and not gone. Nothing like standing around and not even getting asked to cha cha by the nerd boys, not even your kindergarten crush and fellow outcast who has gone on to Hollywood. Oh la la. (Someday I’ll post the hilarious picture I have of us slow dancing at my bat mitzvah. Gotta get it from home to scan.)

Surely you are now wondering two things: what was a nice Jewish girl like Suzanne doing at a Catholic school and why did this Catholic school have a bar/bat mitvah circuit? And that’s the rub: Marie Murphy Junior High School only sounded like and functioned like a small parochial school. It was really a public school in which the preppy community treated like a private school. When my mom suggested that she not wear a skirt unless people wanted to see her hairy legs, I am surprised that they subsequently let her serve as a chaperone. I mean, what kind of role model would she be? Further, my mom was pretty much the only mom who went out in public wearing sweat pants. Maybe other moms would be caught dead in a coordinated jogging suit, but not likely. Only Jewish white trash would not think twice about something as horrifying as hairy legs and sweatpants.

Now you see how I turned out this way. Thankfully. And I can still dance a mean cha cha, so I guess social dancing was not a total waste of funds.

Hardee Har Har Har

My friend P.B. sent me a link to Pajiba.com, a site that wrote up a real time mockery of the movie Farce of the Penguins, which is narrated by Samuel L. Jackson. Here's my personal favorite part:

Jackson tells us that Antarctica is cold, cold enough to warrant a sweater or “maybe you want to wrap your pubic hair around your testicles. It’s that cold. If you’re a woman, you probably wouldn’t have testicles, so you’d let your pubic hair grow really long around your vagina.” You know, it’s not even funny when Sam Jackson says it. But you just have to love pubic hair humor, right? Always funny. That reminds me of a joke someone told me when I was 12: Why are public hairs curly? So you don’t poke your eye out! It’s best if you tell it in a pirate voice. Don’t ask me why.

Ha! It's true that jokes are funnier when told in a pirate voice regardless of whether they involve pubic hair or not. The review is hilarious even though it is not written in a pirate voice. This movie sounds horrifyingly bad.

On another pubic hair note, Suebob sent me a link to Mostly True Stories the tales of OB nurse who in this particular post reflects on pubic hair styles and nursing:

Labor nurses will talk about your bush. But don't think you can find out here what we think and then gussy yourself up before you go into labor to avoid being talked about. Because we don't all agree.

I think that the guiding principles of our bush styles, much like our hair (on our heads) styles might be in place before we ever really reach adulthood. I'm not saying that I still have the Farrah Fawcett wings that I had in junior high, or that my mom still has Donna Reed hair like she did in the '50s. But I do still favor straggly long hair, and she has gotten a perm every year since she was in high school.

When I was in high school, grooming the bush was taboo. It was the late seventies, early eighties. The natural look, you know -- it was the wash 'n go era. If your bathing suit didn't hide the bush, then you got a new suit. There was one girl at my high school who was rumored to have had a mutual pubic hair shaving episode with her boyfriend. We used to call them Mr. and Mrs. Gillette behind their backs.

But now, I fall into the live and let live category. I have too much else to worry about at work to notice your bush -- unless it REALLY gets in my way. But a lot of my coworkers feel that grooming is very important. Before you go into labor, they think you should get a pedicure and a Brazilian. Nonsense! But do try to wash up first...

Nonesense indeed. You'd think that a labor nurse might a)realize that it is not a good idea to have hot wax poured all over your pubic region right before you give birth for a variety of reasons, not the least being that a burn would be particularly bad at that point and b)understand that pregnant women might not have the time or money to pay for that kind of shit. This utter lack of common sense among so many people is why I despair over our future, although if you go to the full post on trimming hedges, you'll find a great joke about blueberries. Just tell it to yourself in a pirate voice, and it'll be that much more hilarious.

Sorry, Wrong Number

The phone rang. Husband picked up.

"Hello?" he asked politely. No answer. "Hello?" he asked, less politely. Click.
"Hello, I am calling to speak to the lady of the house," a woman replied.
"What is this in reference to? Husband asked, sussing out a telemarketer.
"Um, I am calling from The Dove Foundation. May I speak to the lady of the house?" she replied, nervously.
"What is this in reference to?" he suspiciously sneered.
"Um, I am calling from The Dove Foundation. May I speak to the lady of the house?" she replied, nervously.

Husband hung up. He then looked up The Dove Foundation and learned that:

In 1991 The Dove Foundation began promoting family-friendly entertainment. Our standards and criteria are based on Judeo/Christian values, free from the pressure of commercial interests. We believe in a positive approach of commending high-quality, wholesome movies rather than condemning filmmakers for not meeting those standards.

For years we have watched the morals and attitudes of the entertainment industry slowly creep into our society. We maintain that the number of PG-13 and R rated films, with their increasingly salacious material, are not representative of the desires of millions of movie goers. It’s time for positive family values to impact those in Hollywood instead of Hollywood impacting family values.

Boy oh boy. This foundation needs far better prospect research if they think that this lady of the house is going to support their cause. Dudes, I wrote an article calling for more (but better quality) porn. Not that I think kids should be watching all that violence and evil hetero-centric fucked up stuff in movies and on TV, but I clearly am not going to be supporting more "Judeo-Christian values" in Hollywood. Now that is funny.

Happy Presidents Day

Last night Husband and I journeyed out to Queens to have dinner with some friends who just bought a new house. The 7 train was not running, so we took trusty old Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser that we bought in August when Husband took a job in Connecticut. It turned out to be very fortuitous that we had Fred with us because our friends were getting rid of some furniture they didn't want to bring to the new place. You know how much I love free furniture, and I have wanted a buffet with a hutch for our dining room for a long time, so it was perfect!

Husband put the back seat down and the buffet slid in perfectly. The hutch, however, was a bit too big for the trunk to close. Given that it was freezing out, I was a bit hesitant to drive into Manhattan with the trunk open, but it actually worked out fine. (My digestive system cranked out some extra gas to heat up the car, which was thoughtful of it but also extremely smelly.) It was tying the trunk down that almost caused Husband and I to lose our hands to frostbite.

Long story short, it arrived safely as did our appendages. The hutch is white and looks fantastic in the dining room. For once we are also actually throwing away the old furniture that the new furniture is meant to replace, so we have a net gain of space. All very cool.

Now She Doesn't Need to Dye Anything

Last night my mother-in-law randomly mentioned that Britney Spears shaved her head. Since I am behind the news (as always), many fine people have blogged and commented about this already, but I must say that CNN’s headline, “Britney Spears goes bald,” is rather inaccurate. (And really, why the fuck is this news in the first place?) The chick showed us very clearly that she was bald back in late November/early December when she gallivanted about wearing no pants or underwear. She just finally got around to coordinating. While I thought her bald snatch was gross, I find her hairless keppelah* sort of appealing.

One of the benefits of completely waxed snatch for a bottle blond like my young friend Brit is that there's not evidence (other than eyebrows, lashes, and irises) that you really are not blond. It seems that this won't be a concern any more, either. It's sort of time saver in so many ways. No need to fix the roots, deal with all the extensions, or even take time to style. Just wash your scalp and go. Convenient. I like it, Sam I am. I really like shaved heads and ham.**

*Yiddish lesson: keppelah = head.
**Alright, I still don't like shaved ham, but it rhymed so nicely, and I'm tired and easily amused this morning.

Count Me Out of Civilized Society

Husband is the best man in a wedding this afternoon. I was planning to wear a cute pink and green strapless cocktail dress to the wedding, but I noticed that my leg hair was clearly visible through my white tights. I then considered wearing a pair of funky black flowy pants things, but then I didn’t want them to drag in the slush that is dogging the streets of New York these days.

“Why don’t you just shave your legs?” Rebecca asked.

“What! Are you crazy?” I replied, aghast at the sacrilegious suggestion.

I settled on a black dress so that I could wear black tights. As I mentioned all this to Husband, he brought up the fine product now available to men through www.shaveeverywhere.com.

“Damn, that was a funny ad,” he chuckled.

We joked about the “optical inch” for a few minutes, when it suddenly occurred to me. If people distinguish themselves from other mere animals by our grooming habits, then it is actually a sign of civilization that both genders are increasingly spending time removing our fur. Hence, I am utterly uncivilized.

“Yes, that’s true,” Husband admitted cheerfully. “If you were more civilized, you would also use a fork and knife while you eat. Your sister has the same issue!”

I hate using knives as much as I hate shaving. Using a fork is sufficient to split apart whatever food I plan to ingest. Why make another utensil dirty if it doesn’t need to be? Sure, if my food actually requires a knife, I am happy to make use of it. But generally, a gentle nudge off the side of the fork is perfect force and sharpness to break off a bite size nugget of food. Or sometimes I gnaw on things.

Civilization is overrated, anyway.

Incidentally

The Trouble with My Vagina is that the copy that my friend burned for me does not work in my DVD player. Bad Vagina! I'll have to see if if works on Husband's computer, which can play DVDs.

Is Anglophilia Contagious?

I am an Anglophile. As a kid, I loved learning about British history. (My other favorites were American history and Jewish history from the Dark Ages and on. Once I came home from Hebrew school with a Jewish history textbook and accidentally read most of it in one sitting because I was so fascinated by it. I can see something like that easily happening today. Ah, embrace the geek!) When I first visited London in 2001, I planned an insane agenda and insisted that Husband and I try to do and see everything on it. My fear was that I’d leave without getting to see something I’d always dreamed about visiting, and then I’d never get to go back.

Fortunately, Husband not only remained married to me after that trip, but I also learned how to relax a bit on vacations after we returned home utterly exhausted. Also, I’ve been lucky enough to go back to London multiple times. Every time I’m there, I love it more. No one is supposed to love British food, but I do! I adore fatty pies, scones and clotted cream, Cadbury, curries (technically, Indian of course, but so absorbed into London culture that it might as well be British at this point), and weird meat sandwiches that I bought in convenience stores in subway stations. The little bagel I had with salt beef (aka corned beef) the last time I was there was the best bagel I have ever eaten. Seriously.

Mara took me to the bagel place, and she also sent me this reminder of why I love everything English. It seems that BBC3 will be premiering a documentary called, “Fuck Off, I’m a Hairy Woman.” (Read the hilarious essay about it by the filmmaker in The Guardian. Can you imagine something like that on TV in the US? The title alone would have been changed to something more palatable and mild, like, “The Politics of Body Hair” or something boring and erudite so PBS could show it. If they deigned to do so, which I am not sure they would.

In the past few years, British TV also showed a documentary called “The Trouble with My Vagina” about cootie waxing, which someone burned for me on DVD and I wrote about a long time ago. (I think I need to finally watch it as soon as I am done writing this. I can’t believe I’ve had it for months and keep forgetting to watch it.) Good stuff, good stuff. In America, we get “reality shows” about Playboy Playmates (which also discussed unshaved snatch, referring to it as a “power muff,” making me suddenly wonder if I love the Power Puff Girls so much because it sounds so much like Power Muff Girls...) and Anna Nicole Smith, who is suddenly some sort of national hero. (Mark my words, DNA testing is going to show that the father of her poor baby is her son.)

Next Friday, I’ll be arriving in London with Sara for a nice visit with Mara, her hubby, and their new baby. I can’t wait.

Finally!

My failing to fail streak has ended. Today I received a rejection letter in the mail from a publisher that I thought would be a perfect fit for my book about weird things to do and see in New York. (They published a book about offbeat museums and also a few more.) Nope. The point is that at least I got a response.

In the meantime, I will continue slogging along. I haven't sent anything out in a few weeks except for a small piece comparing the illegal occupation of America (violated Native American treaties and all that) to criticisms of Israel. Hopefully something will come of that.

Today I even capitulated on my promise to myself that I would never work on child care facilities policy and development again. I agree to put in a bid on a consulting job with the City that I am sure that I will regret. But, after a long day of asking wealthy developers about why families should spend $3 million for a three bedroom condo ("we also have a screening room and a kiddie pool and a gym and hotel-style concierge services and and an arcade and a billiards room and a 60 foot sky-lit pool and a BBQ terrace and yoga classes and quiet closing toilet seats and staff to wipe your ass for you" - OK, I made that last one up, but the rest are true), I actually missed doing good in the world. Plus the person who told me about the gig is a great person and we'd have fun working together and it is not too many hours and I can ask for a decent amount of money which would make me feel significantly less shitty about my current monthly income of about $200. I guess we'll see what happens.

Not surprisingly, my line about Joan Rivers was cut from the museum article I wrote. So it goes.

Just Because I'm Paranoid...

It is super cold again in New York today, with winds making the temperatures feel no warmer than the single digits. (Yes, people in the Midwest and the really northern parts of the US and Canada, I know I am being a wuss. Stop snickering.) As I sit shivering at my dining room table in my two sweaters (one an acrylic turtleneck and the other a cashmere one that I got on sale at Macy’s for $30), pants, tights, knee socks, and boots, my mind has returned to the delightful product I mentioned yesterday known as The Body Groomer.

Body hair on days like today is good. It’s another little layer of warmth. I don’t fully understand the link between body hair and historical environment, as it seems far less clear cut than skin color and environment (blazing hot sun=darker skin to prevent skin cancer; not so much sunlight=lighter skin so that Vitamin D can be absorbed more easily), but it seems to make sense that people with Eastern European heritage are typically a bit hairier than others because it is fucking cold there in the winter. Although that would make one think that Scandinavians would be human polar bears and Greeks and Indians would be, I don’t know, sleek seals or something, and it doesn’t seem to work that way, but I digress.

Back to the Body Groomer. At first, I was excited in my cynical way because it pleased me that men increasingly feel the pressure that women do to look one way to be considered acceptable. Norelco finally woke up and realized that it could increase its profits by exploiting the other 50% of the population. Ha! It’s about time. (I know, I know - an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Blah blah blah.) This morning I worried that Norelco’s clever little ad campaign at www.shaveeverywhere.com isn’t really about the “optical inch” at all. What if it is really about women like me?

Bear with me here. I think hairy men are fine. (Of course, I think hairy women are find, too.) One of the things that I like about hairy men is that they are even hairier slobs than I am, so I can still feel “feminine” in comparison. What if men were no longer hairy? Then I would really feel gross and weird. I’d have to start shaving, at least my legs and pits. And I’d be colder than ever. It would really suck.

It seems like the men’s grooming movement is not really going to solve any problems. I will still laugh at it though. I figure at the rate things are going, global warming will do away with us silly humans or even sooner, the US will be involved in a war in Iran as well as Iraq, and may get bombed back into the stone ages anyway. On the bright side, I learned from the human evolution exhibit in the Natural History Museum that body hair was quite stylish back then…

Fuzzy Kiwis Under Attack!

Talk about an amazing Valentine's Day gift. Left Coast Insomniac sent me this hillllarious article from SFGate about a new shaver from Phillips Norelco for male pubes. The website is actually called shaveeverywhere.com. Ha ha ha. Seriously. (Dr. P is making faces at me because I find this so funny and she is obviously disturbed by it.) According to the brilliant SFGate recap of shaveeverywhere.com, an interactive salesguy tells potential customers:

...straight out, that the Bodygroom
will "help make your dick look bigger." This is a theme and a key selling
point. He will also tell you, with a (winking) straight face, that the
Bodygroom is "the convenient, easy, gentle way to make your genitals
bloom." And if you ask him if women really prefer a well-groomed man, he
will snicker in disbelief and barely be able to contain his laughter
before composing himself, looking straight at the camera and deadpanning,
"Yes, yes they do."

In fact, the opening introduction alone addresses your average American
frat guy's naggingly homophobic concerns right from the start. Gary even
admits to it himself: "Let me tell you, this whole issue [of genital
grooming] used to make me quite uncomfortable. But now, with a hair-free
back, well-groomed shoulders and an extra optical inch on my cock, let's
just say life has gotten pretty darn cozy."

Oh damn, damn, damn. That is just too funny. Dr. P and I just watched the online blurb and we cannot stop laughing. Especially when fuzzy kiwis, peaches, and bushy topped carrots are flashed at sensitive parts of the actor's censored speech. (Neither of us get the peach as a symbol. Any suggestions?) I suggest you watch immediately. Or as soon as possible if your employer will be angry that you are watching a smarmy guy in a bathrobe looking down admirably at his presumably now-hairless balls.

Personally, I prefer my dudes on the hairy side of the coin. This product is no more ridiculous than any of the shit hawked to women, even if the ad is way more (unintentionally) amusing. Still, I can't say that I'm too choked up that men are now feeling the grooming squeeze, so to speak. Maybe when they discover that it sucks to have hairs yanked out of sensitive areas, they'll stop expecting these things from the supposedly fairer sex that somehow endures riduculously painful and stupid groomeing routines. In the meantime, I am just going to laugh my femininely hairy ass off.

Gettin' It On Thanks to Public Transit and Despite Age

Dr. P was supposed to go to Florida today for a surgery conference. Thanks to the rather unpleasant weather we are experiencing in New York today (although I am only experiencing it from the comfort of my apartment until I venture out to the gym for my Valentine's Day workout tonight), she is now at my dining room table with me because her flight was canceled. While I am sorry that she is not currently relaxing (er, learning about surgical procedures) in warmer climates right now, I am happy to see her, and she brought me some exciting news.

It seems that New York City is helping New Yorkers celebrate Valentine's Day safely by handing condoms out on the subways today. The condoms come in special wrappers with the color and number or letter of the subway line on it. They hope that when they do follow up research asking people if they used their free condom or not, they will avoid problems they had in the past of people not remembering where they got their free VD anti-VD condom. I think that is brilliant.

While we were trying to find the story on the New York Times website, we came across another heart-warming Valentine's Day sex story. This time it is about sex education classes that are being offered to senior citizens. As the article notes, rates of sexually transmitted disease have skyrocketed among seniors who came of age when condoms were just for preventing pregnancy. Now that Viagra is enabling the fogeys to get the rocks off, they need to know how to protect the repolished family jewels. Seriously, how much fun would I have teaching a class like this?

As an aside, pardon my worse than usual typing, as I got a papercut from an entire notebook and had to bandage the tip of my finger.

Mandatory Valentine's Day Post

I wasn't going to bother writing anything about Valentine's Day and then my word of the day from Urban Dictionary was valentine's day, which to be nit picky, is not technically a word, but whatever. The definition in the email cracked me up:

The reason so many people are born in October.

There are a few other definitions of valentine's day in addition to the one in the email I received, but this is just the pithy best. Valentine's day, incidentally, is often why Haven is often busy at the end of July and early August.

Husband and I long ago abandoned any real efforts towards Valentine’s Day. I hate most contrived things, and “holidays” are no exception. I’m glad that February 14th contributes to the economy and all that, but it is just not for me. My perfect “romantic” evening is a lot more along the lines of what Husband and I did last night. We sat around the dining room eating random things for dinner because the timer on my crock pot did not go off and thus the diabetic lamb korma I planned to serve was not ready. Then we watched the last three episodes of “Heroes” (damn, that is one fine show) in our PJs (or in my case, my PJs, two pairs of socks, a sweater, and a robe because I was freezing). Then Husband warmed me up, so to speak. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if we went to the gym, but neither of us slept well the prior night and we were too tired to battle the cold and head over to the gym.

Tonight, if I am really lucky, we will go to the gym together, eat the re-heated lamb korma, and watch last week’s episode of “Survivor.” Good times.

Ancient Snatch

To fact-check my story on the new evolution exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History, I headed over to see it myself. Since I was comped a ticket as a member of the press (that makes me giddy to think about), I had to enter at a different entrance than the main one to pick up my ticket at the will-call desk. This entrance was located right next to where the school buses pull in and drop off their loads of fresh minds that are eager to learn.

Initially, I didn’t think anything of the hordes of school groups, but after I picked up my ticket and discovered that I needed to walk down a hallway where the various kids line up, I worried for a few seconds. See, I discovered that I blended in almost too well with the junior high kids. Not because I necessarily look as youthful as an eighth grader, but because I was shorter than most of them. By a lot. And wearing jeans and a North Face coat that made me blend in if you saw me from behind. At least I didn’t have a ginormous backpack with me. I feared getting yelled at by museum personnel for wandering away from my school. Fortunately, my hideously unstylish hat that no kid would be caught dead wearing in public seemed to expose me for the “journalist” I am, so I was able to move about without arousing suspicion.

Speaking of arousing, one of the things that amused me most about the evolution exhibit was the reactions of the junior high and high school kids who were in the exhibit at the same time I was. Most of the dioramas featured extremely mature, naked figures covered with body hair. The kids of course found this hilarious. “Ooooh! Look at how hairy that chick is!” one teen boy screamed to his mixed-gender posse. Good natured ribbing ensued. I wondered what they would do if I demonstrated that a “modern” species of woman in that very exhibit also had an enormous quantity of leg hair by pulling up my pants leg a bit, but just chuckled to myself.

Shockingly, none of the kids made any cracks about the hairy boobs, tiny penises, or extremely hairy snatches on the human ancestor. I was impressed.

Something Nice to Say, For Once

My usual mantra is that no good deed goes unpunished. Thus when I agreed to host a young couple for Haven when I got a desperate call yesterday at 4:34 pm, I figured that I was in for a long night. I almost didn’t do it because I was tired, pissed off at asshole rich developers who are ruining New York City with their insane housing projects for the wealthy, and looking forward to spending a nice evening with Husband at the gym and watching TV, among other "bonding activities," if you get my drift. (He is heading to Boston for the day today, and I always like to see him off properly because I get nervous and paranoid. Not about him gallivanting about with another lady, but something worse that I am suddenly too superstitious to mention but you know what I mean.) Anyway, I felt bad about the young couple not having anywhere to go and I didn’t want to set a precedent for paying for a hotel because the stupid clinic would totally abuse it, so I grudgingly agreed to take them home with me.

When I finally met up with them two hours later, they melted my salty heart. They were just very sweet and obviously cared a lot about each other. Plus, the clinic dicked them over and didn’t really tell them where they’d be going or who with, and they seemed so vulnerable. I got all motherly and was happy to do what I could to make them as comfortable as possible given the situation.

As a result of all this, Husband went to the gym first, and then I went when he got home and was all showered. Not because I didn’t trust my guests to be in my apartment alone, but I wanted one of us to be there in case god forbid something went wrong. I got to the gym rather late, but I found a nice crisp $20 on the ground, rewarding me for my kindly abrupt change in plans. I snatched it up quickly and stuffed it in my pocket before someone claimed it, then later used some of the proceeds to buy the kids a MetroCard for our trip back to the clinic in the morning. It felt good, and made me extra glad that I did the right thing.

An Open Letter

Dear Dickhead Developer I Spoke to Earlier Today:

Guess what? You may be rich and developing what you describe as "the best designed and most upscale building in New York City," but I think that you are a total fucking asshole. When I call to ask you to describe three things that you think make your building especially wonderful for [obscenely wealthy] families, I do not appreciate your little test. I know you thought you were so clever by asking me what I thought of it and thus revealing that I had not carefully read your obnoxious brochure describing the onsite screening room, etc. If I had not wanted to be fired from my little internship I would have told you the following:

1. I think your building is a morally corrupt hole in the fabric of society.
2. I think that the children who will live there will be some of the most spoiled, wretched excuses for humans who will probably grow up to be date rapists and other wastes of oxygen because they do not understand the meaning of the word "no."
3. Despite your smug assurances that the design is world-class, I find the environments shown on the website to be suffocatingly sterile and incredibly boring.
4. If I could set it on fire without getting caught, I would do so, preferably with no one in it dying (and certainly not any of the building staff), but it probably would not bring a fucking tear to my eye if there were casualities.

Finally, I think the neighborhood you chose to "develop" was far more interesting at the turn of century, when it was full of German and Czech immigrants and actually had culture, as opposed to the soul-sucking, mindless "luxurious" chain stores with which you developers are intent are replacing anything that is vaguely unique.

May you and your kind choke on your own excesses some day in the near future.

Best wishes,
Suzanne

Failure to Fail

Two weeks ago or so, I set a new goal for myself: to get a new rejection every day. The idea behind this was a) at least I’d be sending lots of work out; and b) at least I’d be getting a response, as opposed to hearing nothing from people who would possibly pay me to print my work. Since I set that goal, I have failed to actively fail, although I did get one rejection from a publisher on my weird New York City book proposal. That semi-cheered me up except that it really didn’t.

In even less encouraging news, I caught yesterday’s “Modern Love” column in the New York Times. This was the place I intended to send my I-was-the-worst-sex-columnist-in-the-history-of-sex-columnists story. Yesterday’s article, written by the editor himself, noted that he’s received a huge number of submissions about sex columnists who aren’t having sex and thus struggle to find something to write about. While that is not exactly my story, it’s pretty damn depressingly close. The only encouragement I took from this situation is that the editor did not mention that the essays would be funnier if they concluded with the authors becoming nuns.

Oh well. There’s always today and tomorrow and the day after that. In the meantime, anyone want to buy a $2.5 million “family residence” condo where the staff uniform is Burberry? (Yes, that is what I am writing about at my internship right now. Deep breath. It’s good experience…)

Love and Hate

I love chocolate and cheese. My digestive tract hates chocolate and cheese. It is not shy about it. (If I was supposed to call you today and I did not, it is because there was interference from my guts. They had other plans for me. Sorry about that.)

I love Lover's Wine (Cranberry & Plum wine) from the Old Wine Cellar Winery in Amana, IA. Because everyone knows that the vineyards of Iowa are amongst the best in the world. (OK, love is a strong word for me and any wine, but that stuff is almost like candy, so it's not bad.) I hate Stone's Green Ginger Wine. This is a wine that Husband brought back from London that is made out of raisins and ginger. Yes, you read that correctly - raisins.

I love Fridays and Saturdays. I hate Mondays. I hate Sundays because they are the day before Monday and I waste a portion of the day hating Monday.

I love good parents. I hate bad parents, like the one my sister told me about when I spoke with her on the phone today. It seems that this one mom insists on dressing her three year old son in boxer shorts. While this is obnoxious in and of itself, the real problem is that the kid is not fully potty trained and shits himself. The turdies fall out of his loose boxers, down his leg, and on the floor. The kid's mom told Sister that they were at Wal-Mart and the kid shit himself and then suddenly there were turds on the floor. She said she laughed for hard she almost peed in her pants.

Pet Peeve #6,274

I hate when I write something and only after I have turned the document in do I think of a particularly witty line. (This is also very annoying when I'm arguing with someone and hours later a blistering zinger pops into my head. Actually, I think that's even worse.) This happened yesterday when I wrote a little article for Bugaboo Magazine about a new permanent exhibit on evolution that is at the American Museum of Natural History. Some additions to the collection are 3-D models of fossils that show what humans might have looked like way back when. What I should have written, but didn't think of until it was too late, was, "Like Joan Rivers, Lucy, a three million year old skeleton, got a new face."

Sure, the odds are high that it would have been edited out, but damn it cracks me up.

Good Bye, and Have a Nice Life!

Dr. P and another friend (Sophie) separately reported to me today that a mutual acquaintance (we’ll call her Super Annoying but Well-Meaning Person, aka SAWMP, which is sort of like swamp, which is how I felt when I spent time with her – like my limited time was slowly and torturously sinking in a pit of quicksand, so I’ll call her Swampie) called them and told them that she was getting married. Swampie invited Dr. P to her wedding, but warned her that she would probably not know anyone else there. Swampie told Sophie that the wedding was very small, and she hoped that Sophie would not be offended if she was only invited to an engagement party (which is a whole other rant). Dr. P and Sophie were intrigued that I was not invited to either.

Dr. P and I met Swampie at one of Sophie’s parties. Sophie knew that Swampie was annoying and clingy, but did not warn me, and since Swampie was one of the only other non-uber-religious Jews at the party, she fooled me into thinking she was an interesting person. The problem was that she is not. This is not to say that Swampie is not kind and thoughtful; she very much is. (Whereas I am not.) But I subsequently discovered that she bored the fuck out of me and I did not want to hang out with her.

Telling her straight out that I thought she was very nice, but extremely lame, would have been horrible, so I tried to do the silent dump. (For those of you not familiar with this battle tactic, it involves never, ever, under any circumstances, returning the future dumpee’s calls or emailing them back. If you stupidly answer the phone when the dumpee rings your home because you do not have call waiting, the key is to immediately say you are busy and offer to call back. Then don’t. Eventually, the dumpee should figure out that you are an asshole who does not want to be friends and are weirdly trying not to hurt her feelings by saying this to her face. Then she will hate you and dump you, and you will be rid of her.) The silent dump went on for at least three years. Every time I thought I was free and answered my cell phone without worry when a strange number appeared, it would be her and the whole cycle would start all over again.

I felt incredibly guilty, and tried to overcome my dislike of her and once in awhile agreed to hang out with Swampie and Dr. P. (Dr. P has an amazing ability to tune people out and ignore the waves of annoyingness a person projects, which is probably the only reason she is still a friend of mine and definitely why she found Swampie tolerable and continued their friendship.) After restraining myself from strangling Swampie during those outings, I swore to end things. Personally, I thought it would be better to tell her that things were not working out between us, but Dr. P and Sophie assured me that it was kinder to be a bitch and ignore her. I don’t know.

The point is that it finally worked: she has not called me in eons, and is clearly not inviting me to either of her soirées. The irony is that the only reason she met her fiancé is because of me. I was sick of hearing her whine about needing to meet a nice Jewish guy, so I encouraged her to join jdate. (I also reasoned that if she did find a male companion, she’d be too busy to call me, and I’d be rid of her.) She followed my advice, and eventually met a guy she fell in love with, which was good. Although she didn’t initially stop calling me, which was bad. In fact it was worse, because I really loathed her boyfriend and on the rare occasions I agreed to meet up with them, my pain was ten fold. (I found him sleazy and creepy, which Dr. P and Sophie also told me I could not say to her, even with the best of intentions.) Even though I behaved despicably throughout this whole “friendship,” I seem to have done a mitzvah. I admit that after I heard the news about their pending nuptials from Sophie this morning, for a split second I was actually annoyed that I was not included, given my role in bringing the happy couple together. Then I realized I was being completely insane and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

So mazel tov to Swampie and the Sleaze Bag, and a big thank you for not inviting me to partake in the festivities. I wish them a happy and healthy marriage and all the best! (Especially if it does not involve me.)

An Overview

Ignore the less-than-flattering photo of me modeling one of my very favorite childhood toys, my koala puppet Fuzzy Wuzzy, who has clearly seen better days and looks like I stuck my arm up the ass of some road kill with scary orange eyes. The real point of this picture is the excellent view of my parents' house. And my parents' asked me to not post any pictures of their house again after this. (However, if you come to the BlogHer Conference in Chicago this summer, perhaps I can arrange for a personal tour. I have connections.)

Anyway, I am sitting on the new recliner. Sister is sitting next to me on the old recliner with the holes in the cushion that are covered by a hideous croched blanket my Bubbe made. (She always picks questionable color combinations for her knitting.) The old recliner was supposed to be thrown away when the new one was obtained, but was not for some reason that had to do with my Bubbe insisting that we keep it although she does not live there. Whatever. At least there is plenty of seating for everyone, and a good range of choices between the rust-colored sofa, the blue recliner, and the brown leather recliner with blue, purple and white blanket.

Behind the chairs is the coat closet with only one bright blue folding door remaining. Next to that is the stairs. Notice the smoke detector with the lid hanging open. At the top of the stairs, barely visible, is a gazillion gallon humidifier that broke at least 10 years ago. Laundry is sometimes plopped on it, although for now there is a broken black & white TV hidden in the darkness.

One modern amenity visible in the kitchen is my parents' spiffy new oven. Hurray! (See parents? I ended this on a very nice note.)

Forget Washing Hands, I Need My Mind Washed Out with Soap

I saw some former beloved co-workers in the evening, and naturally the subject of Anna Nicole's untimely demise was a topic of conversation. I speculated that she passed out and was smothered by her ginormous silicone breasts when she couldn't life her head out of her oppressive cleavage. Then my friend who I regard as the older brother I never had piped up. "Isn't her dead son the father of her new baby?" he asked earnestly.

Sure this is how horrible, awful rumors get started, but wouldn't that be totally disturbing if it randomly turns out to be the case?

And Your Point Is?

As I was washing my hands after using the facilities at Bugaboo Magazine, I remembered something disturbing the infectious disease doctor said to me this morning. He was telling me about some sort of food-borne illness and said that people who are exposed to it should wash their hands after using the bathroom. To which I replied, "Shouldn't they be doing that anyway?" And I swear he stared at me like I was an idiot.

Help is on the Way

I'm taking a few moments from my busy day at Bugaboo Times to address the issues that non-Blogger users are experiencing when trying to leave comments here at CUSS. Not that I want to compare my blog migration experience to the Cherokee Trail of Tears (because that is extremely offensive), but I'm going to do it anyway. Unlike the Cherokees, I was not always happy with my old Blogger property anyway and had hoped that my forced move to new Blogger would resolve many of my problems. Fortunately,this seems to have happened without anyone dying or other severe consquences. On the other hand, people are having trouble leaving comments, and really, I kind of live for comments. (It's like when a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?)

So to assist the commenting process, here's what I suggest:
1. Never, ever use the tab key to move between fields. It always fucks shit up. I know it is annoying. Sorry.

2. After typing the comment, click on the "other" button. Type your name and blog URL. Then when people click on it, they will get to your site.

3. Type in the word verfication. Do not hit tab. Use the mouse to publish the comment.

4. Curse at Blogger as often as needed. (They are the asshole idiots in my label.)

Incidentally, I had three vaccinations late this morning (polio booster in my right arm, TB booster and Hep B in my left) and my arms hurt like the fires of hell are raging within my muscles. This as much as my time at Bugaboo Magazine is why I am so late in posting.

I Made It

Smooth sailing all the way back. The nice thing about buying gas in Connecticut is that you can just stick the nozzle in the tank and it will fill automatically. You can do that in Illinois, too, but not New York or Massachusetts, so I was quite shocked the first time I tried to fill a gas tank in either of those states. Anyway, I irresponsibily ran inside and emptied my tank while Fred's was being filled. The sad part is that I could have saved a lot of money if cars could run on natural gas. I ate a lot of food that triggers my natural gas production cycle over the last few days and could have powered my ride back to NYC if someone had figured out a way to harness this type of sort of environmentally friendlier, albeit toxic in its own way, fuel alternative.

I had a wonderful time visiting Alex, but it's also nice to be home. Tycho seems pleased to see me. I'm excited for my new assignments at Bugaboo Magazine tomorrow. Yay.

Another Benefit of Public Transportation

I am driving home tonight from Alex's. It is absurdly cold and windy. While I am snug inside Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, with the heater on and the 80s music blasting, this is not such a problem. When I am standing outside at a gas station putting fuel into Fred the Red at 9:00 at night, I am not going to be pleased at all. Sometimes Greyhound really is a better way to go.

Tomorrow I am going to the travel medicine clinic to prepare for my trip to India at the end of March. Since I had Hep A in 2005, I don't need to worry about that vaccine. That leaves me to consider malaria, Japanese encephalitis, Hep B, rabies, and typoid, according to the CDC's information on recommended travel medicine for Southeast Asia. I assume that I will not get shots for all of these, especially all at once. (Plus, malaria protection comes in pill form, not injection.) If I am all shot up, I suspect that my second full day at my internship at Bugaboo Magazine* will be zanier than anticipated.

*Of course, the publication is not actually called Bugaboo Magazine, but it is targeted to that obnoxious monied crowd that is ruining my neighborhood with their asshole luxury condo developments and their ginormous SUV strollers that push non-important people like me off the sidewalk, so it cracks me up to call it that. Even though I am making fun of it, I am pretty excited to have an internship and be assigned stories. Stay tuned for links.

Successful Rambles

My fear of driving in Manhattan was temporarily overcome this morning at approximately 10:08 am when I successfully merged Fred the Red, our fine PT Cruiser, onto the Westside Highway. Two hours and 45 minutes and lots of '80s hits (bless satellite radio!) later (including a pit stop in both senses off the term - to fuel the car and let the fluid out o' my bladder), I pulled into Alex's driveway for a lovely visit. Now we are doing what all old friends do when visiting - sitting across the kitchen table from each other, blogging.

Now let's hope tomorrow's drive home will be just as pleasant. Something not nearly as painless as today's 200 mile trek is SuperSnark's hilarious and cringe-inducing story about her first Brazilian wax. Oh it makes me cry. Thank goodness Husband likes my slovenly, natural self, or I can guarantee we would get divorced. (And I would grant him custody of Fred with no problem, as he needs it to get to work when he is not business gallivanting about Europe. He'd be equally happy to concede Tycho the Giant Rabbit to me, as he is only waiting for him to die so he can redo the living room, anyway. Recently I insisted that Tycho and I smoke doobies and chat while Husband is on his business trips, which cracks us up because it is so silly to picture nerdy, good girl me imbibing in an illegal substance.) Anyway, I love Husband, and we are not gettting divorced, and I am very happy that he clearly like me and my wacky antics as is.

And no, Alex and I are not doing drugs right now either.

Cold Style

It’s fashion week in New York City, and you know what that means, dahlinks: the fab and flab-free are more concentrated than ever, converging on the tent shows in Bryant Park. Wipe that bead of sweat from your Botoxed brow (what’s it doing there anyway?), and don’t fret for even a minute that the freezing cold temperatures have any influence on their stylish dress! Yesterday, I passed by the tents on a public bus (I know, the shame!) just as one of the shows let out. Of course, I most cruelly chucked my dowdy little head off as I watched many stocking-clad knees on toothpick legs knock together between the tops of their stiletto leather knee-high boots and the micro minis that barely covered their presumably hairless cooties.

Sure, I looked like a loser in my turtleneck acrylic sweater, wool sweater (yes, I wore two sweaters), and jeans, under which I wore knit tights, wool socks, and boots. Even better? I had a nice downy layer of leg hair to trap in incremental amounts of body heat. Every bit counts in this type of weather.

Who looks like the idiot now, style mavens? I was warm. Or at least as warm as I could be in the frigid wind. Yes, it felt good to be bundled up and dorky. And that is how I shall be today as I tool up north to see Alex and her family for a short visit. Husband is off to Europe, thus does not need Fred the Red (our PT Cruiser) to drive to work, so I thought it would be a great time to get my patootie up there. I’m excited.

Reaping What You Sow

This is the most hilarious press release I have ever read:
Troy Newman is Not the Director of Operation Rescue

It seems that some lunatic hijacked Operation Rescue West, dropped the "West," moved to Wichita, KS so he could harass clinics and also amass a private real estate empire fraudulently, and now is pissing off his fellow soul-savers by pretending to be them. Damn, that makes me laugh. There is nothing funnier than really angry self-righteous megalomaniacs fuming about other self-righteous megalomaniacs.

Put Some Pants On and Run Away!

Yesterday at the gym, I wanted to take a nice long run to counter the effects of the non-stop eating fest I engaged in. Slightly less than half way into the run, I was done in by side cramps and nasty acid reflux, so I switched to an elliptical machine. That’s when I saw something that really made me sick.

One of the TVs in the gym had on MTV, which was playing some show called Engaged & Underage. I missed the beginning of the program, but from what I could gather from the title and on-air shenanigans, it did seem to be about young men and women who insisted on getting married although they were practically children.

Fine, although depressing. What really got me was when a bride-to-be went over to her future mother-in-law’s in-house waxing business for some sort of bikini or Brazilian wax. (I tuned in when she arrived, and the closed captioning never made it specific which type of torture she was in for.) Her future sister-in-law was there to help as well. The girl lay down on the table, she put on some bikini bottoms (must have just been her bikini line?), and then covered her lower half with a towel. She cried and yelped in pain while her in-laws laughed and joked the whole time and called her a “good girl.” God, I wanted to puke. Incidentally, they also forgot to close the blinds, and her cootie was facing the window. The whole thing was creepy.

90 Consolations (and 40 to Come)

So the Bear lost the Super Bowl. Sad, but not surprising given what an awful quarterback Rex Grossman is. I hope he is pelted with sausages upon his return to Chicago.

The good news is that Husband won the football pool. He put in $30, we walked out with $120, and someone owes us $40 more. This is especially perfect as I had $11 in my wallet and it is too damn cold to go to the bank.

And although the Colts may have won the Super Bowl, at the end of the day they still must return to Indianapolis whereas the Bears get to go back to a real city. Ha!

Go Us, Go Bears

Yesterday morning I went over to Sara’s, she put some foundation on me so that I did not look like a flesh easting zombie on camera, as well as some eye shadow, blush, lipstick and eyebrow smoother-downer, and it was very nice, but subtle. We then headed over to the Waldorf Astoria to meet Bruce Isacson, who has a bit part in the movie Outbreak, which I never saw, but he looked really familiar. It turns out that he does lots of commercials and only took the part in Outbreak because “Rene’s a good friend.” (Yes, that would be Rene Russo.)

Anyway, we interviewed for over an hour, and thanks to Sara’s skill with cosmetics, we both looked very cute on camera. We spoke eloquently and passionately about how abortion is legal but not accessible for low income women, and how wrong that is. I only rolled my eyes once, and was bitchy once. I was quite proud of myself.

I came home and went to the gym. When I began sweating and wiped me face, I noticed there was makeup all over the towel, which pissed me off because I hate when the towels at the gym are dirty. Then I realized that I was the disgusting slob responsible for the foundation smears on the white towel, as I forgot I had makeup on and did not wash my face before getting on the treadmill. Oooops.

At any rate, it was all washed off by the time I had a lovely evening with Dr. P and Future Sister-in-Law. First we went to a bar and met up with staff from The Panelist, who had gone to see a documentary about Ralph Nader, which I didn’t join them for because I went to have a late lunch with a friend in Harlem after I went to the gym. (It was delicious. If you are in NYC, you must eat at Amy Ruth’s, which is awesomely good soul food.) At the bar, I drank an amaretto sour, which I am not supposed to do because of my low carb diet, but I also should not have eaten a five grain waffle, candied yams, cheesy grits, macaroni and cheese, and fired okra at lunch, either, so what the fuck?

I am hot almost as often as I drink, which is to say almost never. Part of the reason I don’t drink is that I don’t like the taste of most alcohol. Part of the reason is that the only drinks I do like even the slightest bit are sweet and loaded with calories, and quite frankly, I’d rather eat pastries if I am going to consume so many calories. The other part of the reason is that alcohol sometimes gives me an indescribably weird sensation I call “hot butt,” in which my innards get really hot and feel funky. Last night, not only did I get hot butt, but I began sweating profusely. Within half an hour, I swear I sweat through my underwear. I was dying. Still, I managed to be friendly and socialize with people I didn’t know, so I am quite proud of myself for that. (I am really shy and quiet in these situations.)

At the point where I thought I might drown myself in sweat, Future Sister-in-Law and Dr. P wanted to leave and get dinner anyway, so we took off. When we got outside, I returned to my normal state of freezing within minutes. (My sopping undies were most uncomfortable and did not help keep me warm in the frigid air as we walked two blocks to a restaurant.) We ate at the Cornelia Street Café, a French bistro in its 30th year. I ate many more things I should not have, including half of a chocolate bread pudding, which was so good that I think it was actually manna from heaven.

I am shocked that I did not gett horrendous gas last night and thus far have not exploded in one my shit geysers. Just to push my luck, later tonight, Husband, Dr. P, FSIL, Brother-in-Law, and I shall join a crowd of other jolly football fans and watch the Super Bowl at Sara’s on her flat screen HD TV. More food that I should not eat will be consumed in large quantities, but damn – GO BEARS!!!! The last time I watched the Bears in the Super Bowl I was the dork in the picture in the post below. I went to my friend Tracey’s house and we played Barbies while the game was on. (Did games started much earlier in the day back then, or is it just my faulty memory?) After the half-time, we didn’t bother watching the game much but concentrated on own game, making the one Ken doll rush all the Barbies until he reached the end zone with one of them. Ha!

December 1986 (Oh What a Party!)

Some time ago, Minnie posted a picture from back when she was an adolescent (it was classic!) and challenged others to do the same. It took me forever to get my ass in gear and remember while I was visiting my folks to look for a picture off me from The Really Awkward Years. Then when I did find one and brought it back to NYC with me, I discovered that our scanner didn’t work. So Husband ordered a new one in December (Canon CanoScan LiDE 25) which was cheap and basic and all I needed. It got here and sat in a box for a month before we got around to doing anything with it, but it is cool because it connects to the computer from a USB port and gets power from it, so there’s no separate power supply.

After all that, here I am in December 1986 at my roller skating birthday party, when we took a break for cake, ice cream, and juice:Husband had a long laugh when he saw this, but what is interesting is that I think this dork is still very much alive in me today. The only difference is that now I am cool with her and embrace her dorkiness. That panda shirt rocks the house, does it not?

Harry Potter and the Magic of Cosmetics

Sara and I are being interviewed for a documentary on abortion tomorrow morning. It is being directed by someone who had a small role in the movie Outbreak, but I forgot who. Regardless, we are very excited.

As Sara arranged for the interview, she reminded me that we would be on film. I knew what that meant: I’d have to wear makeup. “You’ll need to wear makeup,” she said. Since I don’t want to give the forced childbirth movement any more fodder against us reproductive rights advocates by appearing to be a flesh eating zombie in a documentary, I readily agreed. My biggest problem is that I do not know how to put makeup on, so Sara is having me over early to help me. She is even letting me use her powder, as I own none and imagine that powder is the single most important product a person needs before being filmed for anything.

The point is, I thankfully will not look like Harry Potter, Anne Frank, nor a flesh eating zombie in my film debut thanks to the magic of makeup. Hopefully, I will have some good stories to share after our segment on life as baby-killing minions is complete.

I've Never Been Called a Heartthrob Before!

On Tuesday, a woman I quoted in a post from back in December left me a comment in which she said, “I could have said something about your resemblance to Harry Potter. OH, SNAP.”

This is why I love people who mistakenly think they are clever. Since I have neither round glasses nor a lightning bolt-shaped scar on my forehead, I must look like Daniel Radcliffe, who plays Harry Potter in the blockbuster films. Radcliffe is a seriously adorable guy with legions of tween girls whose hearts are aflutter for him. I have never been compared to a teen idol before, so I am pretty flattered. Usually people tell me I look like Anne Frank, which while I understand they mean it as a complement, is really fucking depressing.

If Only Things Were Different

You know, when you get to be my age (I turned 66 on Tuesday), you start to look back at your life and wonder how things might have been different if you had made other choices. In my case, I have to tell you that my life has turned out rather well. I have been married to my high school sweetheart since 1964, and I have not only risen to high political office, I have also made a boatload of money along the way.

As I said, I have led a successful life… but there ARE a few things that I would change if I could: First, I would have done better in my studies at Yale… I was flunking out and almost lost one of my five draft deferments. That was scary, especially with a war heating up!

As much of a war supporter as I have been throughout my political career, as well as in my private career… it's just that… well… I just had other priorities in the 60's, so I didn't bother to serve… yeah, getting married before I even finished college was well-timed… they weren't drafting married guys then, so it was cool.

So, there I was, in college, married, and safe from the draft… at least, until the laws changed and married men were eligible again. Shit! What now? Well, we decided to start a family, right there and then. They were taking married guys… but not married guys with kids! Well, that worked out well enough, and kept me out of uniform until 1967, when I turned 26 and was no longer eligible for the draft. Whew!

As I said… perhaps I should have done some things differently, I mean, now, military service is popular… especially with all of those useless great working class people. Maybe if I had served, people would quit calling me a "Chickenhawk" Maybe if I had served, people would be less likely to think that I am eager to send their sons and daughters to risk the safety of their asses while I never did anything even remotely risky (except for getting arrested for drunk driving… twice, years ago) . Too late for that now, though, especially since the Iraq insurgency is in its last throes.

Well, I guess I can't dwell on things for too long. What's done is done, they always say.

Geez, I am getting old. I am starting to get maudlin over the fact that my days of power are on the wane. In not too long, I'll have to leave this great house on Massachusetts Avenue, and return to the private sector.

Maybe it's time to do just that. Maybe then, nobody will get all bent out of shape just because I like to drink while hunting. You'd think I shot somebody in the face or something… oh.

Gunfighter lives in Washington, D.C.'s northern Virginia suburbs with his wife and 8 year old daughter. He is a veteran of 8 years of enlisted service in the Marines, and makes a living teaching Feds how to fight with guns. He is active in his church and community, and loves dogs, especially Greyhounds. He blogs (ad nauseum) about the things he sees, and what he thinks about them at The View From Here

You can find more info about the Blog Exchange and how to participate, as well as the January participants and entries, by clicking here. Suzanne is at Gunfighter's place today, so please visit by clicking here!