Out of the blue on Monday, I received an email from a publisher that I had sent a proposal to back at the end of January. I've been working (on and off, mostly off) on a book about fun and wacky things to see and do in New York City. The guy who emailed me (let's call him Publisher for now) said he'd be in NYC for BookExpo and hoped to have lunch with me to talk more about my idea. One of the things he specifically mentioned was where other than bookstores I thought might sell my book, which is of course why I asked everyone for ideas, albeit in a cryptic and vague way.
I just got back from our lunch, which was delightful. My main point was that I want to write this book because I really love all the places that I included, and I want other people to know about them and share my enthusiasm. In that vein, I will do anything I can to promote it and get it into people's hands. He seemed pleased by my eager beaverness. Publisher also said he thought a book like this could have a very long, steady life, especially if I am willing to do updates, which I totally am. We're both from the Midwest originally. Not that that really has anything to do with anything except my willingness to use the phrase "eager beaver" in an un-ironic way.
Nothing is a done deal quite yet, but he's going to get in touch with my agent. (My friend who helped me draft the proposal, and most recently opened my eyes about my lack of polish when it comes to writing memoirs.) So we'll see what comes of it, but I am pretty gosh darn psyched.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip
All the dripping in my life this morning is from two things: something potentially very exciting that is percolating at a frenzy which I will know more about after lunch, and the mucus pouring down my throat from a wretched cold.
On another note, I suggest not following the advice of blind people when crossing the street. Last night, Super Des and I came to a busy intersection at 23rd Street as we walked from Ben & Jerry's (which my mucus issue prevented me from partaking - bah!) to writing group. The intersection was particularly challenging because both 5th Avenue and Broadway cross each other and 23rd Stt., so there are many lanes with little islands and walk/don't walk signs. Plus an institute for the blind is down the street, so the lights make that tweeting bird noise.
Anyway, we were scurrying across the street, and there were tons of people going both east and west, impeding our progress. A blind guy was crossing right behind us. As we approached the second little island in the street, a woman in front of us turned to the blind man.
"You can make it to this island, but the light is going to change, so you'll have to wait," she said.
"No, I can make it across," he replied.
Once he said that, I stopped looking at lights and traffic. Of course we could make it across. A blind man said so! I confidently followed him off the island directly into the path of an oncoming bus.
Fortunately, none of us died, leaving me to hack up mucus blobs all night and live to see my exciting meeting this afternoon. More later, whene I have good or not good news.
On another note, I suggest not following the advice of blind people when crossing the street. Last night, Super Des and I came to a busy intersection at 23rd Street as we walked from Ben & Jerry's (which my mucus issue prevented me from partaking - bah!) to writing group. The intersection was particularly challenging because both 5th Avenue and Broadway cross each other and 23rd Stt., so there are many lanes with little islands and walk/don't walk signs. Plus an institute for the blind is down the street, so the lights make that tweeting bird noise.
Anyway, we were scurrying across the street, and there were tons of people going both east and west, impeding our progress. A blind guy was crossing right behind us. As we approached the second little island in the street, a woman in front of us turned to the blind man.
"You can make it to this island, but the light is going to change, so you'll have to wait," she said.
"No, I can make it across," he replied.
Once he said that, I stopped looking at lights and traffic. Of course we could make it across. A blind man said so! I confidently followed him off the island directly into the path of an oncoming bus.
Fortunately, none of us died, leaving me to hack up mucus blobs all night and live to see my exciting meeting this afternoon. More later, whene I have good or not good news.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions
Yesterday while I was busy fucking up a big spreadsheet for the umpteenth time, my cell phone rang. I hate when people call my cell phone during the day because I have a shitty plan and not enough day time minutes, so I try and hoard them just in case. (In case of what, I am not sure, as I am certain that I will not care what rate I am charged if I make a call for help from the trunk of a car if I am kidnapped or whatever other emergency arises.) Also, this was maybe the third call that interrupted my concentration, which is why I accidentally deleted four rows of vital information from the spreadsheet.
"Hello?" I said very irritably. Unless it was someone calling to tell me I won a Pulitzer Prize, which I suspected was not the case although I did not recognize the caller's phone number, I didn't want to speak to them.
The caller seemed surprised by my hostility. "Is this Suzanne?" she said.
"No, it's the motherfucking pope," I wanted to say. Instead, I hissed, "Yes."
Well, while it was not the Pulitzer Prize Patrol, it turned out to be an interesting call. It seems that a new management credential is going to (finally) be available to child care center directors. The woman on the other line wanted to know if I would be interested in teaching a module on finance and budgeting. As she asked me this, I misaligned some data on my spreadsheet because it seems that my ragged brain can no longer multitask. I distractedly mumbled something about my qualifications that I am sure made her question why on earth a reputable person referred her to me. She said she'd send me more details.
"Sure," I said. "I'd love to do it."
"Hello?" I said very irritably. Unless it was someone calling to tell me I won a Pulitzer Prize, which I suspected was not the case although I did not recognize the caller's phone number, I didn't want to speak to them.
The caller seemed surprised by my hostility. "Is this Suzanne?" she said.
"No, it's the motherfucking pope," I wanted to say. Instead, I hissed, "Yes."
Well, while it was not the Pulitzer Prize Patrol, it turned out to be an interesting call. It seems that a new management credential is going to (finally) be available to child care center directors. The woman on the other line wanted to know if I would be interested in teaching a module on finance and budgeting. As she asked me this, I misaligned some data on my spreadsheet because it seems that my ragged brain can no longer multitask. I distractedly mumbled something about my qualifications that I am sure made her question why on earth a reputable person referred her to me. She said she'd send me more details.
"Sure," I said. "I'd love to do it."
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Government Adventures: Two Tales from the Front
In preparation for her departure from NYC, where we have lived in harmony and friendship more or less for 13 years, Dr. P went to register her new wheels (parents' used mini van) at the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles in Harlem. I admit that I didn't even know that there was a branch in Harlem. Dr. P invited me to accompany her on this small step towards our roadtrip, but alas, I had to work on an extremely annoying spreadsheet that I fucked up at least three times and had to begin again from scratch.
Here's what I missed: while Dr. P waited her turn, another customer and a DMV employee broke out into a screaming match. It was so intense that the DMV rep actually left her position behind the counter and came out into the general area so that she could yell directly into the other woman's face. It took the assistance of two burly men to separate them.
Unfortunately, the fight was not helpful in completing the customer's transaction, so she returned to the waiting room. She was called to another DMV employee's window about 15 minutes later. At that point, Dr. P said the original employee who had "helped" this customer came out and began bellowing at her again. The burly men again were required to keep the peace. As she was dragged back behind the counter, Dr. P said the woman shouted, "Your momma ain't professional!"
I am so sorry I missed that. I am further sorry because my spreadsheet revealed that the taxpayers of New York City may in fact be paying rent to the tune of $13,000 per child for one sweetheart deal of a child care center. (Hopefully, this is the result of a horrible typo or formulaic error, although I fear for the worst.) I'd much rather spend my mornings watching crazed DMV employees, although I suppose my number crunching may lead to more good in the world as I provide solid evidence to move children's programs into more affordable, and hopefully, more modern buildings. It's a different sort of battle.
Here's what I missed: while Dr. P waited her turn, another customer and a DMV employee broke out into a screaming match. It was so intense that the DMV rep actually left her position behind the counter and came out into the general area so that she could yell directly into the other woman's face. It took the assistance of two burly men to separate them.
Unfortunately, the fight was not helpful in completing the customer's transaction, so she returned to the waiting room. She was called to another DMV employee's window about 15 minutes later. At that point, Dr. P said the original employee who had "helped" this customer came out and began bellowing at her again. The burly men again were required to keep the peace. As she was dragged back behind the counter, Dr. P said the woman shouted, "Your momma ain't professional!"
I am so sorry I missed that. I am further sorry because my spreadsheet revealed that the taxpayers of New York City may in fact be paying rent to the tune of $13,000 per child for one sweetheart deal of a child care center. (Hopefully, this is the result of a horrible typo or formulaic error, although I fear for the worst.) I'd much rather spend my mornings watching crazed DMV employees, although I suppose my number crunching may lead to more good in the world as I provide solid evidence to move children's programs into more affordable, and hopefully, more modern buildings. It's a different sort of battle.
Attack of the Allergies and Benadryl-Inspired Philosophy
Other than embarrassing myself with the Great Dildo Debacle of '07, I spent nearly every waking moment outside this weekend. At one point, I considered that my allergies were sending up warning flares, but I ignored them. The weather was just too tempting.
The other thing that spending a lot of time outdoors leads to is tiredness. Although I was exhausted last night, the nasal drip geyser and itchy soreness at the back of my throat kept me up.
"I know," I thought to myself around 11:30. "I'll take two Benadryl! Not only will that help with my allergies, but it will also make me sleep. I'm a genius!" I gulped the pills down. And we all know that I should never, ever take things to help me sleep.
Several hours (minutes? Seconds?) later, I woozily awoke with a full bladder. Zombie-like, I staggered into the bathroom. The room was spinning. I'm only 97% sure I remembered to wipe before trudging back to bed, holding the wall for support.
At some point later, I thought I was drowning. With much effort, my eyelids were unwillingly pried open. I was lying in a pool of drool. Even my faithful companion, Theo the teddy bear, was covered in slobber. Or at least the left side of his face was. Husband was spared, though, and I decided to keep it that way by moving to the couch.
While relocating, I pondered the existence of God. If there is in fact a god, it is definitely genderless or hermaphroditic. But which one? Employing the principals of ying-yang, I decided that any possible god is a hermaphrodite. What do you think?
The other thing that spending a lot of time outdoors leads to is tiredness. Although I was exhausted last night, the nasal drip geyser and itchy soreness at the back of my throat kept me up.
"I know," I thought to myself around 11:30. "I'll take two Benadryl! Not only will that help with my allergies, but it will also make me sleep. I'm a genius!" I gulped the pills down. And we all know that I should never, ever take things to help me sleep.
Several hours (minutes? Seconds?) later, I woozily awoke with a full bladder. Zombie-like, I staggered into the bathroom. The room was spinning. I'm only 97% sure I remembered to wipe before trudging back to bed, holding the wall for support.
At some point later, I thought I was drowning. With much effort, my eyelids were unwillingly pried open. I was lying in a pool of drool. Even my faithful companion, Theo the teddy bear, was covered in slobber. Or at least the left side of his face was. Husband was spared, though, and I decided to keep it that way by moving to the couch.
While relocating, I pondered the existence of God. If there is in fact a god, it is definitely genderless or hermaphroditic. But which one? Employing the principals of ying-yang, I decided that any possible god is a hermaphrodite. What do you think?
Monday, May 28, 2007
Bubble Bubble, Let the Ideas Flow
Good things are percolating. Hopefully I'll have some good news on Thursday afternoon.
On a related note, if you were wanted to buy a book about unusual things to see and do in your hometown, what types of places can you think of that would stock such a fine item other than bookstores? Just curious...
On a related note, if you were wanted to buy a book about unusual things to see and do in your hometown, what types of places can you think of that would stock such a fine item other than bookstores? Just curious...
Sunday, May 27, 2007
The Great Memorial Day Weekend Dildo Debacle of '07
My dearest friend Dr. P is leaving NYC for the fine state of Florida in less than a week. Tonight a select group of ladies (plus Husband and Brother-in-Law) gathered at my apartment to have cake in her honor. As we were slurping down the ice cream cake Dr. H brought, I asked her to tell us her favorite surgery story from the past five years.
"Well, there was the time a guy came to the ER after he perforated his colon with a dildo," she began.
We laughed and leaned in closer to hear more.
"His wife brought him in, and she wasn't sure which dildo he had used - the 8 inch one or the 12 incher..." As she related the sad story, I decided that a visual aid would be good. I ran into my room and grabbed the dildo that I won in a fundraising raffle last March (which is also when the picture was taken).
Sadly, only one of the google eyes that Husbadn had taped on it remained. (Tape and silicon don't work well together.)
Dashing back into the dining room, I whipped it out and reminded everyone that this was only an 8 inch dildo.
"Let me see that!" Dr. P said. I handed it over. Dr. H and Dr. P inspected it closley. "Ewwwwww! There's hair on it!"
"What?!?! Let me see that!" I snatched it back. This thing is too scary to use. More importantly, I was mortified to think that they would believe that I was slovenly enough to use a dildo and not only not clean it up, but then share it with a dining room full of people. I got very defensive. "Of course there's hair on it! There is also a thick layer of lint and dust clinging to its thickly veined shaft and a google eye stuck to its head!" I was desperate for people to believe that I am not completely disgusting. They just laughed and laughed, making me more flustered.
Eventually, I sheepishly put my object d'art back in my room, Dr. P finished telling her surgical dildo retrieval stories, and Dr. H threw in one of her own from when she was a med student. (Some guy stuck a travel toothbrush case up his ass while consorting with a prostitute and it got stuck.)
Ultimately, that's what brings me to Memorial Day. Words of wisdom to our soldiers as they travel the world and use the services of prostitutes or even local woman: be careful. Doctors will make fun of you after they pull foreign objects out of your ass. Also, if you want to use a dildo to illustrate a point, wipe it down first. Silicone is sticky shit unless you are trying to affix google eyes with tape, and you don't want to be embarrassed, regardless of whether it has been used or just sits around your cabin collecting dust.
I'm just saying.
"Well, there was the time a guy came to the ER after he perforated his colon with a dildo," she began.
We laughed and leaned in closer to hear more.
"His wife brought him in, and she wasn't sure which dildo he had used - the 8 inch one or the 12 incher..." As she related the sad story, I decided that a visual aid would be good. I ran into my room and grabbed the dildo that I won in a fundraising raffle last March (which is also when the picture was taken).
Sadly, only one of the google eyes that Husbadn had taped on it remained. (Tape and silicon don't work well together.)Dashing back into the dining room, I whipped it out and reminded everyone that this was only an 8 inch dildo.
"Let me see that!" Dr. P said. I handed it over. Dr. H and Dr. P inspected it closley. "Ewwwwww! There's hair on it!"
"What?!?! Let me see that!" I snatched it back. This thing is too scary to use. More importantly, I was mortified to think that they would believe that I was slovenly enough to use a dildo and not only not clean it up, but then share it with a dining room full of people. I got very defensive. "Of course there's hair on it! There is also a thick layer of lint and dust clinging to its thickly veined shaft and a google eye stuck to its head!" I was desperate for people to believe that I am not completely disgusting. They just laughed and laughed, making me more flustered.
Eventually, I sheepishly put my object d'art back in my room, Dr. P finished telling her surgical dildo retrieval stories, and Dr. H threw in one of her own from when she was a med student. (Some guy stuck a travel toothbrush case up his ass while consorting with a prostitute and it got stuck.)
Ultimately, that's what brings me to Memorial Day. Words of wisdom to our soldiers as they travel the world and use the services of prostitutes or even local woman: be careful. Doctors will make fun of you after they pull foreign objects out of your ass. Also, if you want to use a dildo to illustrate a point, wipe it down first. Silicone is sticky shit unless you are trying to affix google eyes with tape, and you don't want to be embarrassed, regardless of whether it has been used or just sits around your cabin collecting dust.
I'm just saying.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
I Ain't Shittin' Ya - Why I Love Husband
Loving Husband is easy. Although he did not find anything about the picture of the disgusting toilet in India amusing, he indulges (and even encourages) my love for doody jokes. I came home a few weeks ago and found a random bag from Borders on the little bench we have next to our front door. Inside was What's Your Poo Telling You? by Josh Rochman and Anish Sheth, MD.
This slim brown volume is right up my alley, so to speak. There's a description of dung, then analysis from Dr. Stool. Not only is it informative, but heeelarious. Par ejemple, "Rotten Poo" (something of which I am a frequent victim):
"What's so funny?" Husband asked.
"I'm writing about the doody book you gave me," I giggled.
"Ah, you and your book reports!" He puffed his chest with pride.
Yep, I love Husband a lot.
This slim brown volume is right up my alley, so to speak. There's a description of dung, then analysis from Dr. Stool. Not only is it informative, but heeelarious. Par ejemple, "Rotten Poo" (something of which I am a frequent victim):
This poo can vary in shape and size, but its distinguishing feature is its atrocious and unbearable odor. As this poo is under way, the stench will overwhelm you. Even with a quick courtesy flush, survival instincts force you to speed up the defecating process in order to exit the bathroom as quickly as humanly possible. Lord help the innocent bystanders if you are in a public restroom, because this odor will linger and may promptly cause others to experience gagging and nausea… this poo smells as if a dead animal has been decomposing in your intestines and is making its exit at its most noxious moment [I generally describe my worst gas this way, thinking of it as a hamster or perhaps gerbil]… when it happens, a quick termination of the stooling session is a must.How could I not cackle multiple times as I typed this up?
"What's so funny?" Husband asked.
"I'm writing about the doody book you gave me," I giggled.
"Ah, you and your book reports!" He puffed his chest with pride.
Yep, I love Husband a lot.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Freedom Awaits!
Annoying, Contratian Bastard (ACB) did not show up to this morning's meeting. The other meeting attendees made snarky remarks, then moved on. Because ACB was not there, we had a very productive and interesting meeting. It was actually exciting for me. Why don't things always work that way?
I wondered if ACB was not there this morning because it is Shavuout, the Jewish holiday of that takes place seven weeks after Passover ends. I recently looked up Shavuot because Husband found that his business trip to Israel coincided with it, and thus no one would be around, so he had to make some changes. The only purpose of Shavuot that I could discern was that it is a feast that takes place seven weeks after Passover. This seems sort of pointless to me, but what do I know? I'm just an atheist Jew who wanted a delicious bagel with cream cheese last night who cursed out my religious brethern for observing this holiday, thus keeping their scrumptious bagel shop closed and forcing me to eat a subpar substitute.
On to the afternoon, which will begin with lunch from the best falafel cart in the universe, and then the delightful freedom of a long weekend. Glee!
I wondered if ACB was not there this morning because it is Shavuout, the Jewish holiday of that takes place seven weeks after Passover ends. I recently looked up Shavuot because Husband found that his business trip to Israel coincided with it, and thus no one would be around, so he had to make some changes. The only purpose of Shavuot that I could discern was that it is a feast that takes place seven weeks after Passover. This seems sort of pointless to me, but what do I know? I'm just an atheist Jew who wanted a delicious bagel with cream cheese last night who cursed out my religious brethern for observing this holiday, thus keeping their scrumptious bagel shop closed and forcing me to eat a subpar substitute.
On to the afternoon, which will begin with lunch from the best falafel cart in the universe, and then the delightful freedom of a long weekend. Glee!
Spew-Filled Idiots
The New York Post is about the last place I turn to for news. (Maybe just before FOX News, but then again both are controlled by Rupert Murdoch, so there you go.) Here's a a prime example of why:
The whole Bronstein case has been driving me nuts for weeks. His family and attorneys claim that he is mentally ill and therefore was unable to plan the attack. Except that not only did he obviously plan a very intricate plot to get into the woman's apartment, he clearly realized what he did was against the law, and immediately fled to Memphis. Sounds like he was more logical, critically thinking, and on his game than the average person. It pisses me off when people falsely cry "mental illness" as much as it does when women falsely accuse someone of raping them. In the end, it creates a hostile environment for people who really are mentally ill or have been raped, and they do not get the justice they deserve. (I'm thinking poor Andrea Yeager, who clearly, obviously, painfully was mentally ill and the evil initial jury conviction she suffered.)
Anyway, that's my angry rant for today. I'm going to be late for my meeting with the guy who I truly believe is autistic and that is why I am extra patient with him, even if it is condescending to assume someone has a disability. And as I mentioned, when I didn't think that he had a disability that prevented his from understanding things and thought he was merely an obstinate ass, I was in danger of throttling him.
Peter Braunstein - the demented, hate-filled fashion writer who costumed himself as a firefighter to kidnap, strip and sexually torture a beautiful ex-Women's Wear Daily colleague - was convicted yesterday of the terrifying Halloween 2005 attack. The lightning-fast verdict - after just under four hours of deliberations - capped a dramatic, four-week Manhattan trial that featured a gossip column's worth of celebrity names from fashion and entertainment, two worlds that fascinated the mad molester.For get the abuse of dashes in these two sentences, a pet peeve of mine. More important, I want to know why they had to mention the victim's appearance. Would it have been OK to set a fire in the women's building, impersonate a firefighter, and sexually torture the woman for 13 hours had she not been beautiful? What is the point of calling attention to the woman's looks unless you hope to either exploit them or even subtly suggest that she asked for what she got because she is beautiful? This is not journalism, folks. (Although admittedly, I feel that way about most crap that is published in the newspapers these days. Anyone read the New York Times series on the kid who did the shooting rampage at Virginia Tech? It was littered with stereotypes about Koreans as dry cleaning Bible beaters.)
The whole Bronstein case has been driving me nuts for weeks. His family and attorneys claim that he is mentally ill and therefore was unable to plan the attack. Except that not only did he obviously plan a very intricate plot to get into the woman's apartment, he clearly realized what he did was against the law, and immediately fled to Memphis. Sounds like he was more logical, critically thinking, and on his game than the average person. It pisses me off when people falsely cry "mental illness" as much as it does when women falsely accuse someone of raping them. In the end, it creates a hostile environment for people who really are mentally ill or have been raped, and they do not get the justice they deserve. (I'm thinking poor Andrea Yeager, who clearly, obviously, painfully was mentally ill and the evil initial jury conviction she suffered.)
Anyway, that's my angry rant for today. I'm going to be late for my meeting with the guy who I truly believe is autistic and that is why I am extra patient with him, even if it is condescending to assume someone has a disability. And as I mentioned, when I didn't think that he had a disability that prevented his from understanding things and thought he was merely an obstinate ass, I was in danger of throttling him.
I Brake for Long Weekends
Tiredness consumed me yesterday. Possibly because I didn't get to sleep until 4 am the previous "night," but I did wind up sleeping until 10:30, so that's a good 6.5 hours. I don't know. Ultimately, my evening consisted of eating dinner, waiting for Husband to return from his week-long business trip, then greeting him when he got home at 7:45. Both of us were passed out by 9 amPM (thanks, Des). I slept so long that my watch even stopped. Good times.
Now I just need to make it through today, and a long weekend with Husband and friends awaits me. Unfortunately, making it through today means that I will need to sit through a meeting with a person that I have diagnosed as having Aspberger's. Basically, the man cannot think conceptually about anything. Every single step of a process must be spelled out in detail, or he spazzes and derails the meeting. It is extremely painful to sit through, and when I decided that he must have Aspberger's, it was a mercy to him on my behalf. Because if he was just an asshole instead of a man with a disability, I would wrap my small hands around his pompous, smug fat neck and kill him. I am just not cut out for prison.
Now I just need to make it through today, and a long weekend with Husband and friends awaits me. Unfortunately, making it through today means that I will need to sit through a meeting with a person that I have diagnosed as having Aspberger's. Basically, the man cannot think conceptually about anything. Every single step of a process must be spelled out in detail, or he spazzes and derails the meeting. It is extremely painful to sit through, and when I decided that he must have Aspberger's, it was a mercy to him on my behalf. Because if he was just an asshole instead of a man with a disability, I would wrap my small hands around his pompous, smug fat neck and kill him. I am just not cut out for prison.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
This is a Public Service Announcement
When I was in India in March, I saw girls like this everywhere I went. They lived in unsafe conditions, and many girls who were younger than this one were wandering the streets they called home only half dressed. It was devastating. And that is why I am so touched by My Free Implants plea to “help girls” get “free boob jobs.” No cause is worthier, and clearly this girl in a pile of rubble would agree.For as little as $1.80 (less than a cup of coffee at Starbucks!), “benefactors” can help women achieve their body goals through their contributions to My Free Implants. You’ll get pictures of the women you help in the outfit of your choice, can watch them on webcams, and even send them messages. Several woman have already raised over $5,000! Thank god jerk off material ranks so highly on people’s priority lists! Really, it is a tragedy of epic proportions to think that there are women out there who want completely unnecessary surgery to live up to insane feminine standards of “sexiness” and can’t afford it! Even with a myriad of E-Z financing options, some ladies can’t get fake tits! Can you believe the injustice?!?! It brings a fuckin’ tear to my eye, really it does.
I know that there are organizations like Save the Children or CARE that are lame enough to think that ending homelessness, starvation, violence, and disease are more important causes than helping “the girl of YOUR dreams get the body of her dreams.” Obviously, they know nothing. Don’t be fooled. Help girls today by giving them free breast implants, and the world will be a better, more beautiful place.
Cross-posted at BlogHer
Toilets Do Not Get Much Grosser Than This
Don't say I didn't warn you with the title.
When John's camera broke on the first day of the trip (how badly does that suck?), he began using Rachel's camera to take pictures for both of them. On Saturday, Rachel gave me a CD burned with pictures from her camera. This was one of them. I have no idea what on earth is in that toilet. I'm just impressed that whatever restroom this was taken in even had a toilet.
Also, upon further study, I noticed that not only does this toilet have wings, but the seat and lid are also almost the same color as the one in my parents' bathroom in the basement. This should not make me laugh, but it does. Maybe I will get fired from my consulting job for cackling and blogging. (One can only hope...)
When John's camera broke on the first day of the trip (how badly does that suck?), he began using Rachel's camera to take pictures for both of them. On Saturday, Rachel gave me a CD burned with pictures from her camera. This was one of them. I have no idea what on earth is in that toilet. I'm just impressed that whatever restroom this was taken in even had a toilet.Also, upon further study, I noticed that not only does this toilet have wings, but the seat and lid are also almost the same color as the one in my parents' bathroom in the basement. This should not make me laugh, but it does. Maybe I will get fired from my consulting job for cackling and blogging. (One can only hope...)
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
(Covering My Face in Shame)
Over at BlogHer, I wrote a very nice post accepting that a woman can be against legal abortion and still consider herself a feminist, but she cannot be a feminist if she agrees with the rationale behind the latest Supreme Court ruling on abortion. The ruling essentially said that women are idiots who sometimes make decisions that we regret, and thus for our own good, should not have options. If you are willing to agree to this insanity as a means to your end goal (banning legal abortion), you are opening a very scary door into a past in which women were not allowed to do many things because we are silly girls who need to be protected from our own selves. I’m cool with you fighting for your cause (and I’ll fight you right back), but not if you are going to do super crazy shit like say that this line of thinking is acceptable. Find a decent argument.
Anyway, someone posted this in response:
Anyway, someone posted this in response:
But what about the unborn women? Where is their choice?Here’s what I so cleverly responded:
As to your argument (which had nothing to do with what I wrote) about whether unborn women have choices, I looked up the definition of "woman" on Merriam Webster and found the following:Unfortunately, after puffing my chest with pride, I realized that I have been spelling “feminism” wrong in my signature file for months and months. It is something that I regret, and it is lowering my self-esteem. I should probably be banned from spelling bees to protect me from potential future errors.
1 a : an adult female person b : a woman belonging to a particular category (as by birth, residence, membership, or occupation) -- usually used in combination
2 : WOMANKIND
3 : distinctively feminine nature : WOMANLINESS
4 : a woman who is a servant or personal attendant
5 a chiefly dialect : WIFE b : MISTRESS c : GIRLFRIEND 2
The unborn seem to fit none of those descriptions, so it is technically inaccurate to describe them as women. However, even if I do buy into your personal definition of "women," I would argue that my point affects the unborn women as much as actual women. Not only are unborn women actually incapable of making choices, but Kennedy says that even if they were, we should not trust them to do so, so they still have absolutely no choice in the matter of whether they go from unborn women to female babies. Some man will make the determination for them.
I'll Iron the Wrinkles Out of Your Balls, Asshole
It has been a long time since I had occassion to rant about unshaved snatch! Thanks to some visitors to CUSS from Carolina Huddle (seriously!), I discovered the following gem:
On another note, I have to admit that I have no fucking idea what a "Charlotte Douglas" is. There is no definition on my favorite site for these types of questions, Urban Dictionary, and I don't feel like googling the phrase. Any ideas?
Update: I couldn't stop myself from googling "charlotte douglas." Initially I was puzzled because it brought up the Charlotte/Douglas International Airport. Then the light bulb clicked on: landing strips.
Just today the hosts on the Mac Attack on WFNZ... one of the producers says he "grooms his wife" and suggests that it is a form of foreplay. Mac responds that it is disgusting and if a man wants that done he should "order it" from his wife, either asking for the "bald eagle" or the "Charlotte Douglas"Well, you asked, so I am happy to respond! My idea of foreplay is not having someone scrape around my cootie with a razor blade, but if it floats someone elses' mutually consenting boats, then all the best to them. However, don't you dare fucking order anyone to groom her crotch to your specs. I assume this was a joke, but damn if it doesn't piss me off. Last time I checked, scrotums are wrinkled, hairy, and unattractive. If a guy thinks that a woman's hairy poon is gross, I suggest he take a good look at his own goods.
what say you?
On another note, I have to admit that I have no fucking idea what a "Charlotte Douglas" is. There is no definition on my favorite site for these types of questions, Urban Dictionary, and I don't feel like googling the phrase. Any ideas?
Update: I couldn't stop myself from googling "charlotte douglas." Initially I was puzzled because it brought up the Charlotte/Douglas International Airport. Then the light bulb clicked on: landing strips.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Oh Shit
I just read that the MFA program at Hunter College only accepts 5% of its applicants. The New School accepts 10.7%. Sometimes I wish that I drank, because I suspect a stiff drink would be very nice right now. I feel like puking, I'm so nervous. So much for my newfound lack of anxiety.
You Just So Gotta Go
I just found out that Count Mockula is coming to BlogHer!!! Squeal. I will be sharing a hotel room with Count, Des, and Alex. I had a very strange dream about the conference last night, which involved me yelling at the fire captain who insulted Alex's eyebrows. (Details at BlogHer.) I booked our hotel room under the American Girl Place Special instead of the special BlogHer rate. It is a full $20 less per night and we get a free doll bed! Can you believe that? A free doll bed worth $18, plus a savings of $20 per night. What a steal!A slew of other super awesome bloggers are already signed up: SJ of I, Asshole, Suebob from Red Stapler, Erika of Plain Jane Mom, Liz of Mom 101 (who just had a freakin' baby!), and lots of people who I am totally forgetting but should not be. (Maybe also Karrie from One Weird Mother?) Men who support women bloggers, you are also welcome. Don't feel intimidated!
Anyway, I was super intimidated by the conference last year, but I am looking forward to seeing my "old" blog pals and maybe even meeting some new ones. The conference is on my home turf of Chicago, and I'll have my posse and free doll bed, so I think I'll be a bit more confident this year. Plus, I've got the amazing CUSS stickers, so I'm better prepared. (If you want some, email me at cussandotherrants AT gmail DOT com, and despite the increase in postal rates, I am glad to send you some for free.) Perhaps I won't spend the entire time this year standing in the corner not talking to anyone as a result.
Book and Movie Report
Children of Men, a movie starring Clive Owen, is excellent. I saw it on pay-per-view a few weeks ago, and some of the scenes still haunt me.
Based on my reaction to the movie, I suggested that my bookclub read The Children of Men by PD James. I polished it off last night (it's not a long read), and it is a good book, it is a completely different story than the movie. The characters in the film have the same names as those in the book, and really, that's the only thing the two have in common. That worked well for me, as I could not predict where the book was going based on the movie. And the movie would have sucked if it were actually true to the book.
Now that I am done with the book, I could definitely use some reading suggestions, as I will be spending lots of time on planes in the upcoming weeks...
Based on my reaction to the movie, I suggested that my bookclub read The Children of Men by PD James. I polished it off last night (it's not a long read), and it is a good book, it is a completely different story than the movie. The characters in the film have the same names as those in the book, and really, that's the only thing the two have in common. That worked well for me, as I could not predict where the book was going based on the movie. And the movie would have sucked if it were actually true to the book.
Now that I am done with the book, I could definitely use some reading suggestions, as I will be spending lots of time on planes in the upcoming weeks...
Sunday, May 20, 2007
June
I currently lead a very cushy life. June is an example.
Husband has a business trip to Italy. First up is a conference in Florence, followed up by a few meetings in Milan, capped off by a conference in Rome. I used 100,000 frequent flier miles to book my ticket, and I can't wait to go with him. I am hoping that he'll even have some time to join me for gelato and art. While he's working, I will seek relics. (The obsession with supposed random parts of martyrs has not lessened since my trip to Italy with Dr. P and Dr. H last May.) I have never been to Milan before, and I am excited to see The Last Supper before it completely rots off the wall. In Rome, I plan to hit up the Villa Borghese (highly recommended by a friend) and spend time in the Jewish ghetto, which Jews were restricted to well into the 1800s. Florence will entail hiking up a big hill to see San Miniato al Monte, as well as finally going into the synagogue, as opposed to staring at it through the gates. Husband's conference in Florence actually encourages attendees to bring a partner, so I think I am going on some sort of tour from that. All this excitement will take place from June 6-16. Tycho the giant pet rabbit will vacation at his country estate (i.e. - my in-laws' home) while we are gone.
My beloved friend Dr. P is moving to Florida on June 17. She is driving down from her parents' place in Connecticut, and will pick me up along the way. Yes, that's right: the day after I get back from Italy, I'm off on a roadtrip with Dr. P. On the way down, we will stop in Atlanta and meet up with Eddie, who was one of the first people I befriended through blogging. We have never met before, so I am especially excited. On the other hand, while I am looking forward to the time I get to spend with Dr. P, it will be bittersweet. I will miss her terribly once she is settled in Florida.
I figure I'll get back from Florida on the 20th. As far as I remember, that is the same day as my delightful godson's first birthday. (Disclaimer: I never remember dates, so this is very likely close, but not necessarily correct.) On June 23rd, Alex is having a birthday bash for him, so Husband and I shall load up our PT Cruiser, Fred the Red, and motor up for the weekend.
Last but certainly not the least, the following weekend involves my family and fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches. That means Graceland, a place my mom has wanted to visit for years.
During the 15 days that I will be in New York, I am also supposed to complete a big portion of a consulting project I am working on. It would also be nice if I can get some writing published, but I'm not holding my breath. This is going to be very interesting. Certainly there will be lots to blog about.
Husband has a business trip to Italy. First up is a conference in Florence, followed up by a few meetings in Milan, capped off by a conference in Rome. I used 100,000 frequent flier miles to book my ticket, and I can't wait to go with him. I am hoping that he'll even have some time to join me for gelato and art. While he's working, I will seek relics. (The obsession with supposed random parts of martyrs has not lessened since my trip to Italy with Dr. P and Dr. H last May.) I have never been to Milan before, and I am excited to see The Last Supper before it completely rots off the wall. In Rome, I plan to hit up the Villa Borghese (highly recommended by a friend) and spend time in the Jewish ghetto, which Jews were restricted to well into the 1800s. Florence will entail hiking up a big hill to see San Miniato al Monte, as well as finally going into the synagogue, as opposed to staring at it through the gates. Husband's conference in Florence actually encourages attendees to bring a partner, so I think I am going on some sort of tour from that. All this excitement will take place from June 6-16. Tycho the giant pet rabbit will vacation at his country estate (i.e. - my in-laws' home) while we are gone.
My beloved friend Dr. P is moving to Florida on June 17. She is driving down from her parents' place in Connecticut, and will pick me up along the way. Yes, that's right: the day after I get back from Italy, I'm off on a roadtrip with Dr. P. On the way down, we will stop in Atlanta and meet up with Eddie, who was one of the first people I befriended through blogging. We have never met before, so I am especially excited. On the other hand, while I am looking forward to the time I get to spend with Dr. P, it will be bittersweet. I will miss her terribly once she is settled in Florida.
I figure I'll get back from Florida on the 20th. As far as I remember, that is the same day as my delightful godson's first birthday. (Disclaimer: I never remember dates, so this is very likely close, but not necessarily correct.) On June 23rd, Alex is having a birthday bash for him, so Husband and I shall load up our PT Cruiser, Fred the Red, and motor up for the weekend.
Last but certainly not the least, the following weekend involves my family and fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches. That means Graceland, a place my mom has wanted to visit for years.
During the 15 days that I will be in New York, I am also supposed to complete a big portion of a consulting project I am working on. It would also be nice if I can get some writing published, but I'm not holding my breath. This is going to be very interesting. Certainly there will be lots to blog about.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
You're Not Wearing What?!?!
Almost forgot (I think I tried to block it out of my mind, actually) an important detail from the India trip reunion. One of the guys who organized the trip, previously assigned the name "the Lech" for my blog, hosted the reunion at his insane mansion with an inground pool overlooking a man-made lake. He also decided that hosts need not wear underwear. Even when wearing short shorts. How do I know this super disgusting detail? At one point he had his hand in his waistband and had dragged the elastic down enough that Rachel noticed the expanse of exposed flesh, which she then pointed out to me. Not enough proof?
"Why did you show me this?" I groaned.
"Oh, at least I didn't drag you into the pool and make you look up while he was standing at the edge," she replied. "That was much worse."
The exuberant full-body hug the Lech administered to me as I left was just that much grosser knowing that he was freeballing it. I love underwear for so many reasons.
"Why did you show me this?" I groaned.
"Oh, at least I didn't drag you into the pool and make you look up while he was standing at the edge," she replied. "That was much worse."
The exuberant full-body hug the Lech administered to me as I left was just that much grosser knowing that he was freeballing it. I love underwear for so many reasons.
You're Wearing What?!?!
Ever since I returned from India six weeks ago, I have been eagerly anticipating our group reunion. It was every bit as delightful and fun as I hoped it would be. I debuted my newly altered punjabi dress, which I wore with a dark pair of jeans. Sundar (beautiful)! Many compliments were tossed my way. I basked.
After the reunion, I went to dinner with my parents, both grannies, and my aunts. The family also liked the punjabi.
"What is that pretty thing you are wearing?" Granny asked when we got back to my parents' house after dinner.
"It's a punjabi dress," I told her.
"A what?" she squawked.
"A punjabi dress."
"Oh, you're wearing a poon?" she asked innocently.
And on that note, I'm heading back to New York on Sunday afternoon.
After the reunion, I went to dinner with my parents, both grannies, and my aunts. The family also liked the punjabi.
"What is that pretty thing you are wearing?" Granny asked when we got back to my parents' house after dinner.
"It's a punjabi dress," I told her.
"A what?" she squawked.
"A punjabi dress."
"Oh, you're wearing a poon?" she asked innocently.
And on that note, I'm heading back to New York on Sunday afternoon.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
I'll Treat You to an Ice Cream
My blog is worth $295,818.96.
How much is your blog worth?
Anyway, thanks to ViciousRumours who found out about this excellent (albeit silly) ego-booster through my buddy Super Des, both of whose blogs were grossly undervalued by this tool. I think they are priceless. Awwww...
Would You Like Some Tongue with Dinner?
I had a lovely dinner with my mom and grandmother this evening. After much dithering, handwringing, and sixth-guessing, we wound up at a diner called "What's Cooking?" (Actually, it was specifically George's What's Cooking?) The answer: nothing very good except the conversation.
Granny perused the menu carefully. "I don't see tongue sandwich on it anywhere," she said as she squinted.
"This is not a Jewish diner," my mom replied. "It's more Greek."
"I can't get hot tongue?" My grandmother clicked her tongue in disgust. "What if I want hot tongue?"
"I'll give you some hot tongue!" I said luridly and stuck my out. We cracked up.
Later in the meal (Granny settled for a salmon salad sandwich), we fondly reminisced about the Thanksgiving that granny brough dinner to a grinding halt when she explained why the word "cunt" is perfectly acceptable but the f-word is horrendous.
There is nothing like a meal with your people, even when the tongue is nonexistent, the pancakes and eggs are overcooked, and the braised beef is subpar.
Granny perused the menu carefully. "I don't see tongue sandwich on it anywhere," she said as she squinted.
"This is not a Jewish diner," my mom replied. "It's more Greek."
"I can't get hot tongue?" My grandmother clicked her tongue in disgust. "What if I want hot tongue?"
"I'll give you some hot tongue!" I said luridly and stuck my out. We cracked up.
Later in the meal (Granny settled for a salmon salad sandwich), we fondly reminisced about the Thanksgiving that granny brough dinner to a grinding halt when she explained why the word "cunt" is perfectly acceptable but the f-word is horrendous.
There is nothing like a meal with your people, even when the tongue is nonexistent, the pancakes and eggs are overcooked, and the braised beef is subpar.
Sizzle, Sizzle
Ah, there's nothing like the sound of my brain frying in my skull. I woke up this morning, set up my laptop on the kitchen table(on its new excellent chill pad), discovered that the WiFi didn't work on it for no reason I could discern, and thus have spent the day crunching numbers for my child care policy consulting gig, saving them on a USB memory stick, then running downstairs to the family computer in the basement to email reports. Really, the number crunching alone is the heat and the annoying set up is the frying pan.
Adding to the fun, my parents' house is freezing and there's no food in the house. Well, there are 6 apples, one pear, a bunch of bananas, eggs, 1.5 pieces of turkey, a loaf of wheat bread, and 200 pieces (or so it seems, anyway) of Kraft American cheese. I made myself a hot turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch and huddled by the oven for warmth.
Tonight I am dining with my mom and grandma, so that should yield conversational nuggets of gold.
Adding to the fun, my parents' house is freezing and there's no food in the house. Well, there are 6 apples, one pear, a bunch of bananas, eggs, 1.5 pieces of turkey, a loaf of wheat bread, and 200 pieces (or so it seems, anyway) of Kraft American cheese. I made myself a hot turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch and huddled by the oven for warmth.
Tonight I am dining with my mom and grandma, so that should yield conversational nuggets of gold.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Good and Very Bad Deals
So I went to remove my contacts lenses from my tired eyeballs at 10:37 pm CST. That is when I discovered that the bottle of contact lense solution that I thought I packed was saline nasal spray. If I were in NYC and ran out of sight enhancing juice, I would merely wak to the nearest 24 hour Duane Reade pharmacy three blocks up the street. In the 'burbs of Chicago, I have to borrow my parents car and drive for five minutes to the nearest 24 hour Walgreens and hope I don't fall asleep while driving and kill anyone. I never worry about falling asleep while I walk somewhere, and if I did, I doubt anyone except possibly me would die as a result. And did I mention that gas is $3.57 a gallon here? No, I didn't think I did.
The good news is that when I got to Walgreens I actually remembered that I wanted a powder brush so that I could actually use the $30 container of face powder that I bought at Sephora last week. (I already returned the $38 brush that I also bought.) Walgreens offered a powder brush of dubious quality for $3.99. I'll take it! How often will I use it anyway? (Although is it a little fucked up that I plan to apply expensive powder with some brush made of walrus whiskers or whatever from China?) The kicker is that if I bought one cheap ass brush, I could get another for free! I debated for a few minutes whether I wanted another eyeshadow brush (the one I have is at least 20 years old and probably full of deadly germs) or a blush brush that I could use for the new bronzer I also got at Sephora? I opted for the blush brush. I figured my eyeshadow brush hasn't given me any infections in the ten times I've used it in the past three years, so I'm probably good to go at least another decade with it. I spent so much time staring at make-up applicating tools that I almost forgot to grab the fucking contact lense solution that dragged my ass out of the house and forced me to drive on a car full of $3.57 per gallon gas to Walgreens in the first place. The free brush would make it worth it if it was something that I would use frequently, which I won't, but it's almost a fair trade.
Anyway, on my way home, I reflected on my recent decision not to apply to Columbia for an MFA. Given the price tag, my mom was on the right path - MFA does stand for "Motherfucking Atrocity" in this case. Then it hit me that my freakin' Masters in Public Administration (and Policy) degree from Columbia ran me about 25 fat Gs per year when I attended that fine institution of learning almost 10 years ago. Now it is 32,000 big ones and change. May I once again mention that gas is $3.57 per gallon here? Inflation is a bitch.
The good news is that when I got to Walgreens I actually remembered that I wanted a powder brush so that I could actually use the $30 container of face powder that I bought at Sephora last week. (I already returned the $38 brush that I also bought.) Walgreens offered a powder brush of dubious quality for $3.99. I'll take it! How often will I use it anyway? (Although is it a little fucked up that I plan to apply expensive powder with some brush made of walrus whiskers or whatever from China?) The kicker is that if I bought one cheap ass brush, I could get another for free! I debated for a few minutes whether I wanted another eyeshadow brush (the one I have is at least 20 years old and probably full of deadly germs) or a blush brush that I could use for the new bronzer I also got at Sephora? I opted for the blush brush. I figured my eyeshadow brush hasn't given me any infections in the ten times I've used it in the past three years, so I'm probably good to go at least another decade with it. I spent so much time staring at make-up applicating tools that I almost forgot to grab the fucking contact lense solution that dragged my ass out of the house and forced me to drive on a car full of $3.57 per gallon gas to Walgreens in the first place. The free brush would make it worth it if it was something that I would use frequently, which I won't, but it's almost a fair trade.
Anyway, on my way home, I reflected on my recent decision not to apply to Columbia for an MFA. Given the price tag, my mom was on the right path - MFA does stand for "Motherfucking Atrocity" in this case. Then it hit me that my freakin' Masters in Public Administration (and Policy) degree from Columbia ran me about 25 fat Gs per year when I attended that fine institution of learning almost 10 years ago. Now it is 32,000 big ones and change. May I once again mention that gas is $3.57 per gallon here? Inflation is a bitch.
More Insolence
When I told my mom that I was going to apply to three MFA programs for Fall 2008, she said, "What does that stand for? Motherfucking something?" Then she giggled.
She kills me.
Update: Did I say I was planning to apply to three programs? Yes, I did. Then I looked at Columbia's website and discovered that tuition each year is over $30,000. Per year. So not interested in doing that. I'm applying to two programs.
She kills me.
Update: Did I say I was planning to apply to three programs? Yes, I did. Then I looked at Columbia's website and discovered that tuition each year is over $30,000. Per year. So not interested in doing that. I'm applying to two programs.
Insolence
After my dad picked me up from the airport this morning, we ran an errand and then headed to my bubby's swank apartment in senior citizen housing. It is on the 12th floor and overlooks Lake Michigan. If it were a condo, it would undoubtedly cost several hundred thousand buckeroos. Instead, it is highly subsidized by us taxpayers. I think she pays about $400 a month for a decent-size one bedroom with a million dollar view. I'm only slightly jealous.
For the first 30 minutes we were there, she stuffed our faces and talked to us. Then her pals arrived and she held court at her dining table in Russian. I speak better Hindi than I do Russian (reminder: I know about 14 Hindi words), so needless to say, I felt neglected, although also relieved. As long as she was being rude, I figured it would be OK to be rude right back and read my book. ("Nature Girl" by Carl Hiaason. I love Hiaason, but this was definitely not among his best work. It did nicely pass the time, however.) Damn, I am a surly little bitch.
Later, I had dinner with my parents and Rachel and her partner and kid. Their kid is so fucking adorable. Especially with ice cream all over her face. (Hey, I don't have to wash her clothes later, so it is easy to laugh. Her folks are good peeps and didn't seem to perterbed either.) Rachel told us an amusing story about chaperoning the prom last spring. The principal's wife was relating a disaster that unfolded at her sister's wedding on a hot day. It seems that the icing on the cake melted, and the sister freaked out. The prinicpal's wife (doesn't that sound like a character in Canterbury Tales?) told her sister to calm down because the day was not about icing. It was about dick. Dick as in "Dick, the man her sister was marrying," but as she repeated the line over and over again, all the teachers sitting at the table turned red from the effort to not laugh outloud. Rachel even had to kick someone under the table to stop him from giggling.
Maybe my bubby tells hilarious stories like this when she sits around and guffaws with her friends in Russian.
For the first 30 minutes we were there, she stuffed our faces and talked to us. Then her pals arrived and she held court at her dining table in Russian. I speak better Hindi than I do Russian (reminder: I know about 14 Hindi words), so needless to say, I felt neglected, although also relieved. As long as she was being rude, I figured it would be OK to be rude right back and read my book. ("Nature Girl" by Carl Hiaason. I love Hiaason, but this was definitely not among his best work. It did nicely pass the time, however.) Damn, I am a surly little bitch.
Later, I had dinner with my parents and Rachel and her partner and kid. Their kid is so fucking adorable. Especially with ice cream all over her face. (Hey, I don't have to wash her clothes later, so it is easy to laugh. Her folks are good peeps and didn't seem to perterbed either.) Rachel told us an amusing story about chaperoning the prom last spring. The principal's wife was relating a disaster that unfolded at her sister's wedding on a hot day. It seems that the icing on the cake melted, and the sister freaked out. The prinicpal's wife (doesn't that sound like a character in Canterbury Tales?) told her sister to calm down because the day was not about icing. It was about dick. Dick as in "Dick, the man her sister was marrying," but as she repeated the line over and over again, all the teachers sitting at the table turned red from the effort to not laugh outloud. Rachel even had to kick someone under the table to stop him from giggling.
Maybe my bubby tells hilarious stories like this when she sits around and guffaws with her friends in Russian.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Suspicious Package My Ass
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get that costs rise and inflation and all that. I still don't have to be happy that stamps went up 2 cents. May I point out that I still have one 37 cent stamp still left? Yeesh. While the price increase annoys me, my real problem is that I had to go to the post office to get those "make up rate" stamps and also the new "Forever" stamps.
If you've ever been to a post office in New York City, you know why dreaded my visit so much. Lines are out the door under the best of circumstances. When everyone in NYC also needs two cents stamps, lines wrap around the entire office. I braced myself.
Upon entry into the denizen of America's mail finest, I was a shocked to see that the lines were long, but no worse than usual. I took my place at the end of the "stamp only" line, noting that the two cent stamps were all sold out from the machines. Ten minutes later, I was next. A commotion erupted.
"Where's security?" a man demanded of one of the two counter helpers. A large column mostly blocked my view, so I could only hear his frazzled voice and see his hands as they waved around in panic. "There's a suspicious package!!!"
"Yeah, yeah," the unimpressed postal worker muttered. "I'll call someone."
Shit! It was my turn next. I'd be damned if I had to get out of line at this point. I was next, motherfucker. My heart beat a little faster, but I'm not sure if I was more nervous that they'd evacuate the post office or the suspicious package would turn out to be a bomb and my arm would be blown off.
Fortunately, business continued as usual. The suspicious package turned out to be a kid's insulated lunch bag with a skull and crossbones on it. My arm was not blown off.
Thus I will be traveling to Chicago tomorrow with all my limbs. My India group is having a reunion on Saturday, and my newly tailored altered punjabi dress would look so bad without all my arms.
If you've ever been to a post office in New York City, you know why dreaded my visit so much. Lines are out the door under the best of circumstances. When everyone in NYC also needs two cents stamps, lines wrap around the entire office. I braced myself.
Upon entry into the denizen of America's mail finest, I was a shocked to see that the lines were long, but no worse than usual. I took my place at the end of the "stamp only" line, noting that the two cent stamps were all sold out from the machines. Ten minutes later, I was next. A commotion erupted.
"Where's security?" a man demanded of one of the two counter helpers. A large column mostly blocked my view, so I could only hear his frazzled voice and see his hands as they waved around in panic. "There's a suspicious package!!!"
"Yeah, yeah," the unimpressed postal worker muttered. "I'll call someone."
Shit! It was my turn next. I'd be damned if I had to get out of line at this point. I was next, motherfucker. My heart beat a little faster, but I'm not sure if I was more nervous that they'd evacuate the post office or the suspicious package would turn out to be a bomb and my arm would be blown off.
Fortunately, business continued as usual. The suspicious package turned out to be a kid's insulated lunch bag with a skull and crossbones on it. My arm was not blown off.
Thus I will be traveling to Chicago tomorrow with all my limbs. My India group is having a reunion on Saturday, and my newly tailored altered punjabi dress would look so bad without all my arms.
Abortion Documentaries and Glamorpusses
In early February, Sara and I were interviewed for a documentary about the abortion debate (or read Sara's better account of the event at Amusing Farf) as the co-leaders of Haven Coalition. Readying myself for the interview was a bit of a process, not in terms of what I would say, but more importantly, how I would look. I could not just stick a yellow Jelly Belly in my nose, and call it a day because I resemble Natalie Merchant (or Tom Sizemore). Nope, I had to go to Sara's before the interview so that she could smear all sorts of fancy make up products on my face so that I would not look like a baby eating zombie on camera. (It's not good for my side when I look like I might enjoy consuming human flesh.) Sara did a great job, and it all worked out until I opened my big fat mouth as we were leaving and said "controversial" things that I don't remember at this point, but I think it had something to do with calling anti-choice leaders propaganda spewing liars. (Me? Never!)
The upside of my free speech moment was that the producers wanted to interview me again outside of my role as a Haven leader, as I would never say "controversial" things while representing another organization. That day arrived this past Saturday. The producers called me in the morning and asked if I could come in at 2 pm.
"Sure," I said. "Remind me again what I had wanted to talk about?" (Seriously, I didn't remember.)
Bruce Isacson, the director of the documentary (aka "Jaffe" from Outbreak and friend of "Rene" as in "Russo") said that I wanted to tell the truth about the other side. OK, whatever. Because by then, a far scarier idea than getting killed by crazy anti-choice leaders crossed my mind: I had no make up, and Sara was out of town for the weekend. Emergency calls were made. No one was around and able to help. Fortunately, Future Sister-in-Law (FSIL), who was in NJ for a wedding, suggested that I hop on over to Sephora, a place I normally regard as an inner circle of hell, and ask for help. "I see people getting done up in there all the time," FSIL explained.
I ditty-bopped my unplucked eyebrowed face over there pronto. It turns out that you need to book an appointment in advance, but I explained that I was going to be interviewed for a documentary and didn't know until that morning, they took pity on me and hooked me up with a rep from a cosmetics company who did me up. The results:
It was maybe a little too much make up, but not bad. Certainly better than looking like I use dead babies for my Passover matzah, but personally, I prefer the Jelly Belly in the nose look. Ultimately, I felt obligated to buy the shit she used on me, which I wish I was kidding when I say cost $190.74. (The foundation alone was $35!!!!! Damn, I save a lot of money by not wearing make up.) You know I'll be heading back to Sephora to return most of the useless crap this afternoon, but I digress…
Husband tagged along with me to the interview (I wanted him to stop me if I veered into nutjob territory), and he agreed that it went well. And that's the sad story of abortion documentaries and glamorpusses.
The upside of my free speech moment was that the producers wanted to interview me again outside of my role as a Haven leader, as I would never say "controversial" things while representing another organization. That day arrived this past Saturday. The producers called me in the morning and asked if I could come in at 2 pm.
"Sure," I said. "Remind me again what I had wanted to talk about?" (Seriously, I didn't remember.)
Bruce Isacson, the director of the documentary (aka "Jaffe" from Outbreak and friend of "Rene" as in "Russo") said that I wanted to tell the truth about the other side. OK, whatever. Because by then, a far scarier idea than getting killed by crazy anti-choice leaders crossed my mind: I had no make up, and Sara was out of town for the weekend. Emergency calls were made. No one was around and able to help. Fortunately, Future Sister-in-Law (FSIL), who was in NJ for a wedding, suggested that I hop on over to Sephora, a place I normally regard as an inner circle of hell, and ask for help. "I see people getting done up in there all the time," FSIL explained.
I ditty-bopped my unplucked eyebrowed face over there pronto. It turns out that you need to book an appointment in advance, but I explained that I was going to be interviewed for a documentary and didn't know until that morning, they took pity on me and hooked me up with a rep from a cosmetics company who did me up. The results:
It was maybe a little too much make up, but not bad. Certainly better than looking like I use dead babies for my Passover matzah, but personally, I prefer the Jelly Belly in the nose look. Ultimately, I felt obligated to buy the shit she used on me, which I wish I was kidding when I say cost $190.74. (The foundation alone was $35!!!!! Damn, I save a lot of money by not wearing make up.) You know I'll be heading back to Sephora to return most of the useless crap this afternoon, but I digress…Husband tagged along with me to the interview (I wanted him to stop me if I veered into nutjob territory), and he agreed that it went well. And that's the sad story of abortion documentaries and glamorpusses.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Side Vaginas and New Potential Life Plans
Friday afternoon was mild, so I decided to take a five mile walk home from work despite the threat of rain. Along the way, I used my cell phone to call my friend who is a literary agent to see what he thought of some work that I sent him. As we spoke, the sky opening up, both literally and metaphorically, and I huddled under the awning of an apartment building in Greenwich Village as he told me that what he read was not good writing.
By the time I hung up, the rain stopped and the sun shone brightly (but only literally, not metaphorically at the moment). I walked the remaining three miles home and burst into tears when I walked through the door into the dank sanctuary of my apartment. (We always keep the curtains closed because we live on the ground floor.) Husband was returning from his trip to California that night, so I decided I'd put on my pajama bottoms, eat enormous quantities of junk food, watch the Mets game, and sulk around the apartment for the evening.
Long story short, Dr. H called and cheered me up. She reminded me that it takes hard work to become good at whatever you do, no matter what your talent level is to start. I ran over (i.e. – took a cab to the other side of the park) to the Upper East Side to have a quick late night snack with her and Dr. P. We laughed over calzones about different types of deformed uterus structures (some people have what Dr. H called a "side vagina") that Dr. H was studying. Then I ran back (i.e. – cabbed it again) to be home for Husband.
I spilled my guts to Husband immediately about everything my lit agent friend said. (I couldn't help myself.) He thought it over, then gave me some very good pointers about the specific places in the work that he felt that character development was lacking, among other thoughts. Once he said that, I felt better. Knowing exactly where the text was lacking made me realize that I could address it. It also, for the first time, made me understand the value of an MFA program. Having consistent feedback from other writers and writing professionals would be very valuable to me. When I finally drifted off to sleep on Friday night, it was in a calm state of mind. I had a new potential plan.
By the time I hung up, the rain stopped and the sun shone brightly (but only literally, not metaphorically at the moment). I walked the remaining three miles home and burst into tears when I walked through the door into the dank sanctuary of my apartment. (We always keep the curtains closed because we live on the ground floor.) Husband was returning from his trip to California that night, so I decided I'd put on my pajama bottoms, eat enormous quantities of junk food, watch the Mets game, and sulk around the apartment for the evening.
Long story short, Dr. H called and cheered me up. She reminded me that it takes hard work to become good at whatever you do, no matter what your talent level is to start. I ran over (i.e. – took a cab to the other side of the park) to the Upper East Side to have a quick late night snack with her and Dr. P. We laughed over calzones about different types of deformed uterus structures (some people have what Dr. H called a "side vagina") that Dr. H was studying. Then I ran back (i.e. – cabbed it again) to be home for Husband.
I spilled my guts to Husband immediately about everything my lit agent friend said. (I couldn't help myself.) He thought it over, then gave me some very good pointers about the specific places in the work that he felt that character development was lacking, among other thoughts. Once he said that, I felt better. Knowing exactly where the text was lacking made me realize that I could address it. It also, for the first time, made me understand the value of an MFA program. Having consistent feedback from other writers and writing professionals would be very valuable to me. When I finally drifted off to sleep on Friday night, it was in a calm state of mind. I had a new potential plan.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Happy Mother's Day
This is my mom modeling her vintage "Sex is a Misdemeanor - De More I Miss, De Meaner I Get" t-shirt. She wore it all the time when I was growing up.There are many reasons why I love my mom.
While I don't have any pictures of my mother-in-law in demented t-shirts from the early '80s (as far as I know), she is also the shit. She asked us to take her to a Mets game for Mother's Day so she could scream really loudly. Who wouldn't love her, too?
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Nerd Alert
I love Husband, but he is evil sometimes. Back in January, he took a picture of a picture that my parents still proudly display in the living room as part of The Shrine to the Family. Husband finds this picture utterly hilarious (not that it isn't, albeit in my mind it is painfully funny). I think I was in third grade. Note the awkward phasing into puberty that is just on the cusp of destroying my life as I knew it. My sister is adorable, though. Nothing funny there.If you squint at the picture, you can see Sister's Husband's reflection. He clearly is enjoying a hearty guffaw at my sad pre-teen expense.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Best. Anonymous. Comment. EVER!
Well, at least this answer to my question regarding why anyone would look specifically for "jewish pussy" made me smile:
Okay, coming from a Gentile man....so forgive my "all English" usage (sans Yiddish). My search for Jewish pussy is to narrow down the large list of hot women to look at to only look at the MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN in the world-Jewish Women. Not sure if there is any physiological difference in the actual unit itself, however, there is a distinct beauty to the women who possess Jewish pussy.OK, back to feeling sorry for myself, even if I do chuckle over this every once in a while.
My search and quest for finding beautiful Jewish women is almost reason enough for me to forget about old "what's his name" and convert to Judaism myself.
Also, I'd like to chime in the whole unshaved thing...I CAN'T STAND shaved pussy! I like REAL women who have curves and hair. I'm not in search of a woman who looks like she is 12 year old. Put those razors away!
Keep up the good work ladies...you do it so well naturally. No wonder you are the Chosen Ones....
I Know It is Not Easy, But This Really Sucks
Ever see a movie where someone is outside getting bad news on her cellphone and then suddenly the sky opens up and she is getting her bad news in a very symbolic rainstorm? I always think stuff like that never happens. Oh, how wrong I was.
Wednesday evening, I got an email from a friend who is a literary agent. He said that he wanted to talk to me about the two book chapters I sent him and would call me the next day. Based on the terseness of the email, I assumed that he wasn't planning to tell me I had just written a best seller, so I prepared myself. We didn't catch up until a few mintues ago, when I called him while I was walking home from work.
"Let's start with the bad news," I said optimitically.
"Well, there's not bad news per se, but not great news either," he began. I braced myself. "There's no narrative arc. It seems like you just put two essay together. Also, there doesn't seem to be a lot of character development. You are telling me a story, going from one line to the next zinger, which is great when you tell me a story, but not good writing. That's a minor flaw - the writing is not good."
"Uh, a minor flaw?" I said laughing painfully as rain drops splattered around me. "It seems like a big fucking problem to me."
"Well, you've never written a memoir before, so don't be too hard on yourself," he said kindly.
I swear as I hung up it stopped raining. It was weird, and while i was glad to not get soaked and appreciative of his brutal honesty, I have to say it sucks. I thought that I had made major improvements in showing, not telling and all that. Look, I know that I didn't become a miserable child care facility expert overnight. It took years before I was utterly miserable but super knowledgable. I'm sure that the writing thing works that way, too, and I haven't even been at it for a year. But this is really disheartening. Sometimes I think either you have the talent or you don't, and if you don't have it, there's no amount of practice that will make you good. I am really fearful that I just don't have what it takes.
At least its not raining any more and I can finish walking home. (Yeah, I stopped at my gym, which has internet access, on the way home since I was so upset.)
Wednesday evening, I got an email from a friend who is a literary agent. He said that he wanted to talk to me about the two book chapters I sent him and would call me the next day. Based on the terseness of the email, I assumed that he wasn't planning to tell me I had just written a best seller, so I prepared myself. We didn't catch up until a few mintues ago, when I called him while I was walking home from work.
"Let's start with the bad news," I said optimitically.
"Well, there's not bad news per se, but not great news either," he began. I braced myself. "There's no narrative arc. It seems like you just put two essay together. Also, there doesn't seem to be a lot of character development. You are telling me a story, going from one line to the next zinger, which is great when you tell me a story, but not good writing. That's a minor flaw - the writing is not good."
"Uh, a minor flaw?" I said laughing painfully as rain drops splattered around me. "It seems like a big fucking problem to me."
"Well, you've never written a memoir before, so don't be too hard on yourself," he said kindly.
I swear as I hung up it stopped raining. It was weird, and while i was glad to not get soaked and appreciative of his brutal honesty, I have to say it sucks. I thought that I had made major improvements in showing, not telling and all that. Look, I know that I didn't become a miserable child care facility expert overnight. It took years before I was utterly miserable but super knowledgable. I'm sure that the writing thing works that way, too, and I haven't even been at it for a year. But this is really disheartening. Sometimes I think either you have the talent or you don't, and if you don't have it, there's no amount of practice that will make you good. I am really fearful that I just don't have what it takes.
At least its not raining any more and I can finish walking home. (Yeah, I stopped at my gym, which has internet access, on the way home since I was so upset.)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Mmmm... Delicious
Nothing tastier than a Jelly Belly booger.Enjoy your Friday.
PS - Because I am a bad person sometimes, I used this picture for an online analysis of my puss to see what celebs I most resemble. Sadly, Natalie Merchant, Tori Amos, Raoul Bova (I have no idea who this is), Anita Mui, Julie Andrews, Diana Rigg, Alessandra Ambrosio (nope, not her either), and Tom Sizemore (!) all look like me with a yellow Jelly Belly in my nose. Ha ha ha. It hurts to laugh so much.
61 Years of Miracles
Today is my dad's 61st birthday! Turning 61 is not particularly impressive these days, but my father's birthday is something of a miracle. He was born extremely premature in the Ural mountains to Holocaust survivors, only kept alive when my grandparents placed him in an oven. Think about the irony in that.
Several years later, my dad was electrocuted by a live wire in a train yard while waiting to leave for his new life in America. Once in the US, he was hit head on by a car, thrown through the air, and landed head first into another parked car. Yet he lived through all of this and went on to double the size of his family when he married and had children of his own. Having a family, to my my father and grandparents, is nothing short of a miracle and the best gift of all.
As part of that "miracle gift," I want to wish my dad a super happy 61st birthday! I love you!
Several years later, my dad was electrocuted by a live wire in a train yard while waiting to leave for his new life in America. Once in the US, he was hit head on by a car, thrown through the air, and landed head first into another parked car. Yet he lived through all of this and went on to double the size of his family when he married and had children of his own. Having a family, to my my father and grandparents, is nothing short of a miracle and the best gift of all.
As part of that "miracle gift," I want to wish my dad a super happy 61st birthday! I love you!
More Criticism
Today’s letter to Metro New York confirms my fear about the column: that I didn’t do a good job expressing my view, which is sort of unforgivable given that it is an op-ed piece (regardless of yesterday’s letter writer’s opinion):
Either way, my problem is this: my goal was not to compare Israel to the founding fathers, but rather to call out the hypocrisy of Americans who call for Israelis to abandon their country under the pretenses of illegal occupation when those same Americans are likely living on land obtained illegally. Why should Americans not live up to the high standards they are setting for Israelis? These people should be fighting for land restitution to Native Americans if they are so upset about illegal occupation of land. I certainly am not justifying past actions or unfair actions, but saying that if you call out one group, you need to take a close look at what your life is like. Clearly, I failed to convey that point, so that sucks. I do have to say that my original closing line, which was cut, was, “The end to illegal occupation begins at home.” Maybe that would have helped get my point across? I don’t know, but it is not there, so it doesn’t matter. Wah.
Columnist Suzanne Reisman compares the egregious treatment of Native Americans in the 19th center to that of Palestinians in Israel-Palestine, asking us to reflect a bit more about our own collective complicity in the ongoing wrongs committed against Native Americans.” Is she really asking us to lower our moral standards to the level of those who wiped out the Native American race? She may as well tell us to ignore Darfur, or condone the past the genocide in Bosnia, all because our distant ancestors committed worse crimes. When defending Israel, about the worst card one can play is to compare Israel’s treatment of Palestinians to our founding fathers; genocide of Native Americans. I doubt Israelis would be flattered by the comparison. – Justin SamraActually, now that I reread his letter while I typed it, I realize that it is not as good as I first thought, although clearly better than my friend Nicky.
Either way, my problem is this: my goal was not to compare Israel to the founding fathers, but rather to call out the hypocrisy of Americans who call for Israelis to abandon their country under the pretenses of illegal occupation when those same Americans are likely living on land obtained illegally. Why should Americans not live up to the high standards they are setting for Israelis? These people should be fighting for land restitution to Native Americans if they are so upset about illegal occupation of land. I certainly am not justifying past actions or unfair actions, but saying that if you call out one group, you need to take a close look at what your life is like. Clearly, I failed to convey that point, so that sucks. I do have to say that my original closing line, which was cut, was, “The end to illegal occupation begins at home.” Maybe that would have helped get my point across? I don’t know, but it is not there, so it doesn’t matter. Wah.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
"Pure Propaganda" Doesn't Get Any Purer!
Without further ado, I present my newest published op-ed! Incidentally, the title was not my idea.
Now that the "work" is out there, on to the fun part. There is nothing that I love more than idiots who accuse me of being an idiot! True, the article was not one of my best pieces of work (sorry, Father-in-Law, it isn’t going to nab me that Pulitzer Prize!), but dear god, what is this man even talking about? I took the liberty of italicizing my favorite parts of this hilarious letter:
I am hoping that another letter appears in Thursday's edition. Good times.
Now that the "work" is out there, on to the fun part. There is nothing that I love more than idiots who accuse me of being an idiot! True, the article was not one of my best pieces of work (sorry, Father-in-Law, it isn’t going to nab me that Pulitzer Prize!), but dear god, what is this man even talking about? I took the liberty of italicizing my favorite parts of this hilarious letter:
Ms. Reisman: You really don’t have much of a point. Exactly what are you saying? That two wrongs make a right? That because the Jews confiscated Palestinian lands, then it’s OK because early settlers ripped off Native American territory? The usurpation of Native American lands is one of history’s great injustices, but through a nice little verbal song and dance, you conflate that horrible chapter with another. In the end, might makes right. It’s whomever’s will to power is stronger. If I were a betting man, I would place my money on the Palestinians, because as Arab historian Ibn Khaldoun so astutely pointed out: The intensity of a group’s connection to the land trumps everything. Your opinion piece is pure propaganda, meant to stir feelings of crowd identity on the anniversary of Israel’s unjust acts over the Palestinians. You’re trying unsuccessfully to make the case that because America’s defeat of the Native Americans is fait accompli, then so too should people deem Israel’s illegal occupation also to be an accomplished fact. It simple isn’t. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings. –Nicholas Donald SmithOh, Nicky! Where do I even begin? I love your use of SAT vocabulary words. They did add a certain je ne sais quoi to your incoherent ramblings. And I appreciate that you addressed me directly, but with a respectful title. Thanks for the chortle.
I am hoping that another letter appears in Thursday's edition. Good times.
Update and Call to Arms
Today? Sucked. This evening? Much better. I am much calmer now that my sinuses have cleared up. Bush administration and the American people? Still fuckwads, though.
On another note, I am helping out a blog friend on a mission. Read Suebob's post, Dollar Rent A Car Sucks (and the ffollow up, and you'll know why. Poor Suebob.
Gotta go grab the towels from the drier. Who knew a quiet night of laundry would be so delightful?
Update on the update: My towels were still not dry, but that is OK because Husband discovered on Sunday that the drying unit on second from the left is broken and requires no money for it to work. So I didn't pay for my first 30 minutes, which mostly dried the towels, and I didn't pay for the extra 15 minutes I put them back in for because why get damp towels when you can have nice dry ones? Other than to save energy and all?
After I chat up my parents at 8:30, I am going to the grocery store, as I have no food in the apartment other than three jars of lingonberry sauce (don't ask), frozen Swedish meatballs, and hummus. I already bought some carrots for Tycho, so he's set. I don't even have milk, though. It would have been nice if Husband had clued me into our lack of milk before he left for his trip, but I didn't even notice it until I was having trouble falling asleep last night and went to make a cup of warm milk, only discover the lack of said dairy product. I ate hummus for breakfast on Monday and an egg and English muffin sandwich yesterday, so I didn't even notice.
Wow, this post is mundane. No worries: I have more excitement to post about as soon as I fire up my scanner, which will be after I go to the grocery store. Not only will I post my middling musings on hypocritical American liberals who demand that Israel leave Palestine while they contentedly reside on stolen Native American land, but today Metro printed a superbly awful and hilarious letter calling me names. My fingers are crossed for more reaction in tomorrow's rag.
On another note, I am helping out a blog friend on a mission. Read Suebob's post, Dollar Rent A Car Sucks (and the ffollow up, and you'll know why. Poor Suebob.
Gotta go grab the towels from the drier. Who knew a quiet night of laundry would be so delightful?
Update on the update: My towels were still not dry, but that is OK because Husband discovered on Sunday that the drying unit on second from the left is broken and requires no money for it to work. So I didn't pay for my first 30 minutes, which mostly dried the towels, and I didn't pay for the extra 15 minutes I put them back in for because why get damp towels when you can have nice dry ones? Other than to save energy and all?
After I chat up my parents at 8:30, I am going to the grocery store, as I have no food in the apartment other than three jars of lingonberry sauce (don't ask), frozen Swedish meatballs, and hummus. I already bought some carrots for Tycho, so he's set. I don't even have milk, though. It would have been nice if Husband had clued me into our lack of milk before he left for his trip, but I didn't even notice it until I was having trouble falling asleep last night and went to make a cup of warm milk, only discover the lack of said dairy product. I ate hummus for breakfast on Monday and an egg and English muffin sandwich yesterday, so I didn't even notice.
Wow, this post is mundane. No worries: I have more excitement to post about as soon as I fire up my scanner, which will be after I go to the grocery store. Not only will I post my middling musings on hypocritical American liberals who demand that Israel leave Palestine while they contentedly reside on stolen Native American land, but today Metro printed a superbly awful and hilarious letter calling me names. My fingers are crossed for more reaction in tomorrow's rag.
Blah Blah Blah
Shit that is on my mind this morning:
1. Why will my brain not shut the fuck up when it is time for sleeping so that I can actually rest? Everything else is in place and ready for dreamland – heavy eyelids, slow breathing, stretched out body – but my fucking brain is just chattering away at 100 miles an hour. Yes, I need anti-anxiety meds, STAT!
2. Why is my laptop a fucking piece of shit lately? It takes forever to load up and get running. Then frequently freezes. This morning I wrote a very long email re-explaining the planned system of child care services to someone who should have known better for a variety of reasons (i.e. – he's been told what everything is a hundred times already and in my previous email to him, I spelled things out again – SIGH), and then after I hit send, the fucking system froze. Instead of sending the message, it saved the first two of ten paragraphs as a draft. Thanks.
3. Why has my little crop of chin hairs suddenly become a chin hair farm consisting of hundreds of acres? If I don't harvest the fucking crop every day, it's practically a jungle.
4. Why is George Bush and his cabal of evil still in office? When I looked on the Metro New York website this morning to see if they finally posted my article from Monday (answer: no), I noticed an item noting that "Vice President Dick Cheney and Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki acknowledged problems in the pace of reducing violence in Iraq on Wednesday…" It's nice that they decided to stop denying that SHIT IS GONE SERIOUSLY WRONG OVER THERE, but what the fuck? Americans, you are FUCKING RETARDED for not demanding actual, competent leadership.
I used to comfort myself by thinking that at least history will judge them as harshly as they deserve, but since the cabal made all the presidential papers secret and unavailable for scholarship since they know that they are the most corrupt administration since Hoover and the Teapot Dome and more sinister, I worry that justice will never be served.
Yeah, it is a great motherfucking morning.
1. Why will my brain not shut the fuck up when it is time for sleeping so that I can actually rest? Everything else is in place and ready for dreamland – heavy eyelids, slow breathing, stretched out body – but my fucking brain is just chattering away at 100 miles an hour. Yes, I need anti-anxiety meds, STAT!
2. Why is my laptop a fucking piece of shit lately? It takes forever to load up and get running. Then frequently freezes. This morning I wrote a very long email re-explaining the planned system of child care services to someone who should have known better for a variety of reasons (i.e. – he's been told what everything is a hundred times already and in my previous email to him, I spelled things out again – SIGH), and then after I hit send, the fucking system froze. Instead of sending the message, it saved the first two of ten paragraphs as a draft. Thanks.
3. Why has my little crop of chin hairs suddenly become a chin hair farm consisting of hundreds of acres? If I don't harvest the fucking crop every day, it's practically a jungle.
4. Why is George Bush and his cabal of evil still in office? When I looked on the Metro New York website this morning to see if they finally posted my article from Monday (answer: no), I noticed an item noting that "Vice President Dick Cheney and Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki acknowledged problems in the pace of reducing violence in Iraq on Wednesday…" It's nice that they decided to stop denying that SHIT IS GONE SERIOUSLY WRONG OVER THERE, but what the fuck? Americans, you are FUCKING RETARDED for not demanding actual, competent leadership.
I used to comfort myself by thinking that at least history will judge them as harshly as they deserve, but since the cabal made all the presidential papers secret and unavailable for scholarship since they know that they are the most corrupt administration since Hoover and the Teapot Dome and more sinister, I worry that justice will never be served.
Yeah, it is a great motherfucking morning.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Morning After
Here's some free advice from Auntie Suzanne: if you are looking for good action that ends with a bang, don't sleep with CSI: Miami. I just finished watching four back-to-back episodes, and I had hoped that the nonstop pace would leave me satisfied. Instead, I found that 75% of the time, the show really builds the excitement up with new and intriguing moves, making me ready for a climax that would turn me away from other shows forever. Then, no fireworks; only duds. All the good work that took place over the prior 45 minutes gets thrown out the window with the lamest, fakest endings ever. Bah. Of course, I'll be back for more next Monday (or whenever I get around to watching the recording), but damn if it isn't like slinking back home after yet another regrettable one night stand when you know there are much better ways to invest your time. I feel dirty, cheap, and used just thinking about it.
Monday, May 7, 2007
When the Cat's Away...
Squeak, squeak.
Husband is in California this week, which means two things:
1. I miss him; and
2. I keep crazy hours.
This happens every time he goes away. My insomnia is extra outrageous. I’m not even bothering to fight it this time. In fact, I decided to use it to my advantage. Since I knew I’d never fall asleep at a normal time tonight, I slept in this morning, fooled around for most of the day, and then cracked down to work this evening. Maybe it is not a great idea to work on complicated Excel formulas at 11 pm, but I fucked the worksheet up pretty badly on Friday afternoon (I was tired from an irritating meeting and not paying enough attention, thus did not notice when I sorted the data that it only sorted one column and not the whole damn thing), so why not try it in the middle of the night? I won’t mention that I was also on the phone with my sister as I did some data entry or with Steph at the end when I was formatting shit….
On a related note, is it even possible to while away a day and not spend money? I managed to spend:
- $35 on alterations on a suit jacket that I bought back in January
- $2 on a subway ride to meet someone for Haven business
- $6 for lunch during the Haven meeting
- $2.11 for a book for my bookclub (after I returned another book)
- $35 for alterations on the stunning punjabi that I bought in India
- $1.50 for kulfi, which is a nutty ice cream
Just as I was feeling guilty about the fact that Husband was off working while I gallivanted about and spent all his hard earned money, I made an important discovery. For no real reason, I grabbed a copy of Metro New York to see if they decided to run an article I wrote about Israel and submitted back in February. I opened right to the op-ed page, and noticed a picture of an extremely butch-looking dyke in a black long sleeve shirt, pink corduroy pants, and pink boots. Yeah, it was me. I was quite pleased that they ran the article. (As soon as it is online, I’ll put up a link in case you are dying to know how Americans and Israelis are alike when it comes to “illegal occupation.”) I earned some money and had a new article published, so I felt better about the whole spend-a-thon I engaged in earlier, and thus decided to ask a friend to dinner and drop another $16. (And of course I have my little consulting gig, so it’s not like I’m not working at all, but that’s another story.) Thrifty I am not.
Next: catching up on a month’s worth of recorded CSI:Miami episodes. Good times!
Husband is in California this week, which means two things:
1. I miss him; and
2. I keep crazy hours.
This happens every time he goes away. My insomnia is extra outrageous. I’m not even bothering to fight it this time. In fact, I decided to use it to my advantage. Since I knew I’d never fall asleep at a normal time tonight, I slept in this morning, fooled around for most of the day, and then cracked down to work this evening. Maybe it is not a great idea to work on complicated Excel formulas at 11 pm, but I fucked the worksheet up pretty badly on Friday afternoon (I was tired from an irritating meeting and not paying enough attention, thus did not notice when I sorted the data that it only sorted one column and not the whole damn thing), so why not try it in the middle of the night? I won’t mention that I was also on the phone with my sister as I did some data entry or with Steph at the end when I was formatting shit….
On a related note, is it even possible to while away a day and not spend money? I managed to spend:
- $35 on alterations on a suit jacket that I bought back in January
- $2 on a subway ride to meet someone for Haven business
- $6 for lunch during the Haven meeting
- $2.11 for a book for my bookclub (after I returned another book)
- $35 for alterations on the stunning punjabi that I bought in India
- $1.50 for kulfi, which is a nutty ice cream
Just as I was feeling guilty about the fact that Husband was off working while I gallivanted about and spent all his hard earned money, I made an important discovery. For no real reason, I grabbed a copy of Metro New York to see if they decided to run an article I wrote about Israel and submitted back in February. I opened right to the op-ed page, and noticed a picture of an extremely butch-looking dyke in a black long sleeve shirt, pink corduroy pants, and pink boots. Yeah, it was me. I was quite pleased that they ran the article. (As soon as it is online, I’ll put up a link in case you are dying to know how Americans and Israelis are alike when it comes to “illegal occupation.”) I earned some money and had a new article published, so I felt better about the whole spend-a-thon I engaged in earlier, and thus decided to ask a friend to dinner and drop another $16. (And of course I have my little consulting gig, so it’s not like I’m not working at all, but that’s another story.) Thrifty I am not.
Next: catching up on a month’s worth of recorded CSI:Miami episodes. Good times!
Meet Me in the Chicken Coop
Have you ever sat in a meeting where it was utterly impossible to pay attention? Most recently, I "participated" in a lunch meeting in a corner bodega that happened to have a small seating area, and I could not stop staring at the cans of gravy stocked on a grocery shelf. They were Franco American brand, which I just discovered isn't even made any more (it's all Campbell's now – sad!). What caught my eye, however, was the size of the cans. They were gallon size cans of turkey gravy. Who the fuck needs a gallon of gravy? I don't particularly like gravy, so I just stared and stared in utter revulsion, thinking about someone coming in to buy a gallon can of gravy.
Gravy or not, I have a long history of spacing out during boring meetings. At my prior job, the staff was subjected to monthly "all staff meetings" during which we gathered in the conference room and used the high tech speaker phone to dial into a conference call with HQ and the rest of the staff in California. In my first year of employment, the New Yorkers generally paid attention and were respectful, but by the time I left, we had been goofing off for years. Often we just put the phone on mute and either mocked the crap out of people or did our own work silently.
One day when the other worker bees were being productive during a meeting, my little mind started to wander. If I had to eat a food beginning with only one letter for the rest of my life, what letter would I choose? I suspected that "C" was the correct answer, as cookies, cheese, cake, and chocolate all fall under that rubric (and to be healthy, there are carrots), but just to be scientific, I devised a chart with all the letters of the alphabet and began listing essential foods under each letter. By the end of the meeting, I had decided that "C" was indeed my best option.
Ever since that fateful day, I've been confident in my analysis. Yesterday threw me for a loop. I was eating eggs and ruminating upon how much I love them in all forms when it hit me: eggs do not begin with "C." Could I really live an egg free life if the horrible day came and I was forced to only eat "C" foods? Panic set in. I might need to reevaluate everything. Fortunately, Husband kept his cool and thought logically.
"Chicken eggs begin with 'c'," he reminded me.
Crisis averted. Have a happy Monday.
Gravy or not, I have a long history of spacing out during boring meetings. At my prior job, the staff was subjected to monthly "all staff meetings" during which we gathered in the conference room and used the high tech speaker phone to dial into a conference call with HQ and the rest of the staff in California. In my first year of employment, the New Yorkers generally paid attention and were respectful, but by the time I left, we had been goofing off for years. Often we just put the phone on mute and either mocked the crap out of people or did our own work silently.
One day when the other worker bees were being productive during a meeting, my little mind started to wander. If I had to eat a food beginning with only one letter for the rest of my life, what letter would I choose? I suspected that "C" was the correct answer, as cookies, cheese, cake, and chocolate all fall under that rubric (and to be healthy, there are carrots), but just to be scientific, I devised a chart with all the letters of the alphabet and began listing essential foods under each letter. By the end of the meeting, I had decided that "C" was indeed my best option.
Ever since that fateful day, I've been confident in my analysis. Yesterday threw me for a loop. I was eating eggs and ruminating upon how much I love them in all forms when it hit me: eggs do not begin with "C." Could I really live an egg free life if the horrible day came and I was forced to only eat "C" foods? Panic set in. I might need to reevaluate everything. Fortunately, Husband kept his cool and thought logically.
"Chicken eggs begin with 'c'," he reminded me.
Crisis averted. Have a happy Monday.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
"I Don't Get It"
Last night, Husband and I went to Newark to hang out with some of his friends from high school. His friend Dr. M asked me if I had a web page, so I gave him a CUSS sticker.* He stared at it for a second, then brought it closer to his face and squinted at it for a few minutes, then looked at me, then looked at the sticker again.
"This isn't your website," he said and frowned.
"What are you talking about?" I replied. "That is my website."
"It doesn't say suzannereisman.com," he said matter-of-factly and in a tone implying that I am an idiot for not knowing my own web page.
Sometimes, I worry about people. And, incidentally, he is a medical doctor, so if you are ever in a hospital and hear him paged over the loudspeaker (which is hard since I did not reveal his name, but I am tempted to for the safety and well-being of my blog friends), run away quickly. He himself encourages this.
*As for CUSS stickers, they are available for FREE to anyone who emails me at cussandotherrants AT gmail DOT com. If you intend to go to the BlogHer 07 conference (and you should if you can afford it!), I'll be giving them out there, too.
"This isn't your website," he said and frowned.
"What are you talking about?" I replied. "That is my website."
"It doesn't say suzannereisman.com," he said matter-of-factly and in a tone implying that I am an idiot for not knowing my own web page.
Sometimes, I worry about people. And, incidentally, he is a medical doctor, so if you are ever in a hospital and hear him paged over the loudspeaker (which is hard since I did not reveal his name, but I am tempted to for the safety and well-being of my blog friends), run away quickly. He himself encourages this.
*As for CUSS stickers, they are available for FREE to anyone who emails me at cussandotherrants AT gmail DOT com. If you intend to go to the BlogHer 07 conference (and you should if you can afford it!), I'll be giving them out there, too.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Gratitude
While I may not be the best writer in the world, I really love it and I hope that someday I might be able to eke out some sort of living from it. However, I’m very insecure about the whole thing. It upsets me that I depend entirely on Husband to support me, and that while he commutes to Connecticut (and around the world) to work hard, I’m ditty bopping around home or wherever earning nothing. Granted, he loves his job and wants me to do something that I enjoy as well, so he’s fine with the situation for now. Most other people understand that I am lucky to be in a situation where I can take time off and try to start over. No one seems to think that I am a leech mooching off of Husband except for me, yet I worry about incessantly. (Obsessive worrying is one of my talents.)
Logically, I know that Husband’s Parents do not think that I am coasting on their son’s coattails, but I can’t stop myself from (no longer) secretly harboring concern that they frown upon my mostly unemployed status. Especially my father-in-law (FIL), who is an engineer and already thinks that I am a lunatic, but in a nice way. So I was super touched when I received an email from Mother-in-Law at the end of April that said:
Thanks, FIL, for your faith in me. I am so lucky to be part of your family in so many ways. Now ignore me while I get all choked up and sentimental in the corner… There’s nothing to see here.
Logically, I know that Husband’s Parents do not think that I am coasting on their son’s coattails, but I can’t stop myself from (no longer) secretly harboring concern that they frown upon my mostly unemployed status. Especially my father-in-law (FIL), who is an engineer and already thinks that I am a lunatic, but in a nice way. So I was super touched when I received an email from Mother-in-Law at the end of April that said:
Thought you'd be interested in the following. I was telling [FIL] that my director's husband had just won a Pulitzer prize, and that was probably as close as I was ever going to get to a winner of this award. [FIL] said, that that was true, until Suzanne won one. He didn't say" if Suzanne wins, but rather, "when Suzanne wins." See, you have many fans and people rooting for you.Reading that leaves me speechless for so many reasons. No one leaves me speechless!
Thanks, FIL, for your faith in me. I am so lucky to be part of your family in so many ways. Now ignore me while I get all choked up and sentimental in the corner… There’s nothing to see here.
Friday, May 4, 2007
My First Period, Revisited
One morning approximately three weeks before my 12th birthday, I woke up with a stomach ache. Because I disliked many aspects of school and preferred to stay up all hours of the night reading, I frequently woke up with a “stomach ache.” However, this day was different. My sides hurt like hell, and so assuming that a major bought of diarrhea or something was in store for me, I convinced my parents to let me stay home. I went back to bed, hoping it would go away if I out-slept it.
When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?
At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.
“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.
My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.
I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”
“No, I used a tampon.”
“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”
“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.
A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me.
I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.)
My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”
“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”
My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”
I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.
When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?
At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.
“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.
My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.
I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”
“No, I used a tampon.”
“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”
“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.
A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me.
I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.)
My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”
“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”
My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”
I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Sex v. Baby-Making
I am so loving the stories people are telling in response to my inquiry about how they learned how babies are made. However, one thought these comments aroused (heh heh) in my little head is the difference between learning about how babies are made/where babies come from and about sex in general. After I learned how babies were made, I don't think that I thought about people having sex just to have sex because it felt good. Then again, my Barbies were getting it on with Ken, so I must have had some concept of the many purposes of sex. On the other hand, I was clueless enough to ask my mom how babies were made, so perhaps this is just another sign that I was not the most perceptive lass out there. Hmmm…
By the way, Forever rocked the house, as did Then Again, Maybe I Won't and to a lesser extent, Are You There God?.... (Not to mention the brilliant comedy that emanates from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and SuperFudge, although they had nothing to do with the traumas of puberty. I still laugh out loud just thinking about scenes from those books.) Long live Judy Blume!
By the way, Forever rocked the house, as did Then Again, Maybe I Won't and to a lesser extent, Are You There God?.... (Not to mention the brilliant comedy that emanates from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and SuperFudge, although they had nothing to do with the traumas of puberty. I still laugh out loud just thinking about scenes from those books.) Long live Judy Blume!
Gross Confession Time
My left foot falls asleep when I am on the toilet for a long time. This is a weird development, and I am not sure what to do about it, as sometimes I require being on the toilet for a long time. On the other hand, sometimes I am sitting atop the throne for longer than necessary because I am checking my email or blogging. Yep. You read that right – I take my laptop to the bathroom with me. A woman's gotta maximize her limited time. I see nothing wrong with this, although you may want to think twice about borrowing my laptop when I see you at BlogHer 07. (You are going, right? And guys, you are invited.)
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Oh.My.God.
"Oh my God" is one of those phrases that requires context. In some settings, it expresses indignation or irritation. In others, it conveys mortification or embarrassment. It can also be used to show different types of excitement, if you get my drift.
While I say, "Oh my God," frequently in all ways, yesterday the link between "Oh my God" as please-ground-open-and-swallow-me-this-minute and heavy breathing formed in my mind. I was working on my book about the trials and tribulations of growing up, and began a chapter on sexual awakening. As I wrote about the time I asked my mom how babies were made when I was in fourth grade, I was immediately transported back in time…. (Cue flashback/excerpt.)
I turned to my mom for enlightenment. Every fall and spring, we had a "girl's night out" where she took me shopping for new clothes for the upcoming season, as I generally outgrew everything from the prior year. It was just the two of us, my dad staying home with my sister. In the fateful year of the bra, I decided to revisit the whole where babies come from issue while were shopping for t-shirts and shorts that I could stuff my roly poly figure into without looking obscene.
Really, though, by the spring of 1986, did any kids still ask their parents where babies come from? No! Most had enough common sense to learn about it in less embarrassing ways: from older kids or by digging through the library for books like, "Where Did I Come From?" Kids who were even nerdier than me might have waited an extra year and figured this shit out in the "sex ed lite" we were given in 5th grade, with the boys herded off to one room with the male junior high teachers and the girls shuttled into another, so we could learn about wet dreams, periods, and where babies come from. (Some kids probably learned about sex by reading their dad's stashes of porn mags, but I'd argue that this does not actually teach anyone where babies come from, so it doesn't count.) The point is, I am the only fourth grader dorky enough to decide to ask my mom.
Closing time was approaching at Old Orchard mall, and my mom and I walked toward one last shop before the clock struck 9:00, and I turned into an unclothed pumpkin for the summer. The April air was cool on my face. I appreciated that it would be hard to see my face in the dark. The time was right. I took a deep breath.
"Mom," I said began nervously, then spat out the rest, "How are babies made?"
I grabbed her hand and held it tightly once the words escaped my lips, but I could not look at her.
She grabbed my hand back just as tightly, maybe out of surprise that I asked, but definitely uncomfortable. "The parents have sex," she replied in a straightforward manner. "The husband places the penis in the wife's vagina."
Oh my GOD! What was I thinking, asking her this? I wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and die of embarrassment. No wonder my other friends preferred to hear crazy stories from other kids. I had to play it cool, though.
"Oh, OK." I said. Maybe I asked some follow up questions, but if I did, I blocked them out of my memory for good reason.
For the rest of the day, I was mortified. Last night, I told Husband about what a freak I was and asked how he found out how babies were made.
"Did you ask either of your parents?" I inquired.
He laughed. "No! I'm not a fool! I waited to learn about it in school. It wasn't a burning question."
Um, thanks. Here's my question to you, Dear Reader – how did you find out how babies were made?
While I say, "Oh my God," frequently in all ways, yesterday the link between "Oh my God" as please-ground-open-and-swallow-me-this-minute and heavy breathing formed in my mind. I was working on my book about the trials and tribulations of growing up, and began a chapter on sexual awakening. As I wrote about the time I asked my mom how babies were made when I was in fourth grade, I was immediately transported back in time…. (Cue flashback/excerpt.)
I turned to my mom for enlightenment. Every fall and spring, we had a "girl's night out" where she took me shopping for new clothes for the upcoming season, as I generally outgrew everything from the prior year. It was just the two of us, my dad staying home with my sister. In the fateful year of the bra, I decided to revisit the whole where babies come from issue while were shopping for t-shirts and shorts that I could stuff my roly poly figure into without looking obscene.
Really, though, by the spring of 1986, did any kids still ask their parents where babies come from? No! Most had enough common sense to learn about it in less embarrassing ways: from older kids or by digging through the library for books like, "Where Did I Come From?" Kids who were even nerdier than me might have waited an extra year and figured this shit out in the "sex ed lite" we were given in 5th grade, with the boys herded off to one room with the male junior high teachers and the girls shuttled into another, so we could learn about wet dreams, periods, and where babies come from. (Some kids probably learned about sex by reading their dad's stashes of porn mags, but I'd argue that this does not actually teach anyone where babies come from, so it doesn't count.) The point is, I am the only fourth grader dorky enough to decide to ask my mom.
Closing time was approaching at Old Orchard mall, and my mom and I walked toward one last shop before the clock struck 9:00, and I turned into an unclothed pumpkin for the summer. The April air was cool on my face. I appreciated that it would be hard to see my face in the dark. The time was right. I took a deep breath.
"Mom," I said began nervously, then spat out the rest, "How are babies made?"
I grabbed her hand and held it tightly once the words escaped my lips, but I could not look at her.
She grabbed my hand back just as tightly, maybe out of surprise that I asked, but definitely uncomfortable. "The parents have sex," she replied in a straightforward manner. "The husband places the penis in the wife's vagina."
Oh my GOD! What was I thinking, asking her this? I wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and die of embarrassment. No wonder my other friends preferred to hear crazy stories from other kids. I had to play it cool, though.
"Oh, OK." I said. Maybe I asked some follow up questions, but if I did, I blocked them out of my memory for good reason.
For the rest of the day, I was mortified. Last night, I told Husband about what a freak I was and asked how he found out how babies were made.
"Did you ask either of your parents?" I inquired.
He laughed. "No! I'm not a fool! I waited to learn about it in school. It wasn't a burning question."
Um, thanks. Here's my question to you, Dear Reader – how did you find out how babies were made?
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
A Semi Sort but Not Really Mother's Day Fairy Tale
Enjoy CUSS's guest blogger, WebKittyn. I'm psyched to have her.
Long ago and far away in a remote world known as 'da bronx, new yawk,' there lived a princess named Jayne. A Jewish-American princess to be exact, one of the first of her kind. She lived the role perfectly, for her 16th birthday she got a trip to Cuba with her mother, a pink Cadillac and a nosejob - not to mention a party at the Copa. Princess Jayne was the jewel of the clan and the light of her daddy's eye. She grew up in an atmosphere of wealth, security and love.
Across the lands and on the 'other side of the tracks' there lived a rogue named Charles. Charles grew up in the Irish Catholic section of the town, surrounded by opulence on all sides but stuck in the ghetto with the rest of the 'shanty Irish.' Born to a Finnish mother and American father, WWII soon intervened and Charles lost his father. Taught to speak only Finnish, Charles was raised by his mother for a short time until she decided she didn't want him anymore. She dropped him off at her deceased husband's mother and two sisters and never looked back. What Charles lacked in money he more than made up for in tough love from his grandmother and soft love from his two aunts who raised him together.
Princess Jayne finished high school and went to work for her father, she was being prepped to take over the company that had netted such a lucrative lifestyle. At the same time, Charles the Rogue also finished high school leaving a legacy of hijinks and hooliganism before going off to serve in the US Air Force.
Right around the turn into the 1960's, Princess Jayne was seriously dating a Cuban Jewish man named Manny. Her family approved and it looked as if the deal was done. Charles the Rogue was back from the Air Force and having lost some of his rogue nature had enrolled in college on the GI Bill. Both frequented a local watering hole halfway between the 'right' and 'wrong' sides of the tracks called the Maplewood. It all changed here.
The Princess and the Rogue met one night, a bit of conversation and nothing more. A month or so later after seeing each other and making small talk had gone by. The Rogue was working his way through school with two jobs, one of which was Good Humor Driver. It had been a long day selling ice cream, he was in the Maplewood drinking cold beer. Much cold beer. The Princess was there with her friends drinking Manhattans and giggling.
The Princess got up to leave, the Rogue followed her out. She took off in her car and he followed her. He chased her all the way back to her house, his Good Humor song blowing the whole time. The Princess heard nothing, she didn't even realise she was being chased by a Good Humor truck!
46 years later, the Princess is still as much in love with the Rogue as she was then. The Princess sacrificed her crown and family for a long time as she stood for the man she loved. She traded in the easy life to work in Korvettes so he could get through graduate school. She worked job after job supporting him as he lived his dream of opening and running a rare book store.
46 years later the once-Princess who is my mother is still working to support my father who now sports an oxygen tube and a pacemaker. Every day she gets up at 6AM and works, she comes home and there is her joy of 46 years. My mother keeps everyone together and has done so my entire life. As if it isn't enough at home she is everyone's surrogate mother at her job and I can't think of a single person who doesn't love her.
I don't know if I will ever be a mother or not but I know I will never come close to the woman who is my mom. She is my constant inspiration, best friend and role-model, superhero, wife extraordinary, pillar of strength to the world and my true hero.
Happy Mother's Day, mom. I really and truly love you.
This post is part of the May Blog Exchange, please click over to check out the Blog Exchange and find out more about it.
WebKittyn regularly blogs at WebKittyn Warbles, her little corner of insanity. She is also the owner of KMRL Mojo Radio Live, a growing internet radio station. Having smoked her last cigarette on February 7th, WebKittyn is bound and determined to trek Mt. Everest Base Camp before she dies.
Suzanne's post can be found at WebKittyn's Warbles, please come by and check it out!
Long ago and far away in a remote world known as 'da bronx, new yawk,' there lived a princess named Jayne. A Jewish-American princess to be exact, one of the first of her kind. She lived the role perfectly, for her 16th birthday she got a trip to Cuba with her mother, a pink Cadillac and a nosejob - not to mention a party at the Copa. Princess Jayne was the jewel of the clan and the light of her daddy's eye. She grew up in an atmosphere of wealth, security and love.
Across the lands and on the 'other side of the tracks' there lived a rogue named Charles. Charles grew up in the Irish Catholic section of the town, surrounded by opulence on all sides but stuck in the ghetto with the rest of the 'shanty Irish.' Born to a Finnish mother and American father, WWII soon intervened and Charles lost his father. Taught to speak only Finnish, Charles was raised by his mother for a short time until she decided she didn't want him anymore. She dropped him off at her deceased husband's mother and two sisters and never looked back. What Charles lacked in money he more than made up for in tough love from his grandmother and soft love from his two aunts who raised him together.
Princess Jayne finished high school and went to work for her father, she was being prepped to take over the company that had netted such a lucrative lifestyle. At the same time, Charles the Rogue also finished high school leaving a legacy of hijinks and hooliganism before going off to serve in the US Air Force.
Right around the turn into the 1960's, Princess Jayne was seriously dating a Cuban Jewish man named Manny. Her family approved and it looked as if the deal was done. Charles the Rogue was back from the Air Force and having lost some of his rogue nature had enrolled in college on the GI Bill. Both frequented a local watering hole halfway between the 'right' and 'wrong' sides of the tracks called the Maplewood. It all changed here.
The Princess and the Rogue met one night, a bit of conversation and nothing more. A month or so later after seeing each other and making small talk had gone by. The Rogue was working his way through school with two jobs, one of which was Good Humor Driver. It had been a long day selling ice cream, he was in the Maplewood drinking cold beer. Much cold beer. The Princess was there with her friends drinking Manhattans and giggling.
The Princess got up to leave, the Rogue followed her out. She took off in her car and he followed her. He chased her all the way back to her house, his Good Humor song blowing the whole time. The Princess heard nothing, she didn't even realise she was being chased by a Good Humor truck!
46 years later, the Princess is still as much in love with the Rogue as she was then. The Princess sacrificed her crown and family for a long time as she stood for the man she loved. She traded in the easy life to work in Korvettes so he could get through graduate school. She worked job after job supporting him as he lived his dream of opening and running a rare book store.
46 years later the once-Princess who is my mother is still working to support my father who now sports an oxygen tube and a pacemaker. Every day she gets up at 6AM and works, she comes home and there is her joy of 46 years. My mother keeps everyone together and has done so my entire life. As if it isn't enough at home she is everyone's surrogate mother at her job and I can't think of a single person who doesn't love her.
I don't know if I will ever be a mother or not but I know I will never come close to the woman who is my mom. She is my constant inspiration, best friend and role-model, superhero, wife extraordinary, pillar of strength to the world and my true hero.
Happy Mother's Day, mom. I really and truly love you.
This post is part of the May Blog Exchange, please click over to check out the Blog Exchange and find out more about it.
WebKittyn regularly blogs at WebKittyn Warbles, her little corner of insanity. She is also the owner of KMRL Mojo Radio Live, a growing internet radio station. Having smoked her last cigarette on February 7th, WebKittyn is bound and determined to trek Mt. Everest Base Camp before she dies.
Suzanne's post can be found at WebKittyn's Warbles, please come by and check it out!
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