Advice to Heed

Next time you plan a trip, make sure that Just a Girl knows about it so that she can tell you where to eat. In her comment on my post about going to Memphis, JaG said that I must go to Interstate BBQ. My mom had separately heard the same thing, and last night, off we went.

I thought I had eaten good BBQ before I went to Interstate. I knew nothing. Husband and I split a sampler platter, which had beef and pork ribs, brisket, chopped pork, a hot link, BBQ spaghetti, slaw, and baked beans. For dessert, the family split this amazing concoction called Sock-It-to-Me cake, which is yellow cake with a cinnamon ribbon and drizzle of frosting, peach cobbler, and sweet potato pie. Needless to say, I was full. Later, I swear that I got a pork headache.

Today we plan to see the ducks at The Peasbody Hotel, then ride the cute trolley and go to Mud Island before heading to the airport. I was intrigued by the crazy Belz Museum of Asian and Judaic Art, as those cultures are not usually lumped together in museums, but Husband thought that seeing samurai swords and menorahs sounded boring, so we'll skip that.

Unexpected Treasures

Using the bathroom in the Elvis Automobile Museum, I noticed an SD card for a digital camera on the floor in my stall. I'm not sure how one might lose and SD care in a bathroom, but there it was. Generally, I don't pick things up off the floor in public bathrooms, but this one seemed extra clean and a free SD card was too good to pass up. I snatched it up greedily, but gingerly, in my fingernails.

"Look what I found!" I exlaimed to Husband when I met up with him outside the bathroom. "A free SD card!"

"Oooooh!" Husband loves free stuff. But he frowned. "What if it has all of someone's vacation photos on it? We should give it to the lost and found." He looked sad at giving it up, but he was right.

"I know!" Sister's Husband chimed in. "Let's look at it and see what is on it. If it is blank, keep it. If not, we can turn it in. And maybe it will have pictures of naked people!!!"

We snorted. I placed the card in our camera. Lo and behold, it had many vacation pictures, plus graduation pictures. "I'll turn it in," I said. And just as I was about to turn the camera off and remove the card, three pictures of ladies cavorting with male strippers showed up. Hilarious.

Graceland

Graceland was very cool and lots of fun. In random order:

The pool room, with walls and ceiling covered in fabric.

Elvis's furry bed, complete with mirrors and imbedded stereo.

The infamous Jungle Room! The green shag carpeting also covered the walls of the stairs leading from the room to the basement.

The den, complete with three TVs because Elvis heard that Lyndon Johnson watched all three news programs at the same time and thought it was a good idea. (The TVs were too hard to photograph, so I just captured the yellow and navy essence of the room and part of the freaky monky statue on the mirrored table.)

The living room and music room. I rather liked the stained glass.

"I don't understand why people think the rooms are cheesy," my mom declared.

"Ha ha ha ha ha," I laughed.

"No seriously, why do people find this tacky?"

"Maybe because it looks like your house?" Sister suggested.

High Up on a Ridge

While waiting to get a table at the infamous Rendezvous BBQ restaurant in downtown Memphis (1/2 a block from our hotel, but not 1/2 a mile from the Mississippi Bridge as far as I know), I felt something fluttering my nape. Swatting at it, I knocked what appeared to be a roach to the ground. Then someone stepped on it (not on purpose; they were just walking along) and its guts squished out. Yeah, that made me really hungry.

Actually, it's a nice metaphor for my feelings about Memphis thus far. It is a fun city, with so much to see and do, and yet there's a side to it that is disgusting. For example, Confederate Park and the statue of Jefferson Davis. Jefferson Davis is not a hero. He is a traitor. He led a group of traitors who defied the Constitution and seceded from the US. According to the Constitution, he should have been killed when caught. Instead, this betrayal is celebrated throughout the South as if it is not something people should be ashamed of. Southern heritage, in my mind, is as horrific as Nazi heritage. At least the Germans are smart enough to be mortified by their past actions.

Not that I think the North is better when it comes to racism. My hometown of Chicago has a vile racist past and remains the most segregated city in the US today. In New York City, my current home, I read infuriating accounts of police harassment of people of color. A memoir I just read, "Jesus Land," documents thoroughly the sick mentality of ignorant people in Indiana. So no, I am not saying the North is perfect. However, I also don't see statues and monuments to people who dedicated their lives to preserving institutions of hate and bias any where in the North. We don't deify these people, even if we aren't honest about ourselves, either.

Anyway, now that I am all worked up and frothing at the mouth, I am excited to be leaving for Graceland in a few minutes. Nothing is as soothing to the soul as Elvis's jumpsuit collection and ingesting a fried PB, banana, & honey sandwich on the premises. Then we are off to the Civil Rights Museum, which is in the historic Lorraine Motel where MLK Jr. was assassinated. It sounds like it will be a transformative experience, and just the honest look at racism and discrimination in the US that I want more of.

What Can Your Panties Do For You?

Seriously, that was the subject line of an email that I got from Hanes. Somehow my reaction (I cannot stop laughing) is probably not what they were aiming for.

Information Please

Long distance information give me Memphis, TN... Wait, I don't need long distance to contact The King this weekend. As part of my new "good life," Husband and I have started taking mini trips with my parents and sister and brother-in-law to important rock 'n' roll sites. Two summers ago, we met the family in Cleveland and visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, something my mom wanted to do for years. Last summer, Husband and I met my mom in DC and went to the Smithsonian, technically not dedicated to rock 'n' roll, but the American History Museum is full of delightful artifacts from the 1950s and 1960s. This weekend, we meet my mom in America's Mecca: Graceland.

What these little trips really illustrate, however, is that Husband is a very wonderful Husband. Since I used to contribute (a smaller piece, but still a piece) of the household income, I didn't feel so guilty about paying for things that my family wanted to do. Now, I am nearly (but not totally) incomeless, so he is spending his own hard earned money on me and my family. Even more impressive, he is traveling to spend time with my family! While I love them dearly, I fully acknowledge that spending time with them is not always the easiest. Maybe that is why these are mini trips... Still, Husband is the King in my eyes.

I'm pretty excited for Graceland as well. We ordered the Platinum tour package, which means we also get to see the car museum and the Elvis jumpsuit collection. The jumpsuit collection! How could anyone resist?!?! (To prepare, I even shaved my arm pits. I wasn't sure how die hards would feel about a hairy pitted woman wandering around in a tank top among these precious relics, and I figured there was no need to risk inciting a riot.)

Also, the thought of BBQ is making me drool, even at 8:20 AM. Good, sweaty times ahead!

The Blind Scalias of Justice

The biggest threat to liberty and democracy in the US is not George W. Bush. Sure, he's a dictatorial "my way or the highway" type, but he's essentially a stubborn idiot who only got his way because the rest of the country (including an extremely lame Congress) bought into his lies and refused to question what the hell was going on. I blame Americans for the damage we allowed Bush to create.

Dick Cheney, on the other hand, is one truly evil motherfucker. The man says that he is above the government because of his Constitutional dual role as president pro temp of the Senate and Vice President. Therefore, when he wants to keep his Lord Voldemort actions in his dark chamber, he claims executive privilege as part of the executive branch of government. Then when it is noted that as part of the executive branch of government, he is required to turn over papers to the National Archive, he says that he is not in fact part of the executive branch because he is part of the Senate. So nyah nyah on us. God only knows the full extent of the vile actions that Cheney has undertaken in the past seven years, but we will be paying for them for a long time.

While Cheney's poison will remain in our collective system for quite some time, at least Cheney is going to go away, though. The biggest threat to democracy and liberty in the US is Supreme Court "Justice" Antonin Scalia. That man is a terrifying dispenser of justice as he sees fit. Constitution? Forget the Constitution! The man is confused - when he swore an oath on the Bible to uphold the Constitution, he believed that the Bible was the Constitution, not the actual Constitution. Thus we have him repeatedly making decisions that edge us closer and closer to a theocracy. Government funded religion? Bring it on, Scalia says. Who cares about separation between church and state when we should really just have church. Free speech? Only when it is really expensive, not when it is free. Scalia's demented Bible says the rich are going to heaven and thus have more rights. Reproductive rights? Of course the man says you have the right to reproduce, it's not reproducing that offends God.

As Scalia chips away at anything that makes America worthwhile, we can only sit here and watch in horror. Unlike Bush and Cheney, he's there until he dies or decides to go away. People like Scalia never die or retire. They have missions. We are fucked.

Laziness Pays

New York City is enveloped in sauna steam. Everywhere I go, I must use my mental machete to cut paths through the heavy air. Buckets of sweat ooze from me. If anyone had the urge to interview me for a news program, I would certainly not agree to do it outside. Even if I didn't wear sunglasses, my sweatiness would make me look guilty.

Tuesday night I sat around my apartment reminding myself that I should shave my legs and pits so that I could wear a cute navy sleeveless dress with beige stitching to my big meeting at work in the morning. Hours later, I still had not touched either my razor or my electric depilatory machine thing that removes hair with dozens of rotating tweezers that supposedly yank hairs out by the root so I needn't bother with shaving again for weeks, but it never lasts longer than a few days. Pants and a blouse were thus donned Wednesday morning.

My laziness wound up to be beneficial, as a few minutes into the meeting, a woman wearing the exact dress I had planned to wear waltzed into the room. I breathed a sigh of relief. How awful would it have been if there were two of us in the same dress?!?! You know how women are; the whole meeting would have bombed, and thousands New York City's children would continue to be deprived of quality child care. Ha.

At the end of the successful session, I approached my middle-aged wardrobe twin.

"My laziness prevented us from an awkward situation," I began and told my tale.

She laughed. "Well, there aren't too many options for us petite women out there. I have a colleague who has all the clothes I do. When I know we have a meeting, I make sure I don't wear anything from Ann Taylor."

Now I know that we will pull off the new child care system. People with such extensive planning skills can achieve anything.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Out of curiosity, why would anyone agree to an outdoor interview in Washington, DC in June? Don't people know that it is motherfucking hot and humid there, and if you wear your sunglasses during an interview, you look like you are hiding something? Then again, Ann Cuntler has never been very smart.

I was at the gym when the show came on and counted my lucky stars that the flat panel TV it was on had no sound and no teletype. Just seeing Ann in her sunglasses raised my heart rate enough; I didn’t really want to hear what she had to say. But by continuing to listen to Madonna (“Ray of Light,” her best album ever in my humble opinion) on my iPod, I missed it when Elizabeth Edwards called in to very politely and calmly ask Coulter to stop her onslaught of personal attacks.

Later, I cracked myself up inventing convoluted metaphors about how Coulter gets what she deserves, like, "Don't serve me a steaming hot crock of shit and expect me to thank you for the warm pot of fondue. I'll throw it in your face!" That's sort of what Elizabeth Edwards said, only a lot more gently. (Edwards also supported gay marriage earlier this week. Why the fuck isn't She running for president? The woman has balls and convictions.)

Fans of a Hairy Situation

Last night during a minor fit of insomnia, I discovered that CUSS is referenced on an English language French chat room dedicated to the sexiness of hairy women. (The person who linked to CUSS was a little disappointed that I don't write more about unshaved snatch, but recommended it nonetheless. Whoever you are, email me for stickers!) This discovery amused me to no end, although it did not help me sleep.

On a related note, it is hot as balls here in New York, and I considered shaving my pits and legs so that I can wear a sleeveless dress to my consulting gig without looking "unprofessional." The folks who like us furry ladies will be happy to know that I didn't get around to it. They will also be disappointed that I will refrain from exposing myself to the general public as a result.

This also reminds me that Dr. P suggested that we use the pool in her complex while I was helping her move. I didn't pack my bathing suit and board shorts (which go down to my knees, thank you) as I didn't think we'd have time for frolicking (I turned out to be right, sort of). Dr. P said I could borrow one of hers. To which I refrained from reminding her that her neighbors might go blind if I were to go out in public in a normal suit, and I didn't think we had five hours to spare so I could make myself more presentable to the general American public.

There's no point to this post. I just felt like I should write something about not shaving. Hope the random anecdotes entertained at least a bit.

When the Dark Side Calls, Do You Heed Its Voice?

Here's a new CUSS feature: What Would CUSS Readers Do? (WWCRD) Sort of like my favorite evangelical reminder to consider what Jesus would do in a given ethical dilemma, WWCRD will present a moral situation in the hopes that trusted CUSS readers will weigh in with their excellent guidance.

Today's WWCRD? thorny question is:

Let's say that a beloved friend/family member is driven out of her cushy summer housing by an utterly inconsiderate roommate who keep her up all night by talking loudly, watching movies, slamming drawers, and keeping florescent lights on, among other problems. The roommate's not evil per se, but your loved one is still tormented by her annoying actions. Beloved One and others are extremely inconvienced by moving out, but its the only option left other than killing Inconsiderate Roommate.

If you were helping Beloved One move, would you give into the tempation to blow your nose into a Kleenex and stuff it behind the OCD Inconsiderate Roommate's pillow? While "cleaning," could you resist spraying Tilex into OCDIR's vase of fresh roses? Would you have other evil schemes, like getting a homeless man to come into a cup and then dumping the contents into OCDIR's Coach handbag, or is that going too far?

I confess to none of these dastardly doings, but am curious to hear from you, dear trusted readers.

Sticky Fingers

Recently, I was reminiscing with someone at a party about the early days of the internet. When I went off to pursue my bright future at NYU way back in 1994, the internet barely existed. Checking email was possible for the masses with limited understanding of technology (aka "magic" or "sorcery")through AOL, CompuServe, and Prodigy, two out of three which didn't make it past those heady early days. College students with access to computers could use some sort of complicated system known as PINE to link up to text-based email and possibly even the "internet."

(Side story: Husband recently went to a 10 year anniversary celebration of an investing club that he helped found while an undergrad. At the event, current students pulled up the clubs first website, designed by Husband. His chest puffed with pride.

"I did that!" he thought.

Then the students pulled up the current website, and projected it side-by-side with Husband's creation.

"Look at this!" they snorted derisively with laughter.

Husband sulked. "It was great for its time!")

Anyway, one of the great things about PINE was that you could "finger" people. While fingering people sounds full of illicit fun, really it meant that you typed FINGER then someone's email exchange, and the system magically told you where that person was currently logged in! Such as, "sreis = cubicle 2, 3rd North." The precision! If only the FBI or CIA had such intricate location services, perhaps we could have verified Saddam's spider hole months before snitches gave him up. (Or figured out that there were no WMD over there. Oh wait - most of us already knew that.)

Sniggering aside, we marveled at fingering others, the sophisticated stalking tool of 1994. Of course, it was utterly useless if the person you wanted to find was not logged into the system, but then you could amuse yourself by typing a vague FINGER and getting a list of everyone currently logged in! Sometimes, that was a whopping 36 people. Craziness.

Scenes from the Road

Growing up in the Midwest, I was not privy to the rite of passage that all Northeastern kids experience when they drive down with their families to Florida. Just south of the North Carolina border lies the aptly titled, bigoted little joke know as South of the Border. What is noteworthy about it is that billboards appear for hundreds of miles tauting the delights that are to be had at South of the Border. Husband, hailing from Long Island, reminisces about this place all the time. He was surprised at how many more buildings the place has sprouted since he was last there when he was 10 (or so).

Dr. P and I stopped in there because we had to. Not only technically (both of us had to pee), but morally we were obligated to go and gawk. Our favorite item was the "cheap asshole" toilet paper. At $2.59 a roll, it was quite the misnomer. Still, hilarious.

A fine token obtained on the road was my insulated coke mug. (Please ignore how awful I look in this picture, which may not be hard because the Coke mug is so dazzlingly large.) I posed for this in Dr. P's shiny new apartment. I wanted to do so while I was driving, but that turned out to be absurdly dangerous for many reasons, one being that the thing needs to hands to lift while full.

Self-Awareness

Yesterday, Husband and I spent a day outside in the warm but not hot sun at our godson's first birthday party in MA. (He's Alex's kid, so it was very nice to see her, too.) During the party, Godson eagerly crawled around to explore the spacious backyard. At one point, however, he began to cry.

"Godson is crying, but it's because he's a baby," another child, about to enter kindergarten, informed Husband.

"Yes, babies sometimes cry," he replied. "Sometimes they are hungry, sometimes they want their diapers changed, or sometimes they are hurt."

"I cry sometimes, too, especially when I don't get my way," the child told Husband in a serious tone. "Then I get a time out."

When Husband told me this story, we laughed and laughed over the kid's honesty. On the other hand, I had a sinus headache last night and my allergies are killing me today, which is exactly what happened last time I spent so much time outdoors. This kid seems to have a better understand of actions and consequences than I do.

Mold People

If I stepped into a shower at any of the various hotels or motels that I stayed in over the last two weeks and encountered the conditions that I just experienced a few minutes ago in my very own home, I would have run out screaming and demanded a full refund. (Probably between the screaming and refund demand, I would put some clothes on, just to be clear.) Until I blasted the fuck out of it with Tilex, my shower was hosting MoldFest 2007.

MoldFest has actually been going on for quite a while now. Husband is one of those people who just refused to see things he does not want to clean, so sometimes I'd conduct experiments to see how bad things could get before he'd notice that he was cleaning himself in a tub of mold. I always wind up giving up before that happens. When the mold asks you if it can scrub your back for you, it is time to clean.

In the last few months, I discovered a profoundly disturbing new shower denizen, a yellow viscous goop that appeared as splash marks or smears on the while tile wall.

"What the fuck is this?" I kept thinking to myself as I cleaned it off.

Today it looked like a giant with a raucous sinus infection sneezed on the top shelf of our shower caddy. I sniffing at it, and it smelled vaguely antiseptic. It was time for a serious shower cleaning without a doubt. When I told Husband what I was doing, he was puzzled.

"The shower is disgusting?" he asked.

It's a good thing that he is such a fine Husband in every other way.

Real Southern Comfort

Writing about the brouhaha over the new Trojan ad reminded me of a critical situation which arose while I was driving through Georgia with Dr. P on Monday. We stopped at a gas station to de-fill our personal tanks. It was the kind that had two individual bathrooms inside, one for men with a toilet and urinal, and the other for women with just a toilet. Both were surprisingly clean.

I went into the women's room while Dr. P used the ATM. As I did my business, I was delighted to find that there was a condom and "personal pleasure accessory" dispenser on the wall. For a mere 50 cents, I could get one of six erotic surprises from "Pandora's Box." I peed as fast as I could so that I could get to the fun shopping.

Alas and alac, the damn machine was broken. I exited the toilet room in a deflated cloud. But when Dr. P emerged from the men's room, I was elated to note that it had not one, but two machines on the wall! Double my chance for success! Sadly, neither of those machines worked, either. At least we got to pee and Dr. P got some dough, so not all was lost at the pit stop.

Reflecting on my almost adventure back in the mini van, I realized that sometime when I was in junior high (maybe the end of 7th or 8th grade, I can't remember exactly), my parents picked us kids up from school on the last day before summer break, and we drove down to Florida. As we passed through Georgia, we stopped at a gas station for a bathroom break. That one had outdoor bathrooms and was unsurprisingly completely nasty. What fascinated me, though, was the condom and flavored body oil/lube dispenser on the bathroom wall. I had never seen anything like it before, and I think it aroused my interest in weird sexual products and factoids.

Odd that a kid from a big city in the north should find these sex products for the first time in the Bible belt. Religious people are kinky, I tell you.

A Day in the Life

It all started like a very good Beatles song. You know: woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. Found my way downstairs and I drank a cup. Looking up, I noticed I was late. Found my coat and grabbed my hat. Made the bus in seconds flat. Found my way upstairs and had a smoke. Then somebody spoke and I went into a dream.

Except that I found my way into the dining room and had a bowl of high fiber cereal instead of coffee. And I don't really comb my hair. I just took my asthma meds, put in my contacts, and brushed my teeth. (Come to think of it, I forgot to even take my vitamins.) I was running late, though, because I spent a lot of time cleaning Tycho's litter and petting him. However, forget grabbing my coat and hat, because I could not bring myself to put on pants. The thought of getting dressed for real was incapacitating. Probably I could have handled throwing on a pair of jeans and a ratty t-shirt, but it would not be appropriate to show up for my consulting gig that way.

So I did the next best thing. I decided to work from home in my Krispy Kreme t-shirt that is longer than most dresses I see women wearing these days. I read plans and had conference calls. I wrote something for BlogHer on how Fox rejected a new Trojan ad because it was about preventing unwanted pregnancies, which they do not consider a health-related issue. I revised my poorly written memoir piece to share with my writing group tonight. All this was accomplished without wearing any pants.

Deep Sea Spear Fishing and Other Metaphoric Overkill

Where to even begin? Setting aside the idea that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," let's focus on the realities of this fine ad sent to me by the hilarious SJ of I, Asshole. I am impressed that between the "before" and "after" shots of the clam, it loudly proclaims "RARIIP." To me, that says, "This is going to hurt like a mad motherfucker," and that is true. (Thanks to the one accidental bikini wax I had, I know this for a fact.) Hence, the hairless clam in the "after" shot is "singing" like a suspect being tortured during interrogation.

As for the statement that "no one wants to eat a bearded clam," I have to disagree. There are plenty of people in the world – male and female – who can deal with the fact that grown women have pubic hair, and some of us happen to not want to hear/experience "RARIIP" anywhere near our pooties. (Even thinking about it makes me cross my legs.) I realize that not all women agree with me when it comes to cooch style, and that's fine. But don't be insisting that every single potential clam eater finds naturally hairy clams gross. It is a lie, propaganda from the beauty industry. There's something for everyone. We don't all need to be the same neatly smooth Venus to get action or love.

However, this did get me thinking: if no one likes a bearded clam, is it not also true that no one likes a mustached gherkin? Shouldn't the beauty industry begin targeting men to remind them that their curlies also get in the way? I once had a debate with a total moron on someone else's blog in which he suggested that women who don't wax/shave don't deserve his services. I asked him if he waxed/shaved his pubic hair, and he indignantly insisted that he didn't need to because no one's mouth would be near his bush. I dropped the subject then because it is clear that this man has only received very bad blow jobs for his entire life and has no idea that more than the tip of a dick can be involved. (As I write this, his other completely insane insistence – that circumcised men never experience sexual pleasure, which he based entirely on his own experience, which he somehow compared to that of non-circumcised men – makes a lot of sense. The man obviously has no concept.)

No more beating around the bush (har dee har har)! If bearded clams are gross, so are mustached gherkins. What's good for the goose is also good for the gander, who, to completely kill the metaphor, should both be plucked free, although that probably would not be good for either goose or gander, as they need their downy coats. Just like me.

There's No Place Like Home

Ah, NYC. There's nothing like it.

After I get some shut eye, I'm looking forward to sharing a thrilling ad about how gross women's pubes are. SJ, one of the greatest bloggers out there, sent it my way while I was on the road, but laptop issues (since resolved - happily!) and time issues (only partly resolved) prevented me from sharing the brilliant propaganda until I got back, although I have been marinating a post about it in my head for days.

Cackle.

Are You Tough Enough to Haul Flowers?

Whizzing along 95 behind a tractor trailer, Dr. P read the following help wanted ad: "Are you tough enough to haul flowers?" We decided that we probably weren't.

Later, a billboard for vasectomies with "no needles" and "no scalpels" caught our attention. As a surgeon, Dr. P wondered what on earth this procedure entails. I thought perphaps the doctor pinches the guys balls really, really hard in an effort to cause scar tissue According to vasweb.com (the site advertised on the billboard with a creepy picture of Dr. Stein - not Dr. Frank N. Stein, don't worry!), this is how it works:

A MadaJet® is a spray applicator which delivers a fine stream of liquid anesthetic at a pressure great enough to penetrate the skin to a depth of about 3/16", deep enough to envelop the vas tube held snugly beneath the skin. Each vas is positioned in turn beneath the very middle of the front scrotal wall and given two or three squirts. That numbs the skin and both vas tubes adequately for 99% of men. The other 1% (usually men who have scarring due to prior surgical procedures in the area) will require a bit more anesthetic delivered with a fine needle, usually with no pain at all because of the partial anesthesia achieved with the Madajet.

See? You really do learn something new and fucked up every day!

Anyway, we moved Dr. P into her new home (sob!) and I'll be heading back home tomorrow evening. I'm thinking I need to create a little function for my blog that tracks where the hell I am at any given time. It'll be called "Where is Suzanne?" and have a fun little map. That'd be as awesome as a no needle, no scalpel vasectomy.

Armadillo or Muffler?

As Dr. P and I whizzed down 95 through South Carolina at 80 miles per hour in her mini van loaded to the brink with her belongings, we passed a lump on the road. In the seconds I had to inspect it, I thought it might be an armadillo. It had a ribbed round body and a long snout. So it also could have been a muffler.

"Was that an armadillo or a muffler?" Dr. P asked.

"I was just wandering the same thing," I replied. "Are there armadillos in South Carolina?"

"I don't know. Do armadillos have long snouts?" she reponded.

"I think so, sort of like anteaters."

Yes, this is the kind of excitement we have had on the trip. We also discussed shitting in public bathrooms versus holding it in all day and the difficulties of squatting while taking a dump. Then we went to Waffle House and gorged on cheese grits. One thing I can say for the South: amazing food.

In case you have the foolish idea that I always live a life of luxury, Dr. P and I are staying at a Holiday Inn Express in Virginia on the border of North Carolina. While the room has free wi-fi (versus broadband for 16 euros a day), a microwave, and fridge, it is not quite the same standard of decor as the hotels that I stayed in with Husband. Which is more than fine.

Nothing exceptional happened on our first day of driving. At a rest stop, I decided to invest in a gallon size insulated mug of Diet Coke. It was $6.99, which is about the same cost as a few bottles of Diet Coke (at $1.25 per 16 ounces in vending machines) plus a free insulated beverage container that I convincede myself that I could use at picnics. The problem with this mug is that it is fucking heavy. Lugging a gallon of Diet Coke to your lips is not as easy as it seems. Also, it looks ridiculous. Every time I go to drink from it, Dr. P and I break into fits of hysterical laughter.

On another note, Happy Father's Day! Dad, I bought you an insulated gallon jug for Diet Coke! Ha ha ha ha.

Where I'm At

Got back to the good ol' U.S. of A. yesterday afternoon. Husband and I went home, unpacked, (I repacked for my road trip with Dr. P), showered, then went to a delightful house warming in Queens. One of the only clean shirts that I had that didn't illustrate my hairy pits (which would have been too cold to wear - it was rather chilly for June) was my CUSS shirt, so I threw it on.

At the house warming, I was talking to a commercial real estate lawyer about my book about weird things to see and do in New York, when he interrupted me.

"Does your shirt say 'Campaign for Unshaved Snatch?'" he asked with some disbelief in his tone.

"Yes it does!" I puffed out a bit with pride.

Stickers were distributed before I left the party.

Now I am heading off to help Dr. P move to Florida. More adventures to come, and thank god they do not involve walking. My blisters each have their own blisters at this point.

Priceless

Feet: Reduced to stumps at the bottom of my legs, thanks to walking 10 miles or so per day.

Clothes: Dirty and sweaty.

Knees and elbows: Covered with mosquito bites.

Nine days in Italy: Worth every moment.

Saw the Medical History Museum in Rome this morning; it rocked the house. I'm heading back to NYC on Saturday.

Ciao!

Eye Rolling

Yes, this fine establishment (pronounced Chica Chica Boom) is near my hotel. I cannot help but crack up.

Tired Dogs, Horns, and a Husband for Dr. P

Foot massages never appealed to me. I hate feet in general, so I recoil at the thought of subjecting a stranger to my tootsies. My opinion on foot massages changed around 2 pm. At this point, my feet hurt so bad from walking every day for hours and hours that all I could think about was how nice to would be to have my feet rubbed. And then I walked around for another 5 hours. (Incidentally, when I travel with others, I don't subject them to this insanity.)

The day began with a visit to a church that has a statue of Moses carved by Michelangelo.Isn't his dedication to anatomical correctness in the face of policital correctness inspiring? I mean, I've seen another Moses that he sculpted, and Michelangelo always captures his Jewish horns so perfectly. It seems that since Moses was thrown into a basket and sent down the river to save his life, his parents didn't have time to do the ritual horn removal that all Jewish boys undergo when they are also circumsized. (Might as well take everything off while the baby is wasted, right?) Girls have ours chopped off or filed down at birth since we don't get any other infant surgeries. My parents have the cutest picture of me right after I was born with my little Jew horns sticking out through a tiny shock of hair. I should post it some time. (Sigh.)

Anyway, it wound up being a day of Jewishness for me, although first I stopped off at a very cool 12th century church built on a 4th century church built on a 1st century structure used by a cult. The layers are excavated and you can go through them. While I was wandering around, I somehow wound up tailing a high school group from Texas, which was great because I learned a lot from their teacher.

My next stop was the synagogue and Jewish Museum, although on the way I stopped at another church, which surprised me by having the relics of St. Valentine. My photo will make the greatest Valentine's Day post ever, assuming I don't forget that I have it. I learned about the sad history of the Jews (is there any other kind of history when it involves Jews?) in Rome. The first Jewish community documented settled in 160 BC and evolved into a special Italian Judaism similar to Sephardic Jews, but with its own culture and traditions. I won't bore/depress you with all the ups and downs of Roman Jewish life over 1,850 years, but I was psyched to see that a tour of the Jewish Ghetto (1555-1870) was offered in the evening.

Only two other people signed up for the tour, a Jewish couple from Ft. Lauderdale. When I mentioned that I would be in their 'hood next week helping my friend Dr. P move to start a fellowship down there, the woman was excited.

"Is she married?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"Oh, my son is a doctor. I'd love to introduce them!"

I nearly fell down laughing. Dr. P may not be as amused.

Showerin' at the Car Wash, Yeah!

The bizarre bathroom locker room only gets weirder. This is the shower.There is a regular shower head, which is excellent because it is super large. On the side, there is also a shower stick, which is weird because it is so small and I can't see how it would rinse any soap off. Of course, it makes me think of a dildo as a water pick, but that is another story and makes me not want to touch it because I am sure that if I had that idea, someone else already has used it that way. Gross.

On the other side of the shower pik/dildo, you'll notice three things sticking out of the wall. The other side of the shower has another three. When you turn the appropriate lever, water splurts out of all six nodes. It's like being in a car wash! I thought it would be fun to try except that I am too short and thus the top nodes spray water directly into my eyes, which is not fun at all.

When in Rome, Stay at the Gym

The hotel rooms I am staying in while accompanying Husband on his business trip are getting progressively more ridiculous. We began at a very traditional hotel with olden-style furnishings. It was very nice, although I thought that the shower with its double shower heads was weird. (Sara's subsequent explanation was helpful, although the shower heads were not angled in a way that she described, so it still made no sense.) Then we stayed at a super luxe hotel in Milan, which came with free trays of fruit, including a persimmon that Husband thought was a "fucked up tomato." (Damn, that cracks me up.) Now, I am staying in a gym in Rome.

No seriously, my room is a gym. Not only does it have a treadmill, freeweights, mat, and big ball thingy, but the bathroom is a fucking locker room, complete with zillions of towels and a bench.(The windows behind the bed look into the bathroom/locker room.)Also, the framed photos are all of athletes accomplishing various feats of fitness. Decidedly nice to be able to work out in the room, but extremely odd to have a full locker room. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Free Fruit!

Being the Jewish white trash that I am, I was taken aback when we checked into our fancy schmancy hotel on Sunday and as we were unpacking, a porter arrived with a fruit plate.

"Oh, we didn't order anything," I said nervously and naively when I saw he was giving us something.

"It is compliments," the porter said. I think he wanted to pat me on the head.

"Grazie!" I exclaimed as he set the fruit down on our little table.

Generally, I don't get free anything when I stay in hotels, but I guess Husband has been here a few times, so that's how it goes. (Don't ask how much internet access is, though.) Husband eyed it for a second.

"Why does it have a fucked up tomato?" he asked.

"That," I said as knowledgably as possible, "is not a fucked up tomato. It is a persimmons." I felt very cultured.

Tuesday, June 12 in Pictures (and a Few Words of Explanation)

Husband had most of the day off, so we set out for Milanese adventures. We began by climbing the stairs to the roof of Il Duomo.It was sunny, which explains my grimace. (I'm terrible with glare.) Nothing explains my bad hair except my need for a hair cut.

After Il Duomo, we headed over to the Museum of Science and Technology, which was exceptionally fun and interesting. In the section on water transportation, Husband tried out a periscope from a retired submarine.

The museum also recontructed a schooner from the 1800s. In full.My only (minor) complaint is that you could not actually go onto the ship, which would have been utterly amazing. Also, large parts of the museum were under construction, so some potentially cool stuff was off limits. C'est la vie. We still spent 3.5 hours there, including a break for snacks in the vending machine room. Somehow it is even more fun to buy junk food out of vending machines in foreign countries.

Finally, we went to the Pinateca Ambrosiana, which had some great art by Ghirlandiao, Botticelli, and Leonardo, plus Brueghel, a weird favorite of mine. More importantly, it was in a completely stunning palazzo.I thought that the building itself was far more interesting than the art it housed. Except for the objects d'arte, which included a pair of Napolean's gloves and a lock of Lucrezia Borgia's hair.After our sightseeing, we trekked over to a large grocery store to stock up on provisions, as Husband so eloquently put it. As we returned to the hotel, I turned to Husband and told him that although most of the guests arrive with shopping bags in hand, he is probably the only one to show up with grocery bags. He beamed with pride.

Oh Yeah

I forgot to mention that Milan reminds me of Zurich (thanks to the trollies and stone-paved streets), New York City in the 1970s (due to the rampant grafitti), and Communist-era Berlin (the city was bombed out during WWII and rebuilt in a most uninspired manner). Everyone on the street reminds me of a New Yorker who happens to speak Italian and live in Rome. This cracks me up. Overall, I'd say that it is an OK city, but I definitely like Rome and Florence much better.

Getting to Know You

The best way to get to know a city is to walk it as much as possible. This is my theory, and it works very well except for in places like India, in which many cities have no sidewalks and many people surrounding and following you for various reasons. Today I put theory into practice and walked around Milan for 7.5 hours or so, with short stops for food, bathroom, and in historic buildings. My feet hurt. This is about the 5th day in a row that I spent over 5 hours walking, which is good, but also getting a mite painful.

The plan was to hit as many churches as possible. In part, this is due to Husband's loathing of church visits. It is also because museums are all closed on Monday, leaving me with the option of seeing lots of interesting midevil and Renaissance churches or shopping at luxury fashion houses. My day thus included viewing many people (and bones of people) who have been dead for hundreds of years, plus some very cool mosaics, and some not great works of art. My limited knowledge of art does not include a cultivated appreciation for works from Northern Italy.

Also, I stopped into a hospital built in the 1400s and 1600s, which is now a university. I think that was my favorite site. A small collection of medical instruments was even on display. Except my favorite site might have been a medival plaza with a well from the 1500s and some fascinatingly well-preserved buildings from the 1400s.

I am transfixed by visiting places that are from Ye Olden Dayes. It's hard to stand in a place like that and not feel the years and years of human use. Going back in time for a day - as a fly on the wall who happens to understand whatever fahcocked language was in use at the time - would be so interesting. Dark and pungent times, indeed.

Happily, Husband will have the afternoon off tomorrow, so I will get to spend more time touring with him. We plan to go to the roof of Il Dumo, to the science and technology history museum, and to a Renaissance-era palazzo. While he has his morning meeting, I hope to cram in a visit to another museum. (It has Lucrezia Borgia's hair!) Tonight, we are having dinner at an anti-pasta buffet of some sort, then I am going to pass out.

Va Bene!

I am told that "va bene" means "very good" in Italian, and that is how life is right now. Husband and I left Florence this morning and took the train to Milan. When we arrived, I discovered that he had forgone earning points at the Westin so that I may experience the wonder that is the Four Seasons Milano. All I can say is, holy shit. (I so do not belong here, although entering the hotel with my Ferragamo shopping bag - free from the reception I attended on Thursday - fooled people into thinking that I am the right type of person for the Four Seasons. Little did they know that the bag held a wood toy, Husband's jacket, and a bottle of hand santizer.) But don't take my word for it. Here are pictures of my room:There are two bathrooms: one has the shower and bath in it, the other is next to the dressing area and contains the toilet and bidet. Both rooms have sinks with full counters. Va bene indeed.Once we unpacked, Husband and I headed over to Santa Maria della Grazie, the church that has Leonardo's The Last Supper. Unfortunately, we did not get the notice that we had to reserve a spot at the table (so to speak) one month in advance. The church only lets in 25 people at a time to see the work at a pre-assigned time, and it is sold out until July. Oooops. We did stop in the church to catch a glimpse of Saint Catherine's cloak.For a 350 year old garment, I think it has held up pretty well. St. Catherine is my favorite saint because when her wealthy family tried to marry her against her will, she suddenly developed "invisible stigmata" and was spared the wedding. Instead, she was sent to a convent, which is what she wanted all along. Now that is fucking clever.

From the church, we wandered over to a museum and saw some good and some awful art. Then we walked over to the local synagogue, which was built in 1890. More walking, then dinner and gelato before retiring to the hotel. It was very nice to spend time touring with Husband. He has a slew of meetings tomorrow, so I am off to see as many churches with nutty objects (ossuaries, relics, etc.) and art as I can cram in. He hates going to churches, whereas I am fascinated by these things. It's supposed to rain, which will be most displeasing, but I will soldier on.

More Florence, Less Questions

Bush was in Rome yesterday to see the pope, which was a relief to me. I was worried that he would be there next week and fuck up my plans. Not that I planned to see the pope, but I was looking forward to visiting the Medical History Museum, which Dr. P, Dr. H, and I stumbled into last May when we were wondering around by the Vatican. I didn't know if the meeting of the these two great leaders of the anti-reproductive rights movement would mess with my life even more. Nothing pisses me off more than having my vacation ruined.

Anyway, this morning Husband and I were wondering how Italians felt about our great Fearless Leader. We suspected that they hate him like most Europeans do. Later, as I was wondering around, I found evidence that socialist Italians really hate Bush:The comparison to Hitler rankles me, though. Bush is much, much more similar to the Italian fascist leader Mussolini. It turns out that although Mussolini discriminated against Italian Jews, he never sent any to death or labor camps. The Jews were only deported from Italy after the Nazis invaded the country in 1943. Bush is no doubt a fascist like Mussolini. People never like admitting that their fascist leaders resemble ours, do they?

Help Me Understand (Florence Photo Edition)

Earlier this week, Danger Doll wrote up a list of recent epiphanies and asked readers to share theirs. No revelations have come to me this week, but lots of questions have been raised in the last few days. Perhaps you can help me understand:

1. The shower at my hotel in Florence.Notice that there are three shower heads. Two of them work. Those would be the two joint shower heads that I don't understand in the first place. Is it so two people can shower separately, but at the same time? But the water temperature is the same for both, and the heads are way too close together for two people to have separate showers anyway. The shower head I want to use is the one you can grab off the wall, but no water goes to that one and I can't figure out how to divert it from the two above. Showering under two shower heads is very strange. If you can figure out anything about this shower, I will be very grateful.

2. Where is the miracle chalice?I went to Sant' Ambrogio church this morning to see the chalice in which wine miraculously turned to blood in 1230 after a priest forgot to finish wiping up the cup. It is housed in a special tabernacle created for it in 1483. I know it is somewhere in this picture, as brochures in Italian assured me that it was there, and I asked someone in the church, who pointed at the structure. Is it in the lit box or behind the grille in the wall? Why is it hidden? I want to see the miracle more closely. (Ok, that last part was whining, but I am curious.)

3. How did I manage to get three insane mosquito bites on my knees yesterday? I wore jeans all day. Did mosquitos get in my pants? (If so, I won't tell Husband - he hates when others get into my pants. ha ha.) My knees have bruises because they itch so fucking badly. Are Italian blood suckers more potent?

Those are my questions for now. I look forward to your thoughts.

One More Highlight

I passed by this statue in an alleyway. The first thing I thought was, "Who farted?" Then I laughed and laughed.

Solo Adventures in Firenze

What a day! The weather was absolutely perfect, which was a relief after Husband and I were rained out yesterday afternoon. (Which was fine because we needed naps, anyway.) While Husband did his conference thing today, I explored the "Oltarno," or left bank of the Arno. The nice thing about the Oltarno is, other than the Palazzo Pitti and Boboli Gardens, there are no super famous sites there. I was hoping to avoid all the other tourismos while I looked around places that I have never seen before.

The day began with a much anticipated visit to the Museo Zoologico della Specola, which has an enormous display of preserved wildlife (including an enormous walrus), and more importantly, the largest collection of anatomical waxworks in the world. I rushed through the taxidermied animals to get to the good stuff. Besides being utterly grotestque, I was pleased to note that all the female wax bodies had copious amounts of pubic hair. For some reason, the male wax bodies had none, which I found strange. I was also intrigued to note that at least half of the wax penises were circumcised. Also odd since the waxworks were mostly made in the 1700s and I didn't think most men were circumcised back then. The only incorrect models were the enlarged wax sperms, which portray a mini baby in the head, ready for implantation. Hilarious. Sadly (although most readers will actually be very happy), no photos were allowed.

After the museum, I headed up an enormous hill to Fort Blevedere.This is Porta San Giorgio, one of the old city gates that I passed through on the way. It turns out that Ft. Belvedere is closed for repairs (or something, that's what I decided the sign said, as it was only in Italian). So I took another scenic route down the hill.Hence I encountered the second drawback to wandering around alone: if I was hit by a car, how would anyone know? (The first drawback is that I had no one to chat with during my journey.) Seriously, the road was narrow and wind-y, and there was no sidewalk. It was a little scary.

At the bottom of the hill, I went up another hill to see a few churches. This time there were stairs, which was much more convenient.I thought it was funny that the first thing that I saw at the top of the mountain was a "smoke machine."I mean, I was huffing and puffing after all that climbing, so I can't imagine how smokers make it. Is this a reward? Like, "If I make it to the top, I can have a cigarette?"

Anyway, the church I wanted to see is San Miniato al Monte, but first I stopped by San Salvatore al Minte because my guide book said that Michelangelo "was very fond of the understated two-floor structure... [and] nicknamed it 'his pretty country lass.'"I don't know. I thought it was OK, but I wouldn't have climbed a mountain for it alone. What do you think?

San Miniato al Monte, on the other hand, is worth a climb of even double the height of what it took to get there.It had an amazing mosaic over the alter (my picture didn't come out, though) and an awesome crypt with some piece or another of San Miniato himself.I couldn't get close enough to tell what it was, but I adore relics, so I was happy. The rest of the church was also beautiful, with lots of marble and gorgeous frescoes. An organist began playing while I was there, so it was just a great experience. And it had the most unusually laid out cemetary I've ever seen.

From there it was back down the hill a bit to Piazelle Michelangolio, which has nada to do with the master artist but is an enormous overlook with stunning views of Florence. Partly obscuring this view was the MTV Italy Total Request Live stage that was set up and semi-operating.None of the zillions of skanky teens milling around paid the least bit attention to me as I hacking up impressive wads of viscuous mucus into piece of toilet paper that I tore off the roll I have had in my backpack ever since I helped Dr. P move last weekend and took it to blow my nose in. I'm hoping that this stupid sinus infection is finally starting to clear up. Despite challenges both sinus and MTV, I got some nice scenic pictures:The second one has the Florentine synagogue in it, which is the building with the lovely green dome. I had
lunch up there (yogurt and a banana that I took from the hotel's breakfast buffet) before heading back down for good.

Then I wandered around more, and as I headed toward Porta Romana, which was the way out of the city in 1326, I noticed that my map showed a Jewish cemetary not too far away. I doubted that it would be open, but i hoped I could peek through the gate and get a glimpse. When I got there, I was disappointed to find that the gate was solid metal. I stood around reading the sign, which mentitoned that the cemetary was used in the 1700s after the other Jewish burial grounds, which were just outside of Porta Romana (Jews were not allowed to bury their dead within the City limits), were too full. Cosimo III gave them permission to open this. Incidentally, he also forced them to live within a walled ghetto for the first time since Jews arrived in Florence in the 1300s. It seems that the pope would not allow Cosimo III to be a Grand Duke unless he discriminated against Jews. But that's another story...

Anyway, I was debating about where to go next when a car pulled up to the gate and a guy jumped out. Turned out that he was the caretaker of the cemetary or something, so when he opened the gate I asked him if I could look inside. He invited me in, and I had a very fast look at it. The place is very overgrown with weeds and the tombs are in bad shape, but there was a very etheral beauty to it. I was very, very touched by it. The Jewish community in Florence is only about 1,500 people strong, so I can imagine how difficult it must be to keep things up.

I wrapped the day up with gelato (it was my third gelato stop) and the Brancacci Chapel, which was famously painted by Masaccio and finished by Filipinno Lippi. Very nice.

Swag!

Husband neglected to tell me until after this evening's cocktail party that only a select group of conference attendees were invited. Most of those people were exceptionally large donors to NYU's business school. Suddenly, the fact that we were at least ten years younger than anyone else there made sense.

However, I am glad that I did not know this beforehand, or I would have been extremely nervous. Also, I would have additionally rued myself for not bothering to bring any makeup or decent jewelry (I can assure you that I was the only person wearing a Flik Flak children's watch), and been even more self-conscious of my dress, which I swore fit me perfectly on Tuesday night when I tried it on before I packed it, but tonight made me worry that my boobs were going to fall out because the top was too big. And did I mention that I wore a white cotton Gap Kids cardigan over it? Oy.

Since I did not know any of this, I was pretty relaxed and had some nice chats with people. One woman even suggested that I connect with NYU when my book comes out and they would invite me to speak with students and promote it. I was pretty happy about that. (Now, let's just get a damn contract. I have heard nothing since I met the publisher last Thursday...) I loved the personal tour of Museo Ferragamo. So many cool and utterly impractical shoes to see, and I got some behind-the-scenes stories on the tour.

To wrap up a lovely evening, Husband and I were each given a Ferragamo gift bag as we left the event. Inside was a leather portfolio. As Skeeter from Varsity Blues says, "Nice. Very nice."

Plan for Friday:
1. Eat more gelato.
2. Visit museum of extremely graphic gynecological waxworks from the 17th century (seriously, I am so excited! I hope I can take pics to share)
3. Visit some churches
4. meet up with Husband later for dinner with his conference group.

Buona Sera (Damn, I'm Tired)

For a variety of reasons, I didn't really sleep on the plane last night. Unfortunately, staring blankly into space for hours at a time does not seem to be as restful as an actual night of sleep. Still, Husband and I arrived in Italy safely and ready to do some sightseeing.

First, we checked into our mad plush hotel. There are many reasons why I love accompanying Husband on his business trips. Here are four:Our main room.
Husband hanging his fancy schmancy suits up in the enormous closet in the floyer/changing area off the main room.The over-the-top hallway staircase. The whole hotel is super old world fancy. It sort of cracks me up. And yet I am slightly annoyed that we were not given a room with a view of the Arno River. Whatever.

After we unpacked, we headed over to the stunning Florentine synogogue. It is an elaborate Moorish style structure, but no pictures were allowed. Next up was gelato, of course. I led Husband to the gelateria I liked best when I was here last year with Dr. P and Dr. H. It's called Vivoli and it is not far from the synagogue. I had orange peel & chocolate; Husband had hazelnut and chocolate.

By then, we were both fading fast. We wandered around a bit more and by luck (meaning: I got lost looking for it), I found the delightful wood toy shop that I loved last year. We bought our godson a birthday present. He'll be 1 on the 21st. Yea!

More meandering for a while, then back to the hotel to clean up. There's a reception tonight hosted by the Ferragamo family that Husband and I will be attending tonight as part of his conference. Yes, this utterly cracks me up. I was not pleased that I had to pack a nice dress (actually, two nice dresses because there is another reception on Friday at the Uffizi Gallery, which I am mad excited about because we will get to go into the Coorido Vassari, which is this private passage that links Palazzo Pitti to the Uffizi so that the Medici family could go back and forth without having to mingle with the riff raff on the street, and it is not usually open to the public) and classy shoes , but whatever. I just hope I don't fall asleep tonight and/or embarrass myself. I think the reception is actually at the Museo Ferragamo, so that will be fun. There's lots of shoes on display there. Hopefully, I'll get some good pics.

Buon - Cough, Hack, Sneeze - Giorno!

Ten days is a lot of time when you're hacking mucus up. That's how long I have been sick now. Last Monday, I thought my allergies were bothering me because I had been outside all day on Sunday and then ran in the park on Monday. By Wednesday, it seemed clear that it was a cold. Not much I could do about that. As of Friday, things were so bad that I began wondering if it was a sinus infection. I made an appointment to see an allergist on Monday.

My appointment rolled around in the midst of a torrential downpour, but I coughed, sneezed, and blew my way into a taxi and to the doc's office. Part of me dreaded the appointment because I knew that torture was in store for me. When I sat down in his chair and he began preparing the Machine, my suspicions played out.

The Machine is some sort of laproscopic tool that the allergist shoves up my nose and into my fucking sinus cavity. Supposedly this will not hurt, he explained, because he prays some numbing potion into your nostrils beforehand. The first time I had this procedure done, I believed him. Then I realized that the numbing shit does not go beyond my nostrils, so I can feel the long thin camera as it prods my sinus cavity. On Monday, I made a joke about it.

"I hear they use this at Guantanamo Bay," I said chuckling joylessly.

"Really?" He was serious. I didn't expect him to have no sense of humor. This was awkward.

"Um, no," I mumbled, "but it is torturous!"

He seemed genuinely confused that I find having things stuffed into my sinuses to be unpleasant. Anyway, long story short, it was evil, but in the end, I did get to watch a little video of what my nasal passages and sinuses looked like. I love seeing my innards. Weirdly, it seemed rather vaginal. I can't entirely explain it, but I sure didn't expect that. I chose not to share my observations with my no nonsense allergist.

Turns out that everything was swollen up. After two days on Prednisone (a steroid that reduces swelling), double dosages of my regular nasal spray (Nasonex – a gift from God), and Sudafed 12 Hour, things are better. If it doesn't completely clear up in another day or two, it's onto antibiotics.

Italy, here I come! After Andrew Speaker, I just hope I don’t get quarantined there.

Congrats, Sister!

My sister's dream has always been to be a teacher. She loved playing school when she was a kid, and for Hanukkah, my mom bought Sister's gifts at educational supply stores so that Sister would have a fully stocked classroom. Sister became a full-fledged camp counselor at the tender age of 15 because of innate rapport with the kiddies. She went on to college and earned a degree in elementary education. Then, she didn't find a teaching job.

Years went by. Her community, which she loves, is not a growing one, and openings for grade school teachers were scarce. She didn't want to move, plus her husband had been recognized for his excellent work with mentally ill and disabled adults, and had been promoted to a case management position despite a lack of social work degree. This type of opportunity would not come his way again in a new city.

She worked as the coordinator of a before- and after-school program in a public school. She oversaw the program's summer camp. She subbed. She designed winter break programming for kids at the local rec center. Time and time again she learned that teaching vacancies were filled by internal transfers before the jobs were even posted.

On Friday, Sister had an interview for a first grade teaching position. First grade is her first love. The interview went well. The committee said they would let her know about a second interview by Wed. Today she received a call from the committee at work. They had a follow up question for her: would Sister accept their offer and join their faculty as their new first grade teacher?

When Sister called me with the news, I was on the corner of 79th Street and Amsterdam Avenue on my way to meet the Big O for lunch. I cried. (OK, and I'm tearing up now too.) People stared at me as they walked by. I was just so happy for her. It's not only that Sister deserves this job; it's that the kids deserve to have her as their teacher. She's going to be the best.

Crafts for the Subversive

A nice man named David emailed me and told me that his wife's knitting club had been looking into two projects which I might find out interest.This is The Snatchel. A handy little pouch for your little goodies. Instructions for crocheting your cooter can be found here at The Anti-Craft".

If you prefer using your knitting needles on male genitalia, The Anti-Craft can keep your idles hands busy.The Beanis is a fun object that I think is a beanie, although I am not entirely sure I get how you put this thing on your head. (I mean the one on your neck.) Even if it is not wearable, it is damn cool.

I myself don't knit. I like needle crafts, just not with super huge needles. Knitting needles strike me as things I'd use to stab an enemy in the face, not make cool crafts. Years ago, when in college, I hand sewed a giant stuffed penis for Husband.
This was fun to make, although I don't have nearly as good instructions as The Anti-Craft. I sort of made it up as I went along, but if anyone is interested, I could try and figure out what the hell I did.

Fun times.

So Sari!

OK, I do apologize for that terrrible pun. I only wore a sari once. It was to Dr. H's sister's wedding, back in May 1999. Another friend, Future Dr. S (yeah, I seem to have many friends of the medical persuasion, don't I?), took Dr. P and I home with her and her mom gussied us up in her finest saris. This was way before I was obsessed with India and all things Indian, but I loved it. I'm sure I looked like a big white goober (Future Dr. S's mom pinned the sari onto me so that it wouldn't fall off at any inopportune times), but I felt utterly glamorous. Clearly, that was my first clue that I needed to reclaim the lost Desi within me.