Shit I Almost Forgot

As I was catching up on blog reading (something I forgot to mention in my previous post that I am behind in that is stressing me out), Alex's recap of BlogHer Day Two reminded me that I failed to pimp my blog. I tried. I tried really hard, even coming up with an awesome tagline thanks to Karrie ("Because life is hairy" - ha! that kills me), but only succeeded in temporarily removing my sidebar. Next year, I am going to physically pimp my blog MTV-style by covering it in pink fur and added diamond-encrusted wheels. It could be a crafts workshop or something. Tricking my laptop out is far more achievable than fixing my blog template, as the most important thing I learned during the pimping session is that Blogger does not want you to fuck with their preset templates and makes it damn near impossible for a fiddler like me to do so. So it goes.

The other shit I almost to forgot to mention was the most ludicrous bumper sticker I ever laid eyes on. Now, I've some some puzzling bumper stickers in my 31.5 years on this earth. (Most recently, those tend to say things like "Bush/Cheney 2004," but I digress.) This bumper sticker said, "If you are tailing* gonna ride my ass, pull my hair." What the fuck does that mean? I do not get it at all, but in the absence of context, I assume it is in support of unshaved snatch. Or something. If anyone has a clue, please share. (What's weirder is that I saw this car near the airport, then a few days later saw the same Sphinx car near my parents' abode. What are the odds of that?)

My final pearl of wisdom/nugget of wit that I felt the internets needed to hear involves Husband. My dad, Granny, and I were on our way back from breakfast (in which both Bubbe and Granny shockingly behaved well and did not traumatize Super Des, so now I hope she does not think that I make all up all my crazy stories about them - I do have other witnesses, just in case, some who are not related to me by blood or marriage) and we were discussing the impending nuptials of Brother-in-Law and Future Sister-in-Law, for which the whole mispuchah (that's clan to you non-Yiddish speakers) will be journeying to the New York City area. I mentioned that FSIL will be 30 in March, but BIL is only gonna be 27 in May.

"Oh, he's a cradle robber!" Granny squealed in delight.

"So is Suzanne," Dad said. "What are you, seven months older than Husband?"

"It's true," I admitted. "I was a baby wise to the ways of the world before he even opened his newborn eyes."

Damn, I crack myself up.

*Thank you, Missy, for your correction.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

You know what happens when I spend 11 days in Chicago, mostly hanging out? I get behind. Very behind. I am behind in:

1. My consulting job, although I began that at the end of April and those fuckers have yet to pay me (my last invoice-y thing was rejected for "not having enough verbs") and I am getting to the point where I am not going to do things for them until I see a fucking check;

2. My book, which I have no excuse for since I had lots of notes to turn into melodious paragraphs and I (unsuccessfully) shopped for bathing suits and new underwear and ran around cemeteries with my mom instead, as that was more fun;

3. My ridiculous online travel writing class, whose start date I misunderstood and tuned in for the first online chat last Wednesday, only to find that the first chat is tomorrow and I can't "attend" because I am supposed to go to this Police concert with Husband, Steph, and Stupid McFuck (Husband's high school friend who votes Republican against his own economic interests) and Dr. P is also arriving for one night only (although that has nothing to do with my ability to log into class); and

4. A freelance article I hoped to finish about the complex but loving relationship that exists between me, Husband, and my long-time companion, Theo Roosevelt Reisman (my teddy bear), but I didn't write the last paragraph because I spent the afternoon with my friends Rachel and Jenny and their adorable genius 2 year old daughter.

Seriously, I'm not stressing out or anything and freaking instead of watching the Mets game with Husband, who I have not seen in 9 days, or petting Tycho Bunnae, who I last pet 11 days ago. Not at all. (Maniacal laughter.)

Need Paper Panties?

If you are in the market for new cotton underwear that feels like paper, have I got a recommendation for you! Last week, I bought a six pack of variety solid color and heinous patterned Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton hispter underwear. My suspicions should have been raised when I saw that they were only $4.99 plus came with two bonus pairs in white. Instead, I was excited that I was getting such a deal.

After opening the package and feeling the thin rough "fabric" of each pair of undies, I realized that anyone who wears these with a waxed or shaved snatch is in danger of getting a paper cut on her cooter. Ouch. I also discovered that although the packaging clearly read "HIPSTER" when describing the cut, I received eight pairs of super low rise bikini briefs.

According to pictures of Fruit of the Loom Hipster undies sold through various internet purveyors, I am missing about 50% of the underwear. While the raspberry color is lovely, the narrowly cut ass is going to creep into my ample buttocks every time I wear them, thus putting me at risk for ass paper cuts. (I still think poon paper cuts would suck worse, but either is pretty awful.)

I washed them and they softened up a bit, so now they are the consistency of high quality stationary versus printer paper. I am committed to wearing each pair once and then throwing them out. Harumph.

Camping in My Mom's Underwear

My mom ordered new Lollipop underwear in the mail. One package of undies is a size 10 and the other is a size 11. Here's what this means in terms of my mom, who is proudly holding up her new size 11 acquisition.

Forget jogging shorts. These are so big compared to her that a family of four could use it as a tent while she is wearing them.

"But I don't want my circulation cut off," my mom explained when Des and I laughed and laughed at their nonsensicalness for a person of her size. "They are not big."

"Look at the picture!" I said, handing her the digital camera.

"OH! I guess these are a little big. This really gives it a different perspective." The sense of wonder in her voice made us laugh harder, and she joined us. "Well, after I put them in the dryer they'll shrink right up."

Good luck with that.

Message on a Cell Phone

My cell phone was a bad, bad friend this weekend. It died on multiple occasions, didn't ring when it was on, and then neglected to inform me that I had messages in a timely fashion. Husband headed to Brother-in-Law's bachelor party in Vegas while I was in the conference, so between busy schedules, time zone differences, and technology failures, it was hard keeping in touch with him. On Saturday night, I got a message from him (hours and hours after he left it, of course).

"Hi! We just left a gun store where we shot at pictures of Gary Busey!" he enthused. I think he went on to claim that the owners said they never saw a more natural shot, but the connection wasn't great. The thought made me laugh and laugh, though, not only because I find it hilarious that he went to a gun store and shot at pictures of Gary Busey, but also because I've seen this man play darts. Natural shot my ass.

Today Des, Kara and I are hanging out in the burbs (going to the Bahai Temple) then heading down to the Indian neighborhood area in Chicago for lunch, where we will meet Suebob and her family and also my friend Rachel and her family. Sadly, Kara leaves tonight. I know all good things must come to an end and all that, but still I am sad.

Construction

Sorry that my side bar has temporarily disappeared. Fixing, fixing, fixing...

I'm Gonna Be Rich!

I'm sitting in a workshop on how to monetize your blog. Advice I received thus far is to use key words that will lead lots of people to my site (e.g. - "Jewish pussy"), then cleverly blend paid links and ads into my site. If I follow this advice, I will become a wealthy blogger and a fine pillar of the porn industry. How exciting is that?

On top of that, some people who sat at my table for lunch tried to convince me to do affiliate selling. That means when I complain about Brazilian waxes, readers will be able to click on ads for home snatch wax kits or pubic hair dye! Isn't that awesome!

The downside is that the blog pimping session led me to realize that Blogger templates are motherfucking (see? I'm using a key word! If only I had a paid link to people who fuck mothers, I'd make $1!) impossible to customize, so unless I switch to another format, we'll more or less be keeping the pepto pink. So it goes.

Given my options, I will leave the moneymaking to Husband. He likes that shit anyway. My life is definitely too hairy for all that. Ha ha.

Cemetery Scariness

Thursday afternoon, my mom and I spent some time with the hoi polloi of Chicago's deceased. While some of the graves we saw in Graceland Cemetery touched me on a personal level (architects Louis Sullivan, Daniel Burnham, and John Root; former governor Altgeld, who tried to defend pardon the shanghaied Haymarket convicts; and the guy who founded the Chicago Cubs and National League, whose name I think is William Hulbert but I forgot), some of them were scary as shit.

Who wouldn't be terrorized at "Eternal Silence," a sculpture at the grave of Dexter Graves (!), a Chicago hotel magnate?


This statue of seven year old Inez Clarke looks sweet and innocent. On a sunny afternoon, there's nothing remotely haunting about her, just very sad. However, stories abound.
One night, a cemetery caretaker walked by the glass case at night. It was still sealed shut, but the statue was gone. The caretaker quit the next day. Others reported seeing Inez wandering around the grounds. Scary.

Saying What I Mean, Not What It Sounds Like

In a discussion about the various search terms that lead people to our blogs, I loudly announced, "I get a lot of young pussy."

And I wonder why I "project" radical lesbian? Oy.

On a slightly related note, I learned from The Branding Consultant that I need a short tag line for my blog. I pondered "Cunts, Whores, Bitches, Complaints," but thought maybe that was both too vague and too clear. Karrie suggested "Life is getting hairy." I love it. It's perfect timing, too, as I hope to attend a session on pimping my blog template later this morning. Hopefully, some good changes (including my new exciting tag line, which I am altering slightly to "Because life is hairy") are ahead.

Nice to Meet You, Too

For those of you lamenting not attending the BlogHer conference, you may have missed a great breakfast with awesome people, but you also escaped the "Speed Dating" ice breaker. All 750 or so conference attendees formed two circles around the ballroom at Navy Pier and we rotated around, greeting each other.

This was fine enough until I met The Branding Consultant.

"Hi, I'm Suzanne!" I chirped, but really screamed because I was trying to be heard over 750 other chatting people. "Here's my blog sticker."

"Hi, I'm The Blogging Consultant," yelled The Blogging Consultant in my face so I could hear her. She looked at my sticker. "You project 'Radical Lesbian!'"

"What?" I was shocked. "That's not what I am trying to project. Good thing I am going to your workshop." I think she then told me that my blog title and hair signaled that I am a radical lesbian. "Of course, I love radical lesbians, but that is not how I am trying to portray myself. I hope I don't have to change my blog logo because I really like it."

She said something that was probably important that I didn't hear and then it was time to change partners. Oh well. There are definitely far more misleading (and worse) ways to portray myself than as a radical dyke; she could have thought I was a Republican!

Best breakfast EVER

OK, it would be even better if my other blog friends who were unable to come to BlogHer this year were sitting with me right now, but I am drooling with delight as I wolf down an crappy egg sandwich in the presence of SueBob, Alex, Super Des, Average Jane, and Count Mockula! Yay! And the fact that they are willing to be seen with me in public after I had a mini meltdown on the the shuttle bus from the hotel is most impressive. (The bus took an indirect route to Navy Pier after arriving late and I needed food, damn it!)

Yesterday before everyone arrived my mom and I tromped about Graceland Cemetery, home to Chicago's most notable dead people (i.e. - George Pullman of the Pullman Sleeper Car, Philip Armour of Armour meats, Marshall Field of the best department store in the world recently ruined by Macy's, Daniel Burnham - architect of the 1893 World Fair, etc.) and some seriously fucked up statues. It was a tad bit sweaty, but most interesting. I'm going to post some pictures later.

Yeterday in "Metro New York" and Today's Dumb Ass Letter

An article I wrote on how Bush is no Hitler, but rather an incompetent Mussolini, was printed in yesterday's Metro New York. I'll reprint it here since the link is not direct, although if you want to see a very dyke-y picture of me, by all means click on the link and scroll to page 10.

Comparing Bush to Hitler goes to far
No beating around the Bush: I think that George W. is the worst president in the history of the United States. His lack of regard for the Constitution, his enrichment
of the powerful and wealthy at the expense of the rest of the citizenry, and his maniacal pursuit of war in Iraq makes him just a cut above the others when it comes to the long-term detrimental effects his actions will have on the country.

In fact, I suspect Bush may secretly wish to outdo atrocities committed against democracy by 20th century Presidents Woodrow Wilson (the Sedition Act of 1918
made it illegal to use “disloyal, profane, scurrilous or abusive language” about the government, and/or armed forces during war), Herbert Hoover (whose corruption came to light during the Teapot Dome Scandal, regarding noncompetitive bidding for an oil field on public land) and Franklin Roosevelt (who demonstrated flagrant disregard for constitutional and human rights when he authorized Japanese-American internment
during WWII). Bush certainly has the edge on these presidents once his defiance of Congress, alienation of the international community and commitment to government
in secrecy is added to his record.

Yet during a recent trip to Italy, when I saw a poster that equated him with Adolf Hitler, I was offended. Referring to Bush as Hitler is very popular with protesters in the U.S. and abroad. In doing so, protesters denigrate the true evil that Hitler wrought on this planet. Bush may be a terrible person, and his policies have undeniably led to the deaths of many thousands of people, but he never systemically ordered mass murder. Bush’s intention is not genocidal, and to claim otherwise is an insult to people who have experienced a direct attempt to permanently eradicate their cultures.

That said, there are figures from the Second World War to which Bush may be compared. Italians should know better than most that Bush has a striking resemblance to their very own fascist leader Benito Mussolini. Mussolini exploited a fearful population while promising security and order. He exercised censorship and mastered the use of propaganda, something Bush is trying very hard to emulate. While
Mussolini discriminated against minorities (in this case Italian Jews), he never sent any to death or labor camps. The parallels are thus uncanny — although
Mussolini was at least successful in getting the trains to run on time, whereas Bush is busy destroying national infrastructure, including entire cities.

I think it is very clear that I think Bush is an evil fearmonger who discriminates against different groups of people, just like Mussolini. However, unlike Hitler, Bush has not planned and executed genocide. Of course, today's letter to the editor misses the entire point completely. My friend Michael Boyajian wrote:

Regarding Suzanne Reisman’s column “Comparing Bush to Hitler
Goes Too Far” (July 25): Reisman may have it wrong. There are strong parallels between Bush and Hitler. Both used fear to reach certain ends, launched long, unjust
wars, broke the rules of democracy and targeted scapegoats — Hitler committed genocide against the Jews and Bush fostered hatred against the gay community. Yes, a close scrutiny indicates that there is some rationale to this comparison.

Michael, if your thick little head finished reading the column, you will see that I agreed with you on all of your points except that Hitler is so evil HE KILLED MILLIONS OF PEOPLE IN DEATH CAMPS. Has Bush rounded up gays and killed them? No? Then I guess the parallel is not nearly as close to HItler as it is to Mussolini and other fascist leaders who don't go that one special step further and launch genocide campaigns.

What the fuck is wrong with people that they can't understand that discrimination is a vile, morally repulsive and terrible thing, but it is not the same as killing nine million people? And this, my friends, is why I hate people.

The Gathering of the BlogHers

Those of you not traveling to Chicago for BlogHer need not be jealous. There was an announcement on the news that the kitchen in the Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier was just closed by the Health Department for vermin. Guess where us hungry bloggers will be meeting and eating? Gonna be interesting, that's for sure.

On the other hand, Chicago has plenty of great eats. Des, Alex, Count Mockula and I plan to eat deep dish pizza on Friday night. I have almost convinced my parents to come downtown and join us. That's right! If you'll be in Chicago and want to eat pizza with me, you can meet the people who produced me. Many of you are members of the Mom Reisman fan club, and this is your big chance!

Before all this happens, however, my mom and I are heading over to the infamous Graceland Cemetery to spend a few hours today. Many of Chicago's biggest names currently reside there, and the cemetery plays a fairly interesting role in one of my favorite books, The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. (It is an amazing book about the 1893 World's Fair and America's first known serial killer.)

On an unrelated note, but something that is irritating me to no end, I am reminded once again that I should not bother going to concerts. Generally I don't like live musis, as I like to hear songs the way that I know them by heart from CDs, MP3s, or the radio. Still, every five years or so, I am compelled to attend a concert. I went to see Madonna in 2001, and Prince in 2003 (or so). Hated both concerts. This year, I was super psyched to get tickets to see The Police on Aug. 1. Of course, then it turns out that Dr. P will be in town that night, which means that I will be anxious for the concert to end so I can see her. On top of that, I signed up for an eight week online course on travel writing. The first lecture was tonight at 10 PM EST. I completely misunderstood and thought that meant the first online chat was also tonight. No, stupid me. The first fucking chat is on - you guessed it - Aug. 1. So now I am going to miss that unless I miss the concert, and look like an irresponsible idiot. I don't want to miss the concert, as Danger Doll said it rocked the house when she saw it in her home state a few weeks ago, although I fear that I will hate it anyway because I am a dorky loser like that and something will probably upset my conservative musical tastes, most likely a poor rendition of "Roxanne." I am totally stressing over this, which is ridiculous.

Out of curiosity, at this point would you go to the concert or find someone else to take your ticket? (And, as an aside to the aside, if you live in NYC, we have an extra ticket regardless of whether I flake out or not.)

Trouble

Sister and I pose proudly, falsely advertising in the little study/storage closet in my parents' basement. Sister was rummaging for items she could use in her classroom when she starts teaching 1st grade at the end of the summer.

She asked me not to touch her should, which has ringworm (which I now know is a fungus, thanks to Suebob). Just in case you have never had the chance to ogle ringworm, the kid also has ringworm on her lower, lower back.
Tasty.

Confessions: This 'n' That

I'm tired. Time for confessions.

1. I like that evil radio station, Jack FM. Yes, it is corporate radio at its most raw. It displaced beloved oldies stations in both of my hometowns. (Although it failed miserably in NYC and the oldies are coming back, which makes me smile.) But it plays a reliable mix of pop and rock songs that I enjoy. It is perfect for when I drive. I am ashamed, but it reintroduced me to Bon Jovi. How can I hate a station that brings "Livin' on a Prayer" back into my life?

2. I want to burn down McMansions. Worse, I wouldn't mind if its owners were in them as the beams crashed to the floor in flames. It was a nice day yesterday, so I took a run through my old neighborhood. On one street, nearly every moderate-sized home was razed and replaced with some fucked up, pretentious palazzo squeezed into every square inch of the lot. It's depressing, and they are conquering the country. I suppose the madness will end when the housing boom finally crashes, but it is very sad that I look forward to the destruction of the housing market, isn't it?

3. I gave in to my better side, did the right thing, and agreed to have lunch with Bubbe this afternoon. Sigh. I'm bracing myself for the racist tirades.

4. I miss Husband and Tycho Bunnae.

5. I worry about letting people down with blog posts that are as mundane as this one.

Blinded by Brilliance

Question (posed months ago at CUSS): What do you expect to find when you search for "jewish pussy" on the internet?

Most recent anonymous answer: the answer is simple: there are tons of people researching 911, a lot of them are commming to the conclusion that the true financers and pushers of that event were jewish zionist.. after doing all that research one gets tired and bored and starts to desire some pics of cute jewish womens pussy. because the word jew has entered the mind.

New question: Why, God, why are people so fucked up, disturbing, and scary?

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Podcast

If you had been lucky enough (cursed?) to attend my grandmother's 85th birthday party on Saturday night, you would have played a rousing game of Bernice. Bernice is a lot like Bingo, only has six columns instead of five and the numbers are in no order whatsoever. (In Bingo, 1-15 or so can only appear under the B column; in Bernice, numbers were completely randomly assigned, making it a more challenging win and a game that goes on forever.) Also, Bernice has a little picture of my grandmother in the free space.

A podcast of this game would have been exceptionally boring, except for the following conversation:

Aunt: C 72.
Granny: Did she say C or B?
Sister's Husband: C as in your favorite word for female genitalia.
Granny: Ha ha! You can't get me to say the C word tonight!
Mom (in innocent voice to goad her into saying it): What C word.
Granny: Ha ha. (Mumbles something, possibly calling my mom a bitch.)

Ah, yes! Even Bingo is not a safe activity with my family.

I Can See Clearly Now

Everyone is late once in a while. It's not a big deal, particularly if the late arrival apologizes for his/her tardiness. It's called being considerate. So why I am furious right now?

My eye doctor is the same guy I've been seeing since I was in high school. My eyes were screwed up most unpleasantly (contact lenses that cut off the oxygen supply to my big browns, thus causing all manner of problems - this happened with two separate doctors), but I never had a problem with this guy in terms of my eyes, so I figure I'll just schedule my exams when I happen to be in town to visit the family or whatever. However, for the last several appointments, this dude is not only late, not only does not apologize for making me wait, but doesn't even bother showing up to the office before my scheduled appointment. If you can't get your ass into your office before 10:25 am, you should not make your first appointment at 10. Do you think my time is worthless and I just love sitting in your waiting room staring at old copies of Time Out Chicago? Because I don't. At all. Further, as my blood begins boiling, a simple apology for being late would calm the seething rage roiling within me. But, of course, I forgot that patients are not people deserving common courtesy. My bad.

Since this is about the 5th or 6th time in a row that this has happened, I think it is finally time to see someone new. Damn, I hate people.

On another note, here's a rhetorical question: why on earth does the suburban branch of my gym have free valet parking? There is a huge parking garage right next to the gym that anyone can park in. Is it so difficult to park your own car and walk ten seconds to the gym? I don't get it.

Some Things Never Change, Some Things Go Down the Toilet

Sister spent a good portion of the afternoon yesterday cleaning out a storage closet in the basement that formerly served as our dad's office. Not only does the room - a walled off section of the basement - contain toys that we have not used in years, but it also has records from our educational careers. Every report card, including ones from Sunday and Hebrew schools, was saved. My dad began compiling dossiers with the material.

My dossier contained a psychological report from testing that I underwent on June 3, 1983 and June 10, 1983. I was in first grade, and my mom and I cannot figure out why I was referred for testing. (My best guess is because I developed serious asthma that year and nearly died.) What fascinates me are the following findings:

[Suzanne] appears to be a sensitive, aesthetic child who also demonstrates issues with power and control... who is experiencing very little difficulty in terms of her own perception of her behavior, intelligence, school functioning, personal appearance, popularity, happiness and satisfaction, as well as perceived level of anxiety. It appears that Suzanne has a very positive self-concept and that she is experiencing herself in very positive and instrumental terms.

Yay! Go young me. Too bad all that disappeared a few years later when puberty hit like a tons of bricks, never to be recovered again.

In this [mother-daughter] relationship, it appears that Suzanne could be experienced as oppositional, negative and determined to seek her own way even if it is at her expense and contrary to even her own best interests. At times, it appears that Suzanne views herself as having carried a power struggle to such extremes that she has ruined things for herself... She does appear to perceive herself as capable of winning these power struggles and when she does so she may even give in to her mother's original demands because she may even, in her heart, agree with these demands. Her power struggles may include highly manipulative and effective methods which at times may be highly dramatic (e.g. running away).

It scares me that even at 7.5 years old, I was doing things that I do today. Except that I'll engage in battles of wills with just about anybody, not merely my poor mom. In the end, though, my evaluation said that, "She appears to enjoy her home life and views it as a great source of protection and contentment." Very true today as well.

Speaking of enjoying home life, in the ride to my grandmother's party last night (which I only wish I had the foresight to podcast), we discussed teddy bears, butter biscuits, and beavers. This is Granny's lingo for breasts, vaginas, and fur coats.

On Parasites

Ah, there's nothing like going home. I was super crabby when my folks picked Husband and I up from the airport, but at least I didn't have crabs. My poor sister, on the other hand, is not so fortunate when it comes to parasites. She brought ringworm home with her. My mom is only slightly bent out of shape about it, so Sister threatened to sneak into her room at night and rub her ringworm arm on my mom's forehead. This caused us all (including my mom) to laugh hysterically. Oy.

Tonight is Granny's 85th bday celebration gala. I am sure that many memorable quotes will be uttered. Rebecca and I will take notes.

Now I'm leaving the ginormous suburban gym that Husband and drove 20 minutes to get to (so weird for us city slickers!) and going to get my very own copy of the new Harry Potter! It will be hard to wait until Husband leaves tomorrow afternoon to read it. The challenges I face, I tell ya.

I'm Packed and Ready to Go

Chicago, here I come! I got CUSS stickers to hand out and t-shirts to sell at the BlogHer conference. My toothbrush, asthma meds, and clean underwear are tucked away in my carry on bag. Gym shoes, sports bra, and running pants? Yep, got that too. (And if you are coming to BlogHer, bring your shit too and we'll go work out together. This especially is directed at you, ladies listed below.)

I'm all set for the next 10.5 days. It's going to be crazy times, what with my family, Steph, Count Mockula, Alex, Super Des all in town, too. And the conference!

Now I just gotta get through today, which will involve the discussion of thorny policy issues and bureaucrats telling me why anything I propose to resolve them is not possible because "we've never done that before." (And you wonder why I go away so often? I flee for new scenes to preserve the tiny reserves of sanity that remain at this point.) Yeesh.

New York Steamroller

Does anyone else suspect that the Bush administration hoped that they could claim that yesterday's steam pipe explosion in my beloved city was an act of terrorism?

Just curious.

Now I'm Cookin'

Move over, delicious Amy's Organic Indian meals. You are good, and you whet my hankering for semi-spicy Indian food for quite some time. I sort of feel bad dumping you, but I'm often hungry again not long after I finish licking the plastic tray clean.

Hellooooo, Tasty Bite. Sure, you require me to actually get a microwavable bowl dirty, but damn, it is worth it. Your smooth flavors go down oh so easy. And you are a cheaper date than Amy. Tasty bite indeed.

At the end of the summer, Dr. H promised me that her mom would have us over for a home-cooked Indian meal. I am hoping that Tasty Bite will still be as alluring after that, but in the meantime, I am in love.

Aint' Nothing Like Kosher Honey

Seriously, I love people. Months ago, I discovered that a very high portion of the hits to CUSS came from searches for "jewish pussy." Who wouldn't be curious about this phenomena, so I posted a request for information. (I'm not even going to bother linking to my original post, but it more or less asked people what the fuck they expected to find when searching for the chosen poon.) Anonymous replies were encouraged, partly because I don't want to know who is obsessed with kosher snatch and partly because I thought people would be more honest.

Honest to God, the replies continue to trickle in. I got these two gems over the past few days:

Although I am not jewish I have had my share of jewish pussy. I find that jewish women are very horny and thus when I search jewish pussy I associate the lust of the women which I've had to the pics I seek.

I think our horniess is due to consumption of gefilte fish, but maybe I am wrong.

being a member of the tribe- and orthodox, if i am going to be human, and desire a look at a woman other than my wife, it HAS to be jewish...besides, I agree, Jewish women are the best looking though I might be slightly predjudiced!! As to the questiom What would my wife think of me looking at other women...she doesn't care where I get my appetite as long as I enjoy only her great cooking

I actually don't care what his wife thinks of him looking at porn, but I found the answer to unasked question horribly depressing even though it was also hilarious. (And again, I'm nominating for gefilte fish as the cause of Jewish lust.)

You know what I hate though? I hate when people get all pius about porn and sex. Does it really matter if you ogle titties and snatch of another ethnic group or race as long as you respect women? Not really. If I believed in this God, I'm guessing that God has bigger concerns than whose photos you spill the precious seed on. It is always the people who are the most sanctimonious who are the most deviant at the end of the day. All the politicians and religious leaders who rant and rave against homosexuality, porn, adultery, masturbation, etc. turn out to be addicted to jerking off over gay porn while "legally sinning" with escorts. Yes, I sure love people!

Don't Waite for Me

In a morning full of utterly depressing news (anyone shocked that thanks to bungles by the Bush administration, terrorists are stronger than ever? No? I'm not either, but it is still depressing to think how many idiot Americans couldn't tell this was going to happen), I was slightly cheered by the New York Times first page photo of cute little Jami Waite. Who's Jami Waite, you ask. Why, she's a public face for the abstinence-only group Virginity Rules.

I can only picture the orgasmic glee that overtook officials at Virginity Rules when Ms. Waite joined their merry band. Really, what are the odds that a girl named Waite wants to wait? And that she's stereotypically attractive? One or the other seems like a good possibility, but the combination of name, (lack of) desire, and looks must be rare. Oh, the slogan possibilities! (Examples: "Waite with Me," or more luridly, "Cum Waite with Me") Surely God himself had a hand in this!

I love it. Not as much as the guy in the article who uses tape to illustrate how pre-marital sex prevents married couples from bonding properly, but I do love it.

Happy 31st Birthday, Husband!

While neither of our days started out spectacularly (he woke up with a severe sinus headache; I discovered that half the places I planned to visit today for the book are closed on Tuesdays, although at least I figured that out before I got there), I am looking forward to participating in the low key birthday celebration Husband requested. We shall go to the gym, eat at home, and then watch the last two erpisodes from this past season of CSI.

While I hope that Husband enjoys his birthday, I also must thank his parents for raising such a great son. When my mother-in-law gave birth 31 years ago, she was sure she was having a girl.

"You have a boy!" the doctor announced when her baby fully emerged.

"It's not mine," Mother-in-Law infamously replied.

"He has red hair," the doctor told her.

"OK, I'll take him," she said.

Since then, both my in-laws have been fantastic parents. In a world where children are often raised according to strict gender stereotypes, Husband (and his brother) turned into amazing and wonderful human beings who fully embrace equality in relationships and life. So on the occasion of Husband's birthday, I owe major thanks to his parents for producing the love of my life. As a result of them, today is a happier day for many people.

Dotting the T's and Crossing the I's

It's 50% official. Last night I signed a contract to write an eclectic guide to eclectic New York City for Cumberland House Publishing, a small extremely eclectic press in Nashville, TN. I'm dropping the contract off with my agent (a friend of mine) later today. Needless to say, I'm pretty gosh tootin' excited about the whole thing. Little old me is going to have a published book out sometime this spring!

Yep, I said this spring. My manuscript is due on Nov. 1, so I'll be bopping around the City for the rest of the summer (when I'm not trying to fix the City's publicly funded child care system or in Chicago, that is) and most of the fall. Quite a bit of the sites have been visited already, as I worked on the proposal and sought a publisher, but there are still numerous places to see. This afternoon, por ejemple, I'll be hitting up the National Museum of Catholic Art and History in East Harlem, as well as watching kids fish in Central Park, and hanging out with free roaming peacocks in the garden of the largest cathedral in the US that may also be the country's longest ongoing construction project.

Hopefully, CUSS readers will vicariously enjoy the journey. Good times ahead!

Take a Hike

Ah, the Poconos. Not too much has changed there since the 1970s. It's good times.

Steph and I cruised around randomly for awhile after I checked out her cute little house in the woods and my eyes nearly fell out of my head after her cat stuck his face in mine. We decided to stop at Bushkill Falls, billed as "The Niagara of Pennsylvania." (I picture the park owners puffing up with pride when they say this.) Turns out that after you escape the parking lot full of fudge shops, Indian trinkets, and crap souvenirs, there are wonderful hiking trails around the waterfalls and in the forest. Thanks to the impromptu nature of our visit, we had neither proper shoes (well, I had gym shoes) or socks, insect spray, or sunscreen.

Steph glided over the rocks and the tree trunks in her flip flops, while I tripped over every single object. I was glad that I wasn't wearing my clogs or I definitely would have broken my ankle and/or fallen into the waterfall and cracked my skull open. Regardless, we had a great time trekking and will definitely go back another time.

That mostly sums up my trip to the Poconos, minus the gross overeating and stopping at sad little shops in the area. Husband, on the other hand, spent the weekend on the Jersey shore in a boarding house for a lame bachelor "party" that included a guido bar and an "antiseptic" (his word) strip club that didn't have a liquor license. Oh, I laugh and laugh.
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On another note, thanks for all the bathing suit support and commiseration.

Don't Do It

There are few things more depressing than trying on a bathing suit.

I'm just saying.

Poking the Poconos

The Shag Stick and I are hiking over two state borders later this morning to visit our buddy Steph. She lives in the boonies in Pennsylvania, plus we always have wacky times together, so I'm sure many fine stories will result from the day.

Resistance is Futile

Happy Friday the 13th.

Your Penis Name Is...

Shag Stick

Penis Name Generator

"Shag Stick" reminds me of the super ginormous dildo that I won in a raffle back in March. On Tuesday, I went to hang out with Super Des and arrived a bit early, so I went into Babeland to kill some time by ogling sex products. Turns out that the dildo I won sells for $114! Damn! Now I feel guilty that it just sits on my nightstand with googlie eyes, but it still scares the crap out of me.

Staten Island: A Borough from Another Planet

I spent the day exploring some of the more intruguing sites that Staten Island has to offer. This is research for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York City (more on that later). For those of you unfamiliar with New York's outer boroughs, Staten Island is the borough that is really a suburban wasteland of guido Republican Yankee fans masquerading as a part of the city. Still, I completely enjoyed my time on this island of mystery and intrigue. I went to a ridiculous science museum that displayed petrified rabbit turds in a matchbox, a lesbian Victorian era photographer's house, the craziest grotto shrine I have ever witnessed (and that is saying a lot), a museum dedicated to bolstering the case of Antonio Meucci as the true inventor of the telephone (I went in thinking they'd be crackpots, I left cursing that theiving Bell), and finally a labrynth at a Moravian church. Good times.

The thing that truly blew my mind, though, was when I got on a public bus and asked the driver if he stopped at Hodges Pl. (I knew the route went by it, but it was my way of passively asking him to alert me when we got there, a very common practice among NYC bus riders.)

He looked me in the eye. "I don't know the names of the streets this bus stops at."

"Excuse me? You don't know where this bus stops?"

"I only know it goes down Victory Boulevard," he said and smiled.

Now that scares the crap out of me way more than the Staten Island Ferry crowd.

I Think Those are Mine

Picture it: Wisconsin, 1998. A young girl, her sister (who just graduated from high school), and three friends (Alex,Dr. P, and Dr. H, who just gradduated from college) are on a celebratory road trip. The girl and her sister shared a duffle bag to reduce the amount of luggage they needed to put in the trunk of their Bubbe's white Cutlass Supreme, which they borrowed for the occasion after their parents' Cutlass Supreme went to the shop for emergency repairs. They have seen the (cheesy) splendors of Wisconsin Dells, although for the life of her the young girl can't currently remember what the hell they did there except stay in a Holiday Inn with an indoor waterslide and pool. Next they traversed the wonders of Minneapolis and the suburban Mall of America, which were delightful. Now, on the drive back to the Chicago area, the ladies stop for lunch.

The restaurant is a scene to behold. A train track is built around the length of the wall, with a model train tooted around the perimeter of eating customers. A string, much like a laundry line, hangs high above the patrons' heads across the center of the room. A mechanical bear on a unicycle "pedals" back and forth. Oh the fun!

Not long into the meal, the young girl's sister pushes her chair back.

"I am going to the bathroom," she announces dramatically and scampers off. The other travelers nod and keep eating whatever greasy diner food is on their plates, most likely with side orders of fries. A few minutes later, the sister returns to the table and sits down.

"You know, while I was going to the bathroom, I looked down and noticed how pretty much underwear was," the sister announced. "Then I realized that I don't own underwear that color."

The young girl stopped eating and looked at her sister. "What color were they?"

"Blue," the sister responded.*

"Hmmmm..." the young girl reflected for a minute. "I think those are mine."

"Oh," the sister said.

The young girl thought even longer. "Also, I think those are dirty."

"Ewwwwwwwww..." everyone gasped. Then they all laughed and laughed and drove home another five hours and lived happily ever after.
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*Or maybe green. The young girl isn't so young any more and forgets details these days.

Laundry Room Crotch Eating

As per Steph's request, here is the Ricola underpants story.

After I graduated from college, Husband and I moved in together. We couldn't afford anything because he still had a semester of school to go (I graduated a year early thanks to a shitload of AP credits; he graduated a semester early) and I was planning to attend law school. (I dropped out on my third day. Long story, but one of the best decisions I ever made.) We managed to secure ourselves an illegal sublet of a ground floor maid's quarters in a fancy schmancy building on Central Park West. It was 200 square feet (260 including the oddly large bathroom that I kept my Ikea wardrobe in because there was no other space), and had no stove or oven, but it was safe, clean, in our price range (a thousand smackeroos a month), had doormen, and 3 blocks from the law school I dropped out of. (Ooops.)

To get to the apartment, you went into the stairwell that led to the basement. Then you walked by the stairs to a door on the back wall marked "Private." Behind the door was a narrow long hallway with four rooms, three of which were connected to form our living space. (The fourth was a tiny room used for an "office" by the freak who owned a massive condo upstairs. He'd come in and out at all hours, and initially proposed using our bathroom, to which I adamantly said no to, and fortunately he relented, or I would not have rented the place.) It was an odd situation, to say the least. The building staff definitely wondering what our deal was, as we clearly did not fit in with the other tenants and lived in a stairwell. We lived there for three years.

I'm sure it was no surprise to the staff when I had my laundry incident. Steph's building didn't have a laundry room, so she often came over to do laundry with me in my building. One day, I pulled a pair of underwear out of the drier. Something was stuck to the crotch.

"What the fuck is this?" I wondered aloud, peering at it closely and poking at it. It was hard. I smelled it. "Smells medicinal… maybe I left a Ricola in a pocket and it melted onto my granny undies."

It was feasible. I had just recovered from a cold. "There's only one way to know for sure," I said and then I licked the object.

"You know," Steph said through fits of laughter as she picked herself up from the floor, "the security camera is pointed right at you. I'm sure the guys at the front desk are enjoying watching you eat out the crotch of my underwear."

I shrugged. "They probably expect nothing less from me."

Stay tuned for the story of the Midwest road trip, Sister, and my undies, as per Dr. P's request.

Hell is Just Around the Corner, I Think

It's not just the state of the world which makes me think that hell is just around the corner. (No, if it were solely politics and such, it would be clear that we already live in some outer ring of hell.) A few weeks ago, I said it was hot here. I was wrong. Not a clue as to what I was talking about. Because it is so fucking hot here right now that I swear the dry hairs on my legs could serve as tinder and spontaneously burst into flames in my jeans. That would suck.

In order to prevent barbecuing myself, I was forced into drastic measures. I acknowledged that I could not wear jeans without making myself swoon. Then, I shaved my legs. I figured if they could become inflamed in my pants, I probably was not much safer with them exposed to the elements. Because it is that fucking hot out.

Brilliance: $2.99 (plus tax)

Addictions come in many forms, and mine is eggs. I eat several eggs a week, alternating the real deal for EggBeaters every few times so that my cholesterol doesn't shoot through the roof. Allow me a Forrest Gump moment here. I like eggs over easy, poached, scrambled, omelets, sunny side up, fried, hard boiled, and soft boiled. Actually, I don't even know the difference between fried and sunny side up, but they both taste good.

My problem, then, is actually cooking eggs. Yes, I realize that eggs are about the easiest things to cook in the entire world (except for maybe asparagus, which I made last night on our George Foreman Grill with olive oil, salt, and pepper), but I hate cooking. I don't care how "easy" it is, somehow I always make a mess and I despise cleaning.

A few weeks ago, I was in Bed, Bath, and Beyond (we now have everything except Target and Ikea in Manhattan, I swear) and I saw the answer to prayers that I didn't know I had: Oh, yeah! I just crack my little eggies in the container, nuke 'em, and voila! - delicious, perfectly formed eggs that fit right into an English muffin with very little mess. Even I can handle washing a piece of plastic.

Whoever invented this, you are my hero.

Die, Evil Trends! Die Already!

I’m on a crazy spree today. It was set off when I noticed a pair of flip flops on sale for "only $19.99" on the back of an Eddie Bauer catalog. (Remeber when flip flops cost $1.99 in the crap aisle of the local pharmacy and were pieces of shitty foam and plastic meant to be worn to the beach or pool? I miss those days.) You can ignore it if you want to. Here are my cardinal sins in women’s “professional” attire:

1. “Dress” shorts. I don’t give a rat’s ass if your shorts are tailored and made of fancy materials. They are still fucking shorts. They don’t belong at work unless you work in a place where it is generally considered OK to wear shorts anyway, so why bother wearing tailored ones?

2.“Dressy” flip flops. I don’t care if flip flops have the fucking Hope Diamond glued on them, they are fucking flip flops. Unless you work in the recreation industry, why on earth does anyone think that flip flops are appropriate for work? I see men wearing flip flops to casual events all the time. I do not see them wearing them to the office or formal occasions, like weddings. Men seem to have figured out that flip flops are not, in fact, shoes, even when they come with neat arch supports and gold braid.

Really, ladies. Could we act any more unprofessional? You want bare legs and/or toes in summer? Fine, wear a skirt. Ever heard of sandals? (You know, things with soles and at least some structure. Not the super strappy ones.) Sometimes I think that women will never be equal in the work place because at heart, we don’t really want it. Who the fuck can take a person wearing shorts or flip flops to work seriously? You can’t even bother getting dressed, and shorts look utterly ridiculous with suit jackets because they are shorts. Wear them to the damn beach or pool or park with your foofy flip flops.

Whew. Lots of rage radiating out of me, but I sure feel better now. Smile.

Update: I want to clarify. I don't care what people wear to work as long as they dress within reason. That means if men are expected to wear suits or shirts, pants, and shoes at a work place, I expect that women would also be expected to wear the same type of clothing. If no one is expected to dress nicely, then I don't care what women wear. (Except that I hate flip flops anyway. Just a personal thing.) The point is, if we want to be respected and taken seriously, we need to look the part at least a little bit.

Suzanne and Husband as Simpsons 'Toons

The Happy Couple

(Thanks to Suebob for the idea.)

Conundrum

Who would have thought another situation which requires the input of CUSS readers would present itself so quickly? Yet here I am with an important dilemma that requires the thoughtful recommendations of what is clearly the most intelligent readership in the blogosphere.

As I was dressing yesterday, I came across a pair of light pink Victoria’s Secret low rise underpants in my underpants/bras/slips drawer. They looked vaguely familiar, but not so much so that I automatically knew they were mine. I took them into the living room, where Husband was fooling around with his 15,000 MP3s.

“Are these your girlfriend's?” I asked, knowing full well that they were not or I wouldn’t have asked.

“No, she doesn’t wear that brand,” he said, not even looking away from the monitor.

“Seriously, do you recognize these? I’m not sure if they are mine.”

“Then how’d they get in your drawer?”

“I was thinking that they may have been left in a washer or drier that we used, we didn’t notice them, and they got lumped in with our stuff.” It is definitely one of the risks of using a building-wide laundry room. In the past, we have definitely wound up with socks that don’t belong to us.

He thought about it. “No, I think they are yours.”

So, dear readers, what would you do? Throw them out? Wear them, thinking even if they are not yours, at least they are clean? The fate of my butt and crotch is in your hands….

The Smoke Behind the Mirror

A few days ago, Working Girl over at Mostly True Stories wrote a nice recommendation about CUSS. (And I must, in good faith, tell CUSS readers that her story about getting a cervical cap is about as priceless as it gets. This is not a you-scratch-my-back,I'll-scratch-yours type of thing. I'm saying it is a must read.) Anyway, part of her referral said:

I was kind of scared. I thought she was an angry feminist and that I had made an enemy. (I am also a bit of an angry feminist, but that doesn't mean that I'm too stupid to be afraid of other angry feminists.)

Then she went on to say nice things about me. This cracks me up because, as Working Girl so insightfully discovered, for all my vitriolic spew, I am really a big teddy bear pushover.

Seriously! Here I go and start about about hating the removal of female pubic hair and being all judgmental about the people who like it and their problems with accepting that adult women don't look like pre-teens. Then I meet all these really excellent women who say that they wax or shave or whatever and they personally like it for whatever reason. It makes me think about how much I hate it when people judge me and call me gross for my personal body preferences and here I am doing the same thing. So I decide that while I am a supporter of the beaver with its full coat, maybe I should back the fuck up when it comes to bugging other people. Unless they are automatons. (Automatons always deserve scorn for mindlessly following the advice of crap purveyors like Cosmo, which assures us that we will die alone and unloved and worst, uneaten if we dare to just be ourselves.) Logical people tend to make me get over my prejudices and biases and look outside my own little world. Not a very scary or angry reaction.

Sure there are core beliefs that I stand firm on, like my belief that while breastfeeding is clearly important, it's not my damn business to be harassing women who don't do it. I also like paying taxes, and feel that to live in a just society, Husband and I should pay our fair share of the benefits we reap. (That may mean I am crazy, though.) I can understand why people are against legal abortion based on their own moral code, but I'll never be convinced that I must be forced to live under their beliefs, nor will I accept that I don't have "values" because mine don't dovetail with the vice squad.

I'm happy that Working Girl and others stuck around CUSS for awhile to see behind the facade. I may talk tough, but really I'm just a another woman who is not quite 5'2", 128 lbs, married to the first person she slept with, doesn't tend to drink (and in fact regret that last night when I ordered a Toasted Almond at a bar, I forgot to tell the bartender to go heavy on the milk, easy on the amaretto, so it was too strong for me), is afraid of drugs, and has no tattoos. Not intimidating at all. Unless you mess with my family or friends. Then I will hunt you down and fuck you up. I think.

Live Free or Die Swearing

"Yippee kayeh ki-yay*, motherfu-" said John McClane in Live Free or Die Hard, which I gleefully took in with Husband last night. (I don't fully understand it, but I adore Bruce Willis.) My mind, apparently, filled in the rest of the word because I was sure he said "motherfucker," just as he has in the previous three moves, always to my delight.

"Nope, he never said it," Husband explained. "They wanted a PG-13 rating, so he could not say 'motherfucker.'"

"Let me get this straight - McClane called people 'dickhead,' 'whore,' prostitute,' and other colorful phrases that I can't recall right now, but that is fine for a PG-13?"

"They say those things regularly on TV now," Husband replied.

"OK, but there are exploding helicopters, cars, and airplanes. People are run over by cars. Hundreds of people are shot. A guy gets mulched by gears. This is OK for a PG-13, but not the word 'motherfucker?'"

It seems so. Since I have long understood the ratings system to be utterly corrupt, I can't say that I am surprised by this. However, it does disappoint me that the producers of Live Free or Die Hard would cut McClane's trademark line in an effort to get an PG-13, not R rating. One of the reasons that I've always loved the Die Hard series is that there are no women characters who are in them just to look sex or have sex with McClane. Sure, there are generally no women in these movies at all, but that's also OK with me. Sometimes I just want to watch a ridiculous movie with shit being blown up and jokes being made and "yippee kayeh ki-yay motherfucker" being uttered. And the other movies did just fine with this formula. Why start pandering to the oddly prurient now? Bah.

* This is how Urban Dictionary spells it, so I'll go with them as an official version.

My Mother's Daughter

My mom sent me an email last night:

Got a big kick out of your Memphis blogs. Could you tell Ev (a responder to your Gritz Synagogue blog) to read my response to her inquiry? Also, tell JustaGirl that her 'cue sense is right on target!

Love, mom

Ev is one of two fantastic writers at Nowhere, IL, a blog I savor only in part for its frequent write ups on tractors. The comment my mom referred to was this:

We're totally jealous of your trip to memphis. It's only 3 hours from our house, and we talk about going all the time, but we haven't done it yet.

I want to see Graceland, and feel the power that is Elvis. I want to see the Sun records studio and listen to blues music on Beale Street, and have a seedy liason with a cheap whore (okay...it mught be my cheap whore, but after a few beers, it's all good.).

Next time call first and we'll go too. Does your mom like dykes?

My mom responded:

To Ev,

I like anything that helps the environment by conserving water.

I have a very clear mental picture of my mom sitting in the basement in sweatpants and a blue navy baggy cardigan, slightly hunched over the keyboard hunting and pecking the letters to type this out. She is also chuckling maniacally. Just like I do when I say or write something that I find particularly clever and/or amusing.

A Patriotic Proposal

Dear Elected Official,

I know that there are many serious issues our country is supposedly facing right now (and I say supposedly because mostly we don't do anything productive about them, not because they are not serious), but I must point out a very important problem we as a nation experienced yesterday: the 4th of July fell on a Wednesday. Many of us freedom (from work)-loving citizens found this distracting. We had to work on Monday and Tuesday, then go right back to work on Thursday and Friday unless we wanted to use vacation or personal days. Is it not the right of every American to enjoy a long weekend as the result of non-religious federal holidays?

If you would pass a law banning the 4^th of July from falling on a Wednesday that would resolve this upsetting situation. Since I know that Congress has little to no control over the calendar, I find it acceptable for the law to say that if the 4^th of July falls on a Wednesday, as a nation, it will officially be observed the following day. Then we can have fireworks on the evening of the 4^th and no one will have to go to work the next day. (Lovable but unpatriotic haters like Suebob can skip the fireworks, though, and still get the next day off. They need it to soothe their dogs' frayed nerves.)

I am concerned that not passing this law shows that you have no respect for the hard work of our Founding Fathers (and their wives, like Abigail Adams who often gave them good ideas and got no credit). Every year, we show our love for past presidents by guaranteeing that Presidents' Day falls on a Monday. Memorial Day and Labor Day are also cherished days on every American's calendar. I know that people generally don't give a rat's ass about veterans (other than lip service about our gratitude for making the world free and shit), which is why the Veteran's Administration health system gets cut every year, so it makes sense that Veteran's Day remain on Nov. 11. No need to give people a long weekend to celebrate them, which is the point: do we want to lump the birth of our nation in with Veteran's Day? No! We want people to have time to spend with their families, overeating hot dogs (or in my case, dumplings) and getting into arguments about how to best cut a chocolate chip cookie cake frosted with a big old American flag without worrying about finishing the rest of the week at work.

This law will be the best thing to happen to our nation since we founded it, you'll get the love of the people forever, and it was all my brilliant idea! I am sure that bipartisan support will be easy to garner, and the idiot in the big chair at the White House will sign it right away into law, as he loves taking long vacations, so he'll get it.

Sincerely,

Suzanne Reisman

Merkin Merriment

Enough thanks cannot be given to Count Mockula for her tip on these videos about the history of merkins. The two part series is an utterly brilliant piece of history and storytelling, and why I think British people are the rockingest. (Other evidence: "Fuck Off I'm a Hairy Women" and "The Trouble with My Vagina," two documentaries about pubic hair that appeared on public TV! Swoon!) Anyway, without further ado, I am proud to present "Balderdash and Piffle." (Discussion to follow.)



Why do I love "Balderdash and Piffle?" Let me count the ways:
1. Excellent tie in of relics! I adore relics, and I rub my hands together with delight to think that a relic sold to the pope was a piece o' fake pubbic hair.

2. Very nice explanation of word history. Love that "malkin" means "slatternly woman," as Michelle Malkin is an evil bitch female Rush Limbaugh. If only her first name were Mary, it would be a double clue as to her character or lack thereof. (In my mind, it is far more whorish to work against equality than to sleep with people for money. Malkin is a prostitute of tthe worst sort.)

3. Mockery of Bush and his name.

These videos nicely cheered me up from my post-holiday blues. (Is there nothing more depressing than the 4th of July on a Wednesday? How about the fact that 2008 is a leap year, so it won't be on Thursday next year?) Very excellent.

Cambo! And Happy Birthday Granny!

This is the most hilarious piece of television (movie reel?) ever made. Not that it is at all related, but I thought I'd share it on the event of my beloved granny's 85th birthday! May she always wear her fuzzy beaver with pride.

And now that I figured out YouTube (not that it was difficult - they give you the damn code to embed the video, for goodness sake...), I'll be bringing some exciting merkin action after the holiday thanks to a referral from my friend Count Mockula.

Happy 4th of July to those of you who celebrate that sort of thing.

Too Much of a Good Thing?

I've had a lot of extremely good food lately. I'm not terribly discriminate in what I judge to be extremely good, so maybe that's a warning.

On Saturday, I had BBQ at Interstate BBQ in Memphis, TN. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I think it is actually manna from heaven, the food that God made the sky rain on the Jews while they wandered around starving in the desert for 40 years, which is ironic, since God supposedly doesn't want Jews eating pork. (Divine retribution for worshiping the golden calf?) On the other hand, my favorite item at Interstate was the truly divine brisket, which I think came from beef, so all of my half-ignorant Biblical musings are for naught.

Sunday's dinner was cheese grits and a waffle at Waffle House in Nashville. Setting aside the bizarre conversation with an employee, it was soooo satisfying. Comfort food rocks my world.

Last night I had a sublime meal at a fancy French seafood restaurant in Manhattan. While I intellectually acknowledge that this was not even on the same scale as Waffle House, I still found them equally good in their own way. Husband claims that Waffle House, while delicious, should not be compared to high quality seafood, but does put Interstate BBQ on the same level, which is why I love him.

This should all explain why I gained almost five pounds in the last few weeks. Also why the warning needle on my digestive tract is on "ready to explode - get to bathroom NOW." Bah. Tonight I will be an Amy's organic frozen Indian dinner, which while tasty, definitely ends my super excellent dinner streak.

Scratching the Itch, Smelling the Fish

Yesterday was my seventh wedding anniversary. To celebrate, Husband and I went to a fancy French seafood restaurant that my friend Mara recommended. At first I was nervous, of course, because fancy restaurants make me uncomfortable. I'm convinced that people can tell that I don't belong and will ask me to leave any minute, which then makes me want to misbehave and do something like drink out of the creamer or eat sugar. The food made me relax, though. Saying it was amazing does not do the food justice. Tears of joy practically formed in the corners of my eyes during the second course, crab with mustard sauce.

The waiter came by. "Enjoying?" he asked in French accented English.

"Delightful," I replied.

He smiled and walked away. I turned to Husband. "How do you think he would have reacted if I said it was as good as Red Lobster, maybe better?"

Husband and I laughed and laughed. And that is why I love him.

Hair or Pus?

Now that I am home again and will sleep in my own bed for the next 17 nights (until I depart for Chicago for my granny's 85th birthday bash and the BlogHer conference), I can get back to concentrating on important topics, like disgusting bloody vaginal infections caused by improperly administered Brazilian waxes. While I was in Memphis, alert CUSSie Addy N. tipped me off to a science blog post by Tara C. Smith about an article in an infectious disease journal about a cooter infection resulting from a Brazilian that required 10 days in the hospital to treat. (Speaking of BlogHer, Leslie Madsen Brooks also covered this at BlogHer, with a link to the article.) Even after all that, the patient tried to shave her snatch six months later, and the infection came back.

My original plan was to excerpt the nastiest details, but the journal article had a much more interesting write up on the history of female pubic hair removal, and used it to examine the reason why someone whose cooter practically fell off as a result of this practice would be inclined to try it again instead of leave it alone.

The desire to be beautiful is as old as civilization itself, and beauticians are an integral part of many communities, often playing the role of a trusted therapist. However, as demonstrated by this case, certain beauty treatments may pose infectious risks in susceptible hosts. This case is notable, because it is the first case, to our knowledge, of group A streptococcal infection with toxic shock and reactivation of herpes following a bikini wax that recurred upon further depilation.

I thought this was a more interesting analysis than merely grossing people out with descriptions of vaginal pus and swelling that prevented the patient from peeing.

Sure, many women personally prefer to be bare or spare down there, and I don't begrudge any intelligent woman her right to decide how she likes her body best, assuming that they respect my decisions about mine. Ultimately, though, all those guys who say shit about furry beavers and say that women who sport bush are foul (and women's magazines that promote their spew) need to understand the risks that their absurd beauty standards can impose. And who would rather deal with pussy pus than a few pieces of pubic floss?

Lesson from the Gritz Synagogue

CUSS loves fun, so let's play a word game. What is the first word that comes to mind when you hear "Waffle House?" Jewish? No? Well, until my last supper in Tennessee, that was the last word that came to my mind, too.

Although Husband and I spent the weekend with my family exploring Memphis, we flew in and out of Nashville because no NYC airports fly directly to Memphis. We thought it would be easier to rent a car from Nashville and drive a few hours than to freak about possibly missing connecting flights at O'Hare, St. Louis, or Dallas. On our way back to the airport, we stopped at a nearby Waffle House for dinner.

As we were chowing down on cheese grits and a waffle (me) and scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns, and two chocolate chips waffles (Husband), one of the two Waffle House staff approached our booth, sweeping. (Why is it that all Waffle Houses are filled with debris every time I visit?)

"Is the food good?" he asked.

"Yep, it sure is," I said.

"Real good?" he queried.

"Real good," Husband answered.

"Tovashomoyentigd?" he asked. We had no idea what the hell he said, so we didn't say anything.

"Oh, sorry. That's Hebrew for 'Is it real, real good?' My son is studying for his bar mitzvah, so Hebrew is on my mind," he blurted out. He was now sweeping the same patch of floor next to our booth over and over again. "It's hard to get him to concentrate when his grandma is always giving him money. I only have 50s, so I said, 'Stop giving him 100s, ma!'"

Husband and I just stared at him. He went on. "Once in school my son asked the teacher if she knew the real name of Jesus Christ. She said everyone knows it is Jesus Christ, and my son said, 'No, it is Yosef Benedictine, which means son of Joseph of Nazareth.' The teacher said that was not true, and my son said, 'It is,' and she said, 'No, it isn't,' and he said, 'Well look it up in the Torah! It's right there!" He beamed.

"Uh huh," husband said.

"When we first moved down here, there was a sign at the pool that said, 'No blacks, no Jews, no dogs,' so my dad took me there and said I was only a half Jew, so could I wade in the pool?" He brayed. "But no dunking me!"

The man was just getting started with his stories. After he rambled a bit more, he told us how he served in the US Army Reserves in the military intelligence unit in Iraq and in Chechnya. I decided I needed to pay the check.

From the register, I heard him apologize to Husband. "I hope I didn't offend you when I spoke Hebrew, but I thought you were Jewish."

"We are Jewish," Husband cheerfully replied.

"Aha! I knew I could recognize my own kind!"

"Bye," I said and yanked Husband toward the exit.

"Shalom aloheinoo," he waved, then went to man the waffle irons.

Yeah, thanks to our a completely surreal experience, "Waffle House" and "potentially mentally ill Jewish man" are forever linked in my mind.