Dickheads, Penis Heads, and Clear Heads: Getting Dicked in Good and Bad Ways

After I wrote about self-described dickhead Tucker Max yesterday on BlogHer, I moseyed on over to the salon where I have gotten my last few hair cuts. Out of six cuts, I'd say three were very good, and two were acceptable at best. The sixth and last I will get from this woman? Oy. I look like an actual circumcised penis. Irony is an evil wench sometimes. Fortunately, Des agreed to try and help with her hair cutting talent, so perhaps I'll only have to wear hats until Sunday when I see her.

In other news, I read in today's New York Times that the American Cancer Society is devoting their entire advertising budget to the "consequences of inadequate health coverage." Research shows that delayed screenings and treatments due to lack of insurance are largely responsible for improving the rate of survival from various cancers. What with recent Census data informing us that 47 million people now have no insurance at all, I think this is a wonderful idea. I didn't see Sicko, but I hope that the ads take into account that many who pay for insurance find themselves screwed by their companies when they get sick. We need comprehensive reform.

Finally, back in the heart of corn, pig, and soybean country, fairness and rule of law trumps homophobia and irrational hate. That's right - Iowa, my sister's adopted home, is the second state to allow gay marriage! Yay! It makes me so happy. Of course, there is an appeal, as people appear to not be able to be happy for those adults who find love. With the most recent Republican "scandal," (Oooh - a man likes gay sex! He better resign as opposed to the Congressman who cheats on his wife with escorts.), it just reminds me that those who shout their homophobia loudest often are people who have homosexual tendencies and hate themselves for it and are determined to punish everyone as a result. As they say in Iowa, what's with the cob up your ass? (Seriously. They say this.)

Advice I Should Take

Why don't I listen to myself? In the past two days, I told myself I would or would not do certain things, and then I went ahead and did the exact opposite. Not that either action had serious consequences, but consider:

1. I ordered an amazing chocolate covered orange peel flavored milkshake from Ronnybrook Dairy Bar around 5 pm yesterday. (Does it make a difference that it was made with skim milk? Nah, I didn't think so.) Then I bought some luscious brownies from Fat Witch Bakery to bring to a going away party I was attending. As I sucked the milkshake down, my taste buds sang and my stomach rumbled. "Hmmm... maybe I should skip the caramel brownie," I thought. Hours and 1.25 brownies later, I am erupting with gas like Mt. Etna. I'm sure the hamburger I ate before the brownies didn't help either.

2. In the introduction to my upcoming book about eclectic New York City, I am very clear that people should always, always, always call ahead to make sure that a museum or other desired destination is open. Plus be sure to bring the phone number with you, just in case. Even if the website of, for example, the Kurdish Library & Museum claims it is open on Tuesday through Friday and Sunday from 1-5, they might randomly decide to close for a few weeks for Labor Day. It is not fun to find this out after you call your husband at work and have him look the museum up so that you get their number and call them while you stand in front of the locked door, especially if it is sunny and a zillion degrees and you once again forgot to put on sunscreen.

I need to listen to myself more often.

Bad Taste

My interview with egomaniac Tucker Max is up over at BlogHer. It was ready about a week before I posted it this morning, and every day I've been increasingly nervous about it because I think I am going to disappoint people since I don't hate him. I acknowledge that I have bad taste. I can't help that. I'd try and blame it on my upbringing, but there's a big difference between my mom not understanding why people think that Graceland is tacky and me laughing my ass off at a guy who accidentally jizzes in his own eye. It is not my parents' fault.

Raunch culture is a complicated thing. Things like Girls Gone Wild offend me about as much as anything possibly can, I'm totally not into strip clubs as cool places to hang out (for guys or ladies), and I don't get things like ookie cookie at all. Anti-woman jokes rarely strike me as funny. I HATE Revenge of the Nerds, which implies that women who are snobbish deserve to have spy cams installed in their homes so that nerds can spend their days watching them naked without their knowledge. I'm not a post-feminist feminist at all. Yet there are just some horrible, evil, vile types of humor that I can't help fall prey to although I know in my heart of hearts that what I am laughing at is not funny, but there I am, cringing in disgust while guiltily rolling on the floor with tears squirting out of my eyes.

So now I am sitting back cowering and hoping that quality feminists who I respect and like immensely don't unleash their wrath on me and shun me for my weaknesses. (But have you seen Varsity Blues? Horrible butrhilarious....)

Bliss in a Cup

On my way to a going away party in the West Village, I stopped off at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors. Yeah, it is every bit as loony as it sounds. Plus they have special full moon festivals every month. God, I love working on this book. I wind up in the most bizarre places.

Although the chapel is billed as a place for sacred contemplation and spiritual renewal, I found its cheesy new agey-ness hilarious. I did find Nirvana, though, near by at the Chelsea Market. This is a huge warehouse of the kitchens of gourmet food purveyors. Somehow I have never managed to make it over there before this afternoon. I wandered around the cavernous hallway in awe. Then I found Ronnybrook Dairy Bar. I had recently read that this place has milkshakes to die for. That is an understatement.

The chocolate orange peel milkshake (and yes, I felt like an asshole asking for it with skim milk) cost $5.15. But if I were run over by a garbage truck as I were sucking that thing down, I would die a happy woman. Unbelievable.

No Beating Around the Bush (heh heh) Here

The first thing I realized when I arrived at The Living Museum yesterday was that it is more a working studio than a museum or art gallery. Artists worked at stations and in installation rooms throughout the large, light filled building, which previously served as a cafeteria for patients. Other activities took place as well. During my tour, which was given by an extremely gifted artist and outpatient named John, we stopped into a room with two couches (painted a la Keith Harring) and a coffee table.

"This is our break room," John explained as we stood in the center. "We come u p here to sleep and sometimes have sex."

Yes, the museum lives up to the "Living" part of its title. I was sure not to touch anything. The same rule applied when I went to the bathroom. I have no idea what was in the sink, but it was full of some grayish, grittish substance. I decided that I should not wash my hands after squatting over the toilet and using Kleenex from my backpack to wipe.

After the museum, I headed down the street to Alley Pond Park, which is the second largest park in Queens and a nature reserve. I was so inspired by this sign that I decided to take a picture with my cell phone and risk huge fees by texting it to my email:



I love truth in advertising.

Lock Me Up

My journey to The Living Art Museum at Creedmoor Psychiatric Center was delightful. Housed in a full building on the Creedmoor campus and surrounded by an organic garden, the museum is vibrant, full of interesting paintings, drawings, and sculptures, and busy with artists at all times. A patient named John showed me around, and while some of the art was disturbing (smocks with paper vaginas pinned to them, anyone?), I felt like I could see the same stuff at the Museum of Modern Art or a SoHo gallery. The porn collages cracked me up. On the whole, though, most of the art was spectacular, and the doctor in charge of the program seemed delightful and caring.

All of this is very good because I came back home to a pile of child care project bullshit that is going to drive me into Creedmoor residency. (Every time I think I am free, there's something else that needs to be done in order to satisfactorily complete the project. The tentacles of responsibity are wrapped around me.) I am very pleased to know that I will have such nice options for art therapy. You can all visit me there. They love visitors!

The Seventh Deadly Sin

Rarely does pride come after a flood, but the Reisman family frequently defies conventional wisdom.

"I think we have the more trash than anyone in the neighborhood!" my mom reported to me breathlessly yesterday when she described their clean up efforts.

In chimed my dad, "It covers the entire front lawn!"

See? Jewish white trash like us can be #1 at something in the upper-middle class neighborhoods in which we dwell.

I'm off to catch an express bus to the Creedmoor Psychiatric Center in Queens, which has an art gallery full of residents' work.

Whew! I'm Safe Now

Not that I wasn't safe earlier today, but today's wanderings for my book led me to a friendly botanica (as opposed to the very scary one I went to in Queens a few weeks ago where a chicken foot dangling from a string of beads from the ceiling hit me in the head and I gladly paid at least five times the price of a good luck candle just so they wouldn't curse me) in the Bronx. Not only were prices not based on race, they were posted clearly for all to see. Imagine my delight when I discovered that the pink and white can of "GO AWAY EVIL" (aka "Aroma Frescante KITAMAL") air freshener was only $2.39! Not only that, but I got 30% more for free! There are definitely times after Husband or I use the bathroom that it smells like something from the depths of hell is hanging around, so this will be very handy.

Prior to my important find (supposedly this botanica is the largest in NYC), I took a subway and then a bus and then walked for 10 minutes across the SUNY Maritime College campus to reach the Maritime Industry Museum. Inside Fort Schuyler, this place is crammed to the hull with crazy shit that you can play with and also ogle. As I was poking around and taking notes, the director of the museum walked by.

"Are you writing a story about us?" he asked and adjusted his red bow tie.

I explained about the book, and he invited me into his office. As he gave me info about the museum, he asked me if I had read Maritime Museums of North America Including Canada.

"Um, no," I said. I guess I didn't do a good job explaining what my book is about.

"Well, we have a few copies lying around here," he said as he scanned a bookshelf. "Here!" He stretched his 6 foot plus frame a bit and plucked a book from the shelf. "You can have this."

"Thanks," I said as I embraced the 468 page (not including three introductions) tome. Suddenly, I had renewed hope that my desired follow up book on medical history museums of the United States (and the world!) could actually get published. Ah, to dream.

Incidentally, today is my parents' 35th wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary! I love you kooks!

Happy Birthday Dr. P and A Good Women's Equality Day to All

I think I managed to nicely pay homage to Dr. P on her 31st birthday as well as Women's Equality Day in my rambling post on BlogHer today. There's nothing I love more than forcing two semi-disparate topics together because I want to discuss them both, come hell or high water.

In the Dark

Every Wednesday night around 8:30, I call my parents. A set time ensures that we check in with one another despite busy schedules, and is a tradition turns 13 on August 28, when I moved to New York for college, although the day and time has changed many times over the years. Of course, if something important comes up between our time to talk, we just call each other. I assumed that included natural disasters.

Turns out that there was a huge storm that hit the Chicago area on Thursday night. My parents assumed that the devastation would make the national news and that I would see it, so they didn't bother calling me and were slightly surprised when I didn't call them to see how they were. However, I don't watch TV news so I had no idea what was going on or if it even made the news here in New York at all. I did notice an article in Friday's New York Times about flooding in the Midwest, but a quick skim of the information revealed only flooding in Ohio and Indiana, so I moved on.

On Thursday, I tried calling my friend Rachel to wish her a happy birthday, and found it odd that a recorded message saying that all circuits were busy came on. When I tired her again yesterday, the phone was still out, so I rang her cellphone. She was in the process of digging out her flooded basement and still had no electricity. I decided to call my folks. The phone was also out, so I worriedly called my dad's cellphone. They were out at their monthly Couple's Club event, but cheerfully informed me that their power was still out and the basement filled with 12-15 inches of water and mud.

They are fine, but I don't think I've felt more useless or father away since I moved here.

It's a Jungle Out There

Thursday, Des and I set out to see the bull elephant sculpture with the huge dick in the United Nations sculpture garden. (Nothing promotes international understand and peace like bronze elephant cock.) Unfortunately, the sculpture garden is closed for renovations. This may explain why I could never find more information on its hours when I searched the UN website and then called repeatedly. (The calls sent me through a maze of despair in why I pushed many buttons, but never actually spoke to a human.)

Fortunately, the elephant is situated near the street. Ironically, it is impossible to see the elephant's genitals because it is literally surrounded by a lush, overgrown bush. At least that makes me laugh.

Now that the weather has returned to August, it was very steamy and hot as Des and I pounded the pavement of the concrete jungle known as Manhattan yesterday, seeking adventure for my book on things to see and do that are off the beaten (subway) track. We were lead to Theodore Roosevelt's birthplace, which is awesome. Many of TR's safari victims, namely a lion, an elephant foot (not penis), and rhino's foot, are displayed. The tour guide, a very knowledgeable volunteer former history professor named Russell, explained that while TR indeed was an amazing conservationist, the times were certainly different.

"He took a disturbing amount of pleasure in shooting things," Russell acknowledged.

Still, Des and I agreed that TR is pretty much our favorite US president. The times were very different in some ways, and shockingly similar in others. TR stood up for the rights of labor over corporations, health care for all, public parks so that everyone could enjoy the outdoors, and the sense that "with great wealth comes great responsibility," the motto of his Quaker grandmother. (I am glad that her words left a great impression on him than those of his own mother, who grew up on a plantation in Virginia and supported the Confederacy during the Civil War while his dad went off to the front to provide logistical support to Union troops.)

Before I left my apartment, I read a nauseating article in Rolling Stone about the profiteering that is going on in Iraq by corporations allied with Republicans. Not only are they scamming billions from taxpayers and the administration could not care less, but they are directly responsible for the death and mutilation of hundreds of Americans - both troops and civilians - in their fraudulent work. Grover Nordquist was quoted (and maybe this was in a New York Times op-ed, not the magazine article - I read them both at the same time) as saying that they are working hard to get the US back to where we were before that "socialist" Theodore Roosevelt ruined everything. Yet if only our current leaders followed the civilized example of Theodore Roosevelt and served the people instead of indulging their savage blood-lust for money, we'd be a lot better off. It's sad when I look back fondly at the turn of the century as more enlightened.

Elephant Ball-Sized Oddity!

Many monikers and labels have been thrown at me ("baby killer" is my #1 special favorite, with "stupid cunt" a very close second), but no one ever accused me of being an animal rights activist. I enjoy eating dead animals (even baby ones), wear leather, and feel my blood boil with the urge to kill people who bring their dogs into food markets, drug stores, or boutiques. I almost always prioritize the welfare of children over animals.

I say "almost always" because if a person is being mean to an animal, the rules of the game change immediately. Yesterday, Des and I were at a completely ludicrous home-based barge museum. The captain, a former cruise ship juggler whose partner is also a juggler he met while working the ships and their daughters are trapeze artists who all perform on the barge they live on, pulled out several enormous binders ("My press clips," he explained) that also included personal photo albums. (One of those pictures involved him wearing no clothes while repairing something. I'm not sure what.)

While we (and believe it or not, there were other people at the museum: a guy from a Norwegian historical society researching the stories of Norwegian families that performed and lived on riverboat barges, a Columbia journalism student who rocked and is writing her first school assignment on the Red Hook nabe of Brooklyn, and a woman with a kid) were all staring at photos of this guy and his life in juggling, the woman's kid was playing with the house rabbit who resided on the boat. But "playing" means tormenting. The woman paid no mind as her kid repeatedly hit the bunny (Dewey, a gray and white lop) in the face with the cage door as he tried to come out of his cage after the kid chased him in.

A familiar bubbling sensation overtook my blood supply. I stormed away from the photo show taking place on the kitchen table and approached the brat.

"Excuse me," I said firmly but pleasantly. "Please leave the bunny alone."

Kid stared at me and said nothing, but also did not remove her hand from the cage door. Dewey poked his head out and was rewarded with a door to the nose.

"I said, do not close that cage door on the rabbit." Blank stare from kid. Voice rising, I asked, "How would you like it if someone kept closing a door on you?" More curious looks. Cage door closes on rabbit face. Repeat comment in louder voice. Kid backs away slightly, which is good because I was thisclose to grabbing her hand and slamming it in the cage door. (This, people, is why I am not having kids.)

Long story short, I went back to the table and the mother continued to ignore her animal - I mean, daughter - resulting in the kid spilling the container of rabbit food all over the floor. At this point, Des and I left and went for key lime pie, which Des discovered unfortunately contained gelatin, thus rendering it inedible because she is a vegetarian. I scarfed it down because nothing tastes better than ground up horse bones after an afternoon's work of defending a helpless animal.

Still Not Sunny

As far as I can tell from my small dining room window that looks into a courtyard and has a small slice of sky available for analyzing, it is not sunny today. (My dining room window has almost the only vantage point for weather analytics, as my street-facing bedroom and living room windows are shrouded under scaffolding that's been up for at least a year already, and my kitchen window looks mostly into the building across the courtyard. It's a good thing that my childhood was spent living in darkness - Husband freaks out at the lack of good natural and artificial lighting whenever we visit my parents - preparing me for City life.) I wanted it to be sunny today so that I could really enjoy my visit to the UN Sculpture Garden, where a bull elephant statue with a 2 foot long penis resides.

Also not improving my mood was the research I just did for an article about single women, subprime lending, and mortgage foreclosures that I posted on BlogHer. It should be obvious that women are going to get especially fucked up the ass by the mortgage default crisis, but I haven't seen much about it. However, there is ample evidence that single women, along with non-white and low income people, were railroaded into subprime loans. Yeah, you can buy your dream in America, but it's temporary and will cost you everything in the long run. Bah.

I need to eat ice cream and/or cookies today.

No More Rain or Idiots, Please

The rain has me down. It is amplifying my friend Des's problems. Right now, I am trying not to scratch my eyes out at the horrific online class I foolishly enrolled in. (Although how was I to know how bad it would suck?) My only consolation is that I don't have to sit in the same room and try to not want to kill people. Instead, I can make fun of them on my blog. For example:

Instructor>> First, think of it as not just blogging, per se, but really, Web 2.0. It's not what it was when if first started - basically, online journaling that was oh-so-self-obsessed. Rather, it's now the accepted way of providign content on the front end, while outsourcing the back end coding to your blog provider.

Idiot #1>> thanks! Maybe I just need to be reading some of the better blogs, 'cause most that I've read seem to be more like journals

Instructor>> exactly, naval gazing is blogging 1.0 to a T. Its evolved tons past that!)

You know what? The best blogs are personal blogs. I hate this class. Someone help me. Please let it be sunny tomorrow. Des and I are planning to go see the life-size statue of a bull elephant with a two foot long dick at the UN Sculpture Garden, and we need to laugh. (Her more than me, but still.) Giant statue elephant schlongs are funny, even with rain, but much more hilarious in the sun with ice cream. I'm buying.

Whew! I Am Still a Feminist!

After my recent discovery that I will laugh hysterically at some guy who tells horrific stories about the women he has sex with as long as a heaping side of steaming poetic justice is served up (for example, guy has anal sex with woman and video tapes it without her permission, a heinous act that is rewarded when she has diarrhea all over him, then pukes to top it off), I was wondering what was wrong with me. I've also laughed at jokes in the movie Varsity Blues about date rape, which is not at all funny. I know that. My credentials as a humorless feminist are going right down the toilet.

Thus it was with great relief that I found a little test over at Fetch Me My Axe about feminism. Belledame222 came out 96% feminist. Could I prove myself worthy of her?

You Are 96% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

Yay! Go me. (Although what's with the picture of the hot woman with red boxing gloves? Is it saying that feminists are combative or that we have to fight to get our message out? Weird.) It seems that you can be a horrible person who laughs (and cringes!!! I swear I also cringed a lot!) at select self-described assholes and raging dickheads and still be a good core feminist.

An Eye Opener that Burns

Laurie challenged me to write about Tucker Max for BlogHer for Blog Day later this month. I thought that was a brilliant idea, once I realized that she didn't mean Tucker Carlson. (It took me a few hours.) My usual clueless self had no idea who this Tucker Max character was until Husband told some story about his book. It seems that he turned down some publishing deal because he thought he should get more money since zillions of people read his dating/sexcapade stories on his website.

"The publisher didn't think that frat guys buy books," Husband said. Long story short, Max wound up selling the book to frat boys out of an RV he rented and drove around the country.

"Serves him right, I said and folded my arms across my chest, satisfied at his failure. The stories, I was told, were very misogynistic tales of fucking whores and all that good stuff.

I never bothered going to his website and checking them out myself until yesterday when I was desperately trying to do anything but write up three months of work that I did for the city so that one day, they might actually pay me. When I read the first story, something unexpected happened: I couldn't help but like the asshole. Is he a drunkard? Totally, and I am not too keen on slobbering drunks. Is he a shithead? For sure. Are his stories not flattering to women? Absolutely. Would he probably rate me on his vile "Tucker Max Female Rating System" as "a common stock pig?" Likely, although on a good day, I might make "Respectable pig," neither of which I particularly appreciate being called. Is he a good writer? Now that I am learning about what makes good writing, I also think he is a terrible writer.

So what won me over? The man wrote a story about how he accidentally got his own jizz in his eye. Damn, that is funny. He also makes himself look every bit as bad as the women dumb enough to consort with him. (He admits that he got his own jizz in his eye! Someone crapped on him! That is funny, funny shit!) Also poetic justice is meted out in almost every story. Not that he learns any lessons per se, but he degrades himself genially along with others. And, he sort of reminds me of my friend the Big O., which scares me.

It's not like I want this dude to be a role model, which he inevitably is to the lamer portion of the male population. (Those guys will always find some douche bag to look up to, anyway.) Stories about jizzing in one's own eye will always amuse me to no end. Call me a self-loathing misogynist and take my feminist card away if you must; I can't help it.

For shande!

It pleases me to no end that the answers are rolling in for my question as to why people are constantly getting to CUSS by googling "jewish pussy". Yesterday, this very earnest (or promotional) anonymous comment made me laugh and laugh:

THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE..
PROOF..
go to: www.askjolene.com
which is a porn search engine, type "jewish", you'll see jewish porn actresses and girls pussies..
There is nothing uncommon or special about them.

Thanks for the proof. It is important to back up exertions on Jewish pussy with cold, hard (snicker) scientific evidence.

My Big Fat Updated Blogroll

It always takes me forever to update my blogroll. Partly this is due to my fear of touching my template and somehow managing to screw the whole thing up. Partly it is due to time crunches. Sadly, my reluctance to update my blogroll frequently is because that means I have to alphabetize things, and I hate that I have to go over the alphabet in my head every time to get things right. ("...e,f,g,h,i,j,k.... OK, now I remember that J is between I and K...")

Updating my blogroll, however, was an excellent way to procrastinate and not write the giant report that I must complete by the end of the month in order to get paid for the consulting I did for the city for the last 16 weeks. (Not that I have a signed contract yet. Nope, in the latest version they got the scope of work and the amount of money correct, but spelled my name three different ways (one of which was correct) and got the term of the contract wrong.) I think that I got everyone, but apologies in advance if I missed a blog that clearly should be linked. Just let me know.

Another good thing to do to procrastinate, by the way, is to watch Tycho the Giant Rabbit scratch his ear with his hind foot then lick his toes clean. Never fails to amuse, fascinate, and gross me out at once.

My Naked Truth

I went through a very small period of time where I liked to pretend that I was one of those hip, cool sex-positive feminists who had no beef with strip clubs. It's a lie. I fucking hate those places. I have nothing against the women who work there - it's a living, like the job or not, whatever reason they have for taking that line of employment.

Men who go to strip clubs, on the other hand, have a special ring in the black part of my heart. Most cultures entitle men to sexual titillation while insisting that women need none and in fact, shun it. I get that. But the need to watch women in various states of undress perform for you, as if your sexual entertainment is not to be denied, is degrading. Sure, there's no touching. Most men would never, ever find it acceptable to have the tables turned on them, and that to me means that they know they ultimately have the power in the audience, not the women on the stage.

Further, there is an air of pathetic-ness that stinks up the whole enterprise. Groups of men sitting around watching their buddies get turned on and cum in their pants is creepy. I don't understand how so many men can be homophobic and then witness their pals to get boners while they whoop and hoot and holler encouragement during lap dances or whatever. Worse are the men who use every damn friend who gets engaged as an excuse to go to strip clubs, even when the groom himself is not so into it. (Worse than that are the lame grooms who don't want to disappoint their friends and who agree to go and then have a miserable time and leave their own bachelor parties early while their friends stay behind. Seriously, this is what my own stupid husband did instead of resist the peer pressure or disappoint his horny friends and tell them he would rather hang out at a bar or gamble. Does the mere idea of strip clubs divert all the blood from one's backbone into another?)

Strip clubs are adolescent in every way. I say grow the fuck up, boys.

I Had a Good Time

"Worry obsessively, get bent out of shape, and spazz first."

That is my motto. I follow it very closely. As an event approached over the course of last week, I relied heavily on it. I was certain that no one would talk to me at the event because I don't wear pointy toed shoes or take cabs everywhere. The event just ended, though, and I had a fantastic time. Like 99.7% of other events that I am sure will not be fun for me, I was dead wrong. Everyone was fun and welcoming, even if I still hate the Flake.

Given how often my motto fails me, you might think I should adopt a new credo. Think of all the time I would save if I didn't work myself into a frenzy over numerous situations that turn out to be benign or better. Sometimes I think about what I might do with such vast amounts of found time. Maybe blog more? Take up paint-by-numbers? Re-train Tycho the Giant Rabbit to use his litter box consistently? Nah. People always say you should focus on what you are good at, and I excel at spazzing.

Speaking of good times, freaking out, and rabbits, however, I took Tycho to the vet last Monday. This was not the good time. He HATES taking the bus and sheds up a storm. I look like I am donning a white fur coat by the time the ordeal is over. No, the good times are resulting from the pain medication that the vet gave Tycho. He likely has arthritis in his hips which is preventing him from moving freely, and she thought painkiller would help. Now that he gets 1/4 of a tablet of dope once a day delivered in the center of a cluster of raisins, he is the happiest rabbit I ever saw. Who knows? Maybe he slipped me some earlier and that's why I am in such a good mood too. (Or it could be that I ran a tad over 5.5 miles this afternoon, which is the most I ever ran at once and am super proud of myself.)

So that's the stories, morning glories.

Vaginal Splenectomy

Before I left for Ocean City, Dr. P "visited" me during a 12 hour layover between a junket she attended in France and her return to Florida. I left The Police concert early so that I could get some time with her, but I still did not get home before the not exactly early hour of 11 pm. Throw in the time changes (it was 5 am in France), and it is a miracle that she was able to stay awake. Fortunately, she's Dr. P and has the stamina of a surgeon, so she propped her heavy eyelids open with toothpicks or whatever for a few hours so that we could catch up.

In our 90 minutes of quality time, not only did I hear about her trip and how things were going with her new life in Florida, but she also updated me on the latest innovations in minimally invasive surgery. It seems that a big article was scheduled ot appear in an important medical journal (I forgot which) about a new procedure (I forgot its name) that allows surgeons to remove body parts through existing orifices. Think about your existing openings. Yes, I am talking about pulling organs out of your vagina. (If you do not happen to have a cooter, I guess you are shit out of luck with new minimally invasive surgical procedures.) It seems that some model was afraid of the teeny tiny scar that laproscopic surgery entails, so they yanked her gall bladder out of her poonanie.

"Noooooo!" I cried and crossed my legs. "Keep your laproscopes out of my pootie!"

Dr. P laughed. Seriously, though, why on earth would you want crap stuck up your snatch when it seems just as easy to take bad organs out directly? A lot of maneuvering must be involved. What if they pull too much out? It's just fucked up. Plus, I like scars. They are a record of what a person has been through and lived to tell the tale. A scar is a proud mark of a warrior, to some extent. And scars let you know if something happened to you when you are knocked unconscious and kidnapped in Turkey. If they took your kidney out or performed a splenectomy through your vagina, you might never find out until you were dead, right?

I know I am a Luddite sometimes, but using my poontang for scarless spenectomies strikes me as nightmare fodder or even the plot of a slasher flick. My legs are locked at the knees.

Joining the Swimsuit Brigade - Tag, You're It

Liz at Everyday Goddess suggested that I create a tag with which people can mark their posts for the SwimsuitBrigade
Liz is brilliant.

So, my tag is Swimsuit Brigade. If you tag your post with this, it will (hopefully) show up on technorati and other sites that read and organize blog posts by tags. (I say hopefully because technorati does not always work for me.)

"Don't let idiots ruin your day" (Complete with Example of Why People Hate "Feminists")

Yesterday I bought a mug with this slogan ("Don't let idiots ruin your day") at De La Vega Gallery. I planned to give it to someone, but I think I may need to keep it and get another one. People challenge me, and generally not in a way that make me grow as a person.

For example, Des told me about a woman who she likes on myspace, Femblogger. Femblogger wrote about an ad campaign that is taking place in NYC by one of those storage companies. They have political tag lines like, "Your closet is narrower than Dick Cheney," which I find amusing. The newest one reads, "Your closet space is shrinking faster than her right to choose." Generally, I hate things that conflate and confuse self-determination with shopping options, but this ad sort of cracks me up, mostly in the context of the other ads.

Anyway, Des left a comment mentioning that she has not seen that ad, probably because they don't bother advertising to people on the subway line that she uses, aka as the ghetto train. Now for my favorite part. Der Gregor - FEMINISM UNMODIFIED decided to school Des. He more or less told her that because she is "lily white," she can't talk about her neighborhood that way because she is too entitled.* This was followed up with a semi-apology, "sorry i [sic] dont [sic] usually write this way to a Woman [sic]..."

Of course, this annoyed me. I called him out on his assumptions about Des, which are as biased as he accuses her of being, and for thinking that he needs to treat women differently, which strikes me as not feminist at all. His response is priceless:

the point of feminism is to change society fundamentaly because the oppression of Women is so deeply ingrained in that society that no deep change can take pleace untill patriarchy is eradicated. therefore a feminist movement must be a movement for the transformation of all of society. in the meanwhile the power differentials between males and women must be addressed by males who support feminist women by being careful to not use male power or male gender hierarchy to oppress groups or individuals.

Does this explain to you why we need to talk or write to women differently than men? It makes no sense to me. Thanks for the lecture, though. It reminded me of an excellent post that ViciousRumours wrote awhile back on why she thought feminists were horrid judgmental people with whom she didn't want to associate. I can't say that I blame her, and I wish people didn't think that egomanical pretentious douche bags like Der Gregor spoke for all of feminism. Some of us little ladies like calling people douche bags, even if that fits into the patriarchal society that keeps us oppressed.

*This dude judged Des based on pictures she had up on her site. If I use the same criteria he does to come to conclusions about him, I would think that he is a neo-Nazi, what with the bald head and picture of a big German Shepard baring its fangs in a snarl with the intimidating words, "Wie Gehts?" (How are you?) Somehow I doubt that those images accurately capture his radical feminist beliefs and he'd dislike my biased response, although he feel completely happy to dis my friend that way.

Laxatives, Chicken Feet, and Bloody Jesus: A Day in the Life

Wednesday and Thursday were chock full of exciting site visits for my upcoming book on things to do that are off the beaten path in New York City.

On Wednesday, I bought an awesome magnet depicting Louis Armstrong sitting on a toilet shilling for Swiss Krissly laxatives. (Satchmo-Slogan: Leave It All Behind Ya) at the Louis Armstrong House. As I learned on the tour, Armstrong took Swiss Krissly laxatives every day. Yes, every day. He also smoked a lot of pot and once fooled Richard Nixon into carrying his trump case, stuffed with the wacky weed and his instrument, through airport security in France. The whole house tour and strange rituals sort of reminded me of that other Southern musical sensation who died 30 years ago yesterday. (Sorry, Ma, but Graceland seems even tackier compared with Armstrong's house, even though it has some over-the-top elements as well.)

At the end of the day, I stopped by El Indio Amazonico botanica that someone told me would be perfect for the book. Unfortunately, the website is no longer up, but this place scared the fucking shit out of me. (No need for Swiss Krissly here.) The window had a picture depicting a close up of Jesus's face and the cross he is nailed to behind his head. As the picture rotated, his eyes flipped open and shut, thanks to the high tech working of whatever material it is that causes images to shift when the angle changes. (Not and saina hologram, but I can't think of the term.) There were oodles of Jesus statues with blood gushing from their sad eyes to welcome me when I stepped inside. What I didn't notice, however, was the painted chicken foot attached to a string of beads dangling from the ceiling. It would up slightly tangled in my hair. Chicken feet weren't the only talismans available, though. Horseshoes with shit glued and/or nailed on them were everywhere. Photos show El Indio Amazonico healing people, and the pile of abandoned crutches in the front corner of the shop seemed to testify to his success. This would have cracked me up had the statue of some saint with blood gushing from numerous gaping wounds stared accusingly at me. I bought a candle that would bring good luck (it has pennies glued to the outside and stuck within the wax, and I am sure that they charged the gringa at least double for it) and got the fuck out of there.

Thursday afternoon's odd adventure is told so well by Super Des that you should just read it there. I am so glad she joined me for the fun. Damn, I love this kind of shit.

Suzanne Reisman, Swimsuit Model, Takes a Stand

A few months ago, I launched a lame protest against the unattainable beauty standard set by the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. I was way too wussy to actually pose in my underwear, though, so I made a duct tape version of myself. Duct Tape Suzanne didn't really capture all my bulges, but she did a good enough job demonstrating that people with B cups don't explode out of bras.

Recently, a number of airbrushing incidents have come to light. Catherine Morgan put a nice photo montage of some of the incidents on her blog; Rita Arens described the photoshopping of young pageant girls on BlogHer, and D Listed puts up tons of photos on his site. The Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition contains women airbrushed to the hilt.

With all the airbrushing out there, I wonder why models are even needed any more. Magazines and the fashion industry could save tons of money by hiring shlubs like me at a low rate, then painting a new face or body on the picture. That said, I am also increasingly pissed at the bullshit that is out there. Other than the Dove Real Beauty campaign, which depicts "normal" women of a variety of body types and ages in order to sell lotion, there are very few depictions of just us regular ladies. Fuck that. Let's start the "Normal Woman Photo Campaign." Here's what I look like in my new Gottex Blue bathing suit:



Am I mortified at how chubby I look? Yes, but it is me. I shouldn't feel ashamed at not being perfect. I'm not going to any more, either. Join the Swimsuit Brigade and stand up for normal women. Post a picture of yourself online in your swimsuit. Don't put yourself down. You look fabulous. Models don't speak for us, and airbrushed ones even less so. Let's represent.

"Everybody's taking dick up the ass except me."

My friend Dianne, who is a muralist, is staying with me this week while she paints two kids' rooms in Tribeca.* Dianne reads D Listed. They had this completely fucking insane rant embedded on their site (warning: it is totally offensively gut bustingly funny in its stupidity):



"Maybe she's just pissed that she can't get a date?" Dianne suggested about 3/4 of the way through the madness.

Vagina Power!

*As a reminder, I met Dianne when we became roommates as snarky NYU undergrads. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we only spent a semester together (maybe that is good or else she may not still talk to me), but we had a great time and got into zesty trouble because people like us should not be allowed to live together. One afternoon, we decided that we should give some sexist guys a taste of their own medicine and decorate the outside of our door with little pictures of men that we cut out from Playgirl and gay porn mags. The thing was, our door directly faced the elevator, so every time the door opened, people got an eyeful. Not that pictures of men holding enormous flaccid cocks while watering flowers are erotic. No, they are hilarious, except to the people who complained that they were offended. Eventually, Steve the Imbecile RA summoned us to his door and demanded that we remove the pictures. I was well aware of why this was a reasonable request, but I hated his ass and told him that I didn't understand what the problem was.

"People are offended by the photos," he said.

"So if anyone complains that they are offended by something, the images have to be removed?" I asked innocently.

"Yes," he said. He was pleased that this was going to be easy.

"Well, the images on your door offend me," I said, gesturing at his photocopied Star Wars pictures. "I think you need to take them down."

"How can this offend you?" He was stunned.

"Well, they are holding light sabers, which depict violence, and I am very sensitive to violence." (If I had been thinking, I could also have pointed out throbbing light sabers are very phallic, and if I can't have big dicks on my door, neither could he.)

"I am not taking them down!"

"Then I am not taking my pictures down. Why do my complaints not merit the same response as other peoples'?"

The conversation went back and forth for a few minutes, with him increasingly frustrated because he knew I was fucking with him but had no idea what to do about it. Eventually, Dianne and I drew little fig leaves and stuck them over the wieners, just as Michaelangelo's naked figures in the Sistine Chapel were censored by the Vatican for a time, except in our case, people could flip up the paper cover-ups and check out the goods if they so dared. Those were fun days. It's a miracle we were not kicked out of the dorm.

Do You CUSS?

I'm taking a break from being furious (fucking douche bag bitch keeps pumping me for money for an upcoming event - if other people committed and then canceled at the last minute, fuck them - they need to pay up; I'm not covering their skanky asses...) to announce upcoming progress.

In the next few weeks, I hope to update lots of stuff here at CUSS. Most important, I want to fix up my neglected blogroll. Many of the blogs I list cease to exist, which makes me sad, but what am I gonna do? Many fine folks leave comments here and I want to link to everyone. My plan is this: anyone who has taken the time to leave me a few comments, will get a link. (People who don't know I exist will still get a link if I like the blog.) If you want a link, let me know. (Don't expect much traffic to be generated, just warning you. The readership here is small, although clearly a choice segment of humanity.) If you think it would be embarrassing to have a link from CUSS and have left comments here but don't want me linking to you, I understand completely, but let me know. Thanks.

Now, back to being furious.

I Married a Lunatic, Part II: Photographic Evidence

For his birthday, Husband asked me for an orange bow tie and Mets suspenders. The suspenders were easy; I found them online at a place called Rainbow Connection (make what you will of the name). The bow tie was a bigger challenge. I found a perfectly hideous one at eBay. It was orange with blue polka dots, incorporating both of the Mets colors nicely, so I went with the buy it now option. A few days later, the fuckers told me that they didn't really have the damn bow tie and refunded me my money.

Unlike the Mets suspenders, no other internet purveyors popped up for orange bow ties. I pounded the pavement. Two days before Husband's birthday, I settled for a goldish orange bow tie and cumberbun combo from Today's Man (or Men's Warehouse, I forget). When I proudly presented him with the gift, Husband loved the suspenders but was not so enthusiastic about the damn bow tie.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well, it's not really orange," he explained. "It's more gold." He looked crushed.

"OK, I'll try again."

A few days later, I happened to be on the Upper East Side for a visit to the Mt. Vernon Hotel Museum for my book about things to see and do in New York City that are off the beaten path. (It rocks, by the way.) On my way home, I stumbled into my arch nemesis department store, Bloomingdale's. I hate Bloomie's because the sales people tend to treat me as though they can barely stand the sight of me in their precious store, but I was desperate for the bow tie, and an orange bow tie strikes me as just the thing that rich fools with no taste would wear to Orange Bowl night at the club or something. I went in, and within minutes, found an orange bow tie with navy stripes. At $35, I almost didn't buy it, but then remembered that this was exactly what Husband wanted, even if I was offended at the price-per-usage ratio. (I mean, how often would he wear the damn thing?)

Anyway, to finally wrap this long story up, he was delighted with the bow tie. However, when we made a spur of the moment decision to attend a Mets game on Saturday night, the fact that he doesn't know how to tie a bow tie ensured that we didn't get there until the 4th inning. He looked very dashing in his outfit, though, and would have been ecstatic had the Mets not decided to put in a belly itcher not a pitcher, and thus lose the game by two.

(Fake mustache compliments of Husband and Photo Shop.) How can I not love him?

A Free Yogurt Parfait Might Shut Me Up

As long as I am in a pissy mood, I thought I should finally let McDonald's know about my little experience in their fine eating establishment. Alex called them and complained, and the owner called her back to apologize. However, they didn't offer her any free shit, which annoys me. I provided my insight to McD's HQ through their fine website:

While visiting Ocean City, I was very happy to learn that McDonald's offered reliable wifi for a very affordable cost. I am enrolled in an online class, so it was critical that I found a place in which I could get online and participate. The prior Sat. night, I stopped into the McDonald's and the manager assured me that the restaurant was open until 1 am. My class was from 10-11 PM, so this was perfect.

I returned on Aug. 8, bought a Diet Coke, and asked the cashier until what time the restaurant was open, just to verify before I paid for my wifi. She said she was not sure, which surprised me. How can an employee not know the store's hours? I prodded, and asked if it would be open until 11.

"Yes, 11, at least," she replied.

I sat down and paid for my wifi. At 10:20ish, a very surly woman yelled at me and my friends.

"You have to get out of here in 15 minutes," she snarled.

I was confused. I told her that I had been told that the restaurant was open until 11 pm at least.

"Well, I am the night shift manager," she snarled, "and I decide what time we close. And I decided that we close in 15 minutes."

I tried pointing out that I paid for my wifi and needed to be online for a class. She told me that she didn't care and that I now needed to be out of there in five minutes. I asked if this was standard procedure to randomly close the restaurant and she said that it was when she decided it was.

Needless to say, I was outraged by the lack of standards that this McDonald's has. Not only was this woman incredibly nasty to me and my friends, but she also treated the other employees poorly, yelling in their faces for what appeared to be minor infractions. Worse, the restaurant itself was disgusting. The floors were greasy, as if mopped with leftover from the fryer and smelled like ketchup. I stayed far away from McDonald's for the rest of my time in Ocean City, and hope that this is not a reflection of how McDonald's operates in other areas.

I'll share the response, if I get any.

I Am Motherfucking Pissed Off

Damn. Here we had a nice successful week at the beach. When we arrived at the house we rented, I thought it was not as clean as it was when we rented it the previous year. Some of the dishes still had food on it, a friend stepped on a very sharp earring while barefoot in one of the bedrooms that we didn't wind up using, and there was an ant infestation. We called to report the ants because we didn't want the next family to stay there to have the same welcome party we did. I think that was very considerate of us. Otherwise, I mentioned that the house was a bit dirty, but said it was not a big deal. These things happen. Before we left, we mopped the kitchen floors several times, took out the trash and replaced the garbage bags, wiped down the table, and vacuumed throughly. I felt good about leaving the place in better shape than we found it.

Imagine my surprise when Husband called me this morning to report that they are keeping our security deposit because we left the house in shambles. Supposedly, we moved all the furniture around and left such a huge mess that they had to hire a cleaning service. We left the house at 7 am in spic and span condition. In fact, I cringed thinking about the fact that I would have to repeat the cleaning process in my own apartment this week, and how ironic it is that I clean more on vacation than I do in my daily life. (I hate cleaning.)

We followed the landlord's directions to a T: clean up, then leave the keys in the house, and the doors unlocked. Perhaps between the time we left and the time the next legitimate people arrived, someone else used the house? Is that my fault that the landlords tell us to leave the fucking door open? Why on earth would we rearrange the furniture, of all things? Is it not odd that we left the top floor in perfect condition, but a pig sty on the bottom floor, most accessible to any asshole who felt like wandering in after we left? And we didn't have any problems last year, so why would we suddenly become gross slobs?

I see a bitter dispute coming. In the meantime, I am going to storm off to a meeting.

Things I Love This Overcast, Hot Monday Morning

It was hard to get out of bed this morning. I love my bed. It is comfortable, although Husband recently discovered that the frame we bought about a year ago is exactly the cheap piece of shit that we paid for: the support beams on the bottom are all cracked. (How they got that way is up to your imagination. Hubba hubba.) To make myself start the day, I thought about things that please me.

Breakfast, along with lunch and to a lesser extent dinner, is my favorite meal of the day. This morning I lived it up by making a piece of ham steak in the George Foreman Grill and savoring it with a microwaved sunnyside up egg. Is there any better way to begin a day? I think not, and I have Ocean City to thank for the reintroduction of ham steak into my life. Alex's younger son ate a ham steak meal for dinner the last night we were at the beach, and I marveled at the idea. Alex said she often gives the kids ham steak with their breakfast for a spot of protein. My mom used to make us ham steak for dinner, and it was so tasty. Having ham steak back in my life is great.

Last week's "Shaw Report," a "style" feature that I usually detest in my otherwise beloved Entertainment Weekly, declared that waxing is "out," manscaping is "5 minutes ago," and au naturale is "in." For once, I am trendy. Even if a stupid source is declaring it.

After I ate my ham and egg, I decided to check out the weather online and went to the New York Times web page. There I did not learn what the weather was (I had to go over to NY1.com for that crucial info), but I did learn that Karl Rove is leaving the White House. Unfortunately, this news is about 6 years too late to be helpful, and I am sure that he will find other ways to damage this country, but I'm pretending that he is finally returning to the circle of hell that he crawled out from.

While I was writing about these three things that I love, Husband called and informed me that we were accused of not cleaning the beach house properly - including rearranging all of the furniture, which is completely insane - before leaving, and thus the assholes were not going to refund us our security deposit. I don't understand this at all, but it definitively determined that we will not be returning there next summer. My blood is boiling. So it goes.

"Doody in the Pool!"

Wednesday night, the adult crew at the beach house watched Caddyshack on DVD. It is one of the dumbest, plot-free pieces of crap movies I have repeatedly watched. Except for that one part where the Baby Ruth bar falls into the pool and is mistaken for a floating turd log. That is hilarity.

Speaking of turds, Husband just insisted that I must stop blogging immediately so that I can "fold the laundry while it is hot." According to him, it folds more nicely this way. Did I mentioned that yesterday he refused to leave for the Mets game until his bow tie was tied?

I Married a Lunatic

In the unlikely event that your spouse/partner decides that he needs to wear a 1940s sports-writer style outfit, complete with suspenders and bow tie, to a baseball game, I highly recommend this fine clip to teach you how to tie the fucking bow tie:It only took me several dozen tries before I figured it out, but that's no fault of the gentleman in the clip.

Lazy Saturday Afternoon Flashes of Brilliance/Mundaneness

As I was drifting off to sleep on the smelly hard bed in the beach house last night, a sentence popped into my head:

While I may personally dislike bare snatch, my ambition is completely bald.

This made me laugh out loud, although I no longer remember what it was in reference to. I think it had something to do with the online class that I signed up for, but whatever the point was got lost in the fitful slumber that finally overtook me. When I woke up this morning, I only recalled that fine line and how relieved I was to be returning to a bed made from cushiony material that lacked a hideous ocean-themed comforter that smelled musty.

This is not to say that I did not have a good time in Ocean City. I enjoyed myself immensely. While I wish some other people could have made it, everyone who did join us was super fun. It was especially great to spend a full week with Alex and her two kids, and half a week with Dianne and her daughter. I even managed to splash around happily in the waves of the ocean, the consequences (seaweed crotch) be damned. Further, I stopped by an old lady boutique and got a new bathing suit. It was 40% off and it fits quite nicely. When I look in the mirror, I no longer have the urge to smear Gorgonzola on myself because my resemblance to a ripe juicy pear is not as strong as it was in my old suit. (While I love pears with smelly cheese, I am pleased to not look like what I eat.)

At the same time, I received an email while I was gone, instructing me that I "will have fun" at an upcoming event. If you have to remind me that it will be a good time and I should look forward to it, that's probably not the case. Oh well. At least I'll come home to a nice bed.

Doin' Time in OC

My time in Ocean City, NJ – aka "The Land that Time Forgot" – is over. Here's what happened by the numbers:

- Number of people who stayed in the house the first weekend: 20
- Number of people who stayed the full week: 5
- Number of people who canceled: 4 (sniff!)
- Number of people who called randomly to see if they could join us after all: 2
- Number of foot injuries I incurred in the first half of the trip: 4
- Number of people contracting pink eye: 0 (last year: 2)
- Number of children who stayed at the house various points: 3
- Number of temper tantrums thrown by 3 children: countless
- Number of temper tantrums thrown by me: more than the 3 kids combined
- Number of compliments I received on my "My Bush could do a better job" shirt: 1
- Number of compliments I received last year on my "Bush is a Tush" shirt: 0 (one guy yelled at me that I should consider myself "lucky to have Bush")
- Number of times I went to the beach and enjoyed it despite my hatred of sand: 4
- Number of times it rained: 3
- Amount of food consumed during the week: Tons
- Number of times I used the workout gear I packed, including my roller skates: 0

I think that pretty much says it all. Once I get back, I have no trips planned until the end of the year, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, having reliable internet access, and catching up on all my blog friends' writings!

Welcome to McDonald's, Now Get the Fuck Out

Upon entering the grease and ketchup stained mess that was also known as the Ocean City McDonald's so that I could use their very cheap wifi to log onto a online class that I registered for, I approached the counter.

"What time are you open until tonight?" I asked the cashier after I ordered a medium Diet Coke.

"I don't know. It depends," she said. I found that odd. How the hell do people not know what time their restaurant is open until?

"OK, do you think you'll be open until 11?" It was 9:00. My class ended at 11:00, so I needed internet access until then.

"Yes, probably, at least 11."

"Thanks," I said. I took my Diet Coke and sat down, logging onto the Mickey D wifi and paying my $2.95 for 2 hours of internet excitement.

At 10:25, a woman began yelling at us. "We're closing the dining room in 10 minutes. You'll need to get out."

"Excuse me?" I asked, confused. "I was told that you were open until at least 11:00. I need to use the wi..."

"Well, I'm the night shift manager and I decide when the dining room opens and closes, and you must get out of her in five minutes," she sneered.

Now I was mad. "I see. So this restaurant has no standards whatsoever. You just open and close at your whim. I'm sorry I inconvenienced you by daring to come." I didn't bother mentioning that this was the filthiest McDonald's I ever set foot in.

We glared at each other. "Your five minutes are up. Get out."

I understand that this woman is not thrilled with her job as the night shift manager of Ocean City's McDonald's. (She also made that clear by bitching at one of the new employees, yelling in her face that she didn't care if it was the girl's first day, she better do her job perfectly.) At the same time, she can suck my dick. I went outside and sat near the drive thru, using every last minute of my wifi purchase. Later today, I plan to call the corporate office. Then a call to the health department. They might be interested in hearing about the vile conditions of the facility, don't you think?

Six Feet Under Grease

My online travel writing class is "meeting" at 10 pm tonight, so I headed over to Mickey D's for some reliable internet access. Wifi is only $2.95 for 2 hours, which is a very sweet deal indeed. Unfortunately, someone decided to "mop" the floor with what seems to be leftover grease from the fryer. I nearly wiped out during my quest to find a clean table (mission: near impossible) until I figured out that I should just pretend I was wearing ice skates and glide on the floor. Also, let me mention that it reeks of ketchup in here. That the grill exploded all over the dining room is a distinct possibility. I'd have gladly settled down for two hours at another location, if anything in this godforsaken beach town was open past 9 pm.

The gliding around McDonald's might not be so painful had I not injured my feet. My left foot is sporting an impressive blister on my 4th toe, which developed as I played pirate miniature golf last night. (Score: 63, only 25 or so over par. It's a talent, I know.) My right foot is another tragedy. I sprained the 4th toe on Sunday when a wave knocked me over and I twisted my foot under me as my head charged directly into Husband's ass. Then on Tuesday, I stepped on a rock that flayed my heel and onto something sharp that punctured the center of the sole.

At least my sunburn is not too bad.

Swim Suit Surprise

Given how much I hate sand, it is ironic that I find myself hitting the beach in Ocean City this week for the second summer in a row and that I am going to Hawaii at the end of the year. Sand truly is one of those things that never, ever goes away. When we return and unpack our bags, I will not be surprised to find Tycho, our ginormous rabbit, building sandcastles in his quarters.

The other things that disturbs me about beaches are the surprises I find suctioned to my flabby white body when I peel my bathing suit and swim shorts off to shower. On Sunday, my titties were draped with seaweed. This afternoon, my gut was coated with dark sand and little rocks. There were bits of seaweed plastered to my thighs both days. Fortunately, it rained on Monday, so I was tortured at a children's museum in a nearby mall instead of by my regular Jersey Shore nemesis. Actually, the museum was kind of cool and I scared the bitch at the front desk into giving me a refund after she fooled us into paying as group, which only allowed us to use one coupon. I think she sensed the anger bomb that was about to go off and wisely chose to diffuse it.

Regardless of the sand, seaweed, surly museum officials, and the ants that invaded the upstairs apartment of the two family home that Husband rented again, it is good times. As every postcard says, wish you were here.

A Hair Raising Experience

During a walking tour of haunted Ocean City, my cell phone rang. It was the creepiest part of the tour, as the guide was telling us about how the poltergeist on the second floor of the blinding yellow building we stood in front of was so evil that a psychic refused to enter the building, but I noticed that it was Future Sister in Law, who never calls me, so I got nervous. What if Brother-in-Law never made it home after he left the beach house this afternoon? I decided to take the call.

"Hi!" FSIL said chipperly. "I was just wondering if you planned to do your own hair for our wedding or if you wanted it done at the salon I checked out this weekend."

This was truly a scarier question than the unanswered one about the milk bucket full of random women's hair that the current owner of the haunted building discovered behind a bricked over back part of the structure when he knocked it down to expand his antique store.

"Um, that depends," I replied. "When you say 'do your hair,' I assume that means more than comb it? Because that's about all I can handle."

"Well, some of the girls with longer hair will get it blown out or put into updo's," was FSIL's non-response response. I think she didn't want to offend me by suggesting that the thought of me doing my own hair was a terrifying prospect, as I'd be the fugly bridesmaid who ruined all the pictures.

"Yeah, even though I have no hair to style, just make an appointment for me," I said.

By then, all the hairs were standing up on my arms. I'd almost rather brave the evil spirits haunting the scariest building in Ocean City than trust a New Jersey hair stylist to make me look normal. (Remember Bon Jovi? He's from New Jersey. His songs may be bitchin', but the dude embodies bad Jersey hair.) Almost.

A Hair Raising Experience

During a walking tour of haunted Ocean City, my cell phone rang. It was the creepiest part of the tour, as the guide was telling us about how the poltergeist on the second floor of the blinding yellow building we stood in front of was so evil that a psychic refused to enter the building, but I noticed that it was Future Sister in Law, who never calls me, so I got nervous. What if Brother-in-Law never made it home after he left the beach house this afternoon? I decided to take the call.

"Hi!" FSIL said chipperly. "I was just wondering if you planned to do your own hair for our wedding or if you wanted it done at the salon I checked out this weekend."

This was truly a scarier question than the unanswered one about the milk bucket full of random women's hair that the current owner of the haunted building discovered behind a bricked over back part of the structure when he knocked it down to expand his antique store.

"Um, that depends," I replied. "When you say 'do your hair,' I assume that means more than comb it? Because that's about all I can handle."

"Well, some of the girls with longer hair will get it blown out or put into updo's," was FSIL's non-response response. I think she didn't want to offend me by suggesting that the thought of me doing my own hair was a terrifying prospect, as I'd be the fugly bridesmaid who ruined all the pictures.

"Yeah, even though I have no hair to style, just make an appointment for me," I said.

By then, all the hairs were standing up on my arms. I'd almost rather brave the evil spirits haunting the scariest building in Ocean City than trust a New Jersey hair stylist to make me look normal. (Remember Bon Jovi? He's from New Jersey. His songs may be bitchin', but the dude embodies bad Jersey hair.) Almost.

More Beaver Suckling

From now on, I pledge to say, "This suckles beavers," rather than,"This sucks," when things are not going well. When I was in college and people pissed me off, I used to scream out, "Suck my big fat clit!" This always brought out some reaction, often laughter, and the situation was diffused. Shock and amuse - that's my motto.

Yesterday, Sara/Farf gave me a tank top that says, "My Bush could do a better job." I wear it with pride as I set off for the Jersey Shore this morning. (Yes, I know I just got back from Chicago.) If anyone gives me gump about it (last year some douche bag told me that I should "thank Bush for making this country safer" when he saw me wearing my "Bush is a Tush" t-shirt that is now too small on me), I plan to tell them to, "Suckle my big fat beaver." In preparation for the beach, I did manage to shave my pits and lower legs. Board shorts that reach my knees take care of the rest, so the bikini line is untouched. Yay.

Speaking of beavers, Husband, Rebecca, and I watched Alex Elliot on our DVR. Our jaws dropped wider and wider as we watched Mike and Juliet, who are seriously the dumbest TV show hosts on the planet. Worse, Juliet is completely inarticulate. The show suckles beavers, although once again, let me iterate how awesome Alex was on TV.

Leaving the Group Think Tank

I am unabashedly liberal. Even though most people don't know (or even like) a good portion of their fellow members of humanity, I believe that we have some obligations toward one another. I think I should pay a higher rate of taxes because I reap a higher share of benefits from our capitalist system. If you want to follow your religion, I am (mostly) OK with that, assuming that it doesn't literally hurt others (ie - female genital mutilation) and you don't try to convert me or force me to live by your religious beliefs. I am into the idea that people can think for themselves and that we can disagree and still be friendly.

Thus it was with much annoyance that I can across a blog today whose author said we got along just fine until she read that I generally support Israel. Radical Earthling then accused me of being a dumb fuck (but more nicely). (I concede that the article in question was not the clearest or most coherent 400 words I ever set to pen.) I'm cool with disagreeing and having a discussion about it.

What bothers me is that because she (he?) doesn't agree with my stance on Israel's right to exist, nothing else I write or think is acceptable. Why do people have to tow the exact same line on everything? My friend Sara (aka A Musing Farf) gets a lot of shit about this, too, especially about her "credibility" as a feminist. Farf and I don't see eye to eye on all (or even maybe most?) issues, but that's one of the reasons I like her: she challenges me to think. She has reasons for her beliefs and I like to hear them. Half of my favorite bloggers are waxed snatch lovers; I like hearing why. (And their reasons totally softened my outlook on it, even if I still personally shrink away from the practice.) If I hadn't egotistically googled myself, I might not have seen Radical Earthling's post, and I think she made some great points. (Maybe Radical Earthling could have left me a comment on that post indicating why she thinks I am wrong.) I respect thinkers, and I mock the crap out of idiots. I want to leave a comment on her post explaining some of my stances, but it won't take non-WordPress user feedback, so I'm shit out of luck.

Without dialogue, we might as well all just sit around watching beavers suckle beavers. Ladies and gentlemen, Suzanne has left the group think tank. Let's meet in the scary dark alley and talk crazy shit about what we disagree on.

Formula Feeding and Beaver Suckling

Thanks to my friend Alex Elliot, I had quite an adventure this morning. Alex was flown to New York to appear on today's episode of The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet (the link should bring you to her clip). I tagged along for moral support. Alex was awesome, especially for a first television appearance! She had total command of the stage. I puffed my chest (with pride, not milk) as I watched her from the sideline.

Before the show, however, Mike came out to chat with the guests. Mike is the most impressive douche bag I ever met. He yammered and yowled about how it is unnatural for humans to drink the milk of other animals. I shit you not that he actually said:

Zebras suckle zebras; beavers suckle beavers, and humans should suckle humans

I could not suppress my evilest grin at that beavers comment. There's quite a lot of beaver suckling in porn, I thought.

Mike went on obliviously about how insane it is that his mom gave him a big glass of cow's milk when he was a kid. Then he said:

Why don't we just drink breast milk for our whole lives?

Um, I don't know. Maybe because that would mean that women would never have fucking lives as they become milk machines? Or that our birth rate would drop precipitously since breastfeeding women tend to be less fertile? (Although moms of "Irish twins" can attest that this is not always an effective means of birth control...)

I spent a good portion of the rest of the morning trying to figure out if Mike was seriously that stupid or just trying to stoke a reaction, with no conclusive decision. I'll laugh and laugh about "beavers suckling beavers" for the rest of my life, tough.

This Just In!

My friend Alex Elliot, author of the awesome blog Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting, was invited to appear on the Fox morning news show, The Mike and Juliette Show. She wrote a fantastic piece yesterday about a ridiculous NYC ban on giving out formula to new moms in hospital gift bags. Read it.

I am excited to sit in the audience and give her a big thumbs up as she talks. I think it is no one's business to question why a woman uses formula. Do I follow other women around and ask them why they dress their preschool girls like mini whores? Um, I do. Bad example. I am a little nervous for Alex because the level of vitriol directed at mothers who do not breastfeed can be overwhelming, so I'm giving her a big shout out in advance.

Alex is a great mom and a brave woman taking a stand that is often unpopular, but absolutely just. I admire her greatly and am proud to be her friend. (Not to mention godmother to her kids, but I figure that her choice of a crazy ranting loon with mustard all over herself is not going to raise her esteem in the eyes of those judgmental freaks.) Thanks Alex, for being you!

Mustard's Last Stand

Mustard's Last Stand is (was?) a hot dog joint outside the gates of Northwestern's football stadium that was once called one thing and is now another, much to the consternation of the family that donated jillions of dollars years ago to build it and assumed that it would always be named after them. Except that it needed to be renovated and another family donated jillions of dollars and got the stadium renamed after themselves, so the lesson learned here is that if you ever donate oodles of money to memorialize yourself at a university, make sure you stipulate that a condition of the donation is that whatever building you are underwriting is named after you as long as it substantially stands.

Sorry, I digress. My point is not about donor relations. It is about mustard's last stand. While I was in the airport waiting for my flight back to New York, I bought a turkey sandwich. Instead of putting mustard on the sandwich, the sandwich maker threw three packets in the Styrofoam container along with a juicy pickle. I settled in at a counter in the middle of the food court to chow down.

When I tried to open the first packet of mustard, it resisted my assault on its sovereignty. After a few attempts, I should have moved onto to another packet, but I was determined to show the mustard who was boss. Eventually I succeeded in tearing a tiny hole in the corner.

Eyeing it with triumph, I silently messaged it. "Ha mustard! Prepare to be spread!"

"Fuck you!" it yelled back to my head. "Just try me."

It's not like I didn't know this was a Pyrrhic victory, as the tiny hole just waited to explode in a mustard geyser under the pressure of my finger tips. Still, I pushed on. Mustard spewed out in gusts. Some went on to the Styrofoam, a small glop hit the pickle, and two sprays of bright yellow splattered on my shirt. No mustard would up on the bread. I continued my front until a stray stream of mustard nearly hit an innocent victim as he walked by the counter area.

"Good-bye, imperialist swine!" the mustard packet gloated as I cast it aside and went for a new one, which I conquered immediately.

The pilfered mustard treasure from my second battle improved the sandwich dramatically, but I bore the marks of defeat as I boarded my flight smeared with mustard. Just as one must be careful when forking over cash to build a football stadium in your name, it is no less important to understand what you get into when you begin a war with a determined mustard.