That's the End of That

Today was certainly an emotional day. I said good-bye to Dr. P as she returned to Florida, and the Mets said good-bye to their fans by losing to Florida in a manner consistent with their track record over the past few weeks. Although I will cheer on my original home team, the Chicago Cubs, as they seek their first World Series victory in 99 years, my heart's not really in it. After they blew the 2004 season in the exact same manner as the Mets just threw this season into the crapper, I decided that 20 years of having my heart crushed was enough, and I stopped following them regularly. Plus, a Cubs championship is definitely a sign of the apocalypse, and despite my intense loathing of the human race, I'm not sure that I am ready for the world to end.

Regardless, I guarantee that the departure of Dr. P and the Mets season shall free up more of my time. I hope to get caught up on reading blogs and on Heroes and CSI. Since baseball is no longer a distraction/obsession, CUSS will return to a normal stories involving personal follies and rants. My whole family will be in town in October for Brother-in-Law's wedding, so expect excellent fodder in late October. Much better than the World Series, indeed.

The Weekend Outlook

The good news: Dr. P is in town and staying with me. This makes me happy and we are living it up, if you consider eating out with other pals every night, running in various parks, shopping at Old Navy and Chelsea Market, and visiting a museum and touring a brewery to be the high life, which I do.

The bad news: Dr. P is not a baseball person, and everyone else we are hanging out with (thus far) is a rabid Mets fan like I am. The poor woman is therefore stuck listening to the rest of us moan and groan about the pathetic situation that we now face for the (lack of) post-season.

I'm going to miss her like a mad motherfucker when she returns to Florida on Sunday.

Third Base and the Return of "Beaver Suckling" Man

Back in August, my friend Alex appeared on The Mike and Juliet Show to talk about why some women don't breastfeed. I accompanied her to the show for moral support, and while waiting in the back room, was witness to an inane (insane?) analogy made by Mike about "beavers suckling beavers," which of course made me snicker and smirk. Alex kicked ass on the show, I got a new running joke about beaver suckling, and I thought that would be the end of it with Mike.

Oh contraire! This morning, my friend Logan Levkoff, author of the awesome book (I'm reading a review copy), Third Base Ain't What it Used to Be, a guide to help parents talk to their kids about sex, was on The Mike and Juliet Show. Juliet, as usual, was a moron. However, Mike really surprised me in how open he was to talking about sex and in supporting the idea that parents should talk to their kids early in life about the topic. No beaver suckling incidents today! Logan, of course, was awesome.

Speaking of third base, why oh why can the Mets not advance beyond that place on the field and score some literal runs? We know it is just a game, but Husband and I are seriously vexed by the likelihood that the Mets are not going to make it into the postseason. I guess that'll just leave me more time to watch other shit on TV. Sigh.

The Dangerous Post for Gender Stereotyped Kids' Products

I was thinking about reading The Dangerous Book for Boys because it looked interesting. What kind of activities did the British authors recommend? Fox hunting? Poking bunnies in the face with sticks? Actually, I guess rabbit-poking is not terribly dangerous, as the little beasts tend to run away rather than fight back, but it seems like something that a manual written to get boys back in touch with their masculine side might suggest. After all, petting cute furry animals gently is for sissies and girls.

My curiosity about the book never got me to the point of reading it, though. I am just too peeved at the notion that these activities (like tying knots) are "for boys." If this was not a clever publicity ploy, I don't know what is. Title a book that has basic fun kid activities as "for boys" instead of "for children," sit back, and watch the ensuing furor. Conservative pundits can talk about how we are finally recognizing that "boys will be boys" (maybe date rape is an activity?) and feminists like me can moan and groan about how much we hate assholes. It's a win-win-win situation!

I blathered more about the book and Tonka trucks (their new slogan: "Built for Boyhood") over at BlogHer.

The Competition

This evening, I took another step toward hopefully entering an MFA program for creative nonfiction writing next fall, and attended an open house at The New School with two women from my writing group. Generally, we agreed that the program sounded interesting and exciting (although I was slightly concerned at how inarticulate two out of the three student panelists were), and I am definitely applying there. The highlight of the evening came during the question and answer session:

Audience Member 1: How important is the writing sample when applying?

Program Director: The writing portfolio is the most important part of the application, followed by the statement of purpose, followed by the letters of recommendation.

Audience Member 2: So do we need a writing profile to apply?

After a few more exchanges along these lines, the event ended. I called Husband to tell him I was on my way home to watch the Mets lose yet again. (Seriously, this is killing me.)

"Oh, well, they are up 3 to nothing," he reported, albeit guardedly.

When I walked into my apartment 20 minutes later, Carlos Delgado hit a home run and the Mets were up 6 to nothing. Hurray! About an hour or so after that, we lost 9 to 6. I really need to stop watching for the rest of the season.

Kiss and Make-Up

Suebob wrote a very insightful essay about forgiveness, which ends with in a typically Suebobian perfect fashion that left me chuckling and nodding in recognition. Forgiveness is not one of my strong suits. A long time ago, people told me that I should find out what I am good at and focus on those things. Turns out that I am excellent at holding grudges. Not long after I read Suebob's post about forgiveness, Steph called.

"You know what's crazy?" she asked me, and then not waiting for an answer, she went on. "MySpace had a survey and one question it asked was about how many people you hate. Lots of people answered that they don't hate anyone because it's too much effort."

"Yeah? Well, they are lying," I replied.

"Seriously," Steph said, "It takes much more effort to try and not hate people."

"Amen to that," I laughed.

I thought about this all as I was trying to sleep earlier this evening, and failing miserably. I have a gig tomorrow to do a workshop, and for no reason at all, I kept fixating on how much more respectable I'd look if I wore a little make-up so that I didn't appear to be the living dead. On the other hand, I'm no better at doing my face than I am at the live-and-let-live philosophy of life, so I suppose I fail on both ends of the kiss and make up spectrum. So it goes.

Riding the Short Bus in Albany

The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is the state agency that oversees the subways and buses in New York City. Most of them live outside of the City and the surrounding suburbs, and the previous head of the MTA had never taken the subway when our former hack Republican governor (let me be clear - he's still a hack and a Republican, just thankfully not governor) appointed him. Now the geniuses in Albany (our state capital) are considering a fare hike for people who use public transportation during peak hours and a discount for those who don't. I think the conversation went something like this when the idea was proposed:

MTA Employee 1: Too many people use the subway during rush hour.

MTA Employee 2: I know! It's weird that all those people in NYC try to go to work between 9 and 10 am. It's not like most jobs start at those hours or anything.

MTA E1: Seriously! I bet we can get people to use public transit later or earlier if we raise the prices during rush hour. Employers don't really care what time people get to work, so this will definitely be an incentive for people to change their schedules.

MTA E2: Yeah! And even if that works and people do use mass transit during off-peak hours, let's not sell discount monthly passes. If you want a transit pass, it's full price no matter when you travel. That way, New Yorkers can just pay higher prices and tourists and other people who are visiting can get discounts!

MTA E1: Great point. I just don't understand why tourists should have to pay regular fares that help sustain the mass transit system. It's not like they live there or anything, so it's no benefit to us folks in Albany when we randomly visit the city. Oh - did I say us? I meant tourists in general. Remember a few years ago when the MTA had a deficit and we gave discounts during the holiday weekends to anyone without a pass?

MTA E2: Ha ha ha. That was great. My family loves shopping in the City for Christmas gifts, but why should we pay for the subway? Just because New York City is the economic engine that supports this entire state doesn't mean that they shouldn't shoulder the full burden of maintaining mass transit - and our roads upstate so that when we go to work during rush hour, it's a comfortable and cheap commute.

Goals/Gaols

Today's goal is to finish writing up all my lower Manhattan site visits. As I was thinking about my goals in general, my head got the word confused with "gaol." "Ha ha ha," I thought to myself, "isn't it weird that the two words are spelled the same way?" Then I remembered that they weren't spelled the same way, although sometimes goals are like little gaols that trap you, aren't they?

Maybe I need to get out more.

What a Bitch!

Last night before we headed off into our separate la-la-lands of peaceful slumber, I told Husband about my plans for today's post over at BlogHer.

"I was going to write about the Isiah Thomas 'bitch' scandal, but I think I am going to expand the topic a bit to discuss the word bitch in general," I said, considering how I'd open the whole thing with my nickname from Steph. (It's Bee, which is short for "bitch.")

"If anyone called you my bitch, I'd be mad," Husband replied. Pause. "Because everyone knows that you're my cunt."

"Aw, that's so so sweet!" I cried and hugged him.

Ain't love grand?

Smile if You Hate Bush*

For a few reasons, it's been a long time since I last wore my violet t-shirt that has a child-like drawing of a girl frowning and next to her, in a first grader's handwriting - complete with backwards "a" - says "Bush is a tush." Mostly I hadn't worn it because I gained some weight and was afraid to even put it on because I didn't want to find out that it didn't fit. Since I recently decided that I should be less concerned with whether I look "fat" or not, I broke the t-shirt out yesterday and went on my merry way to Brooklyn. (For the record, it fit fine anyway.)

I don't remember the last time I wore the shirt in NYC, but I'm fairly sure that I had limited reaction to it. (Unlike when I wore it in Ocean City, NJ, two summer ago and a man in a coffee shop blew up at me. "You should consider yourself lucky to have Bush as your president," he spewed in my face as I stared at him like he clearly just got here for Uranus, which is obviously explained his stupid asshole behavior. It's amazing how many people I run into from that testy planet.) My sartorial choice yesterday, though, demonstrated how much times have changed.

As I walked around, I noticed an unusual number of people smiling at me. At first I thought they were mocking me for wearing a Mets hat when the Mets are imploding, but then I realized it was appreciation for the shirt. (Or maybe my boobs, but I'm pretty sure it was the shirt's message.) I stopped into the legendary Peter Luger's steakhouse for lunch (the $8.95 1/2 pound burger is amazing), and several waiters came up to me to say things like, "Great shirt!"

An even more interesting sign of the times might be the reaction I got when I wore my "My Bush could do a better job" tank top to Ocean City this August. Not one person said anything nasty to me, and I got a big "Love your shirt!" from a college-age guy I passed on the street. So either anti-Bush sentiment is spreading, pro-bush love is abounding, fewer people from Uranus are polluting Earth, or some combination of all of the above. It's excellent progress.

Stay Away from My Friend Dianne

After Dianne revealed that she has the logic skills commonly exhibited by serial killers in her answer to the question of why a woman killed her sister a week after their mom's funeral, I sent her an email.

"So, how many bodies you got buried in your basement, serial killer?" I wrote. Then I mentioned that the prior day I went to an art installation that consisted of most of the floor of an office building/former warehouse being filled with dirt that comes up to about my knee. Dianne thought she had been there before, and she was right about what had been there. It's been open to the public since 1980, and the guy at the information desk told me that they rake and water it once a week. (I'm sure the people in the floors below love that.)

She replied, "Hahahahaha! I am so happy and alarmed! I do not bury bodies in my basement, I sneak into the local wax museum and leave them there. It takes forever to realize they are not part of a macabre exhibit! I was afraid I was right after I posted my answer, so I googled the question to try to find the answer. Also, there is a list of serial killer characteristics that I score pretty high on, I tried to find them as well, but no luck."

Dianne then further exhibited her deviant nature by suggesting that we go to the art installation and "chuck grass seed in the pile." Now it is my turn to laugh psychotically, and if Count Mockula would be so good as to share her disturbing story about the coroner's office her mom worked it, it will be even more fun.

The Hills, SI-Style

This may sound crazy, but hear me out before you call to have me committed: Staten Island may very well be the most interesting borough in New York City. On a visit to the most suburban, whitest (approximately 80% of the population versus 57% in Manhattan, according to the 2000 Census) borough, I was shocked to discover many things.

Forget Lauren Conrad and her stupid exploits on the MTV reality show, The Hills. Staten Island is also very hilly, and the hills are alive with the sound of music - rap, salsa, and hip hop blaring from car stereos and apartment windows. Also, there are a number of Latin American restaurants and soul-food joints that tempted me with delectable aromas as I sweat my ass off climbing up and down the hilly, winding streets. I replenished my fluids with a refreshing ice tea that I purchased at a gay-friendly (hello, rainbow flag!) coffee house across the street from Ira's Curiosity Place and Mood Swings, two store specializing in antique junk and other random crap.

The site visits for the book I am writing about attractions that are off the beaten path are nearing completion, and of all the places I trekked around in, Staten Island surprised me the most. Not that I was not consistently delighted by the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and Manhattan - I totally was - but I expected to be. Staten Island definitely has its hidden quirks, which makes it as fascinating as its more diverse borough cousins.

Are You a Serial Killer?

Husband told me that he read that nearly all serial killers have the same answer to the following question:

A woman is at her mother's funeral when she notices an attractive man who is attending. She would like to go and talk to him, but first she must deal with the well-wishers and other people who went to the funeral and want to speak with her on their way out. By the time she is finished with the niceties, the man is gone. She never gets a chance to find out who he is. A week later, she kills her sister. Why?

Posit your theory in the comments* and later I'll reveal what the typical explanation given by a serial killer is.

*Unless you know the answer 'cause you heard this before. Don't be a wet blanket when it comes to demented fun, please!

Pouring Chemicals on Your Legs Is, Like, so Cool!

Feministe reports that Nair admits to marketing to ten year olds. Thank goodness! I was getting worried that the adults in their lives were letting girls get too comfortable with the shaggy, "angry feminist" look. Next thing you know, they might not want hot wax poured into their vulvas and asses because they might find pubic hair weirdly acceptable. I mean, my parents never bothered me about shaving, and look how fucked up I am. In fact, I am so degenerate that I went to the gynecologist today with hairy armpits, hairly legs, and a bushy cooter. If only Nair was marketing to me twenty years ago, I might known that as "a citizen of the world," "a dreamer," and "fresh" person, I am "so not going to have stubs sticking out of my legs." Or arms. Or snatch.

Crack is Whack

Supposedly, the horrific crack epidemic that swept the nation in the 1980s ended in the early '90s, but I have found much anecdotal evidence that the US remains full of crackheads.

My first (and most solid proof) derives from the fact that there are still people out there who think that the Iraqi war is going well and we should just do what we've been doing thus far and things will be just fine, thank you for the refreshing crack-laced lemonade, dear. Sure, I see fewer and fewer letters to the editor in The New York Times supporting this position. (Even a year ago, they ran about even with pro and con letters.) My assumption is that there are no, if any, good-for-the-brave-and-fearless-leader-Bush-for-his-wise-invasion letters coming in or the paper would print a few. On the other hand, I just read a story in New York magazine about Col Allan, the editor-in-chief of The New York Post, and the man is clearly on crack when he talks about Iraq. (Actually, most of his insane behavior indicates that he is a crackhead.)

Other anecdotal evidence on the nation's continuing crackhead mindset stems from comments I see on the blogs I read. Por ejemple, yesterday I was reading a new response to the little essay I wrote about Jewish feminist leaders. To sum up, I wrote about how Jewish women advocated for social equality in the US from the 1850s on. It did not compare Judaism to other religions, nor did it have anything to do with the Holocaust. Yet someone responded, apropos of nada, that Jews are probably more equal than Christians, and further, she was miffed that her family received no thank you letters after her grandfather helped Dutch Jews during WWII. Obviously his actions show that he was not on crack, but I can't see what on earth this has to do with American Jewish women and feminist leadership. I know that anyone who has a blog who ever wrote anything remotely political or personal or maybe even about a sandwich they ate that day has received these what-the-fuck? comments.

Americans: listen to Whitney and lay off the crack, because it seriously makes you crazy.

Friendliness

Liz wrote a post yesterday about the crazy sexual harassment she has to deal with when she walks down the street in LA. I was surprised and mortified. I seriously doubt that NYC is more polite than LA, but damn. I never hear guys come out and say "nice tits" to a woman as she walks down the street, much less wiggle his tongue through his fingers. Not that men don't stare or whistle, but it's much less over the top.

A few weeks ago, I was wandering around on the Lower East Side with Husband and another couple. It was rather humid, and my juvenile pink shirt with cap sleeves and a picture of a fortune teller with rhinestones on it was getting nasty sweaty in the armpits. As we passed by two young strapping guys hanging out at the entrance of a bodega, one of them said politely, "I like your shirt." Obviously, he could not be talking to me, so I didn't say anything. My friend didn't either, and I heard the guy mumble something about being a bitch for not acknowledging his compliment.

"Was he talking to me?" I asked my friend a few minutes later.

"Yeah," she said.

"Damn, he has bad taste or needs to find a better way to compliment my chest."

See? So innocent out here in the big, bad City. That's why I stay away from evil places like LA.

I'm in the Army Now

After an hour, the subway train finally pulled into the Bay Ridge station in Brooklyn. I ambled up the stairs and decided to check the large area map on the mezzanine level of the station to make sure that I really knew how to get to John Paul Jones Park. Turns out that the crappy park map that I printed was correct, and as I turned to leave the station I noticed that the map indicated that the Harbor Defense Museum was in a green area adjacent to the one I planned to see. Score!

John Paul Jones Park is known colloquially as Cannonball Park because of the enormous black cannon pointed at the Verrazano Bridge. "Stay out, Staten Islanders, or suffer the consequences!" I laughed to myself when I saw the cannon's position. Surrounding the monster weapon are 29 cannonballs, each one the size (although not weight) of a beach ball. Of course, there are no signs explaining what the cannon and its ammo is doing in the park pointing at Staten Island, so my theory seems as reasonable as any.

I studied the scene for approximately 2.5 minutes before moving on and noticing a strange monument to Giovanni da Verrazano, "the first European" to stop by, and some random Italian-American man who spent his life promoting the humanitarian contributions of Italians. Chuckling, I continued toward the Harbor Defense Museum. Let me say that it strikes me as hard to randomly find oneself on an Army base, but as fate would have it, that's where the museum was. Huh. Who even knew that there were active Army bases in the City? You learn something new every day.

Lesson #2 of the day: regular folks can't buy things from stores on Army bases. I was pretty hungry after Irwin, an eager World War II veteran ("I invaded Sicily," he announced when I walked into the museum), "showed" me around. Mainly, he liked making fun of early Americans, noting that the Continental Army at first consisted of illiterate farmers, bums, and drunks. "The British couldn't understand how these rednecks managed to kill any of their soldiers," he confided. Thirty minutes later, Irwin hustled me out and I headed to the base store, where my attempt to purchase a 69 cent pack of Fig Newtons was smacked down when I could not produce proper ID.

I settled for a vending machine (which didn't discriminate against civilian money) and wolfed down a 3 Musketeers bar as I headed back into society. As I passed by a large rock with a plaque placed by the traitorous organization known as the New York Division of the United Daughters of the Confederacy noting that General Robert E. Lee lived on the base from 1841-1846, it took all my willpower not to spit on it. Instead, I made faces at the rock, shook my head, and muttered a lot about how utterly fucked up the US is that we honor traitors at our military bases. Given our national history, it almost makes sense that we are at a point where we send the people who live on this base to die in Iraq so that our leaders and their cronies can enrich their pockets.

Onto the Field

It was a weekend of sports, and it was a weekend of losses. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets blow their first game against Philadelphia thanks to lazy and sloppy play. We did, however, get a kick out of the free fake mustaches distributed to 20,000 extremely lucky fans in honor of Keith Hernandez, former Mets player and cokehead, and current TV announcer who sometimes talks with food in his mouth. Saturday, we attended the game in person to encourage them. Other than the free cute hats that were given to a lucky group of 25,000 fans and the quality time I spent with Husband and the in-laws, I would say it was not the best use of my time. Sitting in a windy, shady part of the stadium, I froze my ass off as the Mets once again played like shit. Finally, on Sunday, I witnessed the Giants suck ass, although at least the seats we had (second row behind the 20 yard line on the Giants' side) were excellent and I got a free useless calendar that I threw out immediately. Also, being at the Giants game prevented me from watching the Mets play worse than your local Little League team, so that was some avoided aggravation. Good times.

This weekend also saw a personal kick-off to the GRE season. To apply to the Hunter College MFA program, I must face my nemesis. I did answered 125 questions from the verbal portion (I haven't faced my biggest challenge yet, which is the quantitative section) and did mostly OK. I played the antonyms section like the Mets, though. It's bit hard to identify the correct antonym when I don't recognize the word at all. Out of 30 words, I didn't even have the foggiest idea what 15 of them meant. I guessed well on one of those. Yeah.

Into the Woods

If you are ever looking for a place to escape from the urban environment of Manhattan, but have no interest in leaving the island, the north end of Central Park is woodsy and quiet. If you really want to get away without going anywhere, you must head to Inwood Hill Park. This is where I found myself on Friday morning.

Someone from my book club told me that there is a rock in Inwood Hill Park that marks the spot where Peter Minuit bought Manhattan from the (a?) Native American tribe occupying it in 1628. Since I had no idea where this was, I thought it would be wise to head to the nature center/visitor center first. The Urban Park Ranger on duty (ha! I said doody!) gave me a map and told me which trails made for good sightseeing, but no poison ivy. Yes, I said trails and poison ivy.

All went well at first. The rock was easy to find (and also marks the spot of what used to be the oldest, biggest tree in NYC - a tulip tree that grew to 160 feet high with a circumference of 20 feet and lived about 280 years before it died in the 1930s). As I set off on the trail, I marveled at the beautiful woods that seemed like they might be easy to get lost in, although the ranger assured me that all roads eventually lead out of the park since it is not that big. I also reflected on the various little personal problems I've been having lately.

Before I knew it, I was lost. Or sort of lost, but how could I use my cell phone to call for help if I was really lost? What would I say, "Hi! I'm lost in Inwood HIll Park by some trees and rocks?" What if I wandered around in circles until it got dark and then coyotes (who I am certain do not live in the park) ate me? In the back of my mind, I was pretty sure that homeless people were found living in the woods, and worse, a few years ago a woman was murdered there.

After panicking for a minute, I decided that I would just retrace my steps and eventually I'd find the haven of the urban jungle. I also committed to return to the park with another person next time. It's funny how I don't think twice about venturing out into all sorts of places in the City, but I freak out completely when I'm turned around a bit in a 196 acre park and/or when little things in my life don't go as planned. I just like concrete and maps, I guess.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Yet another fine comment as to what people hope to find when they search for jewish pussy on the internet:

i wanted to learn about jewish pussy. so far, i have been afraid to
find out because they are attached to jewish women.

Husband claims there's good reason to be afraid. Of course, he'll pay for that snarky bit. (Just kidding.)

Today I spent part of the day lost in a literal and metaphorical woodland in upper Manhattan. (Long story, which I will post tomorrow night after I get back from the Mets game. Those fuckers better not fuck up like they did this evening or I'm taking them into the woodshed.)

The Book Meme

My beloved blog-friend Suebob tagged me for a meme on books. Hopefully, I will not be too boring.

Total number of books owned: It's hard to tell. Between Husband and I, we have two overflowing bookcases. Books are also in piles on the floor and stacks on nightstands. Sometimes I think a book volcano erupted in my apartment and buried a small city. I also have two very tall book cases in my old room in my parents' house that are overflowing.

Last book bought: For my Sept. 9th book club meeting, I bought San Remo Drive by Leslie Epstein on Sept. 6th. Nothing like the last minute, and I had to go to two Barnes & Nobles to find it.

Last book read: See above. It was a very strange book about Hollywood in the 1950s, HUAC, adolescence, and race and religion based on the author's life. I partly recommend it. Overall, I think I liked it, but it was also kind of fucked up. I think our next book is going to be This Book Will Save Your Life by AM Homes. I'm pretty excited about it. Not that this relates to the question.

Five Books that Mean a Lot to You:

It by Stephen King - this book is a beautiful story about friendship, courage, and growing up when it is not scaring the fucking crap out of you, dear reader

Sport by Louise Fitzhugh - a hilarious tale about family and friendship that I often re-read when I am seeking solace from the world

Backlash by Susan Faludi - I read this when I was a sophomore in high school and it absolutely changed the way I looked at the world and re-affirmed my burgeoning feminist belief system

Take a Nap Harry by Mary Chalmers - a picture book my mom read to me that I loved because I hated naps and my mom read it in the greatest way (sadly it is out of print now)

Savage Inequalities by Jonathon Kozol - another book I read in high school that inspired me to take action to make the world a better place, I was devastated at how the US systemically cheats poor kids

Best Five Books You Read in the Last Year (I wish I can remember what the hell I read over the past 12 months, but I'll do my best):

Winner of the National Book Award by Jincy Willet

Sweet and Low by Rich Cohen

The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead

Strivers Row by Kevin Baker

Random Family by Adrienne Nicole LeBlanc (OK, I didn't actually read the book yet, but I've been meaning to do so for ages...)

I tag:
Major Bedhead
Valerie
Urban Pedestrian
Michelle
Ev and Kwatch

Much Appreciation

Despite all my bluster and bravado, I've been having a tough few weeks for a variety of personal reasons. I hit a big nasty low yesterday night, and I couldn't sleep. When I went to check my email, I got this message in conjunction with an article I wrote at The Panelist, Breast Cancer for Fun and Profit:

You are my new hero!... Thank you!!!

Whoever you are, debutaunt, this meant more to me right now than you know. Thank you.

And thanks to everyone else who has been a good friend to me lately, whether online or in person or both. There's nothing horrible happening in my life or anything to worry about, but I especially appreciate your friendship these days. You rock. Also, I have been cheering myself up considerably by reviewing all of the nice pictures I posted and things I wrote about my parents' house. Even though my affectionate mockery of their house annoys my dad to no end, thinking about the non-pretentious home I grew up in and the lovely wacky people who reside(d) in it is making me feel very good right now. Yay.

Mmmmmm...

While I eagerly anticipate a delicious meal and fine company at my in-laws' house tonight, I would love to celebrate the New Year with them:

After Rosh Hashanah services this morning, Shirley Kehimkar has invited family and friends home to enjoy an Indian feast she planned to get up at 3 a.m. to start preparing, including rice pilaf, chicken curry and grouper fish.

"A Jew is a Jew. We're the same everywhere, but I do like spicing up my food," Kehimkar, 65, a retired civil servant who came to Canada in 1969, says with a chuckle.

The rest of The Star's article on the the teensy Indian-Jewish-Canadian population in the Toronto area is very interesting as well. (How many times can I tag a post "Hindi" and "Jewishness?!?" A very unique opportunity here indeed!)

If you have any desire to read more about my thoughts on Jewishness, this time in conjunction with feminism, I wrote about the subject today at BlogHer.

Misnomer

Little Lad's Basket? Very misleading name. The place should really be called Uncle Montezuma's Big Gift Box. Even though vegan stuffing and yogurt wage war in my intestines (I almost suffocated Husband and myself with my hideous gas last night), I still plan to eat there again. That's the kind o' fool I am.

Little Lad's Basket

Speaking of perverts, there's a fascinating little restaurant in the basement of a huge office building just off Wall Street. It's run by Seventh Day Adventists and is vegan. Since the place has no meat or dairy, it attracts a people-watching worthy mix of Jews who keep kosher, Muslims, Hindus, hippies, and weirdos like me. The buffet is a mere $3.99 for all the food you can fit into a Styrofoam plate and bowl. Baked goods, granola, and amazing popcorn (made with "herbs" that are addictive) are also sold for your home eating pleasure.

The restaurant is called Little Lad's Basket, which my friend Sara (not Farf-Sara, but another Jewess pal of mine) decided made it sound like a place that former Rep. Mark Foley* would enjoy visiting. Many moons have passed since I last ate there, but I decided to chow down before I went onto the American Numismatic Museum and tour the future home of the new-and-improved Museum of American Financial History. Although I have no idea exactly what I ate, it prepared me will to go look at money and homages to capitalism.

We** should go there sometime. It'll be fun.

*Remember him? He was the homophobic Republican who "championed" children who was caught hitting on a teenage page.
**This means any CUSS reader/vegan who lives in NYC (ahem, Des) or will be visiting.

L'Chaim, Jewish Pussy

Any Jew worth his horns knows that "L'Chaim" means "to life." Anyone who has seen Fiddler on the Roof may remember the fine song sung to celebrate when Tevye agrees that his daughter Tzeitel, who is maybe in her late teens or early 20s, will marry Lazar Wolf, the lecherous old shtetl (that's ghetto) butcher who ogles Tzeitel like a choice cut of kosher meat every time the poor girl has to go to his shop. Tevye thinks that this is a good arrangement for Tzeitel, since his family is mired in poverty and the widowed butcher is rich, so she'll be comfortable in life. (And one can always hope that the old fuck will die quickly and just leave her with the money, a la Anna Nicole Smith, but I don't know that this actually crossed Tevye's mind.)

The point is, there's a big song called "L'Chaim" that celebrates life. I was thinking about this last night (and now can't get the damn song out of my head) because sundown marks Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, 5768. Traditionally, apples and honey are eaten at the start of the New Year in hopes of it being a sweet year. Last night, Husband compared Jewish pussy to this custom, saying that he likes to dip his apple in the honey, then laughing sleazily. (Update clarification: because it was a funny joke! He's not creepy!) I'll never be able to think about a sweet New Year the same way again. Ah, I adore him.

L'chaim and shana tova.

Hocking Some Family Jewels

Call me Scarlet O'Hara. In less than two hours, I will be pawning a family "jewel."



This 1950s or '60s Baume & Mercier watch has a sad story behind it that of course turns somewhat ridiculous when in my hands. Basically, my grandfather was born in Warsaw and fled to Russia when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939. My bubbe evacuated Minsk when the Nazis invaded the Soviet Union. Both wound up in the Ural Mountains. They got married, and my dad was born in Magnitgorsk after the war. When he was less than a month old, the family left Russia to find my grandfather's family. No one was alive, Jews were killed on a regular basis in Poland, and so they joined the tide of other refugees and lived in displaced persons camps for five years until they came to the US.

While living in the DP camps, my grandparents befriended another couple, Norm and Helen. With no blood relatives, they became family to each other. Norm and Helen eventually relocated to South Haven, MI where they owned an orchard. Happily, my family wound up not far away in Chicago, and my dad spent many happy summers in the fresh air with Norm and Helen. Fast forward 50 or so years, in preparation for her own death, Helen began giving her jewelry to my bubbe, including this watch. To me, this is horribly morbid, but apparently a common Jewish practice.

Once my bubbe has the watch, she becomes obsessed with giving it to me. Except that it is not my style and I don't particularly want it, so I repeatedly refuse it. When Bubbe semi-accepts that I am not going to ever wear the watch, she decides that I need to hock it. I take it to some estate jewelry buyers in both Chicago and New York. All say the same thing: I'm not the only person who thinks the style is dated, and they can't sell such an item. It is worth only the gold from which it is made. The best offer I get is $200.

Bubbe, however, is convinced that it is a priceless object d'arte and is very displeased with what I report.

"Don't let them cheat you!" she intones in her Eastern European accent.

Dutifully, I continue schlepping it to different jewelers until I accidentally overwind the watch and break it. Since the value of the watch is in the gold and not the time-telling, this appears to have no effect on its value, but I use it as an excuse to stop my aimless wanderings, although I consider selling it and lying about the price. The watch thus sits on my nightstand for another few years.

In the past few weeks, I see a number of ads for an estate jewelry buyer in New York City. On Sunday, I decide to email them and see if they are interested in the watch. Yesterday afternoon an extremely chipper woman calls me and asks me to bring it in. I call my sister and tell her whatever I get for the watch, I'll share with her 50-50, and she tells me to just sell it already. I decide that I am going to give my portion to charity. Originally, I thought Planned Parenthood, but Husband suggests that I select a Jewish organization, which makes sense.

At the end of the day, no matter what the watch sells for, it will never undo the loneliness and torment suffered by Norm and Helen as they rebuilt their shattered lives in America, and celebrated their success with a gold Baume & Mercier watch. Reflecting on this saga on Sept. 11 and the day before Rosh Hashanah 5768, it is obvious that they already paid the highest price.

"CSI: Miami:" Keeping It Logical

CSI: Miami is my favorite craptastic show with over-the-top bad acting by David Caruso, ludicrous plot resolutions that never live up to the first 47 minutes of the criminal investigation, and hot actors. Last season's production quality, with its "new fangled" flashy split screen action for no good reason, nearly drove me insane. I was seriously considering not tuning in again this year, even if it meant missing out on Caruso's infamous removal and replacement of sunglasses as a substitute for facial expression. (That never fails to amuse me.)

Hence it was with much excitement that I read in Entertainment Weekly that Rory Cochran, whose character Speedle was killed in 2004, is returning to the show as that character. Producers have verified that Speedle is indeed going to be back. This is no twin-of-Speedle type of bait and switch. How on earth a dead guy will join the CSI team is beyond me, but my friend Steph (who adores Rory) and I are bursting with anticipation.

And that, my friends, is the exact cheese I love about CSI: Miami. The show is like Humboldt Fog spread it thick on a cracker and I eat every damn crumb.

Using the "C-Word"

Upon opening my New York Times this dreary Monday morning, I was shocked - shocked! - to find the lead editorial titled, "B Is for Bailout, C Is for..."

"No way!" I thought to myself. "Is the Old Gray Lady really going to call the Bush administration cunts?" Because when I see c-word, cunt is absolutely the first word that pops into my mind. Plus, the Bush administration is totally fully of cuntfaces, so this would be a truth-telling unparalleled by any other paper in the counry or even world.

Breathlessly, I skimmed the short piece. Let's see - Bush claiming that although his plan allows 80,000 at-risk homeowners to refinance their loans through the Federal Housing Administration, in addition to the Federal Reserve's recent intervention in financial markets, is not the "b-word" (bailout, not bitch). Whatever. Blah blah blah. Where's the c-word?

Ah, there it is, in the 7th paragraph of the 7 paragraph essay! The op-ed says, "But, if deep down, there is no acknowledgement of a bailout - no 'b-word' - there will be no grappling with the 'c-word,' complicity." Oh. Well, the fine upstanding editors at the Times only stracthed at the surface of the Bush administrations' evil works by using the word complicit, but that's almost as good as calling them cunts. I'll take it.

Britney Spears Makes Me Cringe

Wow, I've never seen anyone so unenthusiastic at her own comeback. I'd feel sorry for her, as it can't be easy living under all the constant, relentless, glaring scrutiny, but at the same time, there are people in the world who will work hard all their lives and never see a fraction of the income she's made. Retiring gracefully is a skill she should be taught. OK, it's too late for "gracefully..."

(I had an embedded video of her performance, but it appears to have been yanked. Surf around and I'm sure you'll find it on the net, but why get depressed over that when you can think about global warming or the Bush administration? Oh - because neither of those topics have horrific weave. Right. Same reason I am all over this shit.)

Paging Planet Earth

It's no secret that I often function as though I am on another planet. However, unlike the folks at The Wall Street Journal, my planet is not Uranus. I'm not sure where my planet is. It is very likely not even in our solar system.

I seem to mentally relocate to the home planet when I haven't slept well in a few days. Oddly enough, when I get anxiety attacks not only do I find up with acid indigestion, but also insomnia. Thus I slept poorly last week, hung out on the home planet, and got confused about all sorts of earthly details, which brings me back to Uranus.

Des pointed out that Uranus is, in fact, still a planet. This confused me, as I was sure that within the last year or so some planet was downgraded from planet status to moon status or the like. It turns out that the degraded planet is Pluto. Uranus is safe! Whew.

After making this crucial mistake and starting rumors about Uranus, I was relieved when the acid/insomnia died down on Friday and I fell asleep at a normal time. My journey back to earth from the home planet was rudely interrupted at 8 AM by enormous noises emanating from the apartment above where my body slumbered peacefully.

My eyes flew open. "What the fuck? Are those assholes moving furniture around at 8 on a Saturday morning?" I thought to myself and looked over at Husband to see if the rumbling/scraping sounds woke him, too. Husband appeared to be unconscious, so I waited a few minutes. Loud banging and dragging sounds continued. It was time to put on some pants and shoes and go upstairs to ask the fuckers what the fuck they were doing moving their fucking furniture so early on a steaming Saturday morning.

Long story short, I was still half-asleep and not entirely mentally there when I rang the doorbell upstairs. A woman in a robe answered. I meant to introduce myself and calmly ask if they were moving furniture and if so, could they please wait another two hours or so, as I really need to get some sleep. Instead, I slurred something like, "What you doin' movin' furnitures around at this hour?"

The women apologized and said her trundle bed was stuck, but she didn't realize how much noise it made. I sort of felt bad then for bothering her, and I think I introduced myself at that point, which was totally awkward and then slunk off to go back to sleep. When I woke up an hour later, I was not sure if I dreamed the whole incident or I actually went upstairs to question her about the morning's activities. Evidence of my actual journey was found when I noticed my jeans and Crocs in the dining room, where I must have stripped them off and abandoned them before I staggered back my room and fell into the cushion-y softness of my bed.

Later, Husband wondered why the people upstairs began drilling at 8 AM. So he did wake up from the noise.

"Didn't you wonder where I was?" I asked him.

"Huh?" he replied. "You weren't in the bathroom the whole time?"

I felt better that I am not the only one in my household who sometimes resides in other worlds.

Saturday Afternoon Picture Show

I'm feeling much better today, so I'll share semi-gross photos. Yay.

Last weekend, my cousin and I indulged in a vat of Monster Cookie Dough. Monster Cookies are basically oatmeal, peanut butter, and generic M&Ms. It tends to be delicious. However, this batch of dough went through an unfortunate defrost-refreeze-defrost process that caused it to look like the results of the shit bucket test ( see Part I and Part II for more details and no pictures) I took a few years ago in attempt to figure out what was wrong with my digestive system.
Although it seems like I am about to eagerly eat diarrhea, I think I look pretty fucking adorable in this picture. It's so rare that I am happy with photos of me.

As for my latest bodily failure, here's my broken tooth:*

It was finally fixed on Wednesday by my hot dentist's significantly less hot dentist father. At least the snaggletooth Jewish white trash look is gone.

*For the record, it did not break as a result of eating the generic M&Ms in the Monster Cookie dough. It broke for the 4th time in three years because my mouth is too little and when I clench my teeth when I am pissed off or merely eat, it seems to put too much stress on the little guy from the bigger tooth above it.

The Acid Test

In my previous life as a nonprofit finance person, I often employed what is called the acid test to measure the health of the organizations with which I worked. The Acid Test involves taking the business's current assets, subtracting the stock, and then dividing that answer by the organization's current liabilities. Since nonprofit organizations don't have stock, this is really the same as finding what is known as the current ratio, which is just current assets divided by current liabilities. Obviously, you want to see that the organization has more than enough current assets to meet their current liabilities, although in my work I often found that was not the case.

On a personal level, the Acid Test is instead something I use to figure out how bad my acid indigestion is doing to be. I take the petty frustrations that mount in my daily life that I blow out of proportion minus the amount of post nasal drip I experience, and divide that by how well I have eaten that week. This week, I have failed the personal Acid Test. Every evening and a few mornings were torture. This afternoon was so bad that I skipped my site visit to a rustic farmhouse and lighthouse in northern Manhattan so I could lie down a bit.

A few hours of resting didn't help much, so I decided to try some very low impact aerobic activity. I rode an exercise bike at the gym and read an Us Weekly. I was surprised by three discoveries:

1. Camryn Mannheim, actress and author of the bitterly funny book, Wake Up, I'm Fat!, seems to have lost a bit of weight. She's not absurdly skinny or anything, just average. On one hand, I was sort of saddened by this because she was an amazing advocate for social tolerance towards overweight people. On the other, I don't begrudge anyone her health, and she doesn't seem to be freakishly thin, just healthier-looking.

2. Naomi Watts actually resembles a woman who just had a baby. Not that she's obese, but she's not rail thin, either. She looks like what a lot of women look like after they give birth, which I think is cool.

3. Clive Owen's wife is plus-size. How rare is it to see a hot movie star married to a completely normal woman? You always see super hot actresses with shlubby overweight men, but never the other way around. Ever. He told the magazine that none of his co-workers have ever tempted him to stray because he values his wife so much that he would never risk losing her. I adored Clive Owen for his work in Children of Men and Inside Man (or whatever that Spike Lee movie was called), but now he has cemented my admiration of him.

Anyway, hopefully the Pele of my volcanic stomach will go away this weekend and the acid eruptions will calm down.

Shhhh...

Remember that Bjork song from a few years ago, "It's So Quiet?" It came out when I was in my second year at NYU, and the newly installed video machine in one of the dining halls played the Busby Berkeley-style musical production constantly, alternating with Tupac's "Kalifornia," and Weezer's "Sweater Song." I tried to get the machine to play some song that was from the soundtrack of "Clerks" that was so great that I forgot what it was called or who it was by, only that the video had many of my favorite scenes from that ever-so-fine film. (God, sometimes I miss the mid-90s.)

Video or not, it has been quiet on the 'net this week, hasn't it? I mean, I write a screed over at BlogHer calling "pro-life" leaders terrorists (something I wholeheartedly believe), and pretty much no one blinks an eye. (Not to denigrate the fine people who agreed with me, but I expected outrage, sputtering, and disgust from the other side.) Comments on CUSS, usually limited, are even fewer than usual. So it goes. Optimistically, maybe people are on vacation?

Then, in a weird twist, I find myself agreeing with an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal! Husband reads the Journal daily for their financial reporting, which is claims is excellent, and both of us find the op-ed pages and movie reviews to be beamed in from Uranus. (It was discredited as a planet for a reason, folks. Ha ha ha!) I don't understand how I find myself in bed with conservatives when it comes to Israel, but I hope they keep their pants on.

The world is a mysterious place.

Back Off, Anti-Choice Terrorists

Although I can't fully open my mouth today because my jaw is sore from yesterday's dental work, I am still very loud when it comes to expressing my deep seated convictions. I posted a very nice treatise on BlogHer on why "pro-life" leaders in the US are actually terrorists. We'll see how that goes over.

Really, though, the reason that all those "pro-life" folks love the unborn so much is that they are quiet. Unless you are the one stuck carrying an unwanted pregnancy to term, blastocysts, zygotes, and fetuses are so much more agreeable to actual born people. The unborn have nothing to say. They have no thoughts or opinions. They don't cry and need their diapers changed or throw up on people. Fetuses don't require clothes or school supplies or your full, undivided attention. Without fully formed vocal cords or the ability to breathe on their own, fetuses don't argue with you. They just sort of sit around, except once in a while when they kick to remind you that maybe you should lay off the lasagna, but again, that expression of opinion only affects the useless woman carrying the fetus, so whatever. So easy to get along with, unless of course they are causing vomiting, back pain, loss of bladder control, bed rest, and/or life threatening illness like diabetes, eclampsia, or toxemia. Why wouldn't people who really have no interest in increasing the quality of life for humans prefer the unborn to the born? Hell, when put this way, I prefer the unborn to kids and adults.

Still, I support Planned Parenthood. If you agree that they overall do good and important work, blog about it. Right now if you google PP, the only shit that comes up is crazy fucking rants from anti-choice activists who also oppose birth control or anything that allows women a modicum of self-determination.

Tell Me You Love My Unshaved Snatch

I pass a lot of time on the subway these days on my way to the sites that I am visiting off the beaten track for my book, so I've been reading a lot of magazines. (What I should be doing are crossword puzzles and reading my book for bookclub, but those pursuits are too intellectual for me these days. Sigh.) The blurb-y I read in New York Magazine about the new HBO show Tell Me You Love Me mentioned that it showed lots of graphic sex, including pubic hair.

Pubic hair! This is one daring show! The curlies on TV is far more shocking to me these days than graphic sex, which you can pretty much see anywhere.

Corned Beef on Wry

"Eat kosher corned beef!" the sign in the delicatessen window across the street from the Bronx bus stop I was at commanded. I snickered in my head because I am infantile. When my silent laughter subsided, I resolved to do as I was told after I visited the Judaica Museum at the Hebrew Home for the Aged, on my way back to the subway, and before I went to the dentist in Brooklyn and received a face full of Novocaine, rendering any corned beef - kosher or not - impossible. (In fact, the right side of my face is numb through my ear as I type this. My only consolation is that the dentist is fucking adorable.)

The Museum was nice. More important for the purposes of this story, the deli was kosher. I knew in my heart of hearts this meant that they would not have white bread. No Jew worth his circumcision eats corned beef on white bread. When I tried ordering corned beef on white at a deli a few weeks after Husband and I started dating, both he and the waiter stared at me. The waiter shook his head in disgust, and I wound up with a roll.

"Who orders corned beef on white?" Husband marveled as the waiter scurried away from the embarrassment I caused.

"I do. The bread gets all mushy and yummy..." I explained.

Husband wrinkled his schnozz. "That what rye bread is for."

"I hate rye bread," I wrinkled in response. (They say people in successful relationships mirror their partner's body language, you know.)

Husband stared at me for a good minute and then spoke slowly. "Are you sure that you are Jewish?"

And that, my friends, is how Husband learned that he was dating Jewish white trash.

Back to the present day, I stepped into the narrow entryway of Loeser's Delicatessen.

"What kind of bread do you have?" I asked tentatively.

"Rye, wheat, and rolls," Fredy the owner (who I recognized from all the newspaper clippings and family photos on the wall behind me) said.

"I'll take corned beef on a roll, please."

"Coming right up."

It didn't come right up, though, and I was getting nervous about being late for the dentist. I definitely needed time to brush my teeth once I got there. Can you imagine how horrifying it would be to have corned beef stuck in your teeth from a sandwich you ate on the subway on the way to the dentist's office when he goes in to shoot Novocaine in your face to drill out a cavity and fix a broken tooth? Thus when the sandwich was ready, I grabbed it without checking what it was and ran out after wishing Fredy "L'shana tova" (that's "Happy New Year," which is right around the corner for us who celebrate Rosh Hashana).

Only on the subway did I discover that he put it on rye. It was delicious anyway.

Obsession of the Month: September 2007

As a person who must occupy every nook and cranny of her Swiss cheese brain with something, I find myself obsessing over things.* Sometimes they are useful (like, say, a desire to learn Hindi, April's failed Obsession of the Month) and other times they are ridiculous. September 2007's Obsession of the Month falls into the realm of the latter.

Two nights ago, as Husband and I watched the Mets seize victory from the hapless Reds, I began wondering about the personal lives of third baseman David Wright and catcher Paul Lo Duca. Lo Duca is about the only controversial Met; he was involved in an acrimonious divorce last year from his Playboy model wife when he was caught having an affair with a 19 year old. Also, he was involved in some gambling debts. Otherwise, the team is squeaky clean, lead by Wright, who Husband insists only drinks milk, never alcohol. My "research" (a quick Google) proved otherwise, as photos of Wright bartending while partying with Lo Duca were plentiful, albeit from last year.

Now I want to know who on the team is married, who is in a relationship, and who is single. Where do the Mets hang out? Why I am not there?** How can I remedy the situation?

*Incidentally, every Obsession of the Month is doomed to fail. It is just a way to waste time.

**Hating bars and being a homebody might play a large part in the answer to this question.

Jewish Pussy Expansion

I am pleased to announce that people are becoming slightly more discerning in their Google searches for "jewish pussy." Over the past week, CUSS had several hits based on searches for "kosher pussy" and "beautiful jewish pussy." My pride is overwhelming. I can't wait to see what people come up with next.

Pause.

That was a short wait. So my friend, who is a liberal like me, keeps being contacted by a guy who read her profile on jdate. (Jdate is the Jewish online dating site, for those of you who might not be in the Jew loop.) His profile explains that he is a Republican, and likes football, red meat and the stock market. In addition to being a Democrat, my friend tends toward chicken, fish, and other non-meat products, has zero interest in the stock market, and is one of four Americans who doesn't watch the Super Bowl.

Not that opposites can't attract, but the kicker is his blog, which describes his interests as:

Blogging is a shameless ploy to get what I really want, which is to be sandwiched between two hot republican Jewish brunettes. If I only get one of them, that is good enough, provided she gets pregnant and the kids end up with her loveliness and my last name.

My friend did point out that he might not be that bad, as the woman might be able to keep her name as long as the kids get his. Oy vey.

The Summer's Over

Technically, summer doesn't end for a few more weeks, but I always think of Labor Day as the social end of summer. Darkness falls sooner, people re-gear up for work, and school gets underway. As usual, I look back and wonder where the hell the summer went.

Now that it's fall, I'm officially freaking out about finishing the book. It is due Nov. 1. I know that it will be done and fine and there's no need to worry. Fall makes everything seem so much more serious, though.

In the meantime, I enjoyed my first weekend of autumn. Friday night, Husband and I watched the Mets roar back from their pathetic five game losing streak. Saturday, we took a semi-private Pilates lesson and found it invigorating. Then we watched the Mets game until I left to join Steph at a scavenger hunt at the Met. Sunday, I ran four miles on the treadmill then a bunch of fine friends came over and watched two Muppets classics - The Muppet Movie and the greatest dramedy of all time, The Great Muppet Caper - and ate ice cream. (I stole the idea for Muppet Sundae from Count Mockula. Brilliant.) Today, Husband and I drove Rebecca up to school in Westchester and then went to the gym and now will watch the Mets game.

Other than my front lower tooth breaking (again!), I can't complain at all. Happy Labor Day.

Attack of the Penis Head

Pride and dignity should never stand in the way of a good joke, so I will fulfill Alex's request for photographic evidence of my penis head haircut:



To be fair, this actually looks better than it did on Thursday and Friday. Yesterday it was so bad that I kept my little fisherman's cap on all day, which then made it worse by giving me penis head hat head. The problem is a rounded top with bangs and a too long back resembles a circumcised frenulum with shaft. I fear getting arrested for indecent exposure. The good news is that I discovered that if I pull the sides of the top back a little with clippies it reduces the penis head a bit, so I almost look normal. I'll still have Des trim it a bit tomorrow, though.

At any rate, looks clearly dictate behavior, as I once again acted like a massive dickhead yesterday. After writing about how important it is to call ahead when trekking to small, weird museums because websites are not frequently updated, I neglected to do so again. The Big O and I took an hour long subway and bus journey only to be met with a closed door because the director of the Poppenhusen Institute happened to take the day off for a long weekend. The caretaker took pity on us, though, and gave us a quick look around.

I hope when I no longer look like a penis, I'll stop acting like one.