Things I Learned This Halloween

1. The amount of candy that I buy is inversely proportional to the total number of tricker or treaters who come to my door.

2. The desire I have to eat said purchased candy is also inversely proportional to the amount of left over candy.

3. Adults are equally as delighted (and sometimes more so) as kids when a person wearing a costume (in my case, my wedding dress and veil) open the door.

4. Kids these days do not love Pixie Stix nearly as much as I did when I was a youngin'. What is wrong with them? What person under the age of ten does not understand the glories of colored sugar in a convenient paper tube?

5. I should proof-read my posts better. (This is not a Halloween specific lesson, but my post from earlier on this Halloween day is riddled with missing words.)

Trick or Treat?

I adore Halloween. Even when I worked at a regular job, I wore a costume (my traditional German dirndl) to work on the holiday. Needless to say (but I will), none of my other co-workers dressed unusually those days.

For the vast majority of women, however, a milder version of dressing up for Halloween takes place every single day when they put on their faces before leaving the house. I'm not saying that make-up is bad or people shouldn't wear it as it obviously helps a lot of women feel better about themselves, but it is in many ways no less a mask than a dirndl is a piece of clothing. I am too cheap and lazy to care if I look like shit.

So it is funny that on the eve of Halloween, I found myself in a Sephora cosmetics Emporium in Times Square. (A double horror!) My friend and I were walking home from dinner and as we passed the store, she remembered that she needed a lip pencil sharpener and asked me if I minded stopping. I am always up for an adventure (yes, I consider entering a make-up shop) so inside we went. While I marveled at the tremendous variety of appearance-approving tools and tricks, I noticed a sale rack. And like a seven year old in a goblin costume, I dug through the bins for goodies. Since I can't resist cheap shit and "deals," I bought a $2 lip gloss stick and $4 sparkly eye shadow.

I tested my new face out when I got home. The lip gloss was a little darker than I thought it would be, making me look like a drank a glass of fresh frothy blood. The eye shadow was the perfect accoutrement to sitting on the couch and watching DVR'd episodes of the delightfully craptastic CSI:Miami. I washed the magic off before I went to sleep at 3 AM. As the soap threatened to get into my eyes, I thought about how parents punish kids for using dirty language by washing their mouths out with soap. Could one also wash their eyes out with soap after viewing less pleasant images, like pictures of Paris Hilton? Interesting.

Happy Halloween. Hopefully your day will not include any costumes so horrible that you'll want to wash your eyes out with soap.

Name Change

Remember how I was all against changing my name when I got married? Well, nothing is different there. However, I did discover that my book was assigned an ISBN number, and the author credited with writing the master pizza (as I like to call it) is Susanne Reisman. Check it out on Amazon.com. Houston, we have a big fucking problem.

I'm only freaking out a little bit. OK, that is a lie. I am in full on spazz mode.

Let Sleeping Rabbits Lie

I want to go to bed, but I hate to interrupt Tycho the giant rabbit as he peacefully slumbers on the FAO Schwartz fake bear skin rug under the coffee table.



Gosh darn it, isn't he the cutest enormous white bunny you've ever seen?* Subsequently, he bonded with the rug by spastically licking its ear. Either that or he was eating for crumbs.



This is what happens when Husband is out of town.
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*It seems that the two videos of Tycho that took forever to upload are not appearing here, which is seriously pissing me off. Oh videos, where are you? Why Blogger must you torment me by claiming that you uploaded the files of my adorable pet rabbit and then refusing to let other people see him as he has a bunny dream and then tongues the ear off a fake bear rug? Evil, evil service.

Suzanne, The Busy Beaver*

I forgot to note that the wedding I went to was for one of Husband's co-workers, hence we drove for 5 hours plus with three of his colleagues and sat for another four hours with almost everyone from his office, including the boss man. The boss man is someone I am always nervous around for a variety of reasons. First, he used to have a photo of himself with Karl Rove prominently displayed. Terrifying. Then, I fear that I will say or do something totally inappropriate and make Husband's situation uncomfortable. Remember, I can't even get through a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development without sighing and rolling my eyes. Can you imagine what spending time with someone who admires one of Satan's prime henchman is like for me?

Thus when boss man's very kind wife asked me what I was up to these days and I started talking about my book (for which I have launched an extremely lame temporary blog until I can work with the publisher to get something spiffier and more official), it was a relief. However, that led me to admit that the next travel book I want to do is "Medical History Museums of the United States and the World," which would be absurdly expensive to write given the international travel component and probably find a very limited audience. That audience seems to include boss man, as we wound up avidly discussing medical history for 15 minutes while everyone at the table stared at us. It seems that most people don't like thinking about the horrors of non-modern medicine while they try to eat steak and crab-stuffed shrimp. Ooops.

Anyway, back to beavers. Answers to my long ago posted question (What the fuck do people think they will find when they google "jewish pussy?") continue to trickle in. I found these two responses in my inbox this morning:

It's simple. I am a Jewish man who appreciates Jewish women and want to see Jewish pussy which physicall is no different than any other I suppose except that it is connected to Jewish women. I think it is like any other ethnic, cultural fascination, hence porn site dedicated to Latinas, Blacks, or Indian women. It's the pussy I prefer and I have a hunch it's the same reason for the other hits you've received.

On to the second comment:

I want to see photographs of nice naked Jewish women up close and personal. I like pubic hair and good personal hygiene. My life is empty.

I hate to shatter the illusion, but just because something is labeled "Jewish pussy" doesn't mean the models are actually Jewish. Some probably are, but given the general dearth of Jewish women in the world, I tend to doubt that the vast majority of "Jewish" porn truly features Jews. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's my point: how the fuck do you know what "Jewish" pussy looks like compared to gentile pussy? It's just not possible to tell. (And as I learn more and more about the Jewish Diaspora, it's important to note that not all Jews are white. But I digress.) I did laugh my ass off at that "My life is empty" line. Dude, I write about unshaved snatch and spend time analyzed people's comments about their online Jewish pussy fetishes. What does that say about my life? Oy vey....

Thanks to Des for her comment on the last post for this hilarious title.

Busy, Busy, Busy and Ewwww

Not that other people aren't super busy and finding time to blog, but this weekend was a little bit over the top for me. Yesterday Husband and I left at noon for the wedding of his coworker. It was supposed to take two hours to drive there, but thanks to weather and traffic, we arrived 3 hours and 15 minutes later, just in time to see the wedding party posing for post-ceremony pictures. We killed time at a bar across the street until the reception began at 5 pm.

After four hours of food and fun at the reception, we headed home. This time it took slightly under two hours. However, that means that I spent more time in the car in the lovely dress that I spent too much money on at Filene's Basement than I did at the wedding itself. This is not entirely bad, as it was sort of low cut and I felt self-conscious in it. Still, it was cute. Hopefully I will get to wear it again sometime soon and take a picture in it. In two weeks, I'll be at yet another wedding, but am going to wear something else.

Today, Husband left for a business trip to London and Milan. (While I hate that he will be gone this week, he is giddy that it is another chance for him to accumulate frequent flier miles that we can use for personal travel in the future.) I took the bus to exciting Hellertown, PA, where I met my friend Steph and spent a freezing afternoon at the Dorney Park amusement park. Happily we capped the evening off at Waffle House. Even burning my waffle and putting cheese under the grits so that it melted onto the bowl as much as the grits ("What did you expect?" Steph asked as I grumbled about the stupidity that would lead someone to put cheese on the bottom. "This isn't the South; they don't understand.") could not spoil the deliciousness of the meal.

My bus back to New York was 30 minutes late. It seems that the highway between the first stop and Hellertown was reduced from three lanes to one. When the bus arrived, the driver proudly told me that he "applied some K-Y Jelly to slide through traffic" to get there. Um, that is an image I didn't need. And you probably didn't, either.

Waxes Snatch: Good for Public Health?

Since launching CUSS, I have learned many interesting things about snatch waxing. None of them have convinced me that letting a salon worker pour molten wax into my cooter so that she can rip out my pubic hair is a good idea, although I at least have some understand about why other intelligent women willingly subject themselves to such barbarism. Now, thanks to the delightful Average Jane, I finally discovered an important social benefit to hairless poon and furless cock.

It turns out that in the Netherlands, pubic lice (aka crabs) are in high demand by the Rotterdam Natural History Museum, which cannot find a specimen to include in their collection. A study in Leeds, England, noted that the rate of crab transmission has decreased dramatically even as other STDs have remained stagnant or risen. Why? Supposedly, waxing is killing the critters by denying them a home. Huh.

When Average Jane sent me the link, she noted that this is, "Still not enough reason to wax if you ask me..." and I completely agree. Sure it is reducing a nasty pest, but if this is why one shaves our waxes their pubes, then the logical conclusion would also be to shave our wax your other head to prevent the transmission of head lice. Probably not a very appealing idea to most people.

A few days ago, I read a blog post somewhere (my brain is beyond fried, so I have no idea where, sorry) about how women want to be taken seriously and not judged solely based on their looks. This statement made a lot of sense to me. Then I read one of the comments, in which the writer begged to differ that women don't want to be objectified. Compelling evidence was presented in the number of plastic surgery procedures conducted on women each year. When I read that, I sighed because I can't really disagree with that point entirely.

Sure, there are a lot of reasons why women undergo plastic surgery. Even I submitted to the knife, although it had nothing to do with how I looked. (Only plastic surgeons do breast reduction procedures and I needed to unload half my chest before my damn shoulders and back caved in from the weight dragging me down in front. I honestly thought I would look worse after the surgery. I'm happy that I was wrong.) Can we really separate out the effects of living in a world that so values feminine beauty and sexiness (demonstrated by only a very small variety of body types) with someone wanting plastic surgery for her own self-esteem? I don't know. For example, there are a number of women I know who chose to get breast surgery after having a baby so that they could look like they did before pregnancy changed their bodies. That doesn't strike me as buying into some beauty myth since they were just trying to return to themselves.

It's hard not to want to look good in a world that places so much value on looking good. While I put about zero effort into my appearance, it doesn't mean that I don't obsess about it, too. I know that I will never have a flat stomach and lean thighs. It is just not my body type, and wrangling myself into a shape that is unnatural for me would mean that I could never eat ice cream, cake, or cheese. No thanks. At the same time, I cringe when I look at my "big" hips in the mirror or when I notice my bulging thighs when I am sitting down. I don't care enough to wear make-up, shave my legs, do my hair, or strut in high heels let alone get plastic surgery, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't want to be considered attractive.

Are there any women out there who don't worry about their looks? Do women care much more about how they look than men? Statistics tell us that increasingly this is not the case. Still, I have to agree with both the blog poster (we want to be judged on our abilities) and the commenter (we want to be objectified). We live in a world that splits women in half. What we want and what we can achieve within its social structures make us schizo. As a result, generally, most women want to be judged for their abilities and objectified. It's fucked up.

Done!

I finished the manuscript for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track! Hooray! It is all very exciting. My agent is going to take a look at it, then it goes off to the publisher next week.

I think I am going to celebrate by buying a new pair of black tights this afternoon. My previous pair developed a large hole in the toe. If I go totally crazy, I may even also pick up a three pack of Jockey bikini underwear to replace some of my older undies with the elastic hanging out of the waistband.

Man, I sure know how to live it up.

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

The worst part of the devastating effects of the Bush administration on this nation may just be how much more cynical many people like me have become. It's not that I wasn't cynical to begin with, but it's gotten to the point where even a natural disaster makes me roll my eyes and heave sighs. I read about how efficient FEMA has been in providing aid to evacuees in San Diego County - which is great; no one should have to suffer like the people in New Orleans did - and instead of thinking how glad I am that FEMA got its shit together, I sigh because I am sure that FEMA got its shit together because San Diego County is 66% white and about 80% Republican. Oh, and nearly a quarter of people who live there have household incomes of more than $100,000 per year.

Again, this is not to say that upper middle class white Republicans should not be helped in disasters, although I actually do sort of think that people who voted for Bush should be forced to live in the same horrific conditions that the administration wrought on New Orleans residents, 67% of whom are black and 54% of whom have household incomes of less than $30,000 per year. (I don't know what percent are Democrats, but I think it's safe enough to assume that it is a number proportional to the percent of Republicans in San Diego County.) Years ago, I would have just hoped that everyone who lived through a tragedy would get the help they need and I would be proud that our government was serving them. These days, I just wonder if the fires where in Compton or South Central if FEMA would have managed to get 25,000 cots delivered to the local stadium safe haven on time. I suspect not.

Some day, I may be able to get over the polarized, punitive political environment that Republicans have worked so hard to craft since their "revolution" in the 1990s. Until then, I will be suspicious when good things happen to wealthy white Republican areas, and worse, a small part of me will wish that they didn't get help in times of need since they are only too happy to deny the same courtesy to others. (Is it wrong for me to hope that the random fires only consume the homes of Republicans? They are most likely to get the best recovery assistance, right?) Very sad comment on the current state of affairs in our nation.

$&%#@!

The topic of swearing is on my mind lately. In addition to polishing off my book about unusual things to see and do in NYC (which, in all of its 42,000 or so words, does not include one swear - can you believe it?!?), I'm working on a writing portfolio to submit as part of my graduate writing program applications. It's a story about the (in retrospect) hilarious awfulness of puberty. Not surprisingly, I developed a foul mouth at a young age. Although I was otherwise a wimp, my willingness to say really bad words made me at least a little bit intimidating. Kids build the best defense systems they can. Swearing became an odd badge of pride, and I only got more creative with my cursing over time.

However, in a funny post about swearing by Heather over at BlogHer, she cites a study that finds that women are penalized for swearing. The study found:

The study also points to gender issues and an apparent double standard of men's swearing compared with women's cursing. "Female swearers are often perceived to be of a low moral standing," the researchers noted. Men, on the other hand, can generate reverence from swearing, though they tend to tone down the use of profanity in front of women.

Can you believe that fucking shit? Motherfuckers revere men for their creative use of swearing, but bitches like me get fucked for calling someone a assfuck shitbrain? Low moral standing my ass. And if any cockface thinks that he needs to temper his language for my tender ears, he can suck my big fat dick. If that is not a big steaming pile of maggot infested shit, I don't know what is.

Actually, I think I got away with swearing at work because I look so sweet and innocent. Instead of responding to my inappropriate comments with horror, my co-workers found it amusing that such invective emanated from my little face. By the end of my tenure at my last job, I was completely out of control with the shit that came from my tongue. That was as much the result of my utter frustration as anything else, but I was curious how much shit I could say before anyone called me on it. No one ever told me to tone it down. Interesting.

The Whole Story

Although Brother-in-Law's (BiL) wedding was not until Saturday night, the gang headed down to New Jersey for the event on Friday afternoon. During the 90 minute drive, traffic clogged the roads and rain poured down in bucketfuls. Bubbe took the time to tell my mom and I how essentially every party she attended over the past two decades made her puke at some point. From her 40th wedding anniversary surprise party (she "vomited it up" from the shock) to my sister's bat mitzvah (undercooked broccoli made her "vomited it up" because she can't eat raw vegetables), we heard it all.

Fortunately, no one that I know of vomited it up after the wedding. On the other hand, the bathroom door in Big O's room fell off and all the guest rooms smelled like there was a mold infestation. Plus, one of the three elevators broke down and was not repaired for some time and the hotel deigned to have service elevators, which meant that the poor room service folks and maids were left standing with their carts as elevators chock full of people passed them repeatedly. At least the beds were super comfy.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I had a blast at the reception dancing it up with the family. I was rather self-conscious about the brown bridesmaid's dress from the get go (while the cut of the dress was very flattering, I felt like I looked like a big turd so much brown, although I am very happy that it was brown instead of orange or seafoam green or some other completely cruel hue), at least my $195 of alterations left me secure that it would fit me well. Oh did I say it fit me well? My bad. At first it fit perfectly, but as the night flew by, the top expanded and expanded. It happened with the other ladies as well, I noticed. We were all hauling our tops up and hoping that our boobs wouldn't fly out. There's no rationale for this, as the fabric was not stretchy. This (nor my imperfectly shaved armpits) did not stop me from throwing my arms up in the air while boogying it up.

After brunch on Sunday, we dropped Sister and Sister's Husband off at the airport (sob!) and spent the afternoon with my parents, bubbe, and Husband's parents at our place. It was very pleasant. My parents stayed at a hole-in-the-wall hotel (there are no hotels in Manhattan other than this one that gives guests private bathrooms in their cells for only $100 a night plus tax). It smelled in the hallway, but not like a mold infestation and the cell had a beautiful view of the Hudson River and lights of New Jersey's east bank. They came back to my apartment this morning to wash up.

Now everyone is gone, which makes me sad. Overall, the whole weekend was fantastic and I only yelled at my various relatives a few times despite being tired and crabby. I guess it's back to my "usual" routine, whatever the hell that is.

And a Good Time Was Had by All...

Yesterday was Brother-in-Law's wedding, which is why I've been MIA online this weekend. Here I am in my bridesmaid costume:



Have no fear: Sister and Mom asked me what the hell I was thinking with the earrings, so I took them off and wore my regular little studs. The maid of honor did my make-up for me, using the crap that I bought a few months ago when I was interviewed for a documentary about abortion. Is it not amazing? I love that it subtlety brightens my crabby sourpuss. (And although Husband and I are pictured together elsewhere on the internet, I cropped him out of this picture. He looked very handsome in his best man tux, though.)

Anyway, my whole family (minus poor Granny, who was not able to come at the last minute due to health issues - wah! it would have been ever more fun with her) came out and we had a blast at the wedding. Sister and Sister's Husband went back to Iowa today. My mom, dad, and bubbe are in my living room as I type this. More tomorrow after they leave.

2 Years of CUSS!

With all the excitement that is going on these days with the book, applying to writing programs, and the imminent arrival of my family for Brother-in-Law's nuptials, I nearly forgot that today is the two year anniversary of the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch (CUSS) & Other Rants. Two years ago today, I was a frustrated, dissatisfied do-gooder on the way to meet another do-gooder friend for French onion soup. My day had been particularly distressing, as was often the case with my former career, and I found myself sitting on the subway seething over an ad for bikini waxing. Moments later, I formulated a plan: instead of stabbing people, I needed a blog to vent, and it needed a catchy title. Somehow the whole CUSS acronym popped into my feral mind and I knew that I found a way to salvation.

I disembarked from the subway and ran to tell my friend about it. The bar we were meeting at gave crayons to patrons (how perfect is that?) and I drew a little diagram on my placemat outlining the CUSS credo. When I got home a few hours later, I posted my very first blog entry.

Since then, I've loosened my no-waxed/shaved-snatch stance a bit because I met so many awesome women who explained to me why they preferred trimming, waxing, or shaving their cooters. None of them did it because some cretins think that pubic hair automatically makes women dirty or smelly, so who the hell was I to tell them how to deal with their boxes? Understanding other people - this is what I consider progress. I'm glad that CUSS opened me up to new ideas, not only about landing strips, but on a wide spread (heh heh) range of topics. It led me to meet so many awesome people who I am proud to call friends.

Now I'm getting all choked up. The truth is that I'd probably blog whether people read my blog or not because I discovered that I find writing to be fun and therapeutic. However, it would be far less meaningful if it wasn't for the select segment of the blogging community in which I've become a part. Here's to the next two years.

What a Day!

Once again, I had trouble sleeping last night, which is obvious to those who noted that my previous blog post was at 2:00 this morning. Nonetheless, there was lots of to do, so I hauled my ass out of bed at regular rise-and-shine time and got to it.

First order of business was cleaning the pig sty - er, apartment - in which I reside. This is especially important because my mom is slightly allergic to rabbits. Although I swear we only have one beast, Tycho sheds enough fur to create the illusion that 15 bunnies live here with us. I Swiffered, vacuumed, and mopped for almost 90 minutes. Then I polished up the beautiful dark wood dining room table that we never cover and slobber all over.

After working up a good sweat with all the cleaning, I went up to Columbia University to request that they send transcripts to the two MFA programs I am applying to. Unlike NYU, which allows alumni to fill out an online form then fax in a signature, CU requires people to mail it in or drop it off in person. I suspect the request will not be processed because right after I handed the form to the chick in the registrar's office, I realized that I forgot to put the date on it. She refused to give it back to me so that I could do. Then she asked me a question about where to send the transcript. Well, there are two places that I wrote the addresses of on the form. How about there? Sigh.

Then I took a brisk 40 block walk back home and spoke to my poor granny who is not coming to the wedding this weekend. Back home, I worked on my writing sample that I am submitting to the MFA programs. Then I moseyed over to the gym. While I was there, my mom called to tell me that their flight was canceled because there's a tornado watch in Chicago. Instead, they'll arrive tomorrow at 9:45 AM. It's supposed to storm here like a mad motherfucker in the afternoon, so I hope they make it out here before then.

And that's what I did today. I am tired.

Vim & Vigor or Vinegar & Piss?

It's obvious that I have a lot of anger towards other people that I consider to be morons. (Another reason why it is such a bummer that I do not speak Yiddish. A book review in yesterday's New York Times notes, "Yiddish parses the stupidity of others in a thousand ways, and find distinctions matter." Damn, that makes me laugh and beam with pride. This shit is in my genes, even if I don't speak the mama loshen - mother tongue.) Something happened yesterday that made me rethink some of my rants.

My friend Logan is a certified sex educator, completing her PhD in Human Sexuality at NYU. She has worked with hundreds of New York City school kids, covering the full range of the socio-economic spectrum, and wrote an awesome book about how to talk to kids about sex. A few nights ago, she was on TV discussing birth control. Her honesty about what kids are up to these days and her frank approach to helping kids make safe, rationale decisions about sex caught the attention of a conservative blogger. Needless to say, the kuneh-laiml didn't agree with her and took it upon himself to launch a written assault on Logan's character. His minions chimed in, and reading their nasty attacks literally made me ill. (I'm not going to link to him because if people click through and he tracks referring links, I have no doubt that I will get hateful comments, and I don't want to deal with these shmendriks.) Later, Logan received an email from a yold who ranted about how he can't wait to meet her in person because she's a horrible person and he's going to sue her for sharing her ideas that result from the fact that her parents don't love her. He ended his misspelled and grammatically incorrect missive by noting that he didn't "need a college degree to make him dumb." (Obviously not.)

At first, I felt morally superior to conservatives because I don't write such vile personal attacks on my bl.. oh wait. I do. Maybe I am not better than these judgmental douche pipes who confuse "having morals" for "being a shithead." While I am pretty certain that I've never gone as far as these right-wingers do in character assassination, I still call them names. (Sometimes even in Yiddish.) On the other hand, I've never sent anyone an email threatening to sue them because I think their ideas are stupid, and certainly not insulting their children. Hmmmm....

"A vagina divided against itself cannot stand."

Read Working Girl's awesome post about what I call "side vaginas." I learned about bifurcated vaginas and double uteri when my OB-GYN resident friend Dr. H showed me an awesome color chart with drawings of various doubled female reproductive organs.

On a semi-unrelated note, yesterday I noticed Richard Kind as I was leaving my gym. He was on his cellphone. I did a double take when I spotted him. "Could it really be Richard Kind?" I asked myself. Yes it was.

This post is brought to you by the number 2. (Two vaginas, two celebrities seen in two days, and a double take.)

Major Bummer and a Glimmer of Hope

Bah. After a delicious and horribly unhealthy dinner with Des last night, I called my parents to discuss logistics for their trip to New York for brother-in-law's (BIL) wedding. My first call to them was to let them know that I would call them when I got off the train.

"Oh, is Des still with you?" my mom asked when she heard that we had dinner.

"No, I'm on my way to the subway and she already went to a different one. Did you want to say hi to her?"

"Yeah."

Twenty-five minutes later, I called back and my dad answered. "Your grandmother is not coming to the wedding," he said bluntly. "Her sciatica is acting up."

Later, my mom got back on the horn. "I'm thinking that maybe we can use the credit for her flight to come to New York over my spring break."

I am sooooooo disappointed that I won't get to see Granny this weekend, but my mom's idea is brilliant. A visit from them is something to very much look forward to. Then we can all hang out with Des.

When (B-List) Celebrities Care

Yesterday I attended a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development in the Bronx. My involvement in the project came from my former job, when I gave the community developers a small grant to cover some of the costs of planning a child care center to build into the ground floor. The overall $14.5 million budget led to the creation of affordable apartments for 63 families and 120 child care slots for children living in the building and the community at large.*

My former former employer financed a good portion of the construction costs, so it was very nice to catch up with people at the ribbon cutting. Near the end of the endless blathering during the ceremony, another familiar face moseyed into the building. Although I am generally clueless, I recognized Ed Norton immediately. He's the grandson of the founder of my former former employer, and when he was a struggling Off-Off-Off Broadway actor in New York, Ed worked on community development. I've seen him at other events (once, years ago, with Salma Hayek in tow), and he is just as handsome in person as he is in the movies. He's also taller than I thought he'd be.

Turns out that Norton found out that this particular community developer wanted to start doing green buildings, and sustainable design is a pet cause of Norton's. He became personally involved in helping raise money to cover the incrementally higher costs of a green roof and solar panels to reduce energy costs and emissions. Norton was not on the agenda to speak, but as soon as he sauntered into the community room in a crisp white button down shirt and jeans, he was called up to the podium to speak. I almost lost it at that point because I had already (barely) tolerated the first half of the program which involved six politicians talking about how awesome they were and the final speakers were the financial folks who keep it short and sweet, and I was itching to see the fucking child care center already. Norton half-bloviated, half-inspired.

Regardless, I was impressed that he trekked up to a slightly inconvenient location in the Bronx to support this important work. There was no media or paparazzi on his ass, no entourage surrounding him, just a guy who felt strongly that poor people deserve affordable, healthy, and safe places to live. It was cool.


*I cannot for the life of me understand why all the luxury condo developers don't bother including child care centers in their projects. The shortage of quality early childhood program space is increasingly acute for the super wealthy as more families with young children opt to stay in the city and live in these condos to raise their infants, toddlers, and pre-schoolers. My friend Logan told me that 600 children tried to enroll in the 30 slots that were available in her son's preschool in Tribeca. There's no excuse - condo developers are just lame and exceptionally stupid.

Consesrvatives Sure Respect "Life"

"First of all, whenever I hear anything described as a heartless assault on children, I tend to think it is a good idea. I'm happy that the president's willing to do something bad for kids." - William Kristol, editor of "The Weekly Standard," on President Bush's veto on expanding state health insurance programs for children

And that is all I think people need to know about conservatives, compassion, and creating a "culture of life."

The Week in Preview

Is October almost halfway over already? Sometimes time crawls by on its hands and knees like a dehydrated person seeking rehydration pills from a crabby pharmacist in a horrid chain pharmacy. Other times, it passes me by like all those assholes who refuse to stop their cars at red lights.

Sorry, I got carried away for a moment there. The point is that October is almost over and that means that this upcoming weekend is my brother-in-law's wedding. In terms of how that affects the hilarious stories that I strive to write for CUSS, I am happy to announce that the whole mispucha (the entire gang, i.e. - my whole family) will be trekking out east for the celebration. Yes, everyone - Mom, Dad, Bubbe, Granny, Sister, and Sister's Husband. (And of course cousin Rebecca will be there too, although she only has to take the train down from her school in Westchester County.) There is no doubt in my mind that stories will be generated. I'll build the anticipation by pointing out that Bubbe has been looking forward to meeting my 13 lb. pet rabbit Tycho for five years, and that she used to raise and cook rabbits when she was a girl in the Old Country.

This week I also hope to complete my second draft of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (I finished the first draft last Wednesday and wound up my pen-and-paper revisions on Friday.) I'm fairly happy with what I've got. The goal is to write something that is fun, amusing, and informatively inspiring, and I think I did a good job with that. Things need to be prettied up, though, before I have to turn it into the publisher on Nov. 1, which will be here before I know it.

To prove how quickly time flies, on Monday morning I'll be going to the grand opening ribbon cutting of an affordable housing development with a child care center. It seems like just yesterday that I had a job in which I provided a small grant for the child care portion, then stood with my friend Maria in a treeless empty lot on a 110 degree day while politicians spent 10 minutes each talking about how their speeches will be short because it is so hot out during the groundbreaking ceremony. Things have changed so quickly. It's amazing.

More about Moi

I was double tagged for a "seven random things about me" by always delightful, insightful, and hilarious EV at Nowhere, IL. You already know all about my grooming and cleaning habits, as well as my hatred for most people, so I'm running out of shit to share. Here's my attempt to amuse, enlighten, and make new friends:

1. If anyone wants to catch a peek at Husband and me, check out our picture. Normally I try not to link him to me since he has a respectable career, but his alma mater took matters into their own hands, so I might as well share it with my crew.

2. Ever since I earned free tickets to Cubs games from my library's summer reading club (1984), baseball captured my heart as my favorite sport, particularly teams that continually break fans' hearts. I did deviate in the '90s to basketball thanks to the thrilling Bulls. but once the super team broke up, I stopped. There's only room for so many losing teams in my life.

3. London is my favorite city other than New York, followed by San Francisco.

4. Husband's brilliant wit, nice hands, and shiny red hair (which is sadly declining rapidly in quantity - only sad because it is seriously gorgeous, not because I care that he is balding) are what initially drew me to him.

5. I wish my sister and I lived much closer to each other.

6. By the time I was seven, I racked up four concussions. Two of them occurred while I was at pre-school. This explains many things about me.

7. Although I am wracked with self-doubt about most things, my sense of humor is never in question. I find myself fucking hilarious.

That's me in a nutshell. If anyone else wants to share, I'll be eager to learn more about you.

Threading the Douche Pipe

Although it is a tetchy product, douche is turning out to be far more hilarious than I anticipated. I told Husband about "Sweet Romance," and after he stopped laughing, he admitted his curiosity was piqued.

"What other things do they make?" he asked.

"Well, there's the combo enema/douche kit..." I began.

"Really? No, I don't want to hear more about that," he said, looking wildly away from me. "That's just disturbing."

But it's true. Reliable drugstore.com sells two different kinds of combo douche/enema/water bottle systems. The directions should be read as a stand up comedy performance, I swear:

Douching Use:

Slide shut-off clamp (in open position) lengthwise onto tubing and clamp it shut.

Flush bottle with water before each use.

Fill bottle with warm water or mixed douche preparation.

Thread adapter cap into bottle, cover opening, and shake to ensure proper mixing.

Slip end of tubing onto adapter cap. If necessary, use soapy water to aid in assembly.

Slip pipe adapter onto other end of tubing.

Thread douche pipe onto pipe adapter.

Punch out perforated hole on bottle hang tab. Suspend bottle by hook, less than 3 feet above vagina.

Release clamp to expel air in tubing before inserting douche pipe.

Positions: A) TO USE IN SHOWER, stand with feet apart; B) TO USE IN BATHTUB, lie back in tub, knees slightly bent apart; C) TO USE ON TOILET, lift one thigh while seated. When in position, gently insert the douche pipe into vagina. Open clamp to permit solution to flow gently.

You can't make this stuff up. I'm only pissed that the phrase "douche pipe" had not entered my lexicon years ago. The enema instructions include the phrase "enema pipe" (as in, "Apply lubricating jelly to enema pipe.") That is not nearly as hilarious as uploading some Sweet Romance through the douche pipe, but still amusing.

What Does "Sweet Romance" Smell Like, Anyway?

Recently when I spoke to my friend Steph on the phone, she repeatedly referred to someone who pissed her off as a douche bag.

"What scent of douche is he?" I asked.

"Hmmmm..." Steph pondered.

"I bet he is licorice," I answered, laughing hysterically because I cannot imagine anything more ridiculous than licorice scented douche. Then I realized that I actually have no idea what scents douches come in, so I decided that some research was in order.

A search for "douche" on drugstore.com yielded the following:

Vinegar and Water

Fresh Baby Powder

Tropical Rain

Island Splash

Sweet Romance

Seriously. Not only is douche horribly unhealthy to use, but women want to smell like "Island Splash?" Do women who douche (and the people who love them) take a deep whiff and think, "Ah, nothing smells as good as Sweet Romance snatch?" And I suspect that even my friends who like waxing off all their pubic hair and going bare would be creeped out at the idea of a hairless poon that smells like baby powder.

What is the world coming to when a lady can make her cooter smell like tropical rain, but not licorice? Yeesh.

Beavers Suckling Assholes

It has been a while since I've written about the topic of my blog's title, unshaved snatch. Partly this is because I've been busy with other things, like being frustrated and depressed about some personal issues (happily, mostly cleared up now) and working feverishly to finish the book and a small consulting job. Equally, I haven't seen or read anything in a while that set me off on a foaming-at-the-mouth rabid rant. That peaceful streak ends tonight.

Last week's Time Out New York was sitting on the table, where I'd been ignoring it as I have the previous few issues because I'm only waiting out the end of my subscription on this sub-par publication. This was the sex issue, and based on the naked lady hidden under a folded over flap on the cover ("Oh, look what a daring publication we produce," the pathetic attempt at publicity screamed at me), I knew it contained articles that would annoy me as much as the phrase, "Don't get your panties in a bunch, honey."

The article on snatch waxing started innocently enough. A woman explained why she likes it, and while I don't find her reasons appealing, plenty of women I know and respect agree with her. Then the quote:

A well-coifed, nice-smelling pussy is a thing of beauty, something we brag about to our friends. After the implicit moment of awe and respect you receive from you buddies, we walk about the girls with nasty boxes - how we fucked them anyway, how it was ugly, how it was tragic, how it will never happen again. On the other hand, a girl with a great-tasting, -smelling, -looking box... that girl is a princess. We wank it to her. - Henry, producer

My first reaction is to wonder if this is a joke. Are people really this fucking obnoxious? If so, my next impulse is to be mad at the female writer for not including this guy's last name. An APB should sent out immediately to ensure that this shithead never, ever gets to fuck anything but his own (hairless, nice smelling lotioned) palm again. Except that I know that there are plenty of women are dumb bitches who would fuck a guy like this anyway although he clearly has not one iota of respect for those who do, which is why I hate both men and women. And I find it hard to believe that he has any time to get pussy, what with all the discussing the status of a good cooter with his pals and then wanking it off in her memory. (Is it a circle jerk?) Seems like that would keep one busy.

Further infuriating me is this fine quote:

Nothing is more disappointing than meeting a beautiful, well put-together girl, wining and dining her, then finally getting her pants off only to discover that she is horrendously unkempt and smelly. - Tom, TV writer

Yes, because obviously anyone with pubic hair is a smelly slob who doesn't shower. Men should know this better than anyone. According to the accompanying poll, 27% of men let their pubes grow wild. Did it not occur to them that women may not like having their hairy balls in their face, especially since the logical conclusion is that hairy=smelly? (And how funny that only 7% of men "like it best" when ladies let it grow wild.) I suppose the phrasing of the question as "like it best" may be misleading. A few more guys probably tolerate us women who have better things to do with our time and money than constantly attend to our crotch hairstyles. Shit, I can barely find the time to get my head hair cut these days, let alone worry about what my pootie looks like...

Now that I have ranted and wished that people like these choke on the hot wax and douche bags that they seem to want women to use, I feel much better. Smile. Next: stay tuned for a hard-hitting investigative report on douche....

The Magic Number is 92

My cold is 92% over. When I finally printed a clean list of all the places that are included in the book, I realized that I miscounted how many there were. (Too many side notes all over the sheets threw me off.) There are 100 sites (how coincidentally round!) and as of yesterday, I wrote about 92 of them. I can take the afternoon off with a clean conscience.

My friend Hanah is in town for her brother's wedding. We have been friends since 1990 (not a 92, but close), although we've lived in the same place for only four of those years. Last night as I thought about our friendship, I cracked up as I recalled writing letters to her during my English class while I was a high school senior and she was a freshman in college. Letters! Who writes letters these days? I could not wait to go to college myself and get one of those new-fangled "e-mail" accounts. Given my reliance on email now, those days seem like 92 light-years ago.

This afternoon, Hanah and I plan to wander around the city and sample chocolate, then have tea. How civilized. I can't wait to see her.

Have I Seen You Before?

Did you see Borat? (Answer yes for this to work.) Remember the scene when Borat meets up with the feminists in an art gallery to discuss women in America? I admit that I thought that scene was fairly amusing, and in subsequent interviews after the movie came out, I thought that the only person who took the sham in stride was the feminist artist.

Tonight I got to meet her. Seriously! Unsuspecting my encounter with a "star," I went to a fundraiser for Bitch magazine, which is an independent nonprofit media organization. When I arrived at the gallery hosting the event, the owner and the magazine ladies were discussing Borat. I didn't think anything of it until the artist turned to me and said, "I was in it." And then it all came together in my little mind. She's pretty damn cool in person, too.

Hibernating

My happiness at quitting my evil job a year ago culminated in me sleeping for 13 hours last night. Since my cold has kept me up for the last few nights, I guess I really needed the sleep. I'm just glad that Husband convinced me to take either NyQuil or Benadryl, not both as I planned to do. Sometimes I'm a complete idiot.

One Year Later

One year ago today, at about this time, I packed up the Powerpuff Girl figurines, the pictures of Husband and my sister, and a squishy stress-relief ball shaped like a green paper advertising the Child Care and Adult Food Program, and I left my job at a nonprofit community development financial reinstitution after nearly five years. It took me two years and two previous attempts to quit, but mounting frustration, seething rage, and desperation at working in an agency that took 40 cents of every dollar that I fundraised to cover overhead costs while offering me absolutely zero support took its toll. Every year I received glowing reviews from my direct and indirect bosses about how I continually exceeded expectations and single-handedly oversaw a program to build more child care center for low income kids in New York City, but not once was I ever offered a job promotion or job title that reflected the full amount of work I performed. While my peers and externally partners respected me, I was rewarded with suspicion and wrath from the upper echelons of the agency for not fundraising enough to cover their five-figure bonuses and six-figure salaries. (This is not secret info, by the way: it is all public in the agency's Form 990.)

My bosses liked to tell people that I left to write my book about unusual things to see in do in New York City, and that is partly true. Within 8 months, a small publisher in Nashville bought my book, I published several articles in local newspapers, and began writing a memoir about puberty and other bodily betrayals. Not working for those wretched fucks improved my mood for the first time in years, but I didn't fully escape their tentacles. Since these wonderful accomplishments didn't pay very much and I felt guilty about living off my husband (something I swore from a young age that I would never do), I agreed to consult for a City agency, working closely with my friend who took my old job. Obviously, there has not yet be enough distance for me to get over my experience yet.

Still, today is a day I am celebrating because I took important steps toward a new career. I indulged in a piece of guava bizcocho Dominicano, a traditional yellow cake with frosting so sweet that I actually felt the sugar granules in the neon pink frosting crunching in my teeth. Husband and I then headed out to the Queens County Farm Museum, the last site I plan to visit for my book. (Yay!) We toured a farmhouse that has been on the site since the late 1700s, pet sheep, and wandered around in the seasonal three acre corn maze. The unseasonably warm day of fun was capped off with gyros (pronounced with a hard "g" in Chicago, a soft "g" in New York, and a "y" in Greece).

As we trudged out of the farm, sweaty and full of meat, a family passed us on their way in. Their teenage son was wearing a t-shirt that read, "I (heart) hot moms." Husband and I exchanged glances. "That shirt would not be disturbing if the guy who was wearing it was not 16," Husband remarked.

You can say all that again. Here's to another wacky and weird year of change.

Let's Talk about Sex, Baby: An Interview with Logan Levkoff, Sexuality Expert

Let me say this upfront: when I found this spring that my friend Logan Levkoff was writing a book about how to talk to your kids about sex, I nearly burst with anticipation. Logan is like the super cool older sister that everyone wishes that they had in their life. She grew up in Long Island (not far from Husband, actually), became a sex columnist in college (although unlike me, she was successful), and went to NYU's prestigious PhD program in human sexuality. Thus when the chance to offer CUSS as a site for Logan's virtual book tour arose, I nearly fell over myself. Her book, Third Base Ain't What It Used to Be, not only tackles the really tough questions and topics about sex and sexuality, but it also totally cracked me up when Logan described her own experiences with puberty and sex. (This woman so needs to write a memoir next.) Here, Logan tolerates a few of my lame-ass questions:

Suzanne: The book is sort of ironic because your main point is extremely "conservative" - the best place for kids to learn about sex is from their parents. How does this idea work with the need for comprehensive sex ed in schools?

Logan: Technically, there is no reason why parents can't be the best sexuality educators (if they step up to the plate and start being realistic about the importance of sexuality and the contradictory sex messages in our culture). I suppose what makes this the antithesis of "conservative" is that by no means do parents have to be the only educators. I am a staunch advocate of comprehensive sexuality education and think that it can be a tremendous supplement to at-home education. Of course, if parents aren't doing any sex-ed at home, what a child gets at school becomes their only education. While I believe that parents should give both values and facts - often times parents just give the value-part - comprehensive sex ed can give the factual element. Hopefully, after reading this book, there will be so much high quality sex ed going on that our children are in the best shape possible.

S: You say that parents need to be honest about controversial topics like abortion and masturbation, but also stick to their values. How can parents whose values conflict with the facts find a way to properly convey information to their kids?

L: I believe that its okay for parents to teach their kids about their values, but that doesn't mean a child will share those same beliefs. And though values are important, I do stress in the book that parents MUST give facts, too. For example, a parent can say that he/she doesn't believe in masturbation (though that to me is always counterintuitive - it is a safer, very healthy sexual activity), but he/she cannot tell their child that bad things will happen to the body if they do.

S: In your experience working with young adults, how do gender roles influence how teenagers use their sexuality?

L: My goodness...where to begin? Gender roles (or more importantly, what is expected from a particular gender) has a tremendous impact on how teen behave sexuality. Sadly, the double standard still exists (though I spend all my life trying to change that) and both boys and girls suffer. Girls are taught that they can't own their sexuality and their innate desires (for fear that they will be branded a "slut") and boys are convinced that there is something wrong with them if they are not sex-crazed players devoid of emotional attachment. The fact is, sexuality is important to both genders. In many cases, when teens buy into this, they use drugs or alcohol to justify the feelings that they have - or don't demand protection because they fear that speaking up isn't something they are "supposed" to do. Also, girls are still "servicing" boys orally - this on its own isn't a problem - but the fact that there is very little reciprocation and a disgust of their own bodies is! We need to stress that expressing sexuality is different for every individual - there is no blanket expression that works for an entire gender; we do a disservice to our children and teens when we don't give them that information.

S: On page 49, you wrote, "Most children are desperate to 'avoid' puberty..." Have truer words ever been written? (Sorry I know that is really not a question, but as someone still trying to recover from puberty, the line particularly resonated with me.)

L: I too remember the angst of being an early developer - which also meant that I "stopped" developing earlier than everyone else too. Many of my students are consumed by the anxiety surrounding puberty - even though it's the most natural thing. Parents can ease this by talking about their own experiences (both fathers and mothers should be talking - not just one gender with the same gender child) and explaining that though this is a confusing time, it's pretty amazing what the body can do.

S: What is the most important message you want to give parents (and other concerned adults, like aunts, godparents, educators, and "role models") about helping kids develop into healthy, sexually responsible individuals?

L: Stress to your kids that sexuality is an important, pleasurable part of their lives - it is not separate from their overall health; it is a part of it. Kids who know this (and feel empowered to ask questions, challenge media messaging, and respect all people regardless of their gender, race, religion, and sexual orientation) won't act irresponsibily. They will make deliberate, educated decisions about how they choose to express their sexuality and when they choose to become sexually active.

Last, our culture currently makes sex and sexuality something dirty, gratuitous and exploitative. If we teach our children to challenge this (and encourage them to do so), we may start seeing more healthy and positive representations of sexuality and gender!

S: As an aside, I also want to say that the reason I thought this book worked so well is that you bring in your personal and professional experience, making an uncomfortable topic into something that I related to and even laughed along with. It's very accessible. Anyone who has kids or who, like me, is not a parent but a committed godparent and future aunt, really should read this book. It's just great.

Logan's book, "Third Base Ain't What It Used to Be" is on sale now.

Write, Write, Write Your Stories

Did I claim that my allergies were bothering me yesterday? I lied. A big, fat, nasty cold is punishing me for thinking such mean thoughts about that hapless guy at the pharmacy. (Urban Pedestrian and Average Jane pointed out in the comments to this morning's post that there are pills that sort of do what the guy wanted.)

The only good part about my situation is that today and tomorrow are writing days. I want to finish the first draft of the book by Monday. (Originally, I planned on Friday, but then realized that my last site visit is on Saturday.) As long as I am required to be cooped up in my apartment, I can deal with a cold. Plus, I was excited to discover a blurb about the book in Publishers Weekly. It came up on a google search I did on myself (that sounds perverted, doesn't it?) and said, "Suzanne Reisman's OFF THE BEATEN (SUBWAY) TRACK, an alternative guidebook to all that is strange, weird and wonderful about New York City's often overlooked ..." When I tried to look at the website, it said I need to pay to be a member. (If anyone out there has access to this and can let know what it says, that'd be awesome.)

This morning I also wrote an essay for BlogHer about the bullshit that goes on during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. The conclusion makes me particularly proud:

Don't buy products you didn't plan on buying anyway. If M&Ms were on your shopping list, then it can't hurt to buy a pink bag instead of a regular one. That's an extra 14 cents (or however the math works out) that will now go to breast cancer causes that you would have spent anyway. But if M&Ms were not on your list, why not just donate the bag's purchase price directly to a cause you support? Not only will the organization get the full benefit of the $3.25 (or however much a big bag of M&Ms cost), you can also write the amount off of your taxes, fattening your own bottom line (and this was NOT meant to be a pun, although it is certainly applicable in my own life) instead of some corporation's.

Thank goodness I amuse myself.

Another Moist Genius

When I woke up yesterday morning, I discovered that my nose exploded down my throat overnight. In a quest for allergy medicine, I headed over to my local pharmacy, Duane Reade. Thanks to the jerks who live in the middle of nowhere and use Sudafed as the principal ingredient in crystal meth, the pills must be kept behind the pharmacy counter. I stepped in line.

As I waited my turn, a guy in his mid-20s asked to speak to the pharmacist. Now, the pharmacist at this place happens to be a crotchety man in his early 60s who is clearly bitter that he is stuck working at Duane Reade. I think he is hilarious. He approached the guy and asked what he needed.

"Do you sell anti-dehydration pills?" the guy asked innocently.

"Yes, and they are called bottles of water. We have them up front in the refrigerated case," the pharmacist snarled in a raspy voice as he stared at the guy as though he recently arrived on Earth from Uranus.

"No," the guy stammered, "I'm looking for anti-dehydration pills." I began to wonder if this guy lived in my building.

"Listen, I've been a pharmacist for longer than you've been alive, and there is only one way to prevent dehydration. It's called drinking fluids. I don't know who told y0ou about these non-existent pills, but suggest you try drinking more water." I think the pharmacist started snickering at this point, but I couldn't tell because I walked away quickly in an effort to not laugh in this poor fool's face myself.

I love people.

Living Among the Deluded (or Stupid)

Until recently, which involves a construction boom and the ongoing construction of thousands of luxury condominiums around the City, 85% of the apartment ownership options in New York were located in cooperative (co-op) buildings. Co-ops are rare outside of NYC, and basically work like this: the building itself is a corporation. Anyone (for example, Husband and myself) who wants to "buy" an unit within the co-op really buys shares of the corporation. Those shares are determined by the location within the building (e.g. - a ground floor apartment in theory has less shares than the penthouse, as it is less desirable to live off the lobby) and size. The buyer of the shares is assigned a proprietary lease for the unit, and pays a monthly maintenance fee to cover the building's costs. The fee is determined dividing the corporation's costs by all of the shares, then multiplying the per share amount by the number of shares for each unit.

Sometimes co-ops will charge a special assessment in addition to the monthly maintenance to cover the costs of capital projects, which brings me to the point of my story. Our building has an enormous amount of deferred maintenance because people didn't have enough money in the past to shoulder the assessment. The elevators are not code compliant, and are years beyond their useful life. Other "small" issues, like fault-line size cracks in concrete also need to be fixed pronto. Hence we received a letter saying that each shareholder will receive an assessment in the upcoming months, payable over a few years, so the building can be made safe.

Here is the part of the story where I rant. Several shareholders went ballistic when they were told that they'd have to shoulder some of the costs of repairing the building they occupy. Last night, an emergency meeting was called to discuss the matter. Issues raised:

Crazy person: Refused to believe that the elevators were dangerous and asked to see the engineering report. When given the report's executive summary, he insisted that he needed to read the full 50 page report to support its conclusion that the elevators exceeded their useful life and were not code compliant.

Selfish asshole*: Stated that he bought his unit 16 years ago when the prices were much lower, and therefore should pay less than the people who bought their units for higher prices in recent years. Also loudly complained that he cannot afford to renovate his kitchen because his kid was in college, and thus did not see the need to pay to make staff areas safe.

Fucking idiot: Howled that she didn't understand why we just couldn't divide the total amount of the repairs evenly between all 120 units in the building, as it was unfair that people with larger shares (i.e. - nicer apartments that are worth more) are charged a higher proportion, which of course is the point of co-op organization.

Oh, how I hate people! (Note: I live in the fucking lobby and never use the elevator, and I am not complaining that I will be paying an extra thousand bucks a month so that the assholes upstairs can use it safely.) In the end, I refrained from killing anyone and instead volunteered to use my dormant skills from my experience working in agencies that finance the rehab of affordable housing for low-income people to help the Board with the projects. The rants will be a-flowin'.

*This guy pissed me off most. First off, he was lucky enough to get a good deal on his large apartment and when he sells it, he will undoubtedly quintuple his profit, even with a real estate crash. Does he plan on holding the price down so that another middle-income family can afford it? No? Then fuck you. Second, the reason the repairs cost so much is that they were not when ten years ago, when the need first arose, because people didn't want to pay for it. This shit does not decrease in price over time. Hence he helped create an even bigger expense by deferring, and using his own logic, should in fact pay a higher share of the cost. I'm not even going to go into how absurd it is that he publicly stated that the building employees deserve to deal with shitty conditions because his poor family can't have a fancy new kitchen. What a fucking asshole.

Pitch Perfect

Yes, the title of this post could be another reference to baseball, but I swore I was not going to bore people with my Mets obsession any more, and I intend to keep my word. Instead, this post is about the tour that I took this morning of the Steinway piano factory. I may be tone deaf, but I do know any awesome tour when I take one.

I knew it was going to be good when I was handed goggles upon my arrival. The tour goes right through the working shop floor, and it was incredibly cool to see how grand pianos get put together. The guides were funny and passionate about the history of the factory and also the neighborhood in general. Plus, as a part of the tour, I got to take home souvenirs - a piece of veneer and a rejected hammer from the key mechanism. Throw in the goggles, and this rocks the house.

After the two hour tour of the factory, I wandered around Astoria and Long Island City for awhile. I "investigated" several bakeries (Tsoureki - Greek Easter bread, also known as epiphany bread - is way yummy; crappy cheap tartufo is not) and munched a souvlaki on a stick on my way to the special graffiti warehouse. During my meanderings, I remembered why I currently have the best job in the world. (Maybe that was my special bread epiphany?) Yay!

New Month, New Hope?

Maybe it is just me, but September? Really fucking sucked overall. While it began and ended with visits from two close friends, I spilled an enormous number of tears over various trials and tribulations. October seems to have some promise to be better, though.

Oct. 6: One year anniversary of my last day with my wretched former employer
Oct. 13: Steph is visiting
Oct. 18-21: My family will be in NYC to attend Brother-in-Law's wedding
Oct. 19: Two year blogiversary of CUSS!
Oct. 31: Halloween (Although I doubt that I can squeeze into my dirndl this year, I still look forward to the Festival of Candy. Of course, that is exactly why I can't fit into my dirndl anymore.)

If I'm lucky, I can squeeze in a trip to Pittsburgh to see my old friend J. (aka the Sauce). The book is due on Nov. 1, so it depends how the writing is going. I think I'm right on track, if not a bit ahead of schedule, so if she's free, that would be great. Now if the little rain cloud that hovered over me almost all September would dissipate, that would seal the deal.

Enjoy your October.