Sweet December

I'm finishing out 2007 at home in New York, at my parents' house (get ready for grandmother stories next week), back home in New York, and then in Hawaii and Oahu. In that time I will also finish my grad school applications, take the GRE, and watch hours and hours of Hunter on DVD. (Man, the guest stars from season one - Frances McDormand, Drian Dennehy, Ed O'Neil, and Dennis Franz, for example - rock my world.)

Not only am I fortunate enough to have a semi-easy end to my year, but I am lucky to see December 1st at all. As I have complained many times, drivers in the city seem to believe that red lights do not require them to stop their vehicles. They just cruise right through, even after pedestrians get the cheerful "walk" light and venture into the crosswalk. As I mentioned on Ev's post about hitting a deer (excerpt: "As I was standing on the brake, fishtailing towards a ditch, watching the deer's head and neck fly over the roof of my truck while the front half and the back half of the torso broke apart at the ribs, and I was thinking, 'Huh! I never would have expected it to do that!'"), I was nearly run down by a shiny new BMW that neglected to follow traffic laws. I was eating a Trader Joe's 100 Calorie pack of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and I hurled one at the car as he narrowly missed my toes. I smashed against the front passenger side window with a satisfying, if small, noise and shattered into a million pieces. (That's when I realized I should carry little paintballs in my pocket with me from now on...) The other guy crossing the street while I was agreed with me that drivers are fucking maniacs.

Another disturbance in the balance of the world happened when I read that The Red Balloon is being re-released. I cannot explain why that fucking movie vexes me so much, but it was always 34 minutes of hell when they forced us to watch it in grammar school. Every damn year. For reasons that are beyond me, my beloved Entertainment Weekly gave it a grade of A. Tarnation!

Last Chance Before December

When I was a wee lass growing up on the "wrong" side of the Edens Expressway in Wilmette, IL, my dad had a t-shirt that puzzled me. It had a picture of a cartoon women who (according to my partly unreliable memory) was scantily clad and had big titties sitting on a bale of hay with a piece of hay in her teeth. Above her, it read, "Last chance before the freeway." My dad also had a t-shirt with McDonald's golden arch logo that parodied the fast food purveyor. It read, "Marijuana: Over 5 Billion Stoned."

Of course, these memories have nothing to do with NaBloPoMo, a scheme to encourage people to blog at least once every day in November, but as today is Nov. 30 and thus the last day of NaBloPoMo, it's people's last chance to create posts and backdate them if they didn't make the daily postings. In my case, pretty much post at least once every day, every month anyway. However, as I decided to enjoy myself in London over Thanksgiving weekend and not pay the outrageous internet connection fee at my hotel, November happens to be the one month I didn't post every day. Some may say I lose, but I say I win. Dude, I got to go to London!!!

I tried to offer a prize for those who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, but the organizer never responded to either of my emails. I guess it's OK for others to offer their blog merchandise, but not offensive little old me. However, if you are a CUSS reader who successfully completed NaBloPoMo, email me (my email is on the right side of the blog), and you can have any short sleeve t-shirt or mug from the CUSS store. If more than one person is a NaBloPoMo champ, I'll do some sort of random drawing at the end of next week. Just because the official NaBloPoMo people rejected me doesn't mean I shouldn't try and make good on my offer. Holiday spirit and all that shit.

Back to growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this last day of November brings the news that former member of the House of Representatives Henry Hyde from Illinois died. Rep. Hyde did everything he could to ensure that low income women had few options for terminating pregnancies by blocking federal Medicaid funds from paying for the procedure. On the other hand, at least he was slightly less hypocritical than his anti-family, pro-forced-childbirth colleagues, as Hyde supported the federal Child Care and Development Block Grant. This important money helped low income parents pay for safe places for their kids to stay while they worked or went to school. I won't call it even, but at least he tried to help families even as he coerced them into living by his religious beliefs.

Hunter-thon

I promised myself that I would celebrate finishing Off the Beaten (Subway) Track by watching seasons one and two of Hunter on DVD. Hunter was my favorite show (tied with The Golden Girls) when I was in junior high. Every Saturday night, I babysat and watched Hunter with my friend Jeremy Weiner* over the phone. (Meaning: we both sat in our respective domiciles and watched TV while we were on the phone, discussing the action.)

So four weeks after I was supposed to engage in my TV fueled bacchanal, I finally stopped all my various little other projects and sat down for fun. Man, this show is fucking priceless. The quips, the action, the extraordinarily dated plots - all
joyous fun. Not to mention Det. Didi McCall's super hot '80s high waist pants and blouse sets are better actors than the people. Delightful fun.

Now I realized that both my posts today are about my TV watching habits in the 1980s. Yep, it's definitely time to do more consulting jobs.

Update:

Sample dialogue from the third episode:

Bad guy: You guys were suspended.

Hunter: I know. But we love this city and hate injustice.

****

McCall: I just hate throwing garbage out and watching it blow right back in the wind.

Prosecute the Prosecutors

Back in the dark days of the late '80s, when greed was good and Bush continued Reagan's work of systemically dismantling governmental mechanisms put in place to ensure at least a small measure of fairness and equity for all living in the US,* L.A. Law ruled the airways. I was in junior high, struggling with the bullshit of adolescence and developing a moral radar for political and religious hypocrisy. L.A. Law highlighted all these issues. I was hooked.

Mostly I loved Susan Dey's character. She was a prosecutor who worked to protect women and communities from evil criminals who preyed on them. Although she didn't make nearly as much money as the vile divorce attorney Arnie, she was doing good for the world. I decided that this was exactly the job for me.

More than a decade later, I dropped out of law school on my third day. While I still wanted to help people, particularly those living in low income communities, I learned that there were many ways to do this that did not involve the torture of law school's Socratic method. It also came to my attention that the mentality of many district attorneys was far less noble than L.A. Law led me to believe. Time after time, evidence would appear that indicated that a defendant was innocent. The Cult of the Prosecutor, however, refused to acknowledge that they might have the wrong person. Instead of trying to serve justice, they stubbornly insisted on continuing cases. Even after DNA evidence exonerated those wrongfully convicted, the Cult insisted that the person did the crime.** Nope, I wasn't cut out for the District Attorney's office.

All this ran through my mind this morning as I read a story in today's New York Times about a woman released from prison after serving 13 years of a sentence for killing her teenage daughter. DNA evidence revealed that her boyfriend's blood was mixed in with the victim's body. Of course, the DA's office doesn't apologize for her conviction, partly derived from her boyfriend's testimony against her, which they secured by granting him immunity from the crime. No, instead, the DA is planning to retry her on a charge of second-degree manslaughter. Even better, even if she is convicted of the lesser charge, she won't return to prison because she already served the maximum sentence that charge carries. No, there's absolutely nothing wasteful about a second trial. Really, a second trial would not just be about vindictiveness. It's about justice. For who, I don't know. It sure is way too late for the poor kid, who was neglected at times by her mother, abused by her stepfather, and then killed by someone who is immune to prosecution for her murder.

*The more things change, the more they stay the same. Sigh.
**This is why shows like Law & Order are my favorite forms of escapist entertainment. The cops and ADAs always drop charges against people who are innocent so that they may find the real perpetrators and justice can be served. If only real life were like TV in these cases...

Trucks and SUVs and Mini Vans - Oh My!

For those of you who drive on a daily basis, you are very brave. Between the trucks, the SUVs, and the mini vans that I can't see around to the speeding maniacs (which admittedly includes me as I zip down the road at a brisk 80 mph in a 55 mph zone), driving practically gives me a heart attack every few miles. For the rest of the day, I'm very glad that I'll be running my errands on the subway. Even though non-discounted rides are $2 a pop, that sure beats $3.47 per gallon in gas. (OK, it sort of doesn't, but a monthly public transit pass with unlimited rides for $72 definitely kicks the ass of a month's worth of gas.)

Driving Me Crazy

My drive up to Alex's house yesterday was mostly uneventful. The worst part was driving in the area near the city. It's a little absurd when I am driving 70 in a 45 mile zone and people give me dirty looks as they pass me in the left lane.

Alex and I made excellent progress on organizing an official call for submission for Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!. Her husband (aka Big Giraffe) will put up a website for submissions in the next few weeks. I'm pretty gosh darn tootin' excited.

I'm also exhausted. I don't know how people spend a full day with kids and don't fall asleep by 4 pm or need to be institutionalized. Just pretending to be a squirrel for five minutes this morning left me out of breath and in need of a nap. All you parents out there - and teachers - are amazing.

You're a Woman Now, so Demand to Read about It

Since Husband is in San Francisco for work (poor dude got back from London on Sunday night and took off for the West Coast bright and early on Monday morning), he doesn't need the car to drive to his office in Connecticut. I decided that I will take advantage of the availability of our automobile (which I always think of as his since his work pays for it and I never drive it for a variety of reasons, the primary one being that I hate driving and fear the maniacal NYC traffic) and motor up to see Alex. We plan to work out more details for my idea to put together an anthology of first/early period stories, tentatively titled Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!.

Not long after I first conceived of the need for an anthology of this nature, I emailed my friend who also served as my agent for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track and told him about it. Oddly, he was not nearly as enthused about the idea as I was:

I've read a few proposals for this very idea for an anthology and think it is a tough one. The problem is 1) to put an anthology together for sale you need some pretty big names, or at least recognizable. 2) the subject matter for most people is a bit squeamish, even for girls. I had two female interns read the proposals and both did not like... I could be wrong, so if you're passionate about it, sell me on it.

My initial reaction to his response was not constructive ("Well, those female interns are obviously cunt-face bitches who read shit like Devil Wears Prada while staggering around in their pointy-toes stilettoes getting snatch waxes, so they wouldn't know a good idea if it hit them in their Sephora-made-up faces."), but then I buckled down and realized that what my friend was saying is that I need to show that girls aren't squeamish about their first periods because the topic is fucking funny in retrospect. I think the outpouring of interest that is still emerging on my original blog post is a good indication that people do want a book like this.

Anyway, the goal is to come up with a framework for proposal submissions, a plan for compensation, and a website that organizes the whole thing. In the meantime, the more I hear from people who are interested in reading a book of funny essays about the early days of getting a period, the better. (For an example of the types of writing that would be in the book, see 1980 was an interesting year by Jessica.) The first battle in the war for this book is to demonstrate that it is a commercially viable product.

She's back! She's back!

If, like me, you miss the blog formerly known as One Weird Mother, you will be as ecstatic as I am to know that K. is back at MomVoyage! Hurray! Hurray!

If You Say So

More wisdom from replies to my inquiry as to why people google search "Jewish pussy" even though it looks no different from other pussy:

What's so surprising? Everyone has their preferences. Some search for "black pussy," while others search for "white pussy," or "latina pussy," or one of myriad other possibilities. You're right in that, physically speaking, there isn't anything especially different about Jewish pussy, but Jewish women do tend to be an attractive bunch, In my opinion. Don't make more out of it than needs to be made!

There are two things about this reply that crack me up. The first is that this person acknowledges that Jewish pussy is "physically speaking," not different from other snatch. Although I like that my anonymous horny commenter pays compliments to us Jewish ladies (stereotypically, we are not held in high regard for our appearances), it slays me that people just believe that porn model is Jewish merely because a site says so. Since we all acknowledge that Jewish vulva looks like any other vulva (and comes in a variety of colors - Jews aren't all white), why bother searching for Jewish pussy? I guess porn is about buying into a fantasy anyway.

Someone else, however, has less flattering things to say about the hunt for Jewish pussy:

men only have enough blood in their bodies to have a thought or an erection yet not both. you can figure out your hit rate from that

This makes me laugh for different reasons.

On a semi related note, I read a book this weekend ("Maps for Lost Lovers" - very interesting; reminded me how all religious zealots are equally evil and batty in their misogyny) about a Pakistani Muslim in small town England. At one point, their is a section about pubic hair. According to the book, women must keep their snatch hair clipped very short or shave it all off. I guess if someone searches for Muslim pussy and sees a hairy snatch, he will know that the model is a doubly bad woman. I don't really take this so lightly, but I'm still mulling over the whole forced shaved snatch thing. I never thought my blog "protesting" the popular Western pressure for unshaved snatch would have religious implications.

British Adults More Evolved than American Adults

While cooking a Thanksgiving meal for 12, my ever talented multitasking friend Mara also presented me with a book of matches.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Look closely at the picture on the back," she replied and went back to cooking up a storm.



I understand that I am not supposed to fall down laughing when I see a stick figure's arm on fire. It is even less funny when one considers that the stick figure on fire represents a child. After all, as the warning clearly states, fire kills children. Howver, this dramatic warning makes me think that as British children go through puberty, they develop fire proof skin. How awesome is that? Yet another reason* our friends on the other side of the pond kick our American asses.

*Reason 1 is that they have extremely delicious chocolate bars. (However, I am sad to report that there are no longer candy machines on the platforms of tube stations. The extent of my disappointment is enormous.) Reason 2, which may be related to Reason 1, is that the scale in my hotel room told me my weight in stones. I suspect that the sale of candy on tube platforms may be a contributing factor in the increasing average stone weight of the British populace, so perhaps that is why candy bars are no longer sold on tube platforms. I don't know. What I do know is that I weighed 8.8 stones on Friday night, which sounds cool.

Bless Your Stomach

It was a jolly good weekend! So as not to bore folks, here's the quick recap:

Thursday: Had an amazing Thanksgiving dinner with Mara and her delightful friends and family. Fabulous food is even better when shared with Kiwis and Brits who are confused about why we are stuffing our faces. Mara's turkey was perfection.

Friday: Began the next day of overeating by meeting Mara and her cute baby and hubby for "salt beef beigels" (aka thick and juicy corned beef on a little bagel with spicy mustard) at the oldest Jewish bagel shop in the former Jewish slum area of London. Wandered around Spitalfields market and had yummy hot chocolate before splitting up with the friends. Husband and I went to the Geffrey Museum in a former alms house. The museum shows different parlor decorations from the late 1600s - late 1990s. It was fun. Then Husband and I headed all the way west to the Museum of Branding, Packaging, and Advertising. I ate an amazing cheddar and apricot chutney sandwich that I picked up from some cheese stand earlier that morning in Liverpool station. Later, we met Mara and her hubby for a scrumptious pan-Asian dinner. (Thursday was Mara's birthday! Happy birthday and thanks for inviting us to visit you and celebrate!!!!)

Saturday: Husband and I went to Borough Market and froze our asses off while eating delicious foods in the outdoor market. We then bought tickets to see Glen Gary Glenross, which thrilled me not, but Husband really wanted to see it, so I figured at worst, I'd just fall asleep during the show. Tickets were only 15 pounds, which thanks to the shitty dollar, is about $30. (Not bad for a show, though. Even if Broadway wasn't shut down here in NYC, you can't get a ticket for under $45.) We wandered around more, then met a friend for decent Indian food. Although it was cold, we decided to take a walking tour of Victorian London, but got there a few minutes late and the group had left. I noticed a sign that Sir John Soane's Museum was around the corner. Mara and I had just discussed it the previous day, so I took it as a sign. Basically, Sir Soane was an architect during the Regency era and built a totally wacked out house to house strange artifacts like an Egyptian sarcophagus in a fake basement crypt. The museum is the dude's house and they only let in 50 people at a time, so we waited outside and my nose ran a lot. It was worth the wait. We parted ways with Husband's friend after tea and scones at a nearby cafe chain. (Speaking of cafe chains, I think London has even more Starbucks locations than NYC, which doesn't seem possible.)

After the play, which was WAY better than the movie, Husband and I had a late dinner. We went to a Turkish place near our hotel (which we stayed at for free, thanks to Husband's hotel points). Our table in the teeny restaurant was jammed between two others. On my left, a woman with pink jeans that were covered with rhinestones was being told by her dinner companion about the exhilaration of jumping horses. To the right, two one man told his friend/companion about how he dined out with the head of the cooking section at Bloomsbury Publishing and this critic and that critic and blah blah blah. The dinner came with a starter and main course for 11.99 pounds. I stuffed my face with my starter, feta and spinach phylo pockets, and my eyes nearly popped out of my sockets when my main dish arrived. I didn't expect two HUGE hocks of lamb. Mr. Food Critic was very impressed. "Oh my!" he exclaimed as the meal was placed in front of me. "I doubt I'll be able to finish it all!" I remarked. He smiled. "Bless your stomach!"

A more perfect Thanksgiving weekend could not be had. Hope you all had blessed stomachs as well.

This Thanksgiving, Don't Forget to Eat Hard Food

As Husband and I learned this afternoon at the British Dental Association's Dentistry Museum (yes, a punchling in search of your joke), it is important to eat hard food in order to prevent cavaties. The second most important tip the BDA issued in the earlier part of the 1900s is to avoid leaving food between your teeth. Finally, brush your teeth every day.

If this is not a helpful Thanksgiving hint from our friends across the pond, I don't know what is. Happy Thanksgiving!

Glutton

Tycho the rabbit is taking a spa vacation at his vet's office while Husband and I visit Mara for Thanksgiving. Since he loathes being stuffed into his carrier and taken on the load and lurching bus (Tycho, not Husband, although I suspect he would resent such indignities being inflicted upon him as well), if the weather is conducive, I carry him the 17.5 blocks (nearly 1 mile). Although the vet reported at his last check up that Tycho weighs 12 lbs, 15 oz., when I put him in his carrier and haul his extremely furry ass up there, I am sure that he weighs closer to 954 lbs.

By the time we arrived at the vet's office this morning, Tycho was in full pissed off mode. When he's angry or scared, he sheds enormous amounts of white fur at an alarming rate. Thus I was covered in rabbit hair and sweating profusely from the effort it takes to carry him. My arm muscles were protesting loudly, and I was a bit shaky. Thank the hell god I decided not to go to the gym after I woke up. My legs were already sore from running yesterday.

After checking Tycho into Howliday Inn (OK, more like Symphony Vet Center, but how awesome is that book and Tycho is a white rabbit, even if he doesn't suck veggies dry), I stopped into the deli next door to get a drink. I was parched from the Herculean effort of lugging him around. So this is what I looked like as I left the deli: sweaty, red-face, covered with white fur, clutching a Diet 7Up in a shaky hand. With all the blood rushing in my ears, I swore I must've misheard the hip-hop guy who passed me on his way into the store.

"Hey lady. You look pretty," he mumbled.

"Huh? Wha?" I was confused. He looked at me, expecting that I would acknowledge his compliment, so I said, "Thank you," although I still wasn't sure if that was what he really said. He nodded. There's no accouting for taste, I tell you.

Since I hadn't punished myself enough, I headed a block over to Petco to pick up a bag of litter. I figured I should be prepared for Tycho's glorious homecoming on Monday morning. (He's probably going to have to deal with the bus.) As I heaved a 30 lb. sack over my shoulder, I thought about how much I deserve the Thanksgiving feast that I plan to indulge in at Mara's flat tomorrow. Mmmmm, cornbread! Sweet potatoes! Cranberry sauce! Definitely desserts galore! Now if only I'll be able to lift my arms to get the damn food into my mouth....

Face(book)ing the Facts

Some time ago, Suebob or Des wrote a post about why she doesn't have a Facebook account. I nodded my head. Hell, I can barely handle a MySpace page. Facebook just seemed like overkill. No way I was going to set up a profile there.

Well, as Alex often writes, the only way to guarantee that I will do something is to swear that I would never do whatever it is. In fact, it is completely Alex's fault that I even went to that cursed Facebook site in the first place. Her brother supposedly had some pictures of himself as a goth for Halloween, and she was told to check them out on his Facebook profile. We were on the phone while she tried to do this, and one thing lead to another, and before I knew it, I had my very own Facebook profile and was busily searching for friends from high school who I haven't spoken to in about 420 years. Of course, that shit is almost as addictive as M&Ms.* Bah!

Anyway, Husband and I are off to visit our friend Mara for Thanksgiving, so I will be wrested away from a computer for the most part. This is good so that I don't spend any more time on that wretched Facebook site (is there a damn user guide available anywhere?). I'll probably sneak in blogging (some addictions cannot be denied!), and I definitely have a good essay ready for BlogHer about a ridiculous ban on the holiday refrain, "ho, ho, ho." Happy Thanksgiving!

*Yes, my pretties. If you have a Facebook profile, let me know so we can be friends!!!

No, THIS is the Game

Dear Patrick Scofield (Poughkeepsie, NY, age 20) and Marco Hoffner (Lacey Township, NJ, age 18):

I read your quotes in the New York Times article . The article details how hundreds of men line up on the ramps outside Gate D during halftime at Jets game to shout obscenities at the women forced to pass by you. It seems that you have a fucked notion that you have the right to chant at these women, "Show us your tits." It also seems that if a woman does not comply, you find it appropriate to spit at her and hurtle plastic bottles at her head.

Patrick, you happily boasted to the Times that harassing women at the stadium "is the game." After one woman refused to reveal her breasts, Marco, you told the Times reporter that you were "very disappointed." I am glad that both of you are so honest and think harassment is so much fun. Since you like games so much, I promise that I am going to play one with both of you. If I find either of you, I am going to send you thousands of emails demanding that you show me your balls. If you don't, I am going to throw virtual bottles at your heads because I am "very disappointed." Isn't it going to be fun? I fucking LOVE games, too!

If women were smart (and lucky for you, they are not), they would read about your attitudes and decide that no one should ever, under any circumstances, have sex with you. You would both be shunned like the pathetic, hateful pieces of shit that you are until you apologize and learn how to behave like a civilized person. In the meantime, suck my dick, assholes.

Best,
Suzanne

Kids Do the Darndest Things

This is the "conversation" I imagine took place between my friend Mara and her adorable 10 month old daughter and saboteur, Adena, right before the photo below was snapped (you may need to click on the picture to enlarge it and see the details):

Adena: Mom, can I have a sibling?

Mara: Not now, honey.

Adena: Oh yeah? We'll see about that!



I love how intently Adena is studying the directions upside down. Husband and I are spending Thanksgiving with Mara and her family. We are so excited! It's not every holiday that I get to spend time with friends and their babies who have bright futures as either sex educators or counterinsurgents (for progressive causes, of course).

The Mysteries of Amazon.com, or I'm #97!

One of the many ways that I waste time is to obsessively check the status of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on Amazon.com. Will my name be spelled correctly? (Alas, as of this afternoon, no.) Has the description been updated? (Also, no.) Were the typos fixed? (Yes! Hurray!) Is the cover posted? (Not yet.) What's the release date? (July 1, 2008.) Generally, nothing changes from visit to visit.

Thus it was quite a surprise to discover that Off the Beaten (Subway) Track by Susanne [sigh] Reisman has a sales rank of #249,423 and is 97th best selling book of all the travel books about New York City. How could this be if the book isn't yet available for pre-order? Maybe I was wrong, as I am about everything else thus far.

It was experiment time. When I tried to pre-order the book, lo and behold!, it processed. And I learned I could save an additional 5% (58 cents!!!) by ordering now, bringing the total to $11.53 plus tax (and S&H unless you are an Amazon prime member or the total order is $25 due to other purchases). What a deal! It's the perfect 4th of July or Bastille Day gift for that special freedom-loving person in your life. Yeah.

Holiday Wishes

Although stores have been encouraging people to shop for the winter holidays since the 4th of July (OK, I exaggerate - retailers have only been pushing the holidays since approximately 9 pm on Oct. 31st when they thought it was unlikely to get any last minute Halloween sales), the season officially begins on Friday. Store understand that people are more vulnerable to sales pitches after they've overeaten and spent time with beloved family members. After all, we need to assuage our guilt at all the calories consumed and the number of times we had to repress the urge to strange a beloved family member.

My birthday also sneaks up after Xmas, so I'm beginning to get inquiries from my family as to what I want for Hanukkah's and to celebrate the day I emerged into this world 32 years ago. I don't have an answer. Thanks to Husband, I am more or less set on things that I want. I get to travel frequently. If I want a new sweater or pair of shoes, I just buy it. I don't really wear jewelry other than what I am always decked out in (six random earrings, four rings, and my feminist necklace; most of which are cheap). Technology doesn't interest me much. When I want to read a book, I get it. I'm very lucky and comfortable.

What I really want, though, is for the majority of the world to stop annoying me. Anyone inclined to get me a gift can give the funds to a progressive political candidate instead. For those who think that is a waste, how about a donation to the National Network of Abortion Funds? As I told my mom, there's no better way to celebrate my birth than by preventing innocent souls from being born themselves.

Priests Are So Sexy

Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) searched high and low for an appropriate souvenir for me while they were on their honeymoon in Italy. Their original idea was to purchase a fancy Venetian glass figurine of a beaver for me. After learning the Italian word for beaver (castoro), they asked at many shops, and many shop keepers laughed. They learned that castoro can also mean "goatee," which is fascinating, but not helpful to their quest. No one made glass beavers. (Incidentally, they did get a cute glass pussy for Mother in Law...)

Since no glass beavers were to be secured, they bought me the next best thing:



Your eyes do not deceive you. This is the cover photo from a sexy priest calendar.

"We thought this was a Steph-worthy gift," BiL said proudly as he handed me the calendar. SiL beamed.

My jaw hit the ground. Other than stammering, "Damn! This is the most perverse gift I've ever received," over and over again, I was speechless. Well done, BiL and SiL. Well done.

No, No, NO! Not Cosi!

My non-blogging friend Sara (as opposed to my friend Sara who blogs) recently mentioned off hand that Cosi bread is atrociously unhealthy. Not that I go to Cosi often, but every once in awhile I do crave me a nice flatbread sandwich. They give baby carrots on the side, so how bad could it be?

I'm sure you know that questions like, "how bad could it be?" should never be posed because the answer is inevitably "very bad." If you were in my apartment with me when I decided to look up the nutritional information of various Cosi sandwiches, you would stop me, noting, "Ignorance is bliss." Then you would gently pat my hand and we would laugh. So where the fuck were you yesterday afternoon? (I know, I know. I can't really blame anyone for the impending disaster except for myself.)

My favorite Cosi item, the tuna sandwich with excellent cheddar, is nearly one thousand calories. Help me! My eyes are bleeding in horror! (Fortunately, the blood is metaphorical so that I can see to type this.) Dude, if I am going to consume 956 calories and 55 grams of fat from one item, it is going to be from a big, fat slice of cheesecake (the kind with a thin layer of sour cream on top - yum), not a motherfucking tuna sandwich!

This really ruins everything. Pout.

Has Anybody Seen My Bra?

While dressing this afternoon, I realized that the bra I wanted to wear under my Red Stapler t-shirt was not in my undies drawer. As I dug through piles of cheap cotton underwear, other bras, and ratty slips, it occurred to me that I haven't seen the particular bra in some time. Was it lost in the laundry? Did I leave it somewhere when I went on a trip? When the hell was the last time I wore that thing?

Since I doubt putting a picture on the back of a milk carton (Have you seen me? 34 B beige bra with little bows on it. Missing since sometime in 2007. If found, contact the Center for Misplaced and Runaway Lingerie) will lead to my bra's discovery, I am going to have to replace it. Unfortunately, it seems that the price has increased dramatically since I bought it two years ago. Harumph.

Some Shit You May or May Not Know

Although I am a mouthy bitch, I have a strange fear about losing friends if I don't comply with their requests. I'm not talking about requests to do anything illegal - say, like do drugs (nope, I don't hang out with people who try to pressure me into dope!) - but little things like fill out a meme on random things about me. So here goes, but I'm not tagging anyone at the end.

1. I had two brilliant ideas this week. Seriously, that is amazing!

2. My first brilliant idea was to get a koala tattoo on my cooter, thus creating a natural bush-y environment for the little critter to hide. I really like saying, "Koala in the bush!"

3. Brilliant idea numero dos is to edit an anthology of essays about getting your period. I think this will make for excellent reading, and it is very important to me to find a wide range of experiences: people who are young; people who are not so young; people who got their period when they were young (before age 12 or 13); people who got their period when they were older (after age 15); people who were poor; people who are not hetero; people who are not white; people of different religions; people with non-traditional family structures; etc. I'm working with Alex Elliot to set up a website to officially collect submissions, and I'm also crafting a proposal for publishers. That is how motherfucking serious I am about this. It's my next book project.

4. My first book project resulted, three years after conception (sort of like an elephant gestating, but longer and with more typos) in Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. It's a travelogue/guidebook to wacky and unusual things in New York City. When it comes out this summer, hopefully without typos, I am going to have a book party. All my blog readers are invited.*

5. I thought my second book would be Medical History Museums of the United States and the World because I love medical history museums and saying the title (and making a sweeping hand gesture) makes me laugh almost as much as saying, "Koala in the bush!" Many people felt that there would be an extremely limited audience for a book on medical history museums, though. Then I got a better idea anyway (see fact #3), so I'll wait a little longer for this one.

6. Insomnia plagues me periodically. Hence I am writing this post at 2 am, which may explain why it is so slap-happy.

7. In January, I will seek a part-time job in community development. It is my sincerest hope that I don't let myself be guilt-tripped into working on child care policy. I am weak, though.

8. Speaking of guilt, I admit to loving the most craptastic show on Tv, CSI:Miami. It amuses me so much that I named my non-existant koala in the bush Horatio after the main character. Horatio is campily played by David Caruso, who I truly adored on NYPD Blue, which is one of my all-time favorite shows.

I may actually fall asleep after writing this. Hooray!

Call for Submissions. Period.*

Brilliance is inspiring. Two days ago, I read a very funny/mortifying story by Jessica, who is hilarious, about how she learned how to use tampons. It occurred to me that many of us delightful women bloggers have shared these "my first period" stories with the wide world of the web at some point. I love reading them. Everyone has a different experience, and yet they are so easy to relate to and universal in their own horrifying ways. It's good stuff.

As I tried to leave a comment for Jessica about how much I enjoyed reliving her painful adolescence (fucking Blogger ate it), it dawned on me: we should put together a book of essays about getting our periods. Or about coping with getting our periods, as some of the better stories don't involve that first fateful day of doom. Maybe a book like this already exists since it's not exactly an original concept. (A quick search on Amazon for books about menstruation yielded only treacly guides for girls and anthropological and cultural studies and criticism, but not fun essay books. I jaunted over to Barnes & Noble and saw nothing on the topic, either.) Even if it does, we can spin the book as the first book of essays about getting our periods written by non-famous blogging women. (How can any publisher resist?)

If this idea interests you, speak up and I will investigate how to get this off the ground. Since I love reading all your blogs (and the writing of my non-blogging friends, several of whom I think would come up with really awesome essays), I know this will be great. If not as a book (for which you'd get paid for your contribution!), then maybe we can have one of those blogging carnival things that always happen but I don't understand at all. We'll call it Bloody Bloggers Day or something.

*Apologies for leaving out the two or so men who read CUSS. Maybe you can write a funny essay about your first nocturnal emission or something equally embarrassing. Actually, that would be an awesome book/blog day, too...

More Man Hating

Welcome to the next installment of "What Would CUSS Readers Do?," except that this is more "What Do CUSS Readers Think of..." Lately, I've had a few depressing conversations with single female friends about their problems with dating. All of my friends are smart, they are attractive to varying degrees (none are hideous or even merely ugly), and each one is talented. According to one friend, this means that she is at a disadvantage because men do not want to date smart women. Her proof is that a friend of hers (a guy) very sadly told her that he is the only one from his circle of guy friends who found intelligence to be a desirable quality in potential female partners. I was horrified to hear this, and immediately used my anecdotal evidence to counter his anecdotal evidence - all of my friends who are married are married to their equal, or even to women who are smarter than they are. My friend shrugged. I silently thanked my lucky stars that I found Husband.

Yesterday's New York Times had a column by Maureen Dowd (who usually annoys the crap out of me) that stopped me dead in my tracks. It opens with the story of a woman who is a doctor married to an econ professor at Columbia. When they met, the woman's granny told her not to let him know how smart she was. The couple found that advice anachronistically adorable, and got married after she proposed to him. The prof went on to conduct a two-year study with another econ professor and two psychologists of Columbia students' dating preferences. Here's what he found:

“We found that men did put significantly more weight on their assessment of a partner’s beauty, when choosing, than women did. We also found that women got more dates when they won high marks for looks.”

He continued: “By contrast, intelligence ratings were more than twice as important in predicting women’s choices as men’s. It isn’t exactly that smarts were a complete turnoff for men: They preferred women whom they rated as smarter — but only up to a point ... It turns out that men avoided women whom they perceived to be smarter than themselves. The same held true for measures of career ambition — a woman could be ambitious, just not more ambitious than the man considering her for a date.

“When women were the ones choosing, the more intelligence and ambition the men had, the better. So, yes, the stereotypes appear to be true: We males are a gender of fragile egos in search of a pretty face and are threatened by brains or success that exceeds our own.”

Cry. So it seems that because I choose my friends and my friends choose their partners based on better qualities than the average asshole, my anecdotal evidence is smashed to pieces of loneliness and broken dreams on the cruel rocks of male stupidity. As CUSS readers, you are clearly intelligent people. I'm curious what your experience has been in selecting a partner of the opposite sex and your friends' experiences.

The Man-Hating Lesbian Koala

This is a very nice picture of me. Husband took it while I was sitting around on Sunday while other people took official pictures with their friend, who was getting married later that afternoon. If I could have an author picture, I would crop this and use it.

Out of curiosity, I am wondering if the first thought of anyone looking at this picture was, "Wow, this woman is obviously a radical lesbian." When I was at the BlogHer conference this past summer, someone insisted that I project "radical lesbian." (In fact, the first thing this woman asked me during the ice breaker was whether I was a radical lesbian, which I thought to be sort of rude, regardless of whether I am or not.) Not only rude bitches seem to think that I am a lesbian. This began after I started wearing a little female sign necklace when I was a junior in high school. It seems that it is not possible to be a proud feminist without also being a man-hating lesbian. When I got my hair cut short, I further conformed to some dyke image that people hold sacred in their little minds. I'm not a lesbian, although I do hate men. Now, there's no need to get your man-thongs (aka "jock straps") in a bunch over this fact, because I also hate women, too. People in general raise my ire.

Looks are deceptive. Not only do I look like a lesbian, but I also appear to be a friendly and nice person. Sometimes this is true. However, while the picture was taken, I was thinking something like, "Motherfucking asshole cockface who made me leave a party early on Sat. night, then rise at the fucking crack of dawn so I could haul my ass to the middle of fucking nowhere in that shithole state of New Jersey so that Husband could be in two fucking pictures then stand around for hours before the damn ceremony, I hate your fucking ass." Just like an adorable fuzzy koala bear, a stranger would never know the vicious thoughts that run though my pleasantly dyke-y looking little head.

This is How They Do It

(Cue Montell Jordan's "This is How We Do It", click on track 3 for a background music clip...)

A long time ago (the summer of 1997) in a galaxy far, far away (a state government office in Chicago, IL), I worked at an internship that was life altering. During the summer (and the one that preceded it), I discovered that a career in public policy was an excellent way to drive positive change for society. This observation led me to realize that I didn't really want to be a lawyer, and I subsequently dropped out of law school on my third day. I also learned what it was like to have effective bosses and the type of supervisor that I hoped to become someday. Unfortunately, this only made things more challenging in the future when, save for Alex's husband, every other person I worked for leaned toward the well-meaning-but-incompetent school of management. Finally, I learned how conservatives lie so effectively.

One afternoon, I was reading a research brief published by Robert Rector (my boss called him Robert Rectum for good reason) at the Heritage Foundation. The report claimed that food stamps made poor people fat by allowing them to eat too many nutritionally rich foods. (Don't laugh. I know this is insane, but it actually said that.) As proof, Rector/Rectum included a chart from the FDA or some other government agency (HHS?) showing the nutritional intake of children at or below the poverty level compared with kids with upper class incomes. The text describing the chart claimed that in all categories of vitamins and minerals except one (and I don't remember which that was), poor kids got more nutrients than wealthy kids. I looked at the chart. The information on the chart said exactly the opposite of what Rector/Rectum described. Since the evidence (poor kids are not accessing healthy foods) did not fit their goal (cut food stamps, regardless of the consequences), the Heritage Foundation just wrote what they wanted to and assumed people would quote the text without verifying the facts. What scared me is that they are right: the media and elected officials continue to rotely spew out misinformation, which is then accepted by others as accurate information, and thus the lies become facts.

It's terrifying. Recently, Rudy Giuliani used dubious numbers from a conservative think tank (ie - a batch of lying liars who produce lies) about prostate cancer, which was repeated verbatim - without analysis or comment - by most mainstream media outlets. Sure, some op-ed pages later tried to set the record straight, but by then a lot of damage was done. The falsity became an accepted fact. In the supposedly liberal New York Times, columnist David Brooks printed a white-washed (in every sense of the word white) report on a racist act committed by Ronald Reagan in the 1980 campaign. Reagan chose to speak about states' rights in Philadelphia, Mississippi, the site where three civil rights workers were murdered in 1964; a town that still protected many of those who were involved in the killings. "States' rights" have long been code words for anti-civil rights legislation, because how dare we tell states that non-whites have rights? (Except you don't hear much about states' rights when the right-wing tells states that they have to obey the anti-abortion laws of other states, as the Republicans have tried to do many times by entering legislation that says that states without parental notification laws must follow the laws of states with parental notification laws under certain circumstances, but I digress.) This forced two other columnists to waste their next scheduled columns setting the record straight: Reagan knew exactly what he was doing when he went there and said those specific words. But the strategy worked. Not only is there misinformation out there, but it took time and effort away from other issues that could have been addressed.

The pen is absolutely mightier than the sword, especially when it is a poisoned pen and the ink gets on us all. Insidious, invidious, and utterly brilliant.

Top My Cake with This

At my third wedding in four weeks, I saw this most amazing cake topper:


I danced a lot, too. It made going to New Jersey yet again totally worth it.


(Note: That is not Husband. It is a sleazy friend of his from high school.)

Koala in the Bush

After I watched Des get the awesome tattoo across her shoulder last month, my desire for a tattoo of my own increased to new levels. Tattoos are so cool! Des and I discussed my interest in a tattoo later that afternoon, and I confessed that I was still reluctant to go under the pen for two reasons: the permanency of tattoos and my irrational fear that I will not be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery although I do not believe in God and think that cemeteries are a waste of land. However, if I ever did get a tattoo, I thought I would want a koala bear, since it is an animal I relate to. (Koalas are sweet and cuddly looking, but in actuality, they are vicious little assholes.)

A few weeks later, Des posted this picture of a koala on my infrequently used MySpace page:

She noted, "Can't you see the evil gleam in his eye?" Seriously, the critter is perfect, and it inspired a suitably ridiculous and excruciatingly painful plan.

One day, I will get my snatch waxed. After it heals a bit, I will get the koala tattooed on my crotch. Then my pubic hair will grow back, hiding Horatio (that's what I named the koala) in the bush. Oh man, just thinking about that makes me laugh. (And wince.*)

*Have no fear, any parental figure who reads this. The odds of me carrying out my brilliant scheme of personal decoration are negligible. But I do like thinking about it.

File Under "Accomplished" - A Photo Story

(Incidentally, this little photo story will give a fair tour of the mess that is my living room. I only mocked my parents' house in the past because I could completely relate to it.)

My writing desk was my dining table for years. Then we got a new one, but instead of throwing this table out, I moved it into the living room to use as my writing table. Initially, this was very good. Then my writing table became my dumping table. (FYI - My friend Dianne painted that portrait of the CUSS logo for me. Isn't she awesome?) Not much writing is done at my writing desk as a result. After months of writing at the fancy new dining room table, thinking if I could just put my files somewhere, I could use the writing table as a table instead of storage unit, it occurred to me that I could buy a filing cabinet. Two weeks later, I ordered one from Staples.

It arrived yesterday in a tidy box. I committed to building the filing cabinet on Friday morning. Here I am hard at work in the middle of my living room. Husband was working from home, and he was so amused he decided to take a picture. (Note the hideous purple leather chairs that he insisted on buying from Craig's List. The blue sofa came from a thrift store. Our temporary second rabbit, Jacques, chewed a whole on the corner of the puffy top which is covered by Husband's green blanket that he got for college in 1994. At the front of the room, behind the gate, is Tycho the Giant Rabbit's apartment.)

About an hour and one minorly major fuck up (I forgot to put in the bottom on one of the drawers before I attached all the sides - oops), the file cabinet stands complete. What a jolly laugh I shall have if it is not large enough.

Husband and the Furry Guy

I told Husband all about my wacky time in the sex shop with Des on Thursday evening, including how the store sells a mesh tank top for men.

"You would look like a furry animal caught in a net if you wore that," I giggled.

Husband made his exasperated/indignant/mortified face, which involves frowning intensely while narrowing his eyes and jutting his chin forward. "It's not funny. I am a furry dolphin!"

"Caught in a tuna net?" I laughed.

"Obviously!" He batted his eyelashes and sighed.

I do so adore him.

Attack Rabbit Goes for Fruit, Not Crotch

Although Tycho is frenzied in his effort to wrench the package of dried fruit from me, I swear that his glowing eye is not a sign that he is possessed. (Let's agree say that albino rabbits don't photograph well and leave it at that.) He cracks me up, though. Every night Tycho has been hanging out with me, Husband, and his boyfriend the bear rug. This means that I must clean up scads of white fur all the time, but it's worth it.

Des and the Real Girl

Last Sunday, I had brunch with my friend Sara and she mentioned that she wanted to see the film Lars and the Real Girl, which is about a mentally disabled young man who gets a blow up sex doll, names it Bianca, and introduces it to people as his girlfriend. It's a movie that is very supportive of mentally ill people and also stars Ryan Gosling, who rocks, but I decided that I can't sit through more than 30 minutes of such precious concepts.

However, I could spend hours observing people at my neighborhood sex shop as they shop for blow up dolls and other sex play items. Yesterday Des was on the hunt for some black fishnet stockings. First we stopped into a "normal" store, Ricky's. (Ricky's is a local chain that used to be a pharmacy and sell sundries and beauty products. A few years ago, they realized that there is no money to be made in selling medications, so they took out the drugs and sundries, kept the beauty products, and put in a sex toys section. Plus they sell all kinds of doodads like slippers, funny t-shirts, and tights.) Ricky's didn't have fishnets that Des liked, so I suggested that we go to the local sex shop, which I knew had a variety of fishnets because I noticed a red pair in the doorway one day as I passed by and went in to check them out. Des agreed, and our hilarious adventure began.

The stockings section at the store is right in front near the door. As we were browsing the various fishnets, a woman about our age reluctantly stepped into the store. As she took off her hat, I was pretty sure that she wished that the ground would swallow her. The two guys at the counter asked if they could help her. She must've whispered what she was looking for, as I didn't hear her response. On the other hand, it was impossible not to hear the guy as he boomed out, "Of COURSE we have this! Follow me!" and led her to the back of the store where the porn videos are.

In the meantime, Des and I commented on gross giant dildos with blue veins painted on them, crotchless leather and mesh panties, and a mesh tank top for men which we thought would likely not be sexy on an actual man. I eyed the fake vaginas, which always fascinate me in their pinkness. We went to the counter so Des could pay for her tights and a cute pair of fingerless lace gloves a la Madonna's "Like a Virgin" era. As the cashier ran Des's credit card, I heard the other customer approach the register behind me.

"So what did you pick?" the non-cashier employee asked her.

I didn't turn around to see, so I can only assume she held her item up to show him. "Why did you pick that one? He showed you much better stuff?" the employee pressed.

"They're all the same," the woman mumbled. I swear I could feel the heat radiate off her blushing face, although I did not turn to look at her. I didn't want to add to her embarrassment. It most of my willpower to not start laughing.

"NO!" the employee said loudly in disgust. "All pornos are not the same! The other one he showed you is much better quality! Better pictures, better sound, better everything..."

Now I was biting my lip at the ridiculousness of the situation. Des finished paying, the cashier put her items in a plain black bag, and we left. In that time, I decided that I should just hang out at the sex shop all day some time and record the absurd conversations that I suspect go on multiple times.

Who's Fat?

(Cue the Wierd Al music.)

When I was in 5th grade, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal came to my school (Marie Murphy Jr. High, a regular public school for upper-middle class, upper class and Jewish White trash kids from the community, not a Catholic school although everyone thinks it is based on the name) and interviewed a batch of us girls about weight. I was so tubby that jeans would not fit me; I wore pink or purple sweatpants all the time. My mom, however, was super thin (always has been) and often after washing her jeans found that she could only zip them while lying down and using pliers. I mentioned this to the reporter. It appeared in the article as, "One girl's mother even uses pliers to zip up her jeans."

My mom read that and beamed. "Look Suzanne, someone else's mother needs pliers to close her jeans!"

I looked her square in the eye and replied, "Uh mom? That's you."

(End song. Thanks to Opiate for the Masses for inspiring this memory and sharing session.)

Halloween Correspondence: The Terror of My Family

The following email exchange took place this week between my mom and my friend Steph. What you will read below are slightly abbreviated versions of the actual text. I did not make any of this up, although I did change the names to protect the guilty. You have been warned.

Mom: Suzanne's Dad dressed up like an accountant. The scary question is, what was your costume? Actually, the scariest costume of all was Granny's. She wore her diaphanous, almost transparent, worn-out house dress sans underwear, got mad at me when I reacted with horror, and said, "Like the kids really took the time to look!!!"

Steph: If Granny is busy flashing the neighborhood kids, she sounds like she's almost back to normal - well, what passes for normal in your family anyway:) That's hilarious that she insists on wearing that ancient housedress. I thought you were going to tell me that she was dressed as a spirit and that was why she was going for the diaphanous look. I must compliment you on your use of that nice big word. You may want to pass it on to your daughter as she studies for the GRE's.

Go out and buy Granny a pair of Lollipops, would ya? We can't have her mooning the neighborhood:)

(OK, I also inserted the Lollipops link.) I'm probably gonna get a tongue lashing for sharing this, but it was too fucking funny not to do so.

Me, Too!

This picture sums up exactly how I feel about many things, including:

• Giuliani himself


• Anyone endorsed by Pat Robertson


• Snatch waxing


• The way the Mets season ended


• The Bush administration


• Most of the statements made by my Bubbe


• The majority of the human race

Who knew that Giuliani could encapsulate and portray so many of my feelings?

Shaking It Out

Once or twice a month (or more, depending on my anxiety level, so generally more), I have hyper-realistic dreams about failing school or being involved with people who I have known since my elementary school days. Two night ago, I dreamed that I kept missing the bus because I left my backpack at Target, where I stopped to look at some clothes before school. This was significantly less intense than my usual school-anxiety dreams, which tend to center around me not going to a specific class (German, Spanish, or more recently, math) for the entire semester and then panicking as finals approach because I am so far behind that I don't even remember where the fucking classroom is. I can't explain how I ever let it get so far, and I generally wake up in a sweaty state of dread which takes me the better portion of the day to overcome.

The other intense dreams that occur when I go to bed feeling apprehensive about something involves people I haven't seen in years. Last night I dreamed that I was involved to varying degrees with three guys, two of whom I was buddies with in elementary school and one of whom I was friendly with my freshman year of high school. (The last time I saw the guys from my days of early childhood was at my high school class reunion in 2004. I haven't seen my pal from high school since senior year, and we weren't really friends at that point any longer.) Whenever I have these dreams with people from the past, I am almost consumed in the day time by the urge to find them online and try and strike up a conversation with them. I spend hours finding them, and then am smart enough (for once) to not do anything about it. The funny thing is that at least one of these guys is a regular in my subconscious anxiety dump.

I guess I am trying to go back to more secure times in my life, even if they get weirdly updated to being adults. (The subconscious is truly one fucked up bitch.) I am all bothered these days because I want so badly to be accepted into a particular MFA program, and terrified that my trite stories will be laughed at by the graduate admissions committee. If anyone is willing to read 30 pages of stories from my youth and today (involving getting - and losing - boobs and my period), I would welcome your feedback.

testing

This Does Not Add Up

Several hours after I beam about getting 50% of the math questions right on a GRE diagnostic test, I attend a meeting at which I agree to teach two classes on budgeting to child care directors. (I will also be teaching a class on budgeting/finance through the city university system this spring.) I realize that comparing 2xy to (2x)y is not the same mathematical process as is used in constructing an operating budget, but this still cracks me up.

My (Not So) Dumb Ass

Since the book is done for now, I am turning my attention to my applications for graduate creative writing programs. Yes, I am psyched that I wrote a guidebook/travelogue, but next I want to write something with a plot and characters and all that jazz. To do that, I gotta learn more about writing and shit.

One of the schools I am applying to requires the GRE, which I never took. (When I hustled off to policy school, the places I applied to took my LSAT score, sparing me the agony of learning GRE math.) The admissions decisions are not really based on test scores, but I still need to do well enough that the university at large agrees to let me enroll in the case that I am admitted to a writing program. I bought a study book from Kaplan and took my diagnostic exam this morning. For the 12 math questions, I basically guessed on every one. I managed to get half correct. The verbal portion went much better, although not the results were not sterling at 75% correct. I did unusually poorly in reading comprehension, so I'll chalk that up to a fluke. More studying to come.

I also learned this morning that Nov. 29 is officially recognized by the United Nations as the International Day of Solidarity With the Palestinian People. Fuck that. The same New York Times article mentions that "711,000 left Israel-controlled territory in 1948 and 1949" and in 1948, "856,000 Jewish residents left Arab countries." The World Jewish Congress submitted a memo to the United Nations Economic and Security Council in 1948about the danger facing Jews in the Middle East in response to a 1947 draft law composed by the Arab League "that called for measures to be taken against Jews living in Arab countries" including "imprisonment, confiscation of assets and forced induction into Arab armies" as well as beatings, officially incited violence, and programs. However, the memo was buried by the Lebanese ambassador and president of the council.

I don't need a good GRE score to understand how unfair and biased the world is.

I'm Bugged

Sometimes I suspect that I am under electronic surveillance, but when I say that I am bugged, usually I mean that something is annoying the shit out of me. This is not infrequent, especially when I read or hear the news. However, this morning as I was reading the op-ed section of the New York Times at my dining room table, I was bugged in a far less typical manner.

A tickling sensation spread over the outer part of my left foot. "What the fuck?" I thought as I looked down and shook my leg a little. For a second, it seemed as though the pink satin ribbon near the edge of my pajama pants was brushing against me and causing the feeling. Then the roach ran out from under the cuff.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I screamed.

Husband remained in his chair, frozen, while I ran into the kitchen for the roach spray. "Want a newspaper?" he yelled?

"I'm looking for the spray!" I barked back. Fuck it. I grabbed a big paper towel and dashed back into the dining room. Husband was standing over our invader holding a section of the paper. (Usually he runs away screaming, so I was very proud of him for aiding me by monitoring its movements.) I pounced and nailed the fucker (the roach, not husband), but I didn't kill it. I sprang at it again. It ran towards Husband. He lifted his slipper and stomped it. This was most impressive for him.

I scooped up the smooshed, gooey, juicy roach with the paper towel and took it to its watery grave. After flushing it down the toilet, I mopped its guts off the dining room floor. Then I shuddered, thinking about how a roach was on my bare foot. Nasty!

Weirdly, yesterday I had composed an essay about women and the fear of bugs to post on BlogHer today. (Cue the spooky music.) Next time, I think I will write about how much women love it when money randomly comes out of their shower heads instead of water.

Arghhhh! *Slurp* (Part II)

As we chuckled over Husband's hilarious email about a possible air pirate eating soup in the Admirals Club lounge at Heathrow airport yesterday, Husband pointed out that "Arghhhh! *Slurp*" is also the sound that a pirate makes when giving a blow job.

Clearly, when we met as college freshman, Husband had to be somewhat demented or he would not have wanted to date me. At the same time, I wonder (at times with pride) how much I have dragged him down into the gutter with me. Regardless of my influence, the man makes me laugh.

Come Ride the Roller Coaster with Me!

This afternoon I spoke to the publisher about some changes that need to be made to the book's description on Amazon.com, including the fact that my name is incorrect. It'll all be fixed, he assures me then asks what I think of the book's cover.

"Um, I haven't seen it," I point out.

"Oh! I'll send it to you then. I think you'll like it," he cheerfully responds.

A few hours later, I find a very cool .jpg in my email in-box. My name is correct! The cover rocks hard! I rejoice. Steph comes over for dinner and I show it to her. She agrees that it is bitchin.' I print a copy to gloat over for when I get home.

More hours later, Husband arrives back from his business trip. I show him the picture on the computer. He also agrees that it kicks ass. I pick up the print out of the picture. Suddenly, I am speechless. The fucking title is wrong. Sighing, I email the publisher about the mistake. In my in-box is a comment from some sharp-eyed anonymous person left on CUSS. This person notes that the Amazon.com blurb is riddled with typos that I didn't previously notice.

Grrrr.....

Arghhhh! *Slurp*

Actual email I received from Husband a few minutes ago, who today is returning from a business trip in Europe:

In the Admirals Club a guy with an eye patch was eating soup. I hate to occularly profile, but I have a feeling he was an air pirate. If I return home without me gold, you'll know why.

Damn, I missed him this week.

The Boob Tube

Back in my house that my parents requested that I no longer refer to as "Jewish white trash," we used to have a small B&W TV in the kitchen. It sat on the china hutch behind my dad's chair at our cramped kitchen table until I was about 7 or 8. (The generic canned grape juice and fruit punch was stored under the table next to my dad's feet and the heating vent.) I nearly late for the bus every morning because I sat, my eyes glazed over at the "woody Woodpecker" cartoons that blared at me while cereal dripped out of my mouth due to the trance induced by toy commercials. This was not acceptable, according to my mom. Further, my mom decided that watching quality programs like "Tic Tac Dough" and "Joker's Wild" were not better than family discussions. The TV was whisked away. (She was wrong, of course. Much dinner table talk revolved around whether there were boogers in the Kool Aid, as my sister maintained, or not.)

Sources (i.e. - my mom) also claim that in my youth, I used to watch an enormous amount of cartoons on Saturday morning and ask for every damn toy that was advertised. The answer was always, "No." Eventually I stopped being a brat, but I didn't stop watching the cartoon lineup. While I could barely get my little ass out of bed for school during the week, every Sat. morning I woke up at 6:30 like clockwork so that I could begin my day of leisure with the craptastic show known as "Zoobilee Zoo." (Sometimes I even got up earlier and stared at the colored bars that dominated the screen before the station went back on the air. Man, that was a long time ago when stations didn't have 24/7 programming.) To be fair, I acknowledged that this show was shit. However, I did not want to miss risking "Gummy Bears," which I think was on at 7:00, followed by "Snorks," "Smurfs" (totally the best, although the presence of only one girl Smurf puzzled my burgeoning feminist mind), "Foofur," and god only knows what else. Whatever live action shows came on interested me not a whit.

Through the November Blog Exchange, my friends Alex and Amy Jo are having a civil debate about whether or not kids should watch TV. While I turned out fine (sort of, anyway), I think I embody the downsides of both of their arguments. I am so proud.

My Eyes are Still Stinging

Based on anecdotal evidence, adults seize upon Halloween as an opportunity to display their "wild" sides. Nationwide, the availability of "sexy" costumes in stores seems to be higher each year, sometimes making it impossible to find anything remotely covering unless you make it yourself. In New York City, however, this unfortunately provides a convenient and unacceptable excuse for individuals to not wear pants/skirts. Or underwear.

I knew I was in for a night when, on my way to a community Halloween party in the East Village, I observed several women whose costumes consisted of shirts. How men's dress shirts with sparkly purses as accessories are costumes is beyond me. I dodged several of these mysteries along with countless "sexy" pirates until I met my friends (one was Mighty Mouse and the other a vampire disco guy) and we went to a gay dive bar where no one really wore costumes. My cronies loved that I was going to a gay bar dressed as a bride.

After I drank a stiff Diet Coke (it was flat), we headed to the party. It was an all day event at a community theater center. Scott and Mark had already been there for a little while before they left for stronger drinks at the bar, and they warned me that a naked man was wandering around the party. I spotted him as soon we entered the lobby. "Oh, shit!" I told my friends upon seeing his extremely furry naked torso. "I know this guy!" He was the naked guy contestant in the Mr. Lower East Side pageant that I attended in October 2005.

The whole night I marveled at the weirdness of recognizing that guy. Many other men were wearing minimal amounts of clothing, but I thought that Naked Guy had the biggest balls to go full monty. After I downed a watery glass of apple juice at the bar, it was time for the costume contest. Who could beat the Naked Guy?

Unfortunately, Naked Guy with Elephantitis of the Scrotum could. When he walked across the stage with his softball-sized nut sac, I realized that I needed to wash my eyes out with soap when I got home to rid myself of the vision. Further, I had a bad feeling I knew him, too. At the same Mr. Lower East Side pageant, the previous years' winner of the title "Best Nut Sac" was a man spoken wonderously of as "Tommy Nut Sac." I suspect that was who I set my eyes on during the costume parade.

Now there's inherently nothing wrong with men who have sacs that are 15 times larger than normal ones, I just don't want to see them live and in person for the most part. (That's what medical history museums are for!) I was fairly repulsed when the guy won for "Best Erotic Costume." A naked man with a giant sac does not equal erotic in my not-especially-selective book. The stiff Diet Coke and weak apple juice just weren't enough to make me lower my not-so-high standards.