An Expensive Way to End 2008

Bubble bath and champagne, anyone? The menu only starts at $525...

Happy New Year!

Enjoying California: A Pictorial with Rambling Commentary

Despite my unfortunate mislabeling of the previous post as "fun trips that are not fun any more" rather than "fun trips," I am having a great time on my jaunt through the sunny (albeit not overly warm) state of California.

Here Liz and I are outside the Museum of Jurassic Technology:

(I got my ridiculously fashionable coat on sale at Esprit during the snowstorm that prevented me from visiting Alex a few weekends ago. While shopping, '80s music was playing over the sound system and I felt like I was in junior high all over again - the setting and sounds were the same, although to be fair, I didn't shop at Esprit back in the day, as it was out of my price range, but I am majorly digressing here. The point is, the coat is cute and now too tight because I've eaten an enormous quantity of marzipan and other baked goods while on my trip.)

On my birthday (Saturday), we drive up to see Suebob. She showed us around her town and treated us to the yummiest tacos and guacamole ever. Her house is adorable, and I loved meeting Goldie, her sweet golden retriever. (Husband was not tormented by Goldie, so no worries.)

Then Husband and I headed to Santa Barbara, where we stayed at an overpriced hotel by the ocean. I decadently ate lobster tail for dinner. For dessert, Husband and I picked up marzipan petit fours from The Andersen, a Danish bakery, and ate it once the stupid hotel found a room for us with working heat. Luxury hotel my ass...


On Sunday, we started out bright and early and hit the little town of Solvang, which was founded by Danish immigrants who were sick of midwestern winters. The town remains 60% Danish, and is full of cheesy architecture that I loved. We bought more marzipan pastries from Olsen's, which displayed a ginormous gingerbread house:

From there, we drove up the road to a lavender farm that Liz recommended. It was heavenly, which of course means that we departed the sublime and descended into the grotesque. We made a pit stop at the world famous Madonna Inn (featuring a waterfall in the men's restroom as well as loads of pink decorations and ornate insanity around the hotel) on the way to San Luis Obispo, where we had to check out Bubble Gum Alley:


Then it was on to Hearst Castle, which was probably the most obscene place I ever visited. It is very nice that the man was generous to his guests, but damn. It is hard to say an ill word about the gorgeous indoor swimming pool, which had thousands of pieces of Venetian glass tile glowing under the water.

After a long day, what better way to relax than to spend the night in a spacious, heated yurt? (Maybe something with a bathro


Once we unpacked, we sat on the porch and gazed at the gajillions of stars in the sky. It was incredible! In the morning, I took this photo of our lodgings:


If it had a bathroom, it would have been perfect... Oh well. It was still a worthwhile experience. Husband and I hiked two short trails in two different state parks for breathtaking views of nature:



Winding up our sightseeing journey at Winchester Mystery House, designed by Mrs. Winchester (inheritor of the Winchester Rifle Co. fortune) to confuse the spirits of the people killed by Winchester rifles. Featuring doors that open into walls (or sheer drops, as seen below ), stairs that end at ceilings, and mysterious nooks and crannies, it was quite a contrast to Hearst Castle.


Last, but not least, Husband and I landed in Count Mockula's delightful home, where her sweetie cooked us a yummy meal, her adorable baby entertained us, and we savored after dinner hot chocolate before heading off to our (free) hotel, from which I am blogging right now while attempting to keep my eyes open. We'll see Kara and her family again tomorrow (and Suebob, too!), then head to San Francisco for a few days.

Good times!!! (Pictures can be made bigger by clicking on them. And thanks for bearing with this loooooong post.)

Yesterday

My last day as a 32 year old began with a three mile run at the hotel gym. From there, Husband and I headed over to Culver City to meet Liz and tour the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I read about the museum several years ago on Roadside America, and I though that there would be no better way to spend a few hours before turning 33 than finally visiting it.

Oh.Dear.God. The museum was probably the nuttiest, creepiest, and weirdest place I have ever been. I almost felt guilty for asking Liz to join us. I'll sum it up by saying that at one point I was certain that the exhibits were actually created by people who sat around thinking up fake exhibits they could develop from scratch, but I subsequently realized that it was all real. The exhibits ranged from deranged letters sent to scientists at Mt. Wilson Observatory to oil portraits of the dogs who went into space with Russian cosmonauts. There was also a display of disintegrating die, an exhibit on superstitions in a pitch black room, holographic images of various things, a section on items from trailer parks, ethnographic studies of cat's cradles, and a room dedicated to the singer M. Delani. The museum was approximately 2 degrees. This made the free tea and cookies served in a cute Russian-esque room (the tea was even made in a samovar!) extra enticing, which made me worry a little bit about cyanide poisining. Perhaps our stuffed bodies would be part of a future exhibit?

After the museum, we stopped into the Center for Interpretative Land Use, which was totally awesome. All of my urban planning nerd friends would love it. There was a wonderful slide show on the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The Center was also very well heated, which was critical to thawing out our feet.

Husband and I parted ways with Liz, and headed into Hollywood to meet my friend Norma, a former co-worker, and her husband for dinner and a night of comedy. On the way, we made a quick stop at La Brea Tar Pits. I was most impressessed with the vending machines. Not only did they take credit cards, but a 20 ounce bottle of pop was only a dollar. One dollar!!! That's the best deal I've gotten in ages. A 12 ounce can of Diet Coke runs me a buck in NYC, and here I got a 20 oz. bottle! I'm certain that this was the best tasting Coke Zero that ever graced my lips. Bargains are so refreshing.

Anyway, we wandered around Hollywood a bit before dinner at Loteria. Norma had described the restaurant to me as the "newest, freshest, and bestest" Mexican cuisine in the city, and it lived up to its promise. The meal was delicious, the company was fantastic, and the comedy at the Improv was side splitting. It was great seeing Norma and meeting her hubby. They put together an excellent evening.

Today, after breakfast at IHOP (just as exciting to me as Loteria), we are meeting up with the always wonderful Red Stapler for continued good times. I can't wait.

Happy birthday to me!

Nosiness

My nose is frequently cold.* Usually to warm it up, I press my face into Husband's neck. This tends to amuse him, but he worries about me when he's not around, so for Hanukkah he gave me a custom knit nose warmer in Mets team colors:

Very awesome! He's so clever, that Husband of mine.

Hope everyone's holidays were full of warmth!

*As are my fingers and toes. The extremities could use a little more blood circulation, I think.

Merry Xmas

Husband and I are departing today for our fabulous road trip up the coast of California. As I finalized our itinerary on Sunday night, I realized the difference between arrangements Husband made and those that I took care of.

He booked lodging in Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, Sacramento, and San Francisco. Three of the four hotels he reserved rooms in are free, thanks to his extensive travels for work and the points that he racks up while traveling and charging everything on his Starwood awards credit card. The hotel in San Francisco is particularly over the top - the St. Regis! When Steph, who is meeting us in San Francisco and staying with us, heard what hotel we'd be at, she wondered if they'd even let us (me and Steph, that is - Husband will be fine) in their luxurious halls. Then we laughed maniacally.

It was not until I checked out the hotel website last night that I realized that this might not be a joke. Damn, that place is swank! It even has an indoor pool. Steph said she was glad that I gave her time to de-fur herself, which is when it occurred to me that if I am to frolic in its waters, I should probably shave off my overcoat as well.

I found us a place to stay in Big Sur. It involves yurts.

Surreal Night

For the first time in about two years, I made it to Rev. Jen's Anti-Slam.* (Last time I attended an anti-slam, it was the second show hosted at Cake Shop.) It was the special XXX-mas Show, and boy was it ever special! Many of my favorite contestants from the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant were skulking around, and in the audience was the Mangina!

The show started out strong. Victor Varnado, the self-described foremost black albino comedian in the world, told a joke about a crack whore offering to suck his dick for money. "No, thank you," he told her. "No, I will SUCK YOUR DICK OFF!" she bellowed in reply. He said he was unsure if this was a good thing or not. Then he generously ceded the stage to some guy with a guitar who sang funny songs about how fun it is to put things in other things, like his dick in your butt. The guitar guy was OK, but Husband and I wanted more Varnado. We haven't seen him in years and years.

Soon after, Liam McEneany took the stage and made us laugh our asses off with stories about growing up as the fat kid. He claims that he has trouble getting laid, but he is totally adorable and hilarious, so I think this is a lie. (I'd do him if I wasn't happily married and wanted to stay that way, so I assume other unattached ladies would also be interested.)

From there, there was a lot of interpretive song and dance, ranting into the microphone and rambling around the stage, poetry (some of which was good), Christmas song sing-alongs, and general mayhem. As the evening wore on, a group of men at the men at the back of the room burst into various Christmas songs (sometimes accompanied by a trumpet) between nearly every performer. Husband, cousin Rebecca, and I took off around 12:40 AM, after a woman demonstrated how to make paper flowers from tissue paper that is used in gift boxes and gift bags. (Don't forget to top the flowers off with fake blood!)

Ah, good times. Tonight: Husband, Rebecca, and I will commence a six hour marathon of The Wire on DVD so that we finish season one. Good times, indeed.

*I know the link to the story of the anti-slam says it began three years ago, but that was written 10 years ago at this point, which sort of blows my mind. It also says that it is hosted every Monday at Mo Pitkins, but it's been the last Wednesday of the month at Bowery Poetry Club for almost a year now.

(Fictional) Police Dramas

During the snow storm that hit NYC this past weekend and prevented me from getting to Massachusetts to see the Alex Elliot family, Husband, cousin Rebecca (who is staying at our place while on winter break, which is very handy as she will take care of Tycho Bunnae while we are away), and I watched six episodes of season one of The Wire. Husband and I received the DVD set from my parents for Hanukkah. We love, love, love it so far. The plan is to watch the last seven episodes on Xmas Eve while eating corned beef, Chinese cuisine, or some other traditional Xmas Jew-y food.

Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!

Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.

'Tis the Season

For Hanukkah last night, Husband gave me this cute sweater dress:


I am surprised and delighted that it fits, and I plan to bring it with me on my trip to California.

More exciting, however, is the mop that I purchased for myself:


It would be even better if my apartment looked as sparkling clean as the home pictured on HSN, but whatever. As I put the mop together, my cousin laughed and told me that it looked phallic as I clenched it between my legs while struggled to slide slot A into slot A. We also had a good chuckle over the "instructions" that came with it:

for fun, try attaching the cloths or mop pad using only your mind. It helps if you squint.

I am disturbingly overjoyed at the prospect of using it tomorrow. Finally, the bottle of floor cleaner that Sara gave me a month ago when I did laundry at her apartment will be put to use!

Happy holidays indeed!

Come Light My Menorah

My original intent was to blog about how frustrated I am that Husband and I did not get to go to visit our friends Alex and her family yesterday due to adverse weather conditions. Alex's older son had told me that they were making a cake in honor of my birthday and that he specially picked out green frosting, which Alex apologized for (as green frosting is kind of not delicious) but I found it hilarious. We were all so looking forward to it, but then the snows came and the roads were bad and Husband and I grudgingly decided that we didn't want to risk it. Boo.

Instead, we sat around on Friday night and Saturday watching the first season of The Wire on DVD. Husband and I requested the box set from my parents for Hanukkah, and holy fuck, this show is just as brilliant as all the critics said it was. One episode had a five minute scene where two cops looking into an old murder re-create the scene and just say, "Fuck," or "Motherfucker," but with different tones that express exactly what they are thinking. I felt like I was being handled by geniuses. We are about halfway through the 13 episodes.

Then when I wrote the title for this post, I realized how many aspects of Hanukkah lend themselves to sleazy come-ons and double entendres. Like, "Hey, is that a dreidel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Or, "Wow, that shamus* could light my wick any time!" Or "Why don't you smear some apple sauce on my latke,** big boy." OK, that last one is stupid, but it makes me laugh.

Happy Hanukkah!

*The middle candle in the menorah, which sits higher than the other candles and is lit first and then used to light the other ones.
**Potato pancake

Corrupt Corruption

In the last few years, every time Husband went to an investor meeting for some company in which his firm invested, he came home with generous goodie bags with things like gift certificates to move theaters and restaurants, North Face jackets, fancy chaise chairs for picnics, and large canvas bags perfect as beach totes. Back when the iPod Shuffle was a shiny new invention, Husband received one as a hand out, which he gave to me. I've used it at the gym ever since.

Not long after I loaded my little music machine up with quality hits from Madonna, the Beatles, Bon Jovi, Dido, and Christina Aguillera, I found that I could not sync it again. A little message flashed on screen saying that my Shuffle was "corrupt." I don't care enough that I'll buy a new one until the whole unit dies, but today as I charged it, I thought about how appropriate the corruption charge is.

The pursuit of personal wealth accumulation is out of control. The Madoff ponzi scheme debacle has bankrupted several foundations which supported organizations that assist low income communities. The executives of investment banks and hedge funds are for the most part still paying themselves fat bonuses for their failures, the bills for which the taxpayers are footing. Perhaps some of this rubbed off on my iPod Shuffle, huh?

Bring on the Holiday Travel!

Oh, I am sure that I will regret the title of this blog post, just as George W. Bush will regret encouraging foes of America to bring it on if ever accidentally develops any level of consciousness about the outside world. Still, it is time for Holiday Travel. I got off easy last weekend when I went to Chicago to visit my family, with no delays on my flight out and only a 20 minute delay on the return.

Tomorrow, my sister and brother-in-law are flying from Chicago to Miami for a last hurrah vacation before the baby is due. They are staying with Dr. P, which makes me very jealous. (However, Dr. P is coming up here in January for an interview, and I am so excited about the visit and potential return to New York that I am only a little jealous that Dana gets to hang out with one of my bestest friends and I don't.) My fingers are crossed that they weather allows them a timely departure.

Also tomorrow, my parents and bubbe are leaving Chicago to visit my great uncle and great aunt in Las Vegas. My dad loves Vegas, and I am sure that they will have a great time. I hope that they get out there with no issues as well.

Then on Christmas, Husband and I take off for LA, from which we will drive up Highway 1 and on to Sacramento, with stops to see (in geographic order) Liz Rizzo, Suebob, Santa Barbara, Solvang, San Luis Obispo, Hearst Castle, Big Sur (we stay in a yurt!), Winchester Mystery House, Warrior II, and Kara. Also, we will spend New Year's Eve with friends in San Francisco, where Steph will also join us. So excited. Hopefully, there will be no injuries this year involving sea urchins and/or medical helicopters or slipping on tile and fracturing my elbow thus requiring an immediate return to NYC for surgery, as unfortunately happened to my sister-in-law this week while she vacationed with my brother-in-law in Mexico. (Feel better, SIL!!!)

What are your holiday plans?

Squeeze This, Asshat

As it is winter here in New York, I have been making good use of my cozy bear hat for the last few weeks. Responses to the hat range from frowns that someone "my age" would wear such an item to a preschool age girl saying, "Look Daddy! That girl's a teddy bear!" Generally, people restrain themselves.

However, two nights ago as I entered a little magazine/cigarette shop near school, a man was leaving the store. As he held the door open for me, he said, "Can I squeeze..." I froze. What the fuck was this guy going to try and squeeze? "... your ears?" Before I could respond (I was sort of in shock from the weird request), he grabbed a little ear stub in his greedy hand and manhandled it. Then he walked away.

At least he didn't ask to squeeze my tits. Shudder.

I'll Drink to That!

A mojito in a diner cost me $8 last night. Eight dollars!!! And, of course, I could only manage to drink half of it, even though it was fairly tasty. With the first sip, my gut started to feel funny, as my liver yelled, "What are you putting in me? Get that gunk away from my pure lifestyle! Harridan!"

My liver will once again be forced to cope with one little drink, as I intend to imbibe tonight as well. Last night was the final workshop of the semester, something to celebrate. (Not that the class was completely awful, and I did learn many things, but it presented me with intellectual and emotional challenges that I am glad I don't have to face until at least Jan. 26, when school starts again. Hopefully, I'll be better equipped to cope with nasty comments, pretentious fools, and implications that I am a talentless hack now that I know how it goes. Even better, perhaps no one will be an asshole! And damn, that is one long winter break. But I digress...) I am sad that my lit class is over tonight, as I also learned a lot (and at various times, also felt like Trig Palin at the RNC convention, but overall this was not the case) and immensely enjoyed the reading we did and how the professor parsed the material to show us the craft in each piece. She's an interesting person, as were all the people in the class.

Blah blah blah. At any rate, I survived my first semester as an MFA student, and I think my liver needs to deal with my one toast. I'm hoping for a grasshopper (some green alcohol and milk)or toasted almond (amaretto and milk), but I'll settle for a amaretto sour if I must. Or cheap sangria. Whatever.

Evil Bastards at Ann Taylor

Dear Bastards at Ann Taylor:

First, Husband told me that you are systemically screwing your best salespeople (i.e. - highest commission earners) by refusing to give them hours. When I heard that, I swore I would not shop at your store, even if your petites tend to fit me better than any other brand. In solidarity with the women working at the store, I pledged to look like a slob in ill-fitting clothes.

I forgot about my pledge when I went to your website today. My eyes lit up like eight candles on a menorah at the words "take an additional 30% off." I saw a very cute dress on sale that I thought I might look nice in. Then I discovered that not only are you fucking your salepeople, but you are cheating short people. Because the dress is inexplicably not on sale in petite. If I could reach up to your face, Ann Taylor, I would spit in it.

In conclusion, thank you for ripping off those of us who are torso-challenged. It stopped me from shopping at your store and supporting your evil labor practices. Please bend down extra low and kiss my ass.

Sincerely,
Suzanne

Eruption

There's a mountainous red zit on my forehead, approximately half an inch above my left eyebrow. Since I am in the chin hair plucking phase of my life, I haven't had to deal with real pimples in a few years. (Although there was the unfortunate transition period in which I had both acne and chin hairs. That was evil.) I realized that I forgot how to deal with volcanic zits.

When I first noticed Mt. Krakatoa bursting through the surface of my skin yesterday, I left it alone. I know that is technically what one is supposed to do, but in my zit-covered prime, picking at them seemed far more productive than sitting there, waiting for it to disappear on its own. This morning I remembered that I should poke at it. I grabbed my trusty tweezers and squeezed.

A small glob of pus oozed out. "Oh, yeah. That's how it works," I thought, as memories of zits past haunted me like ghosts visiting Scrooge on Christmas eve. I squeezed harder, not remembering what happens when the molten center of a zit bursts forth. Pus exploded out and hit the mirrored medicine cabinet. Ooops.

For the Lexicon

In class this summer, I learned that Shakespeare invented 3,000 words in English and used them in his plays and poems. How awesome is that? I hope that I can introduce some new vocabulary into the American vernacular through blogging. My first suggestions are:

Pootbood: (noun) This was appeared as the word verification for a comment I wanted to leave on Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting. I think it works very nicely as a new curse word, especially when someone is lying to your face. "You pootbood!" has a nice ring to it, and says to me, "You fucking liar! How dare you!"

Rantom: (noun) My brother-in-law invented this word at breakfast yesterday morning. It is for a rambling rant on that ranges across several random topics. I really love it. I frequently have rantoms.

Along with douche nozzle, I am working to incorporate rantom and pootbood into my vocabulary, so I shall be ready with a smart word for every possible situation. New words take time, though.

Slipper When Wet

"Watch out when you go in the shower," my mom said to my sister on Saturday morning. "The tub is slippery."

"Duh! That's how tubs are!"

"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."

That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.

For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.

Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.

Worst.Headshot.Ever!

Seriously, this is the worst photo I've ever taken:

I look like Adrien Brody's long lost twin:

Oof.

But, for anyone who wondered what I look like with lipstick and terrible, terrible lighting, there's the answer.

What's Fucking Cookin' in the Windy City

Despite foreboding reports from CNN that due to weather conditions, yesterday was one of the worst days to travel, my flight not only took off on time, but also landed early. The flight was smooth. I was even upgraded to a nice comfy seat!

Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.

In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.

"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.

"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.

Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.

The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.

One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:

Patti Blagojevich -- who publicly used her first lady platform to promote food allergy awareness, treatment of lazy eye and a children's book club -- secretly was recorded directing a deputy governor speaking with her husband "to hold up that f- - - - - - Cubs s- - - . . . . f- - - them," according to the complaint.

Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!

The Hubris! The Hubris!

Assuming that I do not get messed up by a blizzard (an actual one, not the political one), I will be in the Chicago area this afternoon for a weekend visit with my family. Initially, Husband was to join me on Friday afternoon, and my sister and her hubby were to arrive on Friday night. However, Husband canceled due to a potential storm at work, and Dana and Ryan nixed their plans out of fear of potential weather conditions. So that leaves little old me.

Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**

Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.

*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.

I Forgot to Step Away from the Hyperbole

Last night in workshop, I made the following statement:

"Many times this semester, I've felt a lot like Trig Palin at the Republican National Convention. Everyone surrounding me is totally with the program and knows what's going on, and I'm sitting here, blinking, wondering where I am and how I got here."

No one laughed. This is not the first time I made an exaggerated statement that produced no reaction. I forgot that people in my workshop are not so into hyperbole. Or my random political jokes. Oh well.

I found it hilarious, though. I love me some extravagant exaggeration.

Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings: A Review

In a previous post, I discussed the difference between earned and entitled. (Quick recap: to earn something means that one worked for it and deserves to be compensated for the effort and results; to be entitled means that one did nothing productive or positive but for some reason believes that they should be compensated anyway.) It seems that the same people who caused the global financial collapse still do not understand this important distinctions between the two words.

A headline in yesterday's New York Times Business Section read, "Bonus Season Afoot, Wall Street Tries for a Little Restraint. Tries? Well, par-done-ay moi, aren't you the same assholes who paid yourselves billions of dollars in bonuses over the last few years? You shitheads are lucky there aren't mobs with pitchforks outside your mansions, calling for your heads. You are going to have to "try" a little harder.

The article does note that the top echelons of executives are foregoing bonuses this year, even though they worked very hard all year. Now, here is a prime example of the difference between "earned" and "entitled." At least, in theory, the honchos who destroyed the nation and assisted in rendering people homeless through the sale of shitty mortgages earned their salaries through hard work. To insist that one also gets a bonus for such poor performance is a demonstration that one feels entitled to wealth that one did not earn. In fact, all these fucks should be fired. Their assets should be seized to repay as much of the taxpayers' cost of bailing out their banks as possible.

One line in the article cracked me up:

“Clearly they’re trying to spread the pain out a little bit,” said John Pierson, president of 10X Partners, a finance recruiting firm in New York. “But if I worked at Morgan Stanley and was looking at this, I would not be happy.”

Oh, poor executives who earned billions of dollars over the last few years! It brings a fucking tear to my eye to think about how you'll just have to live on your six or seven figure salaries alone this year, and even in future years, now that bonuses will be stingily parceled out over a longer term to match it to performance, forcing you to demonstrate that you earned your compensation! Such sacrifice!

In the "Holy Shit!" Department

Illinois government has always been corrupt, as my dad pointed out when I called him this morning, but this really (literally) takes the cake:

Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich taken into federal custody for attempting to sell Obama's Senate seat, among other disgusting abuses of power and appalling and vile corrupt acts.

I'm traveling to Chicago to visit my family this weekend. It should be an interesting time.

Lipstick Jungle

Last week, I entered enemy territory. I traversed the block between Amsterdam and Broadway, then I turned right on the corner of 76th Street, walking less than half a block. I took a deep breath. Then, trying to be brave, I pushed open the glass door. Before I knew it, I was in Sephora.

Some friends at school convinced me to wear lipstick. As I crept down the florescent aisles of Sephora, squinting at the prices in the blinding light, I doubted myself. This shit was expensive. I approached a salesperson with a headset.

"Hi, do you have any lipstick under $15?"

"Sure," she said and smiled. She was probably thinking, cheap bitch. She pointed me to a display case full of Sephora-brand cosmetics, then started to walk away.

"Uh, can someone help me pick out a color? I haven't bought lipstick since 2000." (Which, incidentally, was when I bought two Clinique Chubby Sticks for my wedding. I have plenty left of both and still wear them once in a while.)

She gave me a funny look, and called for reinforcements on the headset. Another black-clad headset wearer approached. She squinted at my face the way I did earlier at their prices, then handed me a brown lipstick on a cotton swab. I wish I could say that I applied this sample with grace, but somehow it wound up all over my teeth. I'm still not sure how that happened. Then I tried two lighter colors.

I walked out $14.01 lighter in the wallet and heavier in the sparkly pinkish lipstick that smells like grape Bubblicious department. I'm surprised at how different I look wearing just a little lipstick. It makes me nervous. If I cave on lipstick, will I suddenly find myself spread on the waxer's table? It's a slippery slope, I tell you. Slippery.

Politically Incorrect, But It's How I Feel

Since I'm exhausted (no reason why - I slept plenty, didn't run around needlessly, nor did I overwork myself), I probably should not blog about this topic, as the very fine filter that stops me from saying things that I will really regret is not functioning right now. But for the last few weeks, I've been stewing over this, and I read yet another item fawning over the rabbi and rebbetzin (i.e. - rabbi's wife), and it just bothers me.

First, the disproportionate attention heaped on this couple makes me squirm. Every fucking picture of men with beards and peyot crying as if this were their unique tragedy makes me want to puke. Of the hundreds of people killed, the missionary Jews were a tiny percentage. Lots of people lost family members that day; the Lubavitcher community is not special in their grief. The very idea that Jews somehow merit more attention and sympathy because they were killed is partially why people fucking hate us in the first place. This close attention makes me cringe.

Plus, these people were missionaries. They were not angels sacrificing their lives to do good for others just for the sake of humanity. They were there to convert secular Jews into Hasidic ones; to save our souls. Just like any missionary, they did some good works along the way. I'm sure that it can be hard to find kosher food in a vegetarian city. Sigh.

I might add that the very tiny indigenous Jewish-Indian community had nearly no ties to the Chabad house. There are many reasons for this, and they all reflect poorly on Chabad House.

In order to become missionaries, the rabbi and rebbetzin left another child behind in Israel. Dying in a hospital. Dying from a rare genetic disorder that they already had a kid die from. And that makes me the angriest of all. I'm not saying that they deserved for anything bad to happen to them; they absolutely did not. But they sure as fuck don't deserve the accolades I've read about brave people out to do good in the world and help other people. They abandoned their own dying kid to convert others. Enough said.

Warm Fuzzies

It's a bit chilly here in New York City, so I've been wearing my hat with bear ears every day. As I walked down to the subway platform yesterday morning, I noticed a man carrying his preschool age daughter behind me. The girl pointed at me and said, "Daddy, that girl is a teddy bear!" I could not help smiling the rest of the day.

Barbie Sex

It's interesting, although not surprising, that all the comments I received thus far in response to my confession about Barbie confirmed that a lot of girls had their Barbies and Kens engage in sexual activities. We live in a culture saturated by images of sex and sexuality. If Barbie wasn't supposed to be knocking boots, then why would she have fuck-me heels, mini skirts, and giant boobs? (Of course, it's more complicated than that, but that's the message we get.) I'm particularly impressed by Bryna's Barbie house uses - pancake house by day, whore house at night. Hilarious.

All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.

I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:

Barbie Memories

Instead of going to bed when I got home from post-class hanging out (which I would do if I had better judgment), I farted around online for a while. "Why not check out the status of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on amazon.com?" I thought to myself. "Sleep is overrated, anyway."

I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:

What's Your Favorite Barbie Memory?
Over the past 50 years, Barbie has filled homes with memories and inspired millions of children to dream--to see themselves as astronauts, rock stars, doctors, fashion designers, professional athletes, and even female Presidents. Shop the Barbie Store for great deals just in time for the holidays.

Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.

That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.

Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.

Wounds that Lead to More Wounds

After I gouged my knee on the bookcase next to my computer desk on Thanksgiving as I types my sappy holiday thoughts, I covered it with a bandage. When I later changed the dressing, the bandage tore of several little chunks of skin, so that I now had four wounds instead of one. I used a larger bandage to cover those wounds, particularly because everything on my knee hurt when it rubbed against my jeans. I think you know what happened next. I'm not using paper medical tape to cover the entire area with a gauze pad. Hopefully, the tape will not rip off more skin when I eventually remove it.

This could be a great metaphor for life or some shit like that.

Flashback: January 30, 2007

From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.

Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings

earn*
1a: to receive as return for effort and especially for work done or services rendered 1b: to bring in by way of return (bonds earning 10 percent interest)
2a: to come to be duly worthy of or entitled or suited to (she earned a promotion)
2b: to make worthy of or obtain for (the suggestion earned him a promotion)

entitlement*
1a: the state or condition of being entitled : right
2b: a right to benefits specified especially by law or contract
3: belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges

In the sad state that is America today, many people seem to have mixed up the definitions of earn and entitlement. For example, lately I have heard a number of people who have never worked a day in their lives (because they inherited money or mooched off a trust fund or married into money or married someone who makes a lot of money) complain that Obama's proposed tax plan was stealing from them. "Why should I fork over my hard-earned money to the government to spend it on lazy people?" one woman, who has not worked in decades because her spouse supports her,** whined to a friend.

See, you didn't earn that money, lady. Your spouse did. Or your mom or dad or grandpa did. To earn something, you have to actually do something. Being born or marrying to the "right" people does not count. People who work multiple jobs and still can't pay for housing, health care, and education earned their money. And they are entitled to live decent lives.

Really, you are angry that someone is chipping away at your entitlement, saying that you did not earn your privileges. You are furious that other people are somehow as deserving as you are (if not more so) to live above the poverty line. Believe me, even when you pay your fair share of taxes, you will still live a far better life than the vast majority of Americans, who struggle to make ends meet.

Let's stop confusing earning with entitlement, shall we?

*Thanks to my friends at Merriam-Webster Online for the definitions.
**And I am not lumping stay-at-home moms into this category, as those women work hard, even if they are not paid for their labor.

Offensive Things to Say in Yiddish

Several years ago, my parents gave me a book called Drek!: The REAL Yiddish Your Bubbe Never Taught You by Yetta Emmes. (Of course, my bubbe did teach me some of what was in the book, like kurvah, which means "whore." She pretty much bitterly refers to any woman who is not yet widowed as a kurvah, but I digress.) With apologies to the adorable Millie, whose online Yiddish lessons I so enjoyed yesterday, here are some choice phrases in the book that I enjoyed learning this afternoon include:

• Gey tren zich - go fuck yourself


• Ich cock ahf im - I shit on him!


• kish mich in tukhes - kiss my ass


• Bareh nit - don't fuck with me


• Drek oif a shpendel - shit on a stick


• Groisser potz - big prick

I wonder how to say these things in Ladino, which is a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, the way Yiddish is a mix of German and Hebrew...

For a Good Laugh, Watch Millie

I'm working on a story about growing up as the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, and as part of the work, I want to include a lot of Yiddish to convey what my grandfather was like. He loved telling jokes in Yiddish, so I looked around online to see what I could find (and falsely attribute to him, but whatever - that's why it's a memoir and not a biography; lower standards of accuracy).

My good search yielded this hilarious woman, Millie, who has an blog in which she dispenses little Yiddish lessons. She is completely adorable and her joke (which I sadly am not able to embed - never mind; I found it on YouTube, so see below) is good for quite a laugh. Definitely check it out.

It's more how she tells the joke than the joke itself, but the joke strikes me as a very good example of one of the cleaner ones my grandpa used to tell. Millie reminds me of some strange cross between my mom's mom (Granny) and my dad's mom (Bubbe). I just want to hug her!

New Title

Starting sometime in June, I will officially be known as Aunt Suzanne to my sister's baby! I am so, so, so, so excited. I am also really sad that my sister lives so far away.

My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.

"What's this?"

"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.

"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"

Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.

Thanksgiving

With all that is going on in the world lately (and always, I suppose), it seems harder than ever to focus on the positive things in life at Thanksgiving. But maybe that's the point: it's a time to think about what is good and to ponder what one can do to make those good things go further.

Of course, as I typed this, I managed to gouge a large chunk of skin out of my kneecap. (Perhaps a reminder that I am better at cynical sarcasm and righteous indignity rather than sincerity?) So, I'm cutting my Thanksgiving post short to mop up the blood oozing out of my knee.

Hope you have a great day!

Furry Beaver

I went to the gym yesterday morning. One of the TVs in the room had the Today show on. It was right in my line of vision. The teletype was on and I half-watched without sound while running on a treadmill. A woman brought some animals onto the stage, and Kathie Lee and some giantess reacted to each one as if I were a serial killer on the loose. I rolled my eyes.

Then, it happened. The animal lady's assistant carried an enormous brown beaver out. It was adorable, although understandably terrified of the women poking at it with a stick of celery and kept trying to escape. "Damn, that beaver is large and furry!" I said to myself and cracked up. "I want to touch that soft beaver!"

Unfortunately, I almost fell off the machine at that point, so I missed one of the women's comments, looking up just in time to see Kathie Lee wrinkling her little button nose and the teletype reading, "No, this is just the way beavers smell."

Trust me, my furry beaver was no better after a six mile run. Heh heh.

Resisting Urges

I discovered an individually wrapped string cheese in my backpack. It's been in there for about a week, I think. I seriously considered eating it for a second or two, as cheese is really damn expensive these days and I hate waste, but then I noticed that the hermetically sealed package reads, "KEEP REFRIGERATED." Better judgment prevailed.

Jane & I

Whenever I get my hair cut, I initially hate it. Then, I wait seven to ten days to see how it turns out. This is my haircut from Nov. 6 (and lipstick!):


I asked a stylish British woman in my literature class where she got her very short hair cut, and then I made an appointment there. When I sat down in Nelson's chair, he said, "Don't worry! I'll give you a very feminine hair cut, not butch at all." Of course, that made me worry. Was he implying that my current (overgrown) cut made me look butch? And why make assurances like that in the first place? I assumed that he didn't plan to make me look butch.

Anyway, when he was done, I thought it was way too short and that I looked dykier than ever. However, my friends from school thought it was very chic. (Although when I saw Steph on Sunday, the first thing she said to me was, "Holy Christ, is your hair short!") I'm still undecided about it. Sometimes it looks great and other times like I am a pointy headed weirdo. It can't be that bad, or a random guy would not have compared me to Jane Weidland Wiedlin last week (updated with picture below).

Whatever the case, I won't need it cut again for a while, and saving money is always a good thing.

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

Circulation

It's 24 degrees outside, and an ominous sign that my hands are freezing although I have yet to leave my apartment. I'm heading down to Philly today to see my beloved Steph. We are taking in a Maurice Sendak exhibit, which sounds really cool. (A few weeks ago, Husband, my cousin, and I saw a Babar exhibit in NYC, so this children's book writer-illustrator exhibits are in vogue right now.) Husband was supposed to join me (and drive), but he hurt his back. Thus I am taking the bus.

Bolt Bus is only $10 to get there, and it has wifi, a feature that I will sadly not take advantage of since I don't want to lug my laptop around the museum, and it is way too cold to leave it in Steph's car. The downside to the $10 bus is that I have to wait for it outside. Did I mention that it is 24 degrees and my hands are already freezing although I have yet to leave my apartment?

As Seen on TV

The phone rang at ten to midnight. When the answering machine picked up before I did, my mom's voice filled the living room.

"Nothing to worry about. But I was excited and wanted to tell you..."

I picked up the phone and cut her off. "Hi. What's up?"

"Oh, your dad and I were watching some weird channel on cable that plays home videos. The one on TV was of the hot dog eating contest, and we saw Scott [brother-in-law] and then we saw you!"

"That must be the South Street Seaport qualifying round in 2005," I laughed. I'm sure this was extra exciting to watch on their new-ish flat panel TV. I ate 6.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, earning me the unofficial title of Best Female Eater in the South Street Seaport Qualifying Round. (The only other woman, a bailiff, could only choke down five hot dogs.) More impressive, I stood next to Eric "Badlands" Booker, a champion eater who sprayed me with bits of wet bun as he consumed his winning quantity of food. If it played in HD, I bet they would have seen that.

My mom told me that the voice over gave all of the non-famous eaters fake names. I was named as June, but I forgot the fake last name. I also forgot the name given to Scott, but he was described as "Blah Blah, a future shingles sufferer," which I found odd and creepy.

The funny thing is that this is not the first time I have been randomly spotted on TV eating hot dogs. The same summer I entered the South Street Seaport contest, I also ate at the West (East?) Hartford, CT qualifier. MTV used that event as part of their documentary, "Real Life: I'm a Competitive Eater." Since I stood near celebrity eater Tim "Eater X" Janus, I made it into the show.

I "retired" from competitive eating attempts that same summer. It seems that my method of eating, which I called the rabbit method because it involved constant nibbling down of food, was not only ineffective, but that the absolute elastic capacity of my stomach is 6.5 hot dogs. While I managed to consume Sno Caps after the Connecticut attempt, I did not do so well after the Seaport, and decided that it was not worth branching out into other foods. Since the party's over for me, it's nice to know that both of my attempts to break into competitive eating are well documented, even if not in my own name.

Flattery Makes Me Giggle and Blush

As usual, I've been obsessing about my hair for the last few weeks. Since I went super short in March 2006, I've been mistaken for a dyke many times. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course, except that I'm not a dyke. After my last hair cut two weeks ago, I decided that enough was enough, and I should grow my hair back.

Then after class on Wednesday night, I went out with a group of people. My friend Vicky's friend's friend met up with us.

"I hope I won't offend you," he said to me, "and I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you look exactly like Jane Wiedlin."

"Huh?" I said, clueless as usual. The name rang a very faint bell, but part of the problem was that I could not hear what he said over the background noise.

"You know, the guitarist from the Go-Gos."

I sort of did know. I certainly knew enough to know that it was a major compliment. Vicky's friend's friend used his Blackberry machine thing to search the internet for a picture of Ms. Wiedlin. When he showed it to me, I nearly fell over:



Fuck yeah, that is a big compliment. I puffed my chest out and everything. Usually, if I'm compared to any famous person, it is Anne Frank. And while I think Anne Frank was an amazing person, it is just a wee bit depressing to be compared to her. But Jane Wiedlin! Shit! I'll keep the hair cut, and this is almost enough to make me start wearing make-up.

The Heat is On

In New York City, landlords either blast the heat so that the old people in the building don't complain and the other tenants sweat their balls off, or they are slumlords who provide no heat at all and tenants are forced to use ovens and space heaters to keep warm. I am fortunate enough to live in a building that provides heat, albeit way too much heat. Generally, I keep the radiators turned off and even an icicle like me is toasty.

This morning I had to open the valve on the radiators. Even Tycho seems to be cold. (Serves him right for shedding like a maniac in November, although I can't entirely blame him for not knowing it is the cold season since the apartment is usually hot.) As I write this, it's four degrees warmer in the Chicago area than in New York (34 degrees - above freezing! - versus 30.) Freezing temperatures were also reported in Georgia. (Stay warm, Eddie! And by the way, your son's Beetle is my dream car.)

Speaking of heat, it seems that the stupid Democrats in Congress are re-warming up to that assfuck Lieberman. They should be freezing that douche nozzle back to Connecticut. I guess they think they need him because in Minnesota, usually one of the coldest places in the nation, a hand recount of the 2.9 million ballots cast is underway. Convicted criminal Ted Stevens lost his bid for re-election in Alaska (as I said to a friend yesterday, I love when Americans do the right thing by small margins), so that's a plus even though I'm not sure I want the Dems to have a super majority.

Also in hot news, the winner of the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant was (drum roll, please) Tokyo Circus! Not who I wanted, but he's certainly deserving of the title. The man did splits on a stage covered with beer and who know what other fluids wearing only a g-string pouch-y thing. Major kudos. I am glad that the audience has higher standards than I do, as I tend to vote for the cutest guy who is willing to show his balls. I'm a sucker for attractive male nudity. (Yes, I'm talking about the tour guide guy again, lecherous hag that I am.)

And that's my report on the temperature.

Let Me Love You Down

While I used the bathroom at Whole Foods this afternoon, a love ballad played over the PA system. I think the last time I payed attention to a hip hop ballad was when Boys II Men were not Jewish (or at least not publicly) and singing "End of the Road." Yeah, those were the days.

Anyway, while peeing at Whole Foods, I swear that the chorus of the song piped into the bathroom was, "Let me love you down," although I may have misunderstood the words. (I'm really bad with lyrics, although maybe not as bad as my friend Sara, who thought the song "Ohio" by Neil Young was a love song. Not that I should talk, as I didn't know what the song was called, who sang it, or what it was about, either. I didn't think it was a love song, though. But I digress...) In one verse of what I know refer to as My Whole Foods Bathroom Song, the singer crooned something about not being too young for the lady in question, so I'm guessing that "let me love you down" means that by taking on a younger male lover, the woman in question will be loved down, if that makes sense. If anyone knows this song, I'm curious to know what it is about.

What struck me as funniest about the whole thing was that the song seemed very out of place at Whole Foods. And that it played in the bathroom only, as the rest of the store didn't have music.

Accent on Accents

Since I am a sucker for well told Holocaust stories and Daniel Craig (really, the two should not be put together, as it is wrong to get all teary eyed and drool at the same time), I am looking forward to its late December release date. I watched the trailer for Defiance, a movie based on a true story about three Jewish brothers who relocated a Jewish community to the forests of Belarus to escape (and fight) the Nazis. The trailer reminded me of something that I've been wondering about for years.

Why, in movies like this, do characters speak English with Eastern European accents? I understand that this is a device of sorts to remind the viewer where the story is set, but we know that we are watching a movie set in Eastern Europe, and that the people there didn't speak English in the first place. It doesn't make it more historically accurate to have non-English speaking characters use heavy accents, nor does it help place the audience. I always feel weirdly manipulated by this technique because it is so distracting. If it were set in post-War America or some other English speaking place, then it makes sense to use the English with Eastern European accents. Otherwise, just speak English or use whatever the native language is and subtitle the film.

Am I being too harsh? Also, is it uncharitable to add that the real life Tuvia Bielski looked nothing like Daniel Craig? (Not that Mr. Bielski was unattractive, but he was not a blond haired, blue eyed god. I guess they do this when casting women in films all the time, so I'm not exactly complaining, but I think it is a little odd.) Perhaps I am more curmudgeonly than usual because I am sad that Mara left this afternoon and Husband is out of town until Thursday...

The Yuppies are Here!

OK, so the Yuppies invaded my neighborhood about ten years ago, but the recent boom in luxury condo construction caused the luxurification of a gentrified community. The latest project, which began over a year ago when developers tore down my gym, a pool hall, a chicken joint, and a parking garage, then dug a pit several stories deep, then threw up a structure over the last few months, is coming to a close. To remove the special large construction crane from the site, an extra large crane was trucked in on Friday night. Two lanes of traffic were closed on Amsterdam Avenue to accommodate the crane and its grounding and a small section of W. 76th Street was also closed to traffic.

This is what it looked like as the special extra large crane was taken apart tonight:



I think the whole contraption is about one block long.

All of this reminded me of the drinking song of the Lower East Side artist/performance artist community, which was sung with gusto on Thursday night at the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. I'm not sure who wrote it or what the title is, but it is hilarious.The chorus is:

So lift up your kilts and show 'em your balls,
Drink all their liquor and piss on their walls,
Make love to their women and shit on their beds,
The Yuppies are here, and we're better off dead!

Ah, good times. I'd say that I'll be glad when the construction is over, but then I'll have to deal with all the rich asshole idiots who move in. Bah.

Good Old Fashioned Fun

Tavern Night at the Queens County Farm Museum was fantastic! Husband and I were seated in the part of the farmhouse built in the 1770s. We shared a table with three other people. Two of them have attended the event for the past 14 years. The other woman was also a tyro. We talked about international affairs, travel, things to do in New York (I think they should have written Off the Beaten (Subway) Track instead of me!), and the newbie's family.

More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.

At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.

As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)

Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.

From Mr. Lower East Side to the Queens County Farm

For the first time since my inaugural experience in 2005, I made it to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. My experience at the Mr. Lower Side Pageant was one of my first blog posts in October 2005. I had the greatest time then, and the greatest time in 2008.

This is a pageant hosted by the Lower East Side's most infamous performance artist, Rev. Jen.. (She's the proprietress of the Troll Museum - it's in her apartment - which is probably the highlight of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track.) I confessed to my friend Sara that I am a little bit of jealous of Rev. Jen because she leads this interesting life, not that it is one that is right for boring me, but still something that I am envious of. (Sara said she thought the same thing.) Anyway, the pageant features talent, swimsuit, and evening wear/interview components, usually of which are conducted over the audiences shouting, "Show us your balls! Balls! Balls!" On a semi-frequent basis, the contestant complies, and raucousness ensues. Usually the and cock flasher is not someone's whose cock and/or balls I really want to see (like the furry guy in his mid-60s, whose talent is standing on stage completely naked and staring at the audience*), but I was pleased that a cutie with pierced nipples eagerly pulled himself out at the first request.

OK, now not only am I digressing, but I sound like an old pervert. (Yeah, I am a pervert, but whatever.) I was forced to leave the pageant a bit early to be sure that I was home when my friend Mara and her two year old daughter arrived at my apartment, so I'm not sure who won. My friend Vicky stayed behind to represent, and I can't wait to hear about what I missed. Another friend took video, incidentally, so I will try to get some footage from him and post it. (I swear I only drooled a little when I wrote that.) I so cannot wait for next year.

In stark contrast to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant, Husband and I are attending a colonial dinner at the Queens County Farm Museum tonight. Dinner is served in a farmhouse from the late 1600s, on dinnerware from the 1700s. The food is cooked on an open hearth using recipes from the 1700s. When I made the reservation in May, I snagged the last two spots. I'm pretty psyched for it.

And that is not only what I like about living in New York, but what I like about my life: I can do all these different activities that satisfy my varied interests with a range of friends. That's about all anyone can ask for, isn't it?

Then

A friend posted this picture on Facebook. I think it is from the spring of 1994, but it could be fall (or even the early summer) of '93 . The two guys with me are John (red hair) and Jim (dark hair). We went to a photo booth. If the picture is from Spring 1994, I had a crush on Jim at the time. As usual, it was unrequited.

I have my hard copy of this picture in one of my photo albums. It's always been one of my favorites. I just love how it conveys the fun I had sometimes, back in the day. Plus, I look adorable (I usually hate how I photograph), and I can't get over how much damn hair I had.

Looking at this picture reminds me that while it was a pain in the ass to deal with all that hair, it was kind of fun to have, too. I'm seriously considering growing my hair out again. I just got another cut, and it is way too short. It's easy to care for, but honestly, I'm sick of falsely projecting that I am a dyke, and I never had that problem before I cut all my hair off.

Anyway, I just love this picture.

Run, Suzanne, Run!

Somehow, my brother-in-law convinced Husband and me to sign up to run a 15K race with him in December. I'm not quite as concerned about my ability to run over 9 miles (not that I have done so before) as I am about running 9 miles in freezing December. As Husband pointed out, though, if it's cold we don't have to go.

Prior to this past Saturday, the last time I ran over a mile was when I went to visit Dr. P in Florida in early October. It was hot and humid and we walked a few times, so I was a bit concerned about my diminishing capacity for running. On Saturday, I hit Central Park and ran the outer loop. Husband told me that the distance of that run is 10K (6.4 miles), so I was pleased (and rather surprised) when I clocked in at 66 minutes. I walked up one giant hill, and stopped a for a minute to fill my water bottle at a drinking fountain. A few days later, Husband realized that the track is actually only a tad bit over 6 miles. Ooops. Still, I remain pleased with myself, given the crappy shape I let myself fall into.

Saturday's run also reminded me how much I enjoyed running off my tension and anger. A few years ago, I regularly ran and always felt much better after doing so. Since I was crabby about last night's class, I figured that a long run at the gym would be good. And, assuming that I can move my legs later tonight and/or tomorrow, it was! Even when that twat Sarah Palin showed up on TV and said that she has faith in Obama as commander in chief as long as he understand that terrorists are out there to get us, I remained cheerful as my short legs pumped up and down on the treadmill.

Running. If it doesn't give you shin splints, screw up your knees, or otherwise cause your body to fall apart, it's great! Better than data analysis!

Backfire

I hate my workshop. Two weeks ago, our writing workshop professor asked us to hand in a copy of the comments we left on other students' papers so she could have a sense of what we were thinking about feedback and criticism. I suspect that my complaint about Cunty McCunterson's rude comments and illustrations in my paper played some role in this exercise. While I am not obnoxious, I also do not think I leave the most useful feedback in the world. I try my best, but sometimes I just don't know what to say. I hoped that the professor might have some useful tips for me.

Instead, she photocopied Cunty McCunterson's comments and handed them out to the class as an example of how we should all provide feedback. Of course, Cunty's comments were far more constructive when she knew that the professor would be reading them. Only an idiot would turn in something rude and insulting when she knew the prof would see it. Sigh. I knew this would backfire on me.

There's another woman in the class who didn't read anyone's work for two weeks, and yet we all workshopped her story last week. She also yelled at someone last night for using the word "analysis" to describe the analysis of film that another student wrote, insisting that "analysis" was too Freudian. (I wonder how upset she would be if she knew that I applied for a part-time data analysis job yesterday.) I watched the person whose piece we were discussing doodle in his notebook the whole time. I'm not sure he cared what anyone in the class thought.

That I am counting down until this class is over (only four to go...) is upsetting. It didn't have to be this way. I like the professor a lot on a personal level and tremendously value what her insight. But that two or three people have managed to make class so dysfunctional and unpleasant for six of us (I think one person is unperturbed because she is low key like that), infuriates me. I can't believe how much money I paid for this. I am getting things out of it, so it's not a total loss, but it's enough to make me apply for a part-time data analysis job. Ba dum dum cha.

A Letter to the American Catholic Church

Dear Powers that Be in the American Catholic Church:

I read today in the New York Times that you are urging your bishops to challenge Obama regarding legal abortion. While obviously you have the right to free speech and to advocate for your religious interests, please remember that this is not the Vatican City nor Europe. In fact, the same amendment that permits you to urge your bishops to challenge Obama also says that you don't have the right to force your religious beliefs and practices on the population through the government.

I find your constant bitching about legal abortion to be hypocritical. I understand that you feel that a fertilized egg is equivalent to a life. However, I cannot understand why a woman who would otherwise die if she were not given an abortion is not considered a life worth saving. When you advocate to ban abortion, you don't make exceptions for women who would die without one. This infuriates me because it shows me that you could not care less about the lives of actual people who happen to be female. Once a female fetus is born, you write off her right to life.

Also, when you threaten to excommunicate or withhold communion for politicians who represent their constituents who believe that abortion is a personal decision based on a woman's religious beliefs and moral values, and not from politicians who support the death penalty based on their constituents' belief that it is OK for the state to kill people that we are pretty sure committed murder, I don't believe that you value all life equally. If it is wrong to take a life, why aren't you pulling the same punches with death penalty supporters? Or, for that matter, politicians who deny health insurance to children, which certainly leads to at least some deaths per year?

Quite frankly, all your double standards, combined with your parent church's 2,000 year history of enthusiastically killing Jewish people (or at least keeping quiet when other people do), provides you with no moral authority to lecture Obama, me, or anyone about the value of life. Please stop interfering in my democratically elected government.

Sincerely,
Suzanne Reisman

My Super Sweet Socialist Revolution

I battled the laundry room today. It was me, three maids, and eight driers that refused to dry anything. We took turns. We shared tips on getting the driers to work. We commiserated. I dreamed of a washer dryer in my own apartment.

Hours later I was folding laundry in my bedroom, watching a My Super Sweet 16 marathon called the Blingiest Bling. Going back a step, throughout the election, I kept reading op-ed pieces about how rich people shouldn't have to pay high taxes because they earn their money through hard work, and asking them to pay their proportional share of the benefits they reap from society is an outrage. So as I watched 15 year old girls whining about how they "earned" a $350,000 party and a car. Then their parents reinforce their misguided beliefs by saying that their daughters "deserved" such riches.

As my anger mounted, I realized that anyone who watched this show and wasn't enraged by the ridiculous inequities in society must be brain dead. Then it hit me: MTV must be crafting the boilerplate for a socialist revolution. How awesome is that?

A Blue State

In my 32.75 years of existence, I've only lived in two states: Illinois and New York. Appropriately, these are both states that are "blue" - i.e. have gone Democratic in presidential elections. New York as a state is turning even bluer, as out of 29 House seats, we are down to sending only 3 Republicans to Washington.

My mood for the last few days has matched the color of New York. Sure, I'm ecstatic that Obama won the election, and every morning I'm devouring the news as to who he's appointing to his administration (Rahm Emanuel is a fellow liberal Jewish New Trier graduate, which is a rarity) and what his next moves are. Still, it's been raining and gray and I've been sitting around with not enough work to do, which is upsetting. In this exciting time, I want to be doing public service work again. My consulting job owes me money and more work.

I'm hoping that I am offered the position that I interviewed for two weeks ago. But that's stressing me out because I know that I can't really handle a full-time job, school, and my other commitments. I could do it, but I'd never see Husband, socialize or go to the gym. That's not good. The problem is that there are no part-time jobs that are in my field at my skill level. Frustrating.

Plus, I know that Steph moved away five years ago and Dr. P has been gone for 18 months, but I still miss them like hell. My other friends are great, and I appreciate them immensely, but last night we had a post-election celebration party, and I felt their absence acutely. As Husband put it, there was not enough cackling without them in attendance.

Hence, I spent the day stuffing my face with chazerai: jelly beans, chocolate, cookies, and other goodies left over from last night. All that junk food is both comforting and also makes me feel worse. It certainly is negating the 6 mile run I did in Central Park yesterday. Bah. I hate being old, unemployed, and lonely.

Too Real

In my dream, I accepted a job at the place I interviewed at a few weeks ago. While in real life, the organization is in a small office and employs fewer than 10 people, in my dream it was a large government agency that my friend J. worked in. I ran over to tell her I was now her work colleague, and as she introduced me around, a large albino spider got on my hand, crawled up my arm, and ran on my head. It was so realistic that I woke up itching, and semi panicked that a spider or other bug really was on me. (You know how dreams work - if I have to pee in real life, it works its way into my dream, in which I constantly run to a bathroom until I wake up and run to the bathroom.)

I'm still itchy as I write this.

Wow, 2 Years Later, I Am Still Grossed Out

From November 7, 2006, although I can't believe that I didn't comment on how prepubescent the model looks, not only lacking pubic hair, but also hips:

From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.

Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.

Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.

There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?

Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.

(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)

Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Election Time Dilemma

(Sorry about the sideways picture, but its a long story of technology snafus and swearing.)

As an election activity at the elementary school at which my sister works, a "Wishes for Our Country" tree was set up in the lobby. The idea idea is that kids would decorate a paper star on some side and write a message of hope for the nation on the other. It would then be put on the tree. Sounds good so far, right?

The day before the election, Dana was surprised to notice a Cristmas tree in the lobby with two boxes of lights.

"Why is there a Christmas tree?" her co-worker, who attended Catholic school as a child, asked Dana.

Dana wondered the same thing. It turns out that the Christmas tree was the voting tree. She felt very uncomfortable with it, as it obviously represents a Christian holiday, especially with all stars hanging from it and a pseudo angel topper. The school is not supposed to have religious displays. However, since she is neurotic like I am, she is worried that she is overreacting although obviously she is insanely pissed about it since she's obsessed over it for days now and asked me to post it on my blog.

What do you think? Should she say something to the principal, who she has a good relationship with?

Digging Deep

"What does this mean to you? Dig deeper!

Numerous people in my workshop wrote this comment on my story about developing breasts and being tormented by their ginormous size and then undergoing breast reduction surgery (if they bothered to give me back my paper at all, which one person did not, but that is another story). It vexes me because in many cases I don't say what the situation means because it means (or meant) nothing.

For example, I talk about how breasts have not worked out so well for the women on my maternal side. My granny is a short women who walks around stooped over, maybe partially from the two watermelons stuck to her chest. On the other hand, my mom is a woman of average height with a very small frame who had two small boobs until she lost one to cancer when I was 4 years old. The people in my class wanted to know what I thought about her scarred chest when I was growing up, and the honest answer is that I didn't. It was just a fact of life that I accepted. My mom had cancer. They had to cut off one of her boobs. The end.*

The point is that this made me realize two things. First, I am not a deep person. I really do often accept things for their surface explanation. This is not entirely true, as I also analyze certain things that happen until I've beaten the dead horse to a bloody mixed metaphor, but still - I'm shallow. The second thing is that I am lazy. I'm probably not as shallow as I claim (see dead horse metaphor), but digging deep means extra work and maybe even painful revelations, and I'm not going there. Sometimes I just want to tell a funny story. Why look for the underlying pathos just to make the story more literary? It's all very distressing to think about.

*Now you know the truth, so if I ever do write a best-selling book about puberty and there are paragraphs describing how I didn't want to get boobs because I was scared of cancer and blah blah blah, you can all go to the tabloids and say that I am a liar just like James Frey. And then I will have to lie and say that I had recovered memories in the process of writing the book and blah blah blah and it will all be very scandalous. If you do sell me out, I hope that the tabloids pay you good money. Then you can take me out for afternoon tea and we can laugh about it.