Decisions Made for Me are Sometimes Appreciated

The debate over who I would vote for in the primary raged within me for months. John Edwards represented the liberal policies that I cherish, but Barak Obama seemed like a person who had some good ideas coupled with a lot of inspiration. If Edwards won, I'd have to listen to that drawl all the time. (Sorry, I know that is a horrid thing to feel, but I can't help it.) If Obama won, I feared he would not stand up to the evil partisanship that has been going on for the last few years. (Witness: Democrats in Congress not telling Bush to fuck off on Iraq or the stupid rebates that are not going to help the economy at all, then beaming about achieving things through "bipartisan" action.) What should I do on Tuesday in the voting booth?

When John Edwards dropped out of the race yesterday, it made me sad. I was also relieved that I now have a candidate I can fully support. Go Obama! I'm counting on you to really represent the people, not make ridiculous compromises on policy, and bring respect and hope back to the United States. Don't let me down.

Husband is convinced that Obama will pick a female Democratic governor as his running mate. That would be extremely cool, and I think could galvanize a lot of people. What do you think about the idea?*

*Especially Average Jane, who I think lives in a state with a female Democrat governor, and Des, who just moved to a state with a female Dem gov, SJ, and anyone reading CUSS who lives in Arizona, I'm curious what your experience with these leaders has been.

Working for a Living*

Since I quit my job in October 2006, I've been pretty busy with all the projects that I cobbled together. I consulted for several different agencies, including a big half year project for a city agency; I freelance wrote and my work appeared in several magazines; I sent out proposals for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York; and most importantly, I got a publishing contract for the book and finished writing it. These days, however, the work is drying up. I decided that I needed a consistent part-time job around which to anchor any new projects. (Plus, a part-time job would be good in the event that I am admitted to an MFA writing program in the fall...)

Last week, I had what seemed to be a fantastic interview. The salary sucked, but I liked the program enough to overlook it. I was feeling optimistic until yesterday at 5:00, when I received an abrupt email informing me that they are unable to offer me "a position at this time." As I left the interview, they told me they would call me back for a follow up with the agency poohbah, so I wonder what happened. I'm not gonna lie - I'm disappointed.

However, when one door closes, there's always a window to jump through in the event of a fire. Yesterday morning, I threw caution to the wind and gave in to the daily ad I saw on Craig's List for "PAID EXTRAS, TV & MOVIES, NO FEE, NO EXP, LICENSED AGENCY." I figured it was a crock of shit, but why not go to their open interview for kicks? I even gussied myself up with some make-up for it.

The whole "interview" took 42 seconds. A nice young woman called me into an office, asked me what I did ("I'm a public policy consultant," I told her. "Wow, that must be gratifying!" she replied. "Not really," I said cheerfully. "It's generally horribly frustrating."), then requested that I read a paragraph.

"Do you have acting experience?" she pleasantly asked me when I finished.

"Obviously not," I wanted to reply, but instead said, "Uhhhh... no."

"Well, that was very good," she said, and handed me a card. "Call this guy back tomorrow."

Long story medium, I called back before I began teaching a class on budgeting this morning, and was shocked that they asked me to come back with some headshots. My big hope here is that I can be cast as a dead body on one of the Law & Order series that are always taping around Manhattan. I'm practicing my "dead" look, just in case.

This is totally hilarious. I'm very curious to see what happens next, although I figure once my headshot is done (which I plan to use for my writing "career," too), there will be limited opportunities for a short, average weight, tired-looking Jewish hag. Still, the story I've gotten out of it so far is pretty good, so what's there to lose but my dignity and last remaining shreds of self-esteem?


*Sorry. I hope that you don't have the Huey Lewis and the New song stuck in your head now as I do.

Something's Rotten in the State of the Union of My Refrigerator

Did anyone bother watching Bush's State of the Union address last night? I can barely bring myself to think about it. The rancid stench emanating from anything that fool says just turns my stomach.

Speaking of rot and turning stomachs, there are few things that I hate more than wasting food. The fact that fresh veggies go bad so quickly is one of my primary reasons to avoid buying them, or so I tell myself. On Wednesday I bought some chopped bell peppers and forgot to eat most of them until today. They were slightly slimy, but I couldn't bear the thought of throwing them out and wasting $2.49, so I dipped a few in hummus and nibbled away. Husband hates when I do things like this, noting that we can afford higher quality food, but I'm pretty sure they were just on the verge of going bad, so why not eat?

While I slurped down the peppers, I justified my actions by noting that at least I don't serve bad food to guests. The chance of a run-in with something long beyond its expiration date is a real risk when dining with my aunt. When you ask her for some ice to put over the spot where the mold on your bread just punched you in the face, she becomes indignant. "It's fine!" she'll hiss at you. "See? The swelling is going down already."

Sometimes I wonder if I am really my aunt's kid, and she gave me to my parents to raise. My aunt insists that my 20 year old cousin is just like me. This means that I feel sorta bad for the poor kid, as I am quite a spazz, but she's a good writer and a passionate advocate. I hope that I'm like her (or vice versa).

WWCRD - Health Edition

Welcome to the latest edition of "What Would CUSS Readers Do? (WWCRD)," a periodic direct solicitation of advice for thorny life situations that I am facing. Today I throw out the following:

At the end of last week, I mentioned that I scheduled bilateral breast MRI, but it was canceled because my health insurance denied the request. I called the doctor's office to talk about what to do next, and his receptionist told me that he would not appeal the decision as he did not have time to sit around waiting to talk to someone on the phone. This irritated me greatly, but my annoyance was further inflamed into outrage when he didn't call me back to discuss my other options and then I got a letter saying that my claim was denied because some basic information (my age at first menstrual period, my age at first live birth, number of previous breast biopsies including the pathology, and my ethnicity) was missing. I decided that I needed a new doctor.

Probably everyone can agree that a new doctor is the correct solution thus far. The dilemma is whether I should go back to the first breast specialist I ever saw or start all over again. The first doctor was excellent. She specializes in working with women under 40 who are diagnosed with breast cancer, and was very aggressive in her approach with my situation. I also liked her personally. Why did I switch? Well, she is affiliated with a Catholic hospital. On a basic level, I am very uncomfortable receiving treatment while a figure of Jesus nailed to a cross watches over me. More importantly, I do not agree with the religious values that inform the decisions of these medical institutions when it comes to how my treatment is determined. I don't ever want to be in a situation where my health could be gravely impacted or I could even die because the Pope decided he spoke to God and it was ordered to be that way. Sometimes good doctors are hamstrung by church policy, and I am fearful that if I wind up in some bizarre situation, I would be worse off for going with an excellent doctor because the hospital won't allow her to perform a procedure that benefits me.

The odds of some weird cancer/reproductive situation are slim, though. Am I overreacting? If you were in my shoes, would you go to the doctor at the Catholic hospital, or would you just start over and try and find a completely new doctor?

Lingo

Here at CUSS, we strive to bring you the hard hitting investigative reporting. Whether exploring the dyfunctional relationship American promotes with working women or understanding douche scents, it's all the news that's fit to print, at least by my standards, anyway. Oddly enough, my standards for news items don't seem to interest a very large audience. Of course, this is because most people aren't very smart or interesting, but that is another story that I often explore under the labels "Asshole idiots" and "What is wrong with people?"

Anyway, the point is that I feel lucky to have found a select group of people with whom I can have good discussions. So imagine my surprise when I read Stephen King's column in last week's Entertainment Weekly and he randomly referred to a blogger who called King a "douchenozzle." The use of the word douchenozzle in a popular national magazine excited and inspired me, as back in October, I deemed it my new favorite insult (sort of - I liked douche pipe, but same thing). I promptly then forgot that it was my new favorite insult, but happily the delightful Count Mockula and this mystery blogger are keeping the term alive. I pledge to follow their shining examples and call asshole idiots douchenozzles rather than the routine douche bag.

Now if I can just remember to also say, "beavers suckle beavers" instead of "fucking shit" or "gee whiz," I will be on my way to implementing a new lingo for myself. Take that, William Safire (retired On Language columnist and conservative douchenozzle)!

Sunday Blahs

It's Sunday. That means I am tired for no good reason and under-motivated. However, it is also my assigned day to post at BlogHer, so I wrote up a rambling essay on how child care workers are completely screwed by our dysfunctional American society that needs women to work but insists that they are bad mothers if they work.

On another note of American dysfunction, I received a nice letter yesterday from my unsurance company with a detailed explanation of why they rejected my bilateral breast MRI. It turns out that my doctor is a lazy son of a bitch who neglected to submit very basic information such as: the age of my first menstrual period, my age at first live birth, the number of previous breast biopsies including the pathology and my ethnicity. Perhaps this information would make no difference at all, but it certainly is not hard to submit. There are 45 days in which this information can be submitted for consideration. I shall call the unsurance company myself tomorrow. Then I will search for a new doctor. Bah.

Otherwise, Husband and I had a delightful Saturday. We visited Dianne and her precocious daughter and fun husband for the day. Steph also joined us for good eating at a hibachi grill place and two rounds of bowling. We raced back to the City to join Dr. H for her 30th birthday bash, which was fun. (Dianne's birthday was this past Thursday, so happy belated birthday to her!)

Maybe my lethargy is explained by a Diet Coke, cake, cookie, and Jelly Belly hangover? My hard partying ways are catching up to me...

Not the Job for Me

I saw this on Craig's List buried amongst the sales jobs and requests for "Women who look good in latex:"

Beautiful Manhattan townhouse needs housekeeper to live-in (5 days) from Wednesday to Monday.Must speak fluent English,be very well groomed,have a pleasing personality and charm .Share room with female part-time assistant. We have no children but have guests very often from US and other countries so you must be professional in every way.Your housekeeping skills must be outstanding,including organizing.Your duties will vary so you must be flexible with a gracious attiude.If you have recent,checkable references and you are non-smoker call(from 9AM-4PM only)

I'm not rejecting this opportunity because it is for a housekeeper; there is absolutely nothing wrong with making a living as a housekeeper. Nor is my problem stemming from the fact that the housekeeper is required to live there and share a room with a stranger, although I do find that almost as offensive as insisting that the hired help be "well groomed, have a pleasing personality and charm." That's a lot to ask from someone who you are compensating a measley 500 bucks a week. The big issue is that I highly doubt that I would be able to use my fluent English skills to be civil with the assholes who live in the beautiful townhouse. No, this would never work for me.

Beware the Zombies of Congress

Picture it: Election night, November 2006. A young girl is cautiously optimistic that the Democratic takeover of Congress will return balance to the country. No longer will the evil Bush administration be able to pass their vile policies like tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans without a fight. She knows that it will take a long time to undo the severe damage the last six years had inflicted upon the country, but finally there is a tiny light at the end of the tunnel.

Or not. Yesterday Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi (another one who inspired me) and her cadre of Democratic automatons sold out the vast majority of Americans by agreeing to the White House's useless economic "stimulus" package. Out the window: extending unemployment benefits; food stamps; public works spending; and aid to local governments which are already cutting their budgets (i.e. - sorry schools, there's no money for you). You know - things that would stimulate the economy by putting resources in the hands of those who would spend it immediately on basic needs. In: checks for families who earn up $150,000 and probably won't use the money to buy shit (i.e. - stimulate the economy) and they won't be available for several months so they don't help the current situation at all; and permanent tax breaks for the wealthiest; tax breaks for businesses, but not payroll tax breaks, so these won't encourage businesses to hire people, even at crap minimum wage.

It's hard not to be depressed. Didn't voters send the Democrats into office with a message that we are not happy with how things are going? Sure, people claim to want bipartisanship, but for fuck's sake, do the Democrats ever fucking stand up for anything? What's the point of electing you shitheads if you are going to wander around like dazed zombies, letting the Bush administration push you around and bully you into harmful legislation over and over again? Stop caving, you assholes. Sure, you'll probably wind up being spied on if you don't do what the Bushies want, but so are the rest of us and we still stand up for fairness, equality, and the ideals of justice. Get a goddamn backbone and do your job, which is representing Americans, not special interests.

Health Unsurance

From now on, I will refer to all non-governmental health "insurance" providers as health unsurance. This is because we can never be sure what our premium will be from one year to the next (one of the contributing editors at BlogHer just told me that her "provider" raised her premium by a whopping 82% this year...), and then once we pay into the "system" (aka - the wallets of the CEOs and other executive staff of the unsurance companies), we are not sure if they will actually pay for services that we need.

I'm even pretty lucky that my unsurance generally covers what I need. Husband's employer pays the entire premium, too, which is an amazing benefit.* Still, it is obvious that even under the best of circumstances, our current health system is fucked up. From referrals to outright denials, the corporate fat cats make some serious bucks off of a population held hostage to their whims. I don't know what the answer is, but universal unsurance is certainly a proven failure.

*Although a big problem in the past. Because they are so generous, they will not cover a spouse whose employer also offers unsurance. As a result, a few years ago I had extremely subpar unsurance that forced me to get my first mammogram at a place that had lost its certification for a while. Later, my employer offered a better plan, but my share of the premium was $160 per month. I felt that Husband's employer discriminated against people with working spouses by not even allowing people to opt to pay into the system, which may or may not have saved us money, but it certainly would have been fair. But I digress...

Health Care Denied!

As I've mentioned before, my mom battled and thankfully survived breast cancer approximately 30 years ago. In recent years, she tested negative for the breast cancer gene, but my sister and I are still considered at higher risk to develop breast cancer because my mom had it. Of course, that does not mean we will inevitably get it, but it does mean we need to be more cautious.

Thus I had my first mammogram was performed about seven years ago. I also see a breast surgeon for an exam every six months. The funny thing about mammograms, though, is the more you have over the course of your life, the more exposed to radiation you are in an area that should be protected from radiation. So while mammograms can save lives, they can also increase your risk of your tits being chopped off because you had so many mammograms. Damn, life is complicated.

Anyway, two mammograms ago, the radiologist suggested that I stop doing mammograms and have a breast MRI instead. The breast surgeon thought that wouldn't be helpful yet. My friend Dr. P (who is a colo-rectal surgeon - yeah, she cuts up assholes - ha ha ha) explained that MRIs are so sensitive that everything looks like it could be a lump and so many people wind up with unnecessary biopsies as a result. This year when I visited the breast surgeon, he prescribed an MRI for me.

Long story short, it was supposed to be on Tuesday morning, but the insurance company was "waiting for more information from the doctor," so I rescheduled it for tomorrow. Yesterday the radiology center called to tell me that the insurance company rejected the request. I can appeal the decision, and last night my mom offered to submit her pathology report on my behalf if it will help. Somehow I suspect the insurance company won't find it compelling. I guess I'll see what happens. They may think it is cheaper for me to get later stage cancer (as I may not be their problem at that point) than to pay for the fucking MRI.

And that my friends, is preventative health care in America.

Find the Commonality

What do the following book titles have in common?

Basic Statistical Analysis
Clinical Endocrinology
Lesbos
Technical Woodworking

Well, they all share a shelf in a bookcase in the super's office of my building. Obviously.

I noticed this during a meeting. Fortunately, it was near the end of the meeting, as I could barely stop myself from laughing aloud as I wrote the titles down to share with the blogosphere.

Why I Vote with My Uterus

My uterus, although not functional, is very clever. It understands that any political candidate who does not respect it does not, on a fundamental level, respect me. I do not vote for anyone who thinks that I am not a person capable of making personal decisions based on my values, life situation, goals, and desires.

Over the years, I discovered something very interesting. So-called "pro-life" politicians - who love telling me that their religious morals are superior to mine - don't actually have much understanding or respect for life. First, they seem to believe that pregnancy is something that a woman just does for a little while with absolutely no consequences. They don't seem to understand that pregnancy is devastating to a woman's body. At the very least, the changes in hormone levels affect everything from how a woman feels to how she thinks. Pregnancy can cause everything from nausea to swollen ankles to diabetes. It can force a woman who needs to work to not be able to perform her job, putting her (and her family) at economic risk. And while less common today than in the past, pregnancy can kill a woman. For someone who wants to have a child, these risks are willingly accepted. But to force a woman to endanger her health and possibly life is unreasonable and shows that a politician could care less about the lives of actual women.

On a second level, "pro-life" politicians have suspicious disregard for what it takes to keep a person alive after they are born. Life is not being born and then you are done. Life is sustained at the most basic level through food, shelter, and clothing. Yet "pro-life" politicians are the ones leading the charge to cut support for affordable housing, for heating assistance, and for food stamps. Forget health insurance. It seems that kids with health issues like asthma don't actually need inhalers to help them breathe. It's ironic that someone who claims to care so much for life couldn't care less if a baby starved to death, had chronic untreated health issues, or had no where safe to live.

Beyond the basics to support life, there are the elements of life that give it true meaning beyond mere survival. Oddly enough, "pro-life" politicians don't seem to support aspects of life that make us human. Where's the support for early childhood education? The money to equalize the playing field in elementary and high school education? For financial aid to help low-income kids go to college? Hmmm....

"Pro-life" politicians are not pro-life at all, but merely anti-self-determination. The fact is that politicians who understand the need to legal and accessible abortion are also the same ones who support programs that truly are pro-life. They respect individual decision-making, sex ed programs that help people make informed decisions that prevent unintended pregnancies, and go an extra mile to provide life-saving public programs that in the long run, might actually discourage abortion by providing a safety net for families and children. Pro-choice politicians also recognize that as a woman, I have a right to life, too.

(Go one step beyond voting for pro-choice candidates and tell them to repeal the Hyde Amendment, which prevents federal Medicaid funds from paying for abortion services. Today, on the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, show your support for accessible abortion by signing the "Hyde-30 Years is Enough! petition. Legal abortion is critical for all women, but useless to those who can't afford the procedure. My uterus thanks your support.)

So Much for a Day Off...

OK, I admit that I spent a good portion of the morning/early afternoon fucking around and hanging out with Steph, who stayed with me this weekend. Seeing Steph always makes me happy. Here's hoping that she moves back to the City so I can see her more often, although I am not going to be greedy - as long as she doesn't go back to North Carolina, I'm pleased as punch because I get to see her at least once a month instead of once every six months.

However, once Steph jumped onto her bus back to the boonies, I settled down to finish some handouts for a workshop that I am conducting on Wednesday. My initial plan was to complete them last week, but I 86'd that when I got another gig. Of course, it was more complicated than I thought it would be and I was still sweating out how to make the numbers work (that's the beauty of budgeting - since it is as much an art as a science, you can play with shit a little bit and still not be cheating) when 7 pm rolled and Husband returned from work.

Yeah, Husband had to be at work all day. When his boss started up their firm last year, he decided that they should be open on all bank holidays. Husband almost convinced him to close on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day since, "after all, Reagan is the president who signed the holiday into federal law," but it wasn't good enough. I admired Husband's attempt, though.

File It Under: Overthinking

Many moons ago, I noticed that CUSS got many hits from people searching the internet for jewish pussy. Ever the curious little monkey, I posted a request for information asking those individuals who came upon CUSS as part of their quest to explain what exactly they believed they would find in their search. I expected no answers, but horny anonymous folks continue to take the time to leave responses to my question. Here's the latest comment:

I can't say why a bunch of folks were directed to this site before you put up this entry, but anywho... For me, it's just something about the look of a Jewish woman. It's not that they all look the same, since they don't... hmm... maybe it attitude?

Also, where Jewish brunettes are concerned, the ones that I know in real life have had hair that's really dark, almost bordering on black, which I find really attractive.

"jewish porn" didn't bring up any good search results, so I figured I'd try "jewish pussy". "brunette pussy" is just too wide an array, "black pussy" doesn't work for obvious reasons, and "black haired pussy" only works moderately well, so I figured "What the hell? It's worth a shot."

It's fascinating how the mind works, isn't it?

Failure to Communicate (Without Swearing)

The work week almost passed without me cursing at work. Sadly, I blew it. After my colleague and I were treated rudely during a conference call in which we requested some basic information, I accidentally said something bad.

"I don't know why she had to be so nasty," Colleague sighed as he hung up the phone.

"It's because everyone who works there is a fucking asshole," I replied without thinking. It just came out. I cringed. "Oh, sorry about that. I probably should watch what I say."

"Well, it's true," he nodded. (And he's right - this particular organization has a reputation for being conceited and obnoxious.)

"Damn, I almost made it through the whole week without cursing at work," I laughed.

"I'm probably just rubbing off on you," Colleague apologized, which was pretty much the funniest thing anyone has said to me this week.

Later, I called someone a shithead. It felt good to be myself.

Sigh of Relief from the Irritated Vagina

OK, this really has nothing to do with an irritated vagina, but I loved Working Girl's use of that phrase in her comment on my previous post and want to use it as often as I use the expression "beavers suckle beavers." Or more often, actually, as I never remember to throw my beaver suckling line out when it matters.

Anyway, this post is neither about irritated vaginas or suckling beavers or the cause and effect one might have on the other. It's about the relief I feel now that my MFA application is officially complete and ready for review. Am I mad that it took them weeks to inform me that my transcript was missing, leaving me to scramble at the last second? Fuck yeah! Does it infuriate me that it took an additional 72 hours for the admissions office to process the transcripts that I hand delivered as a result? You better fucking believe it! However, it is complete, and now I can relax and wait and see what happens. If I don't get in, that will suck, but at least I can take comfort in being considered in the first place. Not getting in because the admissions office never processed my transcript and thus my application was never reviewed would be frustrating beyond belief.

Plus, it is Friday. While I enjoyed my work project this week, I am really ready for it to end. Every day I stare for hours at financial statements and loan reports, crunching and recrunching the numbers. I can barely see straight at the end of the day. Even harder? Stopping myself from swearing out loud, which requires constant vigilance on my behalf. (I suspect that is why I am exhausted by mid-afternoon. Swearing is rejuvenating and entertaining as an effective stress-relief mechanism, so holding it in when I want to tell someone that the motherfuckers are driving me crazy with their constantly changing accounting methods is doubly harmful.) Pocketing that paycheck is going to feel mighty fine. It would be awesome to use some of he proceeds to hire someone to clean my bathtub for me so I can take a nice, hot non-vagina-drying bubble bath. I can dream, can't I?

Calgon, Take Me Away!

Man, those ads used to be fun to mock, but I'm becoming that distressed woman in the commercial begging her bubble bath to magically transport her to a more relaxing plateau of existence. Except that I don't like bubble baths because, as my mom told me when I was a kid, they can "dry out your vagina,*" and I have enough problems already without a crusty, cracked cooter. Plus, my bathtub is pretty dirty and the amount of time I'd need to invest in giving it a full scrub down so I can sit in it and dry out my snatch is not worth it. Just thinking about cleaning the bathtub sort of stresses me out.

This week's been sort of full, what with the last minute temp job, the "phone screening" for another job (which went well; my interview with the hiring committee is on Tuesday), the running around trying to get my transcript in before the deadline** at an MFA program to which I applied, and general spazzing out about why the admissions office refused to process the transcript. This morning, I agreed to scope out an apartment that Brother-in-Law and his wife are thinking about buying before I go to work. Next week, I'm teaching a class and still need to finish the materials, have a breast MRI, and have two job interviews. It's funny, but the interviews are the least of my concerns. I guess normal people deal with this kind of activity all the time.

On another topic, I have a nice post over at BlogHer ranting about Caitlin Flanagan's latest crazy, hypocritical, and attention seeking solution to a modern issue. (To prevent girls from ruining their lives by becoming pregnant as teens, we should revert to Victorian era "protections." Right. Can someone protect me from Flanagan?)

*I believe she read this somewhere.
**Although I had transcripts sent back in October.

Suzanne on the Verge

When it comes to applying to school, I am very organized and I start early. Thus way back in October, I requested transcripts from my undergraduate school and my graduate school be sent to the MFA programs I decided to apply to. Much to my surprise, my undergraduate school - which was/is notorious for not giving a shit about students - had a very convenient online form to fill out to request a transcript. I then printed a copy and faxed in my signature. At every step along the way, I received an email confirming they received my request. Very nice!

My snooty Ivy League grad school, however, will only allow alumni to mail transcript requests or ask for them in person. I trekked up to their office, and while not exactly convenient, they seemed to take care of it immediately. Still, I was a little nervous because the chick processed my form without a date on it, so I called back a few weeks later. The guy on the phone confirmed that the transcripts were sent. Excellent.

It took me a few weeks longer to finish the rest of the applications, as I had to submit a writing sample and personal statement, and I wanted to send in the best work I could. By mid-December, I had a portfolio that I felt proud of, and I sent the rest of the application in. Then I heard nothing from wither school. You see where this is going...

Yesterday was the deadline for one of the programs. I called the admissions office in early January upon my return from Hawaii to verify that the application was complete. The woman told me that she could not check, but that I would get something in the mail indicating if anything was missing. Days went by and I heard nothing. Then on Sat., Jan 12 - a whopping three days before the fucking deadline - I get a letter in the mail. The letter is dated Jan. 7 and the envelop postmarked Jan. 11. Said letter tells me to look up my application online, so I do. And guess what is missing? That's right - my motherfucking grad school transcript.

Now I am an anxious basket case. Monday morning rolls and I call the admissions office, offering to personally bring in the transcripts in an envelop that afternoon. She says that's fine and that I have until the end of the week, but the director of the program emphasized that they cannot look at your application until the admissions office deems it complete, so I want it complete. In fact, I wanted it complete three fucking weeks ago, which is why I finished it and submitted it a month early.

Anyway, then I get a call for a good week-long gig, which I have to leave early so I can run around for the fucking transcript. I deliver it to the receptionist at 4:15 pm. She opens the envelop and stamps the materials as received. I hover around, waiting for her to enter the fucking things into the system, but she does not. I stammer things nervously and leave. I toss and turn last night, keeping Husband awake until I evacuate for the couch. I cross my fingers.

Two days later, the information has not been recorded and my application is still incomplete. I decided to email the program director and explain what happened, and hope like hell that they will evaluate my application. If this does not work, you can all visit me in prison because I am going to fucking kill someone in that admissions office.

Like a Booty Call, but More Professionally Satisfying

At 10:30 AM yesterday, I was sitting around in my pajamas applying for part-time jobs of various stripes. My friend Maria hooked me up with a good lead on a potentially interesting position, and amid all the ads for "women who look good in latex," I actually found something of value for grant writing. Expecting a quiet morning at home until I had to run several infuriating errands before attending an orientation for new faculty for my February teaching gig, I jumped when my cell phone rang.

It was someone who I used to work with who left and joined a consulting group. Through another lead from someone with whom I used to work (see the pattern here - it's all about connections), I sent a resume to another partner there last week regarding a part-time job. My former colleague wasn't calling about that, though. (I think they decided I was unqualified for that, which is true, so I'm not too busted up about it.)

"I've got an evaluation project for a new loan fund that needs to be done by this Friday. Are you free this week?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I replied, sort of nervously, as I wasn't sure I was qualified for this either.

"Great!" He breathed a sigh of relief. "Can you be here before 12:30?"

I looked down at my sea green pajama bottoms with a print of little Eskimos and igloos scattered about. "Sure. Give me an hour."

Hustling about, I finished the application I was working on and put on more suitable attire. Within 20 minutes, I was on the subway and I strolled into the office at 11:20. There I found a very cushy project and very attractive hourly wage awaiting me. I familiarized myself with the work, then took off to run uptown, then downtown, then further downtown, then uptown again. So, except for when I do a "phone screening" interview for another job today at 3 pm (yes, also through connections), I am happy to say that I am gainfully employed this week, with potential other project work to come my way in the future. Way better than a booty call!

Grade 8: My Hair Can Conquer the World!

Hurray! After a weekend of sweat, swearing, and the Giants' victory, Husband got the laptop up and running again. Without further ado, I bring you my eighth grade school portraits. {Trumpet call}



I got contacts that year, so sadly, there are no hilariously huge glasses to mock.

From left to right:

The first picture is the regular school day picture that appeared in the yearbook. I think my mom still wears the shirt that I donned that day. It's amazing how much hair I had when I was younger. I don't know what's with my nose in this, but I look like W.C. Fields. Strange.

For graduation, the photographer came back at some point during the year to take "special" pictures. For the life of me, I cannot understand what I was thinking, but at the time, I thought this dark and creepy backdrop rocked. It's oddly pretentious, and also like something out of the murder mystery movie and board game Clue. However, I do understand the sweater I wore. It was my favorite at the time and I sort of miss it to this day, even if I might not wear a collared shirt under it these days. (I'm all about turtlenecks under sweaters now.) The thin bracelet I'm wearing was cool, too. It had a little whistle charm that really worked. I think I got it at The Limited. The awkward look on my face says it all.

The last picture is of me in my graduation robe. Weirdly, we never took official pictures with the cap on. Or maybe I just never did because my hair was so fucking huge the cap couldn't fit on it. Damn, that is just an overwhelming amount of hair. I swear it is all natural. I basically washed it, dried it with the hair blower, and brushed it a bit. FOOF! Out it went. I am almost certain that the necklace I'm wearing is a nameplate. Long before Carrie Bradshaw came around and made nameplates cool, there I was wearing and extremely cheap one that I bought at some five and dime in Golf Mill Mall in Niles, IL. I had a series of them, actually, as they kept snapping in the middle between the "a" and first "n." However, it was pretty rare to find things (barrettes, necklaces, etc.) with my name on it, so I inevitably dropped the six or so bucks for a shiny new replacement. Not that anyone ever saw anything, as my ginormous hair was so distracting.

And there you have my youth to early teen years. (Puberty really screwed me good, I tell you.) Incidentally, except for the five years after my wedding to when I cut all my hair off and went short, I have always worn my bangs parted on the right and leaning left. Bangs are like politics that way.

Because "Nobody Really Likes Hair in their Private Regions.."

I haven't been fired up to write about unshaved snatch for a while, so thanks to Lee at Independent Business Woman for her tip* that led me to this gem at Chaos Theory:

Now an Australian website, girl.com.au has a big feature about Brazilian waxes - and in case you don’t know what that is, it’s when hot wax is used to rip off every inch of hair from a woman’s private region. Every hair. And the site is read by girls in the age nine to 14 range. On top of that, the site promotes the Brazilian with this phrase: “Nobody really likes hair in their private regions and it has a childlike appeal.”

IT HAS A CHILDLIKE APPEAL?

Obviously, I am as disgusted as Sherry is about this fucked up situation. Even putting the disturbing notion that hairless snatch offers "childlike appeal" aside, the idea that "nobody really likes hair in their private regions" is enough to drive me batshit. Why does no one like it? Oh, maybe because we are told that it is smelly, dirty, slovenly, disgusting, unwomanly, revolting, and offensive? And where's the proof that "Nobody" likes it? Oh, I guess I'm "Nobody" since I prefer pubic hair to having hot wax poured into the crevices of my labia and ass so some non-gynecologist can stick scraps of paper down there to yank every hair out by the root so I can have "childlike appeal" or at best, be less "un-feminine" to men raised on photoshopped pictures of hairless adult women.

I'm not buying into your sick lies. Clearly, since I prefer myself in my natural adult state, I must not be a woman. In that case, all the media whore and "beauty experts" and stylist and fashionistas and trend setters can just suck my big fat hairy dick.

*I had also noticed this at BlogHer, but didn't read it, so many thanks to Lee!

A longer, slightly less obscene version (for example, I don't suggest anyone suck my big fat dick, but I do make a joke about dying alone with 27 cats since no man wants my unshaved snatch) of this post appears at BlogHer.

I See Eye Fungus

On Thursday at my new eye doctor's office, I noticed a sign taped onto the paper towel dispenser as I was washing my hands in the bathroom. It said in large bold print to discontinue using Bausch & Lomb ReNu with MoistureLoc contact lens solution immediately as it can cause eye fungus and thus was recalled. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "I wonder what I use." I made a mental note to check when I got home, then promptly forgot about it because that's what happens with 97% of my mental notes.

As I was putting in my lenses yesterday morning, the note resurface on my mind's desk top. I took a gander at the 4 oz. bottle sitting on my nightstand. ReNu with MoistureLoc. Same with an unopened travel-size bottle. Shit. (Incidentally, both also expired in Jan. 2007. Oops.) I rummaged through the other free travel-size bottles of solution provided by my former eye doctor. The remaining four were other brands, although one expired in April 2007.

Two things scare me about this discovery. The first is that the products were apparently recalled in May 2006, and this was the first I heard anything about it. (Thanks, former eye doctor, for looking out for your patients.) The second thing that scares me is that I actually sat there for a few minutes debating whether I should throw the recalled products out. My internal debate:

Me: Damn, these are recalled! I'm lucky that I didn't get an eye fungus! I better throw the two bottles out ASAP.
Cheap Bastard Me: What? One of those bottles is half full and the other one isn't even opened! How can you waste this stuff!?!? Sure, you have another 4.5 more travel-sized bottles of perfectly good other contact lens solution, but you might actually need to go buy more since the new eye doc doesn't give out free bottles!
Me: (Hesitates.) Good point, but these expired last year anyway and I'm not pushing my luck. (Reaches for bad bottles.)
CBM: Nooooooo!

Anyway, I battled CBM and won. The recalled products are in the trash. I am proud to announce that I am now using the bottle of contact lens solution that expired in April 2007.

In with the New

Surprise, surprise! The upgrades on my laptop are still not complete, and poor Husband doesn't understand what went wrong. It seems that the laptop is actually slower as a result of his "fixes." I feel bad for him, though. He tries so hard, and he looked so defeated last night.

Since this means I can't access my 8th grade portraits, I'll put up a picture of my new haircut:

Wait. That's not me. That's Ursa, the villain from Superman II. My bad. Our hair styles are so similar that it's easy to see why I was confused. See for yourself:

I mean, really, had she also posed in front of the shower curtain in my bathroom and I wore freaky shirts with the sleeves slit open and put my little sideburn-thingy flat against my face like the stylist told me too, we'd be practically indistinguishable from one another!

All joking aside, I like this new cut. It's kinda sleek, no?

Happy Birthday, Alex!

Today is my friend Alex Elliot's birthday. She's 32, just like little old me. Go over over to Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting, virtually have a piece of the Little Mermaid birthday cake that her older son picked out for her, and wish her a good one.

On Alex's birthday, I learned the following lesson: Do not go bra shopping after an eye doctor appointment when your eyes are dilated. It's really hard to read the little number on the bra tag to figure out what size you are holding. I was standing around the sales bins at Victoria Secret, holding the damn undergarments in my face and feeling the surface area of the cups of the bras I picked up in an effort to decide whether or not it might fit. Not cool.

Deliciously Stupid

Because I was told at the end of 2006 that I have a slightly elevated insulin level that at some point could lead to diabetes if I am not careful now, I'm again trying to lower my carb intake. (I didn't do a very good job of this most of last year.) This means eating more animal flesh products than I used to. I like animal flesh products for the most part, although my mysterious digestive ailment often does not approve of the higher levels of fat many meats have over, say, cereal, so this is one reason among many that I failed to make drastic changes in my diet last year.

Anyway, I bought some low fat apple chicken breakfast sausage for lunch. As I opened the package and read the preparation instructions, it struck me as odd that one serving is three sausages, but microwave heating directions were provided for two, four, six, or eight sausages. And we wonder why Americans have trouble with portion control? Sigh.

We Apologize for the Delay in Awkward Photos

Here at Case de CUSS, computer issues crop up every once in a while. Sometimes they are not really issues at first, but then they turn out to be issues that leave a computer in several pieces. This usually (only) occurs when Husband decides to "upgrade" something, and while the fix should be simple, it goes slightly awry and takes him 40 times longer to finish than he originally anticipated. The scanned pictures are stored away in the laptop under repair, which Husband advised me not to use unless I really had to.

Hence, eager mockers will need to wait a bit for the pinnacle of my primary school photos, Eighth Grade: Year of the Naturally Enormous Hair. Many of you will be sad to discover that eighth grade ended the Dynasty of Ginormous Glasses because I began wearing contacts. It's unfortunate, too, because not long after my 7th grade photo was snapped, I broke the glasses I wore in that picture. (Long story short: I gave a speech at my friend Rachel's bat mitzvah - although I don't think I wore that sweatshirt/skirt combo, but rather a green dress with black polka dots and a bubble skirt that layered over a straight black skirt which I very badly wish I had a picture of to share, but now I am digressing in my digression - and I took a very deep bow after I was done singing her praises. Unfortunately, during the bow my face smashed into the back of chair and snapped the glasses in half at then nose bridge.) The new glasses I bought were even bigger, but had clear frames. My sister, who is four years younger than me, also wore oversize spectacles in the Sally Jesse Raphael way that was so popular with 3rd graders in those years. (With her permission, I think I need to scan some pictures of Dana in her frames.*)

Anyway, since Husband always eventually successfully finishes the computer projects he begins (once in college he put a new motherboard in his PC, only to discover that the case was too small to contain it and, with his computer geek roommate, devised a solution involving electrical tape and a hammer to get things in), I am sure that my laptop will be running faster than ever by the end of the week. Or 2009. In the meantime, this will give my mom time to catch up and correct my faulty memories.

*Damn, we should start a blog collective to which people can submit photos of themselves in huge glasses. That would be fun. I think I will do so and I'll call it Super '80s Prodigious Eyeglasses X-travaganza (SPEX).

The Junior High Years

I am proud to present grades 5-7. Eighth grade has three separate pictures (what being a graduation year and all), so I'll deal with that separately.



From left to right:

Ah, fourth grade. The year the shit really hit the fan. I started junior high, meaning the day began earlier, there was no playground at "recess," and we didn't get Halloween, winter holiday, or Valentine's Day parties. Puberty sneaked up on me, practically incapacitating me with depression and punishing me with acne. (See: spot on cheek.) I ate a lot to drown my misery and escaped in books. That fugly dress, which for some reason I thought was awesomely puritanical (seriously, I thought Pilgrims might have worn something like it and thus thought it was cool - I went through a weird Puritan obsession at that age, which now strikes me as sort of fitting given what I was going through) didn't fit me much longer after the picture was taken. Fourth grade was also the first year that my chronic absences from school resulted in poor performance. When I earned a 49% on a long division test, it was the first time I flat out failed something. The only good thing about that year is that my friend Julie moved into a house on my block. I met her on April Fool's Day, which if you know her and her family, is very fitting. She's my oldest friend.

The middle picture is from 6th grade. (I couldn't locate a picture from 5th grade, but I'll quickly describe it: fat face, big ugly blue glasses - like in 6th grade and 7th grade- black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt, black stirrup pants. You wouldn't have seen the pants, anyway. Overall, 5th grade was a non-entity year, so you're not missing much.) Other than the weird dorky smile, I think this is cute. I lost a lot of weight the summer before 6th grade by riding my bike everywhere with Julie and restricting myself to a diet of Cocoa Pebbles and carrots. I'm not sure how I came up with that nutrition plan. Thanks to the weight loss, I bought some better clothes (it was the first time I could wear jeans since 3rd grade). I would totally wear that outfit today if I had it. Sixth grade was a pretty good year, although if you take a look at my forehead, you'll see that the zit plague was in full force. I met my friend Rachel at Hebrew school; she's my second oldest friend today. Rachel gave me a measure of self-confidence. That year, I also became interested in The Enemy (aka boys). I had a lot of fun and, as previously noted, some cool clothes that upon which I reflect fondly, like the outfit in the picture.

Finally, here I am in 7th grade. Oy vey. The hair! The zitty forehead! The glasses! The bad make-up application, which is the exact technique I use today! The sweatshirt had a pink skirt to match the collar, and I wore the outfit to a few bar/bat mitzvahs. I loved that fucking sweatshirt. Who knows why? Seventh grade was an adequate year, so there's nothing else to say.

Tomorrow: 8th grade - the year my hair was so big (naturally; I didn't tease it) that it didn't fit in the picture.

I'll Talk Politics Closer to Super Tuesday

Iowa Caucus, New Hampshire primary - I say bah! Nothing against the fine citizens of those states, but since the often don't represent what the rest of this country looks like, I refuse to get my knickers in a bunch over their electoral preferences at this point. This whole way of deciding who runs for the highest office in the land is bunk. Let's chat about it as more people across the nation step up to make their voices heard.*

*As I type this, Husband is on the phone with Alex's husband, insisting, "I told you that Bill Richardson is going to come back. He.Is.On.Fire!" I adore his optimism.

It's On! It's On!

The infamous Plushie/Furrie episode of CSI! I've been talking about this episode ever since I first saw it years ago. I'm so excited! And now I will say something I never thought I'd say: Thanks SpikeTV for giving me what I want!

The Early Years

When I visited my parents in early December, I gathered up photos that best document my primary school years. Partly inspired by Suebob, who has been scanning her childhood and family photos into her Flickr account, I planned to scan them as soon as I returned to New York. Of course, I didn't get around to it before I left for Hawaii, as I was rather busy finishing my MFA applications and watching the first season of Hunter on DVD. Anyway, I decided it was now or never because who knows how busy I'll be once I get more consulting gigs/a part-time job, so between catching up on what is happening in Des's dramatically changing life, planning my February class, and seeking other paying opportunities, I invested some quality time with my $35 Canon scanner from Staples. That's right - it's school picture days here at CUSS!



From left to right:
The first photo is me in kindergarten. Seriously fucking adorable, right?

In the middle, I am in second grade. No, I didn't skip first grade. (In fact, the classist fucks who ran my schools wouldn't even let me be in the highest level reading group, even though I thought I should be. Us Jewish white trash kids clearly don't belong with the really smart kids, but the slightly smart kids, but I digress.) There's no photo of me from first grade because I couldn't find any wallet size pictures from that year. Honestly, it's for the best because I looked like shit. If memory serves me correct (and if it doesn't, my mom will let you know in the comments), I just got out of a multi-day hospital stay from my first asthma attack. It was scary shit. As for second grade, I had a fight with my mom that morning because I really wanted to wear this cute outfit that my great aunt and uncle brought me when they came to visit us from California. It had a red and white striped skirt and a red tank top. It was cold that day, so my mom wouldn't let me go to school in a tank top. I insisted on wearing this yellow Lemon Meringue sweatshirt with the red and white striped skirt. I thought I looked like a cheerleader. Yeah. My mom let me win the battle, perhaps understanding that I was providing fodder for mocking myself some 25 years later. At any rate, I am sad that you can't see the skirt. Let's not comment on the puckery eyes or buck teeth. I was just a kid, damn it, although I sort of see why I later wound up with braces instead of only a retainer to fix my overbite.

The last picture is from third grade. I think I am pretty damn adorable again. For some reason, I remember deciding that morning that I must not show any teeth when I smiled. I don't even think I was conscious of the buck tooth look, but maybe I was. The shirt had a cute matching pink shirt and I wore these sweet maroon Mary Janes. I'd totally wear shoes like that today.

Stay tuned for the upcoming horror show: the junior high years. (No, I didn't skip fourth and fifth grade, either. My school was fucking evil and retarded in more ways than one. To make space for an early childhood center in the elementary school, they moved fourth and fifth grade to the junior school. Trust me, this sucked about as bad as sounds. By the time my sister was in fourth grade four years after me, the school realized that this plan fucked kids up and moved the lower grades back to the elementary school where they belong and remodeled the junior high to house an early childhood wing, which from my current professional view, is far less ideal than keeping the very young children also at the elementary school but still works out OK enough. Blah blah blah.

The Power Suit and Cut

It's been awhile since I wore my black suit. However, since there was an open house tonight for the graduate program that I will teach a course in, I thought I should gussy it up a bit more than usual. Coincidentally, I also had an appointment for a hair cut in the morning. I thought that I'd look extra respectable.

It never works that way, does it? The hairdresser cut my hair too short and put so much goop in it that I could gagged on the fragrant smell of my hair as I walked down the street, even several hours later. No one should be able to smell themselves when they are outside in NYC unless something is very wrong. (I think she gooped it up extra hard because I told her that I never use "product." Maybe she thought she could put a month's worth on all at once and it would last.) Worse, the style started off as a sassy pixie-ish look but by the end of the day was a smelly, hard flat blob. I think you see where this is going.

Anyway, I put on my black suit and decided that Pat Robertson could've used my photo to illustrate his brilliant line that feminism "encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians." I'm sure the people at Jesus is Savior (grammatically incorrect tag line: "Feminism is Evil! Beware of the feminists, many are lesbians!") would agree. I even put on a pink shirt to try and "soften" my look so that men wouldn't protect their crotches on impulse as I walked by. It didn't help.

Unfortunately, my severe new look did not stop people from asking stupid and inane questions during the event. One women wanted to know how the Children's Program Administrative Credential differed from the Child Development Associate (CDA) credential. The program director explained that the CDA is for teachers, but this program is for directors who manage programs.

"Well, how is that different than the CDA?" the audience member asked in a belligerent tone.

"This program is for leaders of organizations or those who will be leaders. The CDA is for teachers in the classroom," the director patiently replied.

"Yeah? And what is the difference?" Audience Bitch sneered, as if the director was an idiot. She then proceeded to talk to the woman sitting behind her for the rest of the presentation. I wanted to go over there and tell her to get the fuck out. You know that this cuntface is going to wind up in my class.

But I digress. Of course, my hair will grow back by the time I assume my Adjunct Lecturer (!) position in a month, so perhaps my students will think I am a twelve year old boy in a power suit instead of a seething, corporate, man-hating killer.

Beware of Invisible Cows

Taking pictures of funny signs seen during travels is a time honored tradition, and I think the "Beware of Invisible Cows" one that we saw in Hawaii at the entry way to Mauna Kea is probably the best I've ever come across. Husband and I marveled at the impossibility of the request. We'd love to beware of the invisible cows, but since we can't see them, it was a slightly difficult request with which to comply. We did our best, and fortunately we had no problems.

As I was falling asleep last night, I decided that the Invisible Cows were the perfect metaphor for the things that vex me. My invisible cows are worrying about my professional life, and they take many forms. While I'm acutely aware of the invisible cows, I'm not actively trying to avoid hitting them. Instead, I wander around in the middle of the foggy cattle grounds and then wonder why the invisible cows are always tripping me up. From now on, my strategy is to let the cows wander aimlessly - after all, they are there and there is nothing I can do about that - but stay out of their pathways. Sometimes we'll run into each other, but hopefully we can more peacefully co-exist. Moo.

Bad Things Happen in Threes

Damn, was I in a bad mood for most of yesterday. It started when I didn't go to sleep at a normal time on Friday night although I was tired, leading to a case of full blown insomnia (bad thing #1). When I finally drifted off into much needed beauty rest, I woke up about an hour later seconds before blood began splurting out of my nose in geyser-like fashion (bad thing #2). I think it was under the impression that it was auditioning for Sweeney Todd. More awakeness and lots of blood pooling in my stomach ensued, and I ate a large amount of chocolate-toffee-powdered sugar covered macadamea nuts (bad thing #3) so that the blood would have some company. Not cool.

Anyway, I got together with Des in the evening and ate yummy seitan, so that was good. I felt more cheerful after that. Still, I'm having a "what am I doing with my life?" hang over. Some times I think I should stop going on awesome vacations because when I get back, I'm exceptionally miserable. Yes, this is ridiculous, but so am I.

The good news is that my nose didn't erupt again today and I had a nice evening of sleep. I'm still freaking out about all the shit that I need to do in the upcoming week and the fact that I also don't really have that much to do.

For a more interesting blog post (i.e. - no whining and hand-wringing about my overall very good life) by me, check out my thoughts on female geekery on BlogHer.

The Apple of My Eye

(Note: Husband's reflection is visible in the mirrored lenses of my fudiculous '80s sunglasses as Kilauea Crater steams behind me.)

Seeing Double

I know that I am tired and should be in bed, not fucking around googling myself and my book Off the Beaten (Subway) Track to see if anything new and exciting is out there, but I am fairly certain that when I found the book on Amazon.com in Germany, Canada, the UK, and France, it credits both sort of me, Susanne Reisman, and me, Suzanne Reisman, as the authors. However, I actually prefer that the book be credited to me and sort of me rather than just sort of me, as Amazon.com in the US and Japan do.

One day, I hope Susanne Reisman will go away. I don't like sharing credit with sort of me for all the hard work I did. (Do you ever feel like you've gone insane but clearly it's not you? This is like that.) In other news, there's actually an editor working on the book now, so perhaps this will be corrected. Plus, now that Husband won his football pool, anyone who comes to the book party (which for now I am planning to host on the first Saturday in August - mark your calendars) will be treated to onion rings!* How awesome is that?

*Assuming that I can book the place that I have in mind, which is a site in the book.

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

While in the cab back to my apartment from the airport, I noticed that I unconsciously began picking my cuticles. It took less than an hour for me to be back to "real" life before my anxiety set in. What kind of new job could I get this year? Will I ever find a job that I will like again? Would I be accepted into an MFA program? When am I going to get cracking on developing a curriculum for two classes on budgeting that I am teaching in January and February and why didn't I start before I left? It didn't help that when I turned my cell phone on after debarking, I found a voicemail from a small local policy magazine waiting for me. What did I think of all the closures of publicly funded child care centers that had been announced recently? This is what I worked on over the summer as a consultant, but the last thing I want to do right now is think about it.

It seems that my "real" life stresses me the fuck out. Contrast this to my last two weeks away. None of my fingers were bloody from my anxious cuticle shredding. I barely thought about whether I would get into an MFA program or not, and while I did fret a little bit about planning a curriculum and getting a job, it wasn't nearly as intense as it is now. It's hard to stress when there are giant sea turtles swimming near me or when I'm concentrating on climbing to the top of Diamond Head Crater and soaking in the majestic views.

Husband and I spent our last day of vacation freedom in Hawaii with a snorkel trip and a visit to the 'Iolani Palace. The snorkel trip was fantastic. We climbed onto a catamaran from a sandy beach (no rocks to slip on or sea urchins to worry about, although we heard some jelly fish washed up onto a different section of the beach), then rode out for ten minutes to a section known as turtle canyon. Armed with floatation devices, we climbed down the boat ladder into warm enough water and had an amazing view of tons of schools of fish as we swam among them. ("Swim" is a very strong word in my case. It was more like dog paddled and splashed around to propel myself in a direction.) For the last 15 minutes of the hour in the water, big and bigger sea turtles swam both below us and on the surface. We emerged exhilarated.

The Palace was fascinating. We learned about the last Hawaiian monarchs work to modernize the country while preserving the unique Hawaiian culture. Unfortunately, an evil cabal of US businessmen overthrew the popularly supported rulers, and from then on, Hawaii lost its independent status. It was incredibly moving to stand in the Palace room used to imprison Queen Lili'uokalani for years. Like at Pearl Harbor, I was reminded of the fallacy of the American myth: justice and fairness only triumph sometimes.

Back at home, Husband and I watched Barak Obama win the Democratic Iowa Caucus. Maybe, like the sea turtles, fairness and justice will persevere in the sea of history. (OK, that was hokey, but I'm trying to find a way to tie everything together and wrap it up.)

Happy Birthday, Mom!

The best thing about looking almost exactly like my mother is that I know that when I am 61 (as she is today), I will look like I am in my early 40s. For this and many other reasons, happy birthday to my mom and I love you, you wacky goon!

The First Day and Last Night

The first day of 2008 is also the first day that it has not rained since Husband and I arrived in O'ahu during a sunshower on Dec. 25. (This is not a complaint, as it was still warmer in Hawaii than in New York.) After we abandoned our second attempt to snorkel on our own on this trip (our new fear of sea urchins is powerful), we waded for a little while and then sat around on a beach away from Waikiki and basked in the warm light. Then we put the top down on our heinously colored rental car (evidence below) and drove through a mountain rain forest.

Last night, we shared a wonderful meal with friends and their delightful family and watched fireworks and a cheesy fun movie (Tremors with Kevin Bacon.) Tonight we'll celebrate our last night in Hawaii (and Husband's football pool victory) with a delicious dinner at Roy's.

While I am sad that the trip is over, I am also looking forward to going home. Given the less than perfect weather (see evidence below), sometimes I wondered if we were in Maine or Hawaii.

Again, not that I am complaining. Despite my sea urchin injury, I enjoyed spending so much time with Husband and exploring a warm and interesting new place. Still, I miss Tycho the Giant White Rabbit, who has happily vacationed at his country estate (i.e. - my in-laws' home in the suburbs of NY) for the past three weeks. I long to sleep in my own bed with Theo, my teddy bear friend since I was 12, who remained at my apartment to guard it and because he didn't fit in my suitcase since I only brought a carry-on bag and backpack. Most important, I feel so out of touch with my friends. I can't wait to see everyone.

Since we now are terrified of sea urchins, Husband and I decided to take a boat ride and snorkel tour on our last day in Hawaii. (Yay, winning the football pool!) Hopefully, we will also be able to visit the Iolani Palace, the only royal home in the US. Then its an overnight flight to LA and an early morning flight back home. Before I go, I thought I'd share some fun pictures:


Me as a ukele-playing pineapple at the Dole Plantation, which was by far the most crowded tourist attraction (i.e. - hellhole) we visited in all 15 days. I did learn, however, that pineapples neither grow on trees (as I believed) or vines (as my mom thought), but rather in bushes.

Pineapple in the bush! Heh heh heh. I'm guessing that each pineapple bush does not have its own pot in the actual fields. This was to impress the tourists.

All in all, the trip was a fun way to end 2007 and begin the adventure of 2008.