It's in the Cards

These days, I find myself in an oddly similar position to what which occurred ten years ago. In the fall of 1997, I applied to two public administration/public policy graduate programs in New York City. I thought I had a really good chance to get into NYU, and I was hopeful that I would be accepted by Columbia as well.

NYU sent their response in February 1998. Not only was I admitted to the program, but they awarded me a 3/4 tuition scholarship! This made me happy, but having recently graduated from NYU's undergraduate liberal arts program also left me with an enormous chip on my shoulder. (Primarily my problem stemmed from a housing issue, but that's a whole separate rant.) Plus, my heart was set on Columbia. I liked how students could register at other schools within the university, and many of the social work courses interested me. Oh, and I really wanted an Ivy League degree to prove that I was just as good as all the rich kids with whom I went to primary and secondary school.*

When I was waitlisted by Columbia in March, I was devastated. Curling up in the fetal position on the cheaply carpeted floor of my 96 square foot kitchen with no stove or oven and crying my eyes out seemed to be a completely rational immediate response. While I eventually got up, I was depressed for days. Would I get in or not?**

Waiting to learn my fate seemed like too much to ask. I decided to visit a Tarot card reader. My former roommate recommended a place in the East Village. I made an appointment, and when the time came, I was led into the adjoining shuttered storefront. I posed my question: would I get into Columbia?, and shuffled the cards. The reader told me my story, the only details of which I remember are that I would get what I wanted, but it would not make me happy.

Not long after the reading, I made an appointment with a dean at Columbia to discuss how I could best position myself on the waitlist in case a spot opened. I presented the dean with three issue briefs I wrote at work, and discussed the policy analysis I performed at my job. She decided to admit me on the spot.

To end this long story, I turned down the huge scholarship at NYU and went to Columbia. I did not find the program as good as I hoped it would be for a variety of reasons, the chief one being that many of my fellow students only went to the program because they were rejected from MBA programs, and they had no interest in public service. The cards were right.

*Yes, I now know that this is the shittiest possible reason to chose a graduate school.
**Really, this means, why wasn't I as good as everyone else? The idiots were right - I was totally second rate. Why it did not occur to me that getting practically a fucking free ride to a fine graduate program was something I should boast about is beyond me. I really was so young and foolish....

Letter to My Body - Sort Of

On Valentine's Day, I kicked off BlogHer's Letter to My Body initiative. The Town Crier kicked off Phase II to the project with a wonderful perspective on infertility. As I've mentioned before, I have polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), which would make it difficult for me to get knocked up if I should ever lose my remaining shreds of sanity and decide that I want to have a baby. Clearly, the infertility problem doesn't keep me up at night. The delightful other symptoms of PCOS are another story.

While reading other women's letters over the past two weeks, I nearly bust a gut laughing when One Fat Momma wrote:

I know I complain about getting zits and blackheads even though you are pushing 30, but secretly? I like picking at them, so it’s not such a hardship. I’m probably jinxing myself by saying this, but sometimes I like to live dangerously.

Because seriously? That's how I feel about my chin hairs. Damn, I hate them, but they sure are fun to pick at. When I have insomnia, de-bearding myself makes for an excellent way to pass time. There's something oddly cathartic about plucking hairs. It's certainly better than my nervous habit of peeling away all the flesh on my cuticles.

Still, when I notice the coarse black hairs on my chinny chin chin, it is upsetting. The extra androgens that cause them - and my slightly-elevated-level of insulin - are not cool. They fuck with my moods pretty badly. I would very much like it if these competing hormones would go away, but I guess this is the one body I got, so I'll deal with it. Plus, there's the added incentive that body snatching aliens probably aren't into bearded chicks, so I got that going for me.

Anyway, 'twas a long day, which explains my late post. I taught my last budgeting class at the local university in the morning, then ran around like an idiot in the afternoon. I also gave in to my curiosity and had my Tarot cards read. It was very interesting, and the cards said lots of nice things. I don't know how much I really believe these things, but it made me feel less anxious. The occult is a fantastic deal for therapy. Long live witches!

Un-Mar-ring a Bad Day

Yesterday? From the moment I woke up at 7:40 am until Alex called to chat at 4 pm, yesterday sucked.* It was a case of too much time on my hands and too much to obsess about.

Mar was supposed to arrive in New York around noon yesterday on her way to London with her mom. Thanks to evil weather in the Midwest (and I'm sure the steady rain here didn't help), her flights were canceled. I had planned an exciting day of Jewish deli food and a tour of the Theodore Roosevelt birthplace, but it was not meant to be.

Happily, Mar's flight did arrive in the evening, and instead of crashing at her hotel after a loooooong day of travel frustrations, Mar and her mom trooped over to my apartment. Further, they good naturedly followed me around in the rain as I showed them the sights of my 'hood: Natural History Museum; New York-Historical Society; and John Lennon memorial in Central Park. Then Mar gently reminded me that she had not eaten in 9 hours, so we headed over to a kosher deli for some grub before the delightful women headed back to their hotel near JFK, which takes about an hour by subway.

While I am disappointed that I didn't get to spend more time with Mar, I am so glad that we finally met! She is as awesome and adorable in person as she is online. Her mom rocked the house, too. I just love meeting my blog friends and their cool moms and/or dads. I hope that the ladies have a fantastic time in London, and I can't wait to see Mar again. She lives in the same town as my sister, so I figure we can meet up in exciting Iowa sometime this year. (My sister is determined to have me come to talk to her class of first graders about being an author, so I figure I'll go out there in the fall when my book is out.)

Anyway, after seeing my visitors off at the subway station, I returned home to find a thoughtful email from Eddie, plus lots of nice comments on my blog, including a tag from Warrior Two. Yay for blog friends!!!!

*Although the two episodes of The Golden Girls that I caught on TV were hilarious.

Shhh! It's So Quiet!

Man, it is hard to not be working today. Nothing is going on.

The mail came and went. Husband received a magazine from his alma mater and one of those evil checks that credit cards insist on sending even though we don't want them, and it is easy to have them stolen out of the mail and cashed by frauds. (Does anyone go a day without receiving a credit card offer of some sort? The only days we don't receive something from those companies that would like me to live above my means are ones in which there is no mail delivery.)

The phone is silent. No one calling to get me to give to Al Franken's senate campaign, no credit card offers, and no job or school news. (Incidentally, a friend of mine was admitted to the nonfiction program at the New School yesterday. She's pretty damn talented and super nice, so I am really happy for her.) I even tried calling friends, but everyone is busy working or taking care of sick partners. (What is with this vile strain of flu that is striking good people around the nation?)

Even the email is slow today. Doesn't anyone want to send me a cute picture of his/her kids or pets? Share some gossip? Anything?

Do I have to dress like Bjork just to get some reactions! I thought her stork dress was cool...

On Hold

Why is so much of life waiting? Whether I'm waiting to find out if I got a job interview, a job, or into school, it seems like everything these days* is hurry up and wait. The funny thing is that I was feeling pretty good yesterday until I got my silent bad news. Last week, I found $40 on the sidewalk. How could things go wrong? It looked like it was all coming together, and then, kaboom. I'm back to waiting to see what I'll be doing with my life in the next few months.

In Which I Am Sad

It's a lie that no news is good news. Sure, I didn't get any bad news today, but other people got good news and I didn't. I think that is silent bad news. Silent bad news is worse than bad news because at least there's certainty with bad news. Silent bad news leaves doubts - and worse, hope - until you finally get bad news.

Bad news is a big, bloody wound that can heal. Silent bad news is a festering sore that hangs around spewing pus. Silent bad news makes me focus on all the things that aren't working out for me right now, as opposed to the greater number of things that are fantastic.* It's poison, like baby formula.**

*Hey! I've got a book coming out in July! How awesome is that?!?!

**Just kidding about the formula, but that does crack me up.

Yogurt Review #2 (Lifeway Strawberry Lassi)

Lassis are yogurt drinks popular (for very good reason) in India. While I was there, I drank at least four every day. (I wish I was exaggerating. Fortunately, our hotels had all you can eat breakfast buffets with pitchers of lassis, so I refilled my glass multiple times. Then I usually ordered a lassi with dinner, too.) Generally, they come in three traditional flavors: salty (aka "gross"), sweet, and mango. Lassis also tend to be sort of high in fat and calories in addition to flavor (and cost more in the US than India), so I try not to consume them to often.

At Whole Foods, I was excited to find a small packaged lassi in the dairy case from Lifeway.

The only flavor in stock was strawberry, and the 8 oz. carton had only 174 calories and 2 grams of fat, so I was psyched. Even better, the drink contains 30% of the RDA for calcium. The drink even has 3 grams of fiber to slightly off set the high level of carbs found in flavored yogurt. Excellent. I forgot how much it cost, but I think it was $1.29, which is somewhat reasonable. (I need to pay more attention to these things if I am going to seriously review yogurt, I know.)

Ah, sounds good so far, but how does it taste? I was very pleased. The strawberry was just sweet enough, but not overpowering. I like lassis because they have a sourish yogurty taste that is not overwhelming, but just a perfect balance with the sweet. Lifeway surprisingly got that down. Yumminess. I hope that I can find the mango flavor, too.

I wish they were also organic, but I suppose they'd cost more than $1.29 if they were. The verdict: I'll be stocking up on these babies!

Bueno Sera, La Fortuna

Here I am eating my last French bread pizza and lemon cookie at Cafe La Fortuna. In the summer of 1997, Husband I moved to the Upper West Side so that I could live near Fordham Law School, which I was to attend in the fall. (That lasted for two days. I came to my senses and dropped out of law school first thing in the morning of my third day.) We were not thrilled about leaving behind the Village, where we had met while undergrads at NYU. The family-friendly Upper West Side seemed boring and sedate compared to the cafe culture of the Village.

Cafe La Fortuna was the first place I went to that made me feel like I could not only survive on the Upper West Side, but actually enjoy it. It was John Lennon and Yoko Ono's favorite cafe. Opera memorabilia adorned the cozy walls, arias played over the sound system, and on warm days, there was a lovely backyard in which to sip iced tea and eat scrumptious desserts. Best of all, they had French bread pizzas for only $3.00! No one was ever in a rush at the cafe. It was a soothing and delightful place.

Over the past 11 years, Husband and I came to love the homey feeling of the Upper West Side. We have lived in three different apartments in the neighborhood, all within 10 blocks. Sadly, we also watched gentrification encroach upon our adopted mixed income neighborhood. It's nearly impossible to buy a one bedroom apartment for under $600,000, and renting one will run about $2,500 a month. Lately, the spread of wine bars, designer boutiques, and Pinkberry frozen yogurt shops has happened so fast I sometimes don't even comprehend the net loss.

Thus it is with Cafe La Fortuna. As you can see below, a combination of rising rents and devastating personal loss led to the closing of my favorite neighborhood refuge. Today was its last day of business, and it was packed with people like us who wanted to say good-bye. My French bread pizza was more like $7 or $8, but it tasted every bit as good as it did when I first took a bite 11 years ago.


Thanks, Cafe La Fortuna, for 11 years of good eats and good times. We'll miss you.

13 Years

On February 23, 1995, Husband and I went on our first date. A few days prior, I asked him if he would join me for a movie. We decided on Pulp Fiction at the East Village Cinemas. (Very romantic, no?) I was not sure if Husband knew that I intended this to be a date, but when we arrived at the theater, he immediately paid for both tickets. Still, I thought maybe he was just being generous to a friend.

After the film, I invited him to a cafe - my treat this time. We headed over to Cafe Borga, in the West Village, for the worst hot chocolate either of us have ever, to this day 13 years later, consumed. The mint hot chocolates we ordered must have been made with Swiss Miss and Halls. That stuff was mentholated. Incidentally, the cafe went out of business some time in the last 13 years.

After our nasty snack, Husband walked me back to my dorm. Although a chilly drizzle began to fall, we stood on the corner talking for another hour or more. Cabs kept stopping and waiting for us to get in, then driving off in a huff, not that we flagged one down. I guess they assumed that no one would be dumb enough to stand outside in the cold rain. Finally, around 4 am, Husband gave me a hug, and we went our separate ways for the weekend.

Last night, Husband and I sort of re-created our first date. We went to see a violent but acclaimed film (No Country for Old Men) at a small independent theater (Lincoln Cinemas) near where we live. Afterward, we went to Cafe La Fortuna, a fabulous little cafe that John Lennon and Yoko Ono frequented back in the day, and shared a plate of fancy cookies while drinking steamed skim milk with Orzata (almond syrup). We've loved Cafe la Fortuna since we moved to the Upper West Side in 1997. (Very, very sadly, after 31 years in business, Cafe la Fortuna is closing. It was founded by a couple in 1976, after the wife died a month ago, the husband decided it was too painful to continue without her.) Finally, around 11:30 pm, Husband and I gave Cafe la Fortuna a psychic hug, and the two of us went home together for the weekend and hopefully the rest of our lives.

In Which I Get Crafty

Recently Husband asked me to be a bit more active in maintaining our apartment when I am not working. Initially, I resented this request because I hate feeling like an unemployed loser and I detest housework, but it is really only fair. If he's out earning 97% of our income*, I should contribute in other ways.

A few days ago, I vacuumed. Today, instead of spending my entire morning reading MFA blogs and unnecessarily stressing myself out about whether or not I will get into an MFA program, I decided to be productive. We bought some fabric for a new curtain for our kitchen window at Ikea a few weeks ago, and I thought I should work on getting it up.

This was a bad idea for several reasons. First, when I woke up, I discovered that I slept on my neck funny, and it has been hurting all day. Standing on a step ladder and holding up a ginormous ream of fabric to try and measure out what I need for the window only made it worse. Second, I had to meet someone for lunch to discuss a potential consulting project, so starting a big production an hour before I had to leave was asking for disaster. Fortunately, my lunch date moved our appointment back by 30 minutes, I didn't rush out with pins all over the kitchen.

Anyway, here's how it stands:

Normally there's more light in our kitchen in the afternoon, but it's a snowy-rainy day, so it's pretty dark outside in general. (In case you worried that I live in some sort of dungeon...) I'm pretty pleased with my initial work given that I can't cut or sew straight. OK, so it's not exactly sewn yet, just pinned up. (I don't have a machine, so I'll hand sew it up eventually.) Still, I'm proud of my new red and white hippopotamus curtains. I can't wait until Husband sees them.

*Although he will always out earn me, and he never, ever lords that over me. When I do work consistently, he does not ask me to do extra housework, and on top of that, he does the vast majority of our laundry, anyway. Of course, 97% of the laundry is his, but that's another story.

CUSS Readers: Brilliant and HiIlarious

Just so you know, I wrote a rambling post over at BlogHer about the evils of douche, which we explored over here at CUSS back in October. Since I thought your comments on that post were exceptionally funny, I included them with links to your blogs. Feedback on the BlogHer post indicates that you are all brilliantly insightful. Thanks for being so awesome! Don't you think there should be an official blog reader appreciation day?

This is only the most recent event this week that reminds me how lucky I am. On Wednesday night, I found $40 on the sidewalk. Yesterday, Husband found out that he is getting a very nice bonus from work, which made me feel less bad about spending $2.69 on a carton of siggi's icelandic skyr yogurt. (But, damn, that is a fuckload to spend on a single yogurt!) Today, I am celebrating how cool it is to connect to such awesome people through blogging.

Yogurt Review #1 (Siggi's Icelandic Style Skyr)

For a special treat, I spent a gazillion dollars on siggi's Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt at Whole Foods. I read a little blurb about it in New York Magazine a few weeks ago, and when confronted with the 6 oz container of pomegranate & passion fruit, I decided to give it a whirl. It is as good as Greek yogurt, although I'm not sure better. The flavor was not nearly as sweet as I prefer. Still, it is nice and thick. Since it was a couple of bucks and not exactly nirvana, I probably won't buy it again, but I'm still glad I indulged.

I've never been interested in food blogging per se, but my obsession with yogurt makes me think that I should have a recurring yogurt review section on CUSS. My local grocery store has an amazingly extensive selection of yogurts, so I'll be able to sample and write up many different kinds. I'm partially inspired by The London Review of Breakfasts, which is hilarious and informative (something CUSS strives for but seldom achieves) and Cupcakes Take the Cake.

If there is any doubt in your mind that yogurt reviews belong on a blog about unshaved snatch, I point out that yogurt is an excellent cure for yeast infections, although personally I have never understood how that works. (Do you eat the yogurt, or put it in your crotch? If you put it in your crotch, how do you properly clean it out? That sounds very messy.)

In Which I Spazz Out

There is both a lot going on here and nothing at all going on here. That combination drives me up the wall, stresses me out, and makes me extra bitchy to my parents, who I yelled at on the phone last night for no reason. (Honestly, I do not know why they put up with my crabby insolence.) Of course I felt horrible about it the second I hung up (as I do every time this happens), but I had a sinus headache and didn't feel like calling them back to apologize. Instead, I sat around feeling like an asshole and wondering why I can't be nicer to my parents, which made my headache worse.

The problem is that my work life is very uneven. I've got nothing to do for stretches of time, and then I suddenly have tons of jobs that need to be done in a short time. For example, on Tuesday I had lunch with a friend/colleague, then got better fitting bras. Wednesday was spent freaking out while perusing various blogs about MFA acceptances, then attending a bris. I played a lot of fake Scrabble on Facebook on both days, and also applied for some part-time jobs.

Last night I got a frantic call around 9 pm from the woman organizing the program that I touch in about things I should bring to my class this morning. Why people can't get their shit together in a timely fashion is beyond me. My class today, as it was last week and the Thursday prior to that, is from 9 am - 12:30 pm, which is a loooooong time to talk about budgeting. I'll drop off my headshots and "resume" to the agency, finally. (Since it was not ready before, I've made no progress with my quest to be a dead body on Law & Order. Hopefully submitting my materials will change that.) Then I have a meeting at 4:30 pm to talk about another round of training. Tomorrow, I'm meeting a friend/colleague for lunch to discuss a new consulting project that I hope will not pan out because it sucks, and then running over to my consulting gig to finally wrap that shit up since people finally decided to comply with my requests for information.

Next week? Nada. I am very much looking forward to meeting Mar on Tuesday and showing her and her mum around the city a bit. So, long story short, I am stressed and spazzing out.

Success Begins with a Good Foundation (Garment)

Broken ribs due to a too tight bra are not on my to do list, so I took the bad bras that I bought last week back to the store yesterday for an exchange. It seems that bras are supposed to be very tight to be supportive, and according to the saleslady who assisted me, the reason that my boobs start to pop out under my bra when I raise my arms is because the band is too loose, and thus I am not getting enough support. Still, I pointed out, at least I could move. She said she'd find me something that was supportive, but not a straight-jacket, and set off to check the stock.

Now, I was a bit mortified when she returned with an orthopedic bra. It looked like a cross between an ace bandage (which is sort of how I pictured my first bra would be when my mom dragged me bra shopping twenty or so years ago) and some sort of bullet proof vest. To make matters worse, it closes in the front, so when I put it on, it was like shimmying into a vest or jacket, and it hung around my shoulder sort of like how gun holsters do until I finally snapped it shut. Fortunately, it doesn't look so haggish when it is finally in place:

Keep in mind that this model is way more buxum than I, but it still looks nice on me. Anyway, even if it made me look like a 90 year old woman, I wouldn't care. This is the most comfortable bra I have ever worn. It rocks the house. At $62, it is expensive, but worth every penny. Spanx, the people who made gut-sucker-in pantyhose and girdles, are somehow responsible for this delightful tit support.

The Proof is in the Pudding

My obsession with viscous dairy products continues. My friend informed me that she tried a sheep milk yogurt this weekend, and as a result, she understood why people like yogurt. I already did my grocery shopping for the week, but next time I am at the store I will indulge in the miracle product she described.

At the store, I gave in to my desire for pudding. However, I accidentally threw tapioca pudding into my basket instead of rice pudding. I like tapioca, and as I ate a little container of it last night, I realized that it had been eons since I last consumed some. I can't remember if all tapioca is essentially vanilla pudding with some tapioca pearls thrown in it, or if the kind I bought is not true tapioca. I vaguely remember the tapioca pudding that my mom bought at the chef's kitchen counter at Jewel or Dominick's as being more tapioca intensive.

On a non-dairy train of thought, lately I've been receiving comments on a post I wrote about the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and their insulting ad campaign comparing fur to female pubic hair (i.e. - its revolting and morally wrong to wear). The ad ran in London, where my friend Mara lives, and when she sent me a picture of it, she noted, "We love the fact that PETA thought to illustrate the fact that the only thing worse than killing poor little animals to appease the fashion gods is having an unshaved snatch. I guess that makes all of your disciples no better than those people who club little baby seals to death, or eat tuna that is not dolphin friendly. . . . ." The two comments I recently received more or less told me that I am an idiot to find the ad offensive because one needs to do shocking things to save the lives of innocent animals, no matter what the human social cost is. I am not a supporter of fur,* but ads and comments like that make me not take the anti-fur cause seriously. It is never OK to use one animal to promote another one. Sorry, Charlie, but the proof is in the pudding that PETA sucks.

*Coincidentally, I did have an eye rolling conversation last night on the phone with my bubbe in which she discussed how cold it was in Chicago and how she could still go out despite the frigid air because of her mink coat. Then she said that her mink coat was usually too warm to wear and so she bought another warm coat on sale for $73 (from $200) so now she could attend her alderman's party for senior citizens no matter how cold it was. Man, you gotta love the lack of logic there.

Hungover

Last night, Husband and I binged on Scrabble. After a game with Brother-in-Law ended with my victory at 11:30 pm, he wisely called it a night. Following his departure, Husband challenged me to a one-on-one game, in which he throughly trounced me by a margin of 102 points. I called for a tie-breaker, which I won by a mere six points. It was 2:26 AM when we finished.

Our overindulgence in Scrabble came only one night after we had a barbecue spree. I swear I woke up on Sunday with a pork headache. However, it was worth it. The pulled pork, ribs, yams, and cheesy corn that I stuffed myself with were about the best you can get this side of the Mason-Dixon line. (Although nothing will ever better Jim Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis, TN. My meal there this past summer was one of the best three meals I ever ate.) Probably I should not have topped off with chocolate covered pretzels and chocolate covered cranberries while watching a version of Say Anything on TVLand that was so poorly cut, it was actually hard to understand what was going on.

As is always the case with a weekend spree, today is reckoning day. We are tidying up the apartment, Husband is going to help me apply for some jobs, and we'll hit the gym. I can't handle any more excitement, although I did eat left over sweet potatoes for breakfast with a side of Valentine's chocolate that I bought at the drug store yesterday for 50% off.

If the Bra Doesn't Fit, Don't Buy It

My faith in the ancient cult of bra fitting saleswomen is shattered. The sole reason I went to the Town Shop is because it reminded me of Schwartz's lingerie shop. My mom always took me to buy bras at Schwartz's because the salesladies there are trained in the art of fitting bras. The Town Shop has the same set up as Schwartz, in which some woman measures the customer, shows her some bras from the boxes behind the counter in which they are kept, then brings stuff to her in a fitting room, and finally adjusts and tugs the products once they are donned in a final fit test.

I went through the process (minus the measuring) when buying two bras to replace two of mine that were branapped. I thought one of he bras was too tight, but the saleswoman, who was my age, insisted that there was plenty of room.

"If you can stick your hand under the back, it's too big," she said, criticizing me for wearing bras that were too loose.

I figured that she was a bra expert, and that the bra would stretch a bit, so I purchased it. However, when I wore it yesterday, it was so tight that it left red marks all over my back in the shape of the bra. The receipt clearly states that bras must be unworn and have the tags on to be returned, but since I bought mine based on the recommendation of their staff and could only tell by wearing it that it was wrong, I am hoping that they will exchange it for a product that actually supports and uplifts without also squeezing my rib cage like an angry octopus.

Either way, the age of the wise bra fitter is over for me, although I did watch two episodes of How to Look Good Naked on Lifetime (yes, I am admitting that I stooped low enough to watch that crap channel, although this show is awesome and worth it), and the show has a "bra whisperer" who helps women find their best tit supporting garment. It almost restored my faith.

Tits are Expensive

Back in November, I discovered that one of my bras went missing. It was very disconcerting, and not in the least because replacing it would cost me $68. I grit my teeth, chalked up my loss, and vowed to guard its fraternal twin (the missing bra was white; the remaining one beige) carefully.

So it was with enormous regret that I realized this week that my remaining fancy bra also disappeared. What the fuck? Where are these bras going? I looked everywhere: in the laundry, under my bed, on my rocking chair, in suitcases, in my undies drawer, and it was the same damn thing. The bra was gone without a trace. (Man, that would be a good episode of Without a Trace, watching Anthony LaPaglia and co. chase down missing items of clothing.)

Now that I lost another good bra, I had to buy replacements. I moseyed over to the old lady bra shop near my apartment. The type of place where the salespeople have been measuring women for bras since the bra was invented. Not only did I nearly faint from the sticker price - $142!!!!! - but I also was displeased to learn that I required a larger cup size.* Breasts certainly come at a high price, my friends.

*Interestingly, the bra I wore while shopping was deemed to fit perfectly, and I bought that one around the same time as the ones gone missing. It seems the manufacturer is making their boobie supports smaller rather than "Leon getting larger."**

**A hilarious quote from Airplane. I do not actually refer to my boobs as Leon, although now that I made this joke, I may begin to do so.

Personal Pooter Preference*

Yesterday I received an email from a guy who requested some CUSS stickers. (Yes, they are still free, and I would love to send you some, too.) I could not stop laughing when I read his concluding statement: "Spent too many years hoping to see a beaver's pelt to want to see denuded or coiffed like a formal garden or worse." Awesomely hilarious description.

Nonstick Cookware and My Sister's Birthday

Was there ever a better invention than nonstick cookware? I think not. I swore that the frying pan I got as a wedding gift was nonstick. Still, even after I sprayed it up with Pam, things tended to stick, especially in the last year or so. (To be fair, the pan came into my life in the summer of 2000, so even if it was nonstick at one point, it probably wore off.)

While at Ikea recently, I invested $6 in two new frying pans. I had no real expectations that these new pans would revolutionize my egg cooking experience, but damn! When the Teflon works, making scrambled egg substitute (97% real egg, plus lots of yellow food dye) is an entirely different ballgame. I can't wait to buy some 100% real eggs and fry them up.

This has changed my whole outlook on cooking. OK, that's a lie, but it does make cleaning up after I cook eggs much easier. I'm sure that all you cooks are laughing your asses off, but this is huge to me. Huge! (And probably explains why, although Meloukhia left me excellent advice and instructions on how to make my own Greek yogurt, I am likely to continue throwing away money at the grocery store, although I very much appreciate her attempt to help me.)

Speaking of exciting news, today is my sister's 28th birthday. Happy Birthday, Chooch! It must be nice having a three day weekend over which to celebrate. I wish I could be there, except for the snow and cold....

Eggplant Parmesan and Roses

Probably it is unfair to blame my day's woes on the microwaved eggplant parmesan I consumed last night for dinner, but life isn't fair, so the dish is taking the fall. I thought it tasted a little funky, but honestly, eggplant always sort of tastes not quite right to me, so I ate it all without a second thought. Before I went to bed, my stomach began feeling uncomfortable. Not hurting or queasy, but weird. Hence I didn't fall asleep until after 2 am, although I suppose I used my time well by reading a Rolling Stones article about Britney Spears.

This morning, I was queasy, although I suspected it could be from the thought of getting out of bed or the residual effects of reading about Britney as much as anything substantial. I ate me some cereal, drank some delightful English breakfast tea with milk, and hustled off to teach my budgeting class. I thought I successfully passed as an alert and cheerful instructor until someone commented on how tired I looked. The good news is I then admitted that I might have eaten something that didn't agree with me, and so when I got a horrific taste in my mouth, no one minded that I chewed gum. Plus, another person offered me a Tums, and that was a big help.

After the class was over, I took advantage of the sunny day and walked the two or so miles home. It struck me as odd that so many people were carrying roses. Later, I became outright annoyed at the number of bodegas that put buckets of flowers out all over the sidewalk, narrowing the space available for walking and impeding my progress. It was only when I passed a bake stand at the farmer's market on 66th Street and saw the heart-shaped chocolate brownies with dyed red coconut shreds that I understood what was going on: VD infects the city once again.

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

• Create your own travel map or travel blog


• Visit TripAdvisor.com

I got this little travel map thingie from Facebook. Looking at all the places I have been to makes me both proud (as I never thought I'd travel anywhere when I was growing up) and also makes me realize how much more I would like to see and do.

My beginnings as a traveler were not promising. When I was 7, we loaded up the ol' Cutlass Supreme and took off to attend a bar mitzvah in Toronto. There's nothing like a multi-day day road trip with Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Bubbe, Sister, and me smooshed in one car. My strongest memories of the journey include stopping so that my grandpa could pee on the side of the road, after which he explained that this was one of the benefits of being a boy, and eating at a pancake house and filling out a customer satisfaction survey.

A few years after that, I vividly recall telling a friend that I would not go on our school trip to Washington, DC when I was in 7th grade because it was too scary to go so far away from home with my asthma. (When the time came, I did go and found that I liked DC a lot.) Then during my second year of college, I had the opportunity to travel to Florence and Rome for 14 days for free as part of a leadership/scholar program, and I hesitated because it was over winter break and would cut into my time to see my family. Also, I was scared to go somewhere in which I didn't know the language. (Ah, I was so cute back then.) My parents immediately and firmly urged me to take advantage of such a fantastic opportunity, so I went. After that, the travel bug firmly took hold, and the rest is a story of business travel, frequent flier miles, a honeymoon, more frequent flier miles, more business travel, and some big splurges.

Oh, the Glamor

My plan to get work as a dead body on Law & Order was temporarily set aside last week when I got a consulting job and also began teaching a course at the city university. I finally picked up my headshots on Thursday afternoon. I've never liked looking at pictures of myself, so I actually dreaded getting them. At the photographer's studio, I was given an envelope with a CD-ROM of all 36 pictures, an 8x10 sheet with all 36 pictures printed on them, and an 8x10 headshot which was selected for me as the best. This is it. It's not bad, although it does crack me up that my right eyebrow is a bushy mess. I'm probably the only woman who walked into that studio without getting her eyebrows waxed or threaded first. Shapely eyebrows are an obsession here.

The next step in the process is to bring ten copies of my headshot to the agency with a copy of my "acting resume" stapled onto the back of each one. I worked on my "acting resume" on Monday during my Amtrak ride from Sacramento to Richmond. It consists of the agency contact information; my name; my contact information; my height, weight, eye color, hair color, and clothing sizes; a list of skills that I have (like ice skating); and my education. Not it does not include any experience section, as I have none. I like the fact that my skills might enable me to play an ice skater in the background of a movie before I work my way up to dead body.

I'll probably drop the CD off at a photo shop this afternoon and hopefully take the materials in to the agency on Friday. Then I'm back to sitting around and waiting for calls to work. Sort of like with my quest for regular jobs, but this time also based on my looks. Fantastic.

Theo and the Lankees*

My trip to Sacramento included a historic meeting between Count Mockula's Lankee friends and my loyal bear companion Theo. The Lankees are super stylish (man, their wardrobe is impressive!) and surly little dudes who hilariously blog at Lankeeland Wire and live with Count Mockula and Mr. Count Mockula. Zigmund is seated in the front, Mo is next to Theo, and Ignatius is on the couch on the left. (Theo once sort of had a blog, too, but I suck and have neglected his desire to become America's Next Top Model for over a year now.)

Although Mo initially threatened to kick Theo's ass (Lankees are nothing if not violent), he backed down when informed that Theo was at least twice his size. Theo is a peaceful bear, but he will rip heads off when necessary. Fortunately, the guys were able to enjoy watching soccer and had a good time together.

*Wouldn't that be an awesome band name?

Gripes and Grunts

While I could have arrived home from my delightful weekend with Count Mockula before the clock rolled to Tuesday, I decided that I'd save money and take a shared van service from the airport instead of a cab. Sure, it was about 1/3 of the price of a cab, but it also took three times as long to get back. First we drove all over JFK to pick other people up, then we drove all over Manhattan to drop them off. Compounding my misery, the van did not crank the heat up, my feet got numb, and then the driver misunderstood my directions ("Please make a left and pull over to the far corner") and instead drove a block out of the way. At least I had the chance to hear a hilarious "sexy" ad on the radio on how KY heating lubricant will make your Valentine's night extra good multiple times while shivering in the van. Hell, maybe I could've used some to help my feet.

Anyway, before I left for my weekend trip, I carefully checked my punim for any signs of chin hairs. There wasn't even a bud. By the time I got home tonight, I could have been mistaken for a Hasidic guy. How the hell do those suckers grow so fucking fast? And how can I harness my chin hair growing power to help men who worry about receding hairlines? If I could unlock the secret, I'd be a rich woman who could afford a cab home from the airport.

When You Are Out of Shirts, It's Time to Go

As always, time flies when I am having fun. I'm heading back to NYC tomorrow (Monday), and while I am very sad because I won't get to see Count Mockula again until the summer (the BlogHer conference is in San Francisco this year in July), I am happy that I had the chance to come out now and celebrate the impending arrival of her baby with her and her friends and family. Her friend Monkeygirl threw an amazing shower, and I loved hanging out with her all weekend. Mr. Count Mockula and Count Mockula Mom are awesome, too. (Actually, watching the Count Mockula Mom and Daughter interactions made me really miss my mom.) The whole weekend was wonderful!

While I hate to go back - and not only because I just discovered that the temperature in NYC is only 15 right now - it's time. Not only do I have to go back to my consulting jobs, but I ran out of clothes to wear already. Somehow I managed to pack three days of undies and socks and my pjs, Theo, and meds, but only brought one extra shirt. I suppose it is better that I packed the right amount of clean underwear, but there's really only so long I want to alternate between the shirt I wore on the plane on Friday and the shirt I wore to the shower on Saturday.

When I get back (or if I have a lot of time at the airport), I'll post my pictures from the trip. We drove around the Delta area on Sunday, and saw this amazing town that is frozen in time due to ridiculous legal issues over the land. I so wish that Count Mockula and I did not live so far away.

Get on Board

I've been awake for 20 hours, so please excuse any delirium that is above and beyond my usual ramblings. Happily, my flight to San Francisco was smooth and on time. After a long BART (subway) ride from one end of the system to the other, I was delighted to discover that Amtrak runs double decker trains in northern California. The ride to Sacramento was delayed (as I was warned it would be), but very lovely. Mountains, water, and all sorts of interesting things lay outside the high windows of the top deck as we sat around on the tracks.

Count Mockula looks utterly adorable as she waddles around. I finally met her friend Monkeygirl (who used to have a blog), and she is super fun. We had delicious Lebanese food for dinner. Desert was the best baklava I ever had. As usual, I ate too much.

Looking forward to the shower and possibly getting to meet Hectic Mom Undone while I am out here. Weekends rock.

Call Me the Morton Salt Girl

You know, when it rains, it pours? (Plus my language is certainly salty.) I went from worrying that I'd never have paid employment again to having more project offers that I can possibly calendar, but will anyway. Of course, some of the will likely fall by the wayside, so I likely won't be overbooked when the dust settles. And some of the things I hope will disappear, as they are for projects that drive me insane. (Those are the ones that I have to charge a lot for, as I need to build a legal defense fund in the event that I go batshit and throttle someone. Good lawyers cost a lot of money, although I suspect that any jury will grant me an insanity plea when they hear the details of some of this work.)

Yesterday, I went back to a due diligence gig from a few weeks ago. Mostly the work is boring financial analysis, so the hard parts are staying awake and getting all the data that I need. Gathering information from people is like removing a thorn from the paw of a lion. It only helps them in the end to let me extract what I need, but everyone acts like I'm asking them to sacrifice their first born. To make things easier, I even put together a chart for each organization in which they can just fill in the blanks. What is returned to me in nearly every case is a chart they designed that has different information in it. Yeah. If they don't have the info, they could save themselves hours by just telling me that instead of putting together of info that I won't use, which is why I didn't ask for it in the first place.

Today I had taught my first class at a university. It is a one credit, four week class at the City University about basic budgeting for child care businesses. I was very pleased. My goal is to help people learn this extremely boring shit in an entertaining way. I don't know if anyone learned anything this morning, but they were entertained, so I feel successful. Teaching is good. I should rustle up some other work like this in the future. The class ends at the end of the month.

Anyway, that's where my time has been going. Tomorrow I am over-the-top excited to go to Sacramento for Count Mockula's baby shower. I can't wait to see her and meet her family and friends. Since this exciting journey was brought to me by a voucher Husband had for a free flight, I will be flying in to San Francisco, taking BART to Richmond, then taking Amtrak to Sacramento. Weirdly, I find this more appealing than what I initially tried to book (but was denied by the airline), which was a flight to Dallas with a connection to Sacramento. Both methods require a full day of travel each way, which is sort of funny. The point is, I'm working a lot now, and I can't wait to play.

Birthplace of Democracy

When I voted in Tuesday's primary, I felt like I did my part for democracy, rather than what we've had for the past two presidential administrations, which is democrazy. While I believe that Sen. Clinton's health plan is superior to Sen. Obama's, I also think that Clinton is a candidate I don't entirely trust. Of course, she's far better than any of the Republican candidates and I will do everything I can to make sure she is our next president if she is the Democratic nominee, but today I cast my vote for Obama. I think he would make a fine president.

However, if in November, we do somehow wind up with another four years of Republican theocracy (theocrazy?) and fiscal corruption, I am moving to an island in Greece. Why an island in Greece? I wish I could say it is because I want to return the roots of Western civilization or something profound like that, but the truth is that I am obsessed with Greek yogurt. Until my friend Mara introduced me to it in early December, I had no idea that yogurt could be so thick and rich. Not to harp on my pudding obsession, but seriously, Greek yogurt is like yogurt pudding. To live among a people who produce such amazing yogurt would be an honor.

Also, I really love feta cheese. This actually makes a lot of sense because I am a Capricorn (aka The Goat), and as the nutty talk show host Mike said to me this summer, "Beavers suckle beavers; sheep suckle sheep. Why should babies drink formula?" Of course, that sentence just me laugh at the time, but now I see its truth: as a human goat, I obviously prefer items made from goat milk. (There's an extremely icky path we can also go down here about making cheese from human milk, but let's not.)

Not understanding Greek is going to be a large obstacle for me, but really, when learning any foreign language, it's all Greek to me. (yuk yuk.) I'll fit right in amongst the furry goats and hairy people anyway. While my dream of living on a goat farm in Greece is tempting, if not extremely smelly, I really do hope that it does not come to fruition. Let's go Obama! It's time for change in the US.

Good Citizenship

In a few minutes, I'm leaving to vote, go to the post office, and workout at the gym. I believe that these are the three fundamental tenets of citizenship, no? OK, maybe not the gym, but certainly voting and using our fine national mail service.

I'm particularly thinking about what being a good citizen means because of a conversation going on over at BlogHer about being "pro-life". (And, incidentally, there is also an excellent post about being "pro-choice.") I left a comment on the "pro-life" post about entrusting individuals to make decisions based on their own beliefs and circumstances, and was shocked when my comment was compared to Nazi Germany and the American South during slavery. When I protested (not as articulately as I should have), several more comments comparing the Holocaust to legal abortion appeared.

Pretty much nothing enrages me more than the grotesquely inaccurate comparison of legal abortion (in which individuals decide for themselves whether or not to terminate a pregnancy) and genocide (in which government round people up and kill them). People have the right to believe that abortion is murder. I can understand why someone would think that, and while I do not agree with that belief, I can respect it. However, unless a government is building special pregnancy termination centers, removing women from their homes, and forcing abortions on them, it is not even remotely close to a holocaust. To compare an individual choice to a state-sponsored killing machine severely undermines the true evil of genocide around the world. If someone cannot understand this extremely fundamental difference... seriously, I am actually at a loss for words.

Anyway, I am not a Nazi (although yesterday I drafted a very sarcastic and angry post in response to this outrageous slander, which I may have the good sense to never allow to see the light of publication), and I am going to vote today. I'm proud to participate in a democracy, and I am even prouder to stand up for self-determination in the face of ideological bullying.

Job Hunting and Celeb Spotting

People depress me. It just boggles my mind how much other people love telling me that they are not judgmental, it's just that we all should live our lives according to their values and beliefs. Right.

I'm not having a great day over in dark, rainy, gray, and cold New York City. My quest for semi-meaningful part-time employment that is not child care policy is not yielding many results. My drop dead date is late March before I crawl back to the child care policy field and beg for a job. I feel like if I do that, though, I'll never break free from the industry.

Anyway, on my way home from a temp agency "screening," I walked past Bryant Park. Being the clueless woman I am, I had no idea that it was fashion week. (Somehow, it always seems like there is some fashion event going on in Bryant Park, though.) A bunch of photographers and reporters were bunched up outside the big tent in which the shows go on (damn, fashion truly is a circus, now that I think about it...), so I paused to see what the deal was. Tyra Banks emerged through the crowd. I must say she looked stunning.

Merely spotting a celeb of Tyra's wattage was not enough to brighten my day, unfortunately. If the Weinermobile would show up near my apartment again, that would be appreciated. Who isn't cheered up by the sight of an orange and yellow hot dog vehicle parked across the street?

Periods, and Anger, and Cookies - Oh My!

It's true that my food cravings are worse when I'm on the rag or about to be hanging with Aunt Flo. This is probably why I've wanting pudding so badly for the last four days. Also, I suspect it is why I became utterly enraged at something someone wrote on Friday. Usually, I'd probably be angry about it, but not fixate on the statement to the point where I could not focus on anything else.

While I was sputtering about on Friday, I noticed that I was ravenously hungry. Suddenly, it dawned on me that being really angry seems to make need to eat. It probably explains why I ate non-stop for the last year or so that I worked at my former employer. I was furious all the time. It apparently takes a lot of energy to sustain that level of anger. Who woulda thunk?

Regardless of my level of fury, I ate an enormous quantity of junk this weekend. Breakfast was cookies and a granola bar. While in Pennsylvania with Steph, I had an afternoon lunch tea. Then meatballs at Ikea. Then breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel. (For the record, the grits at Cracker Barrel are probably made from the same recipe as the gruel fed to Oliver Twist, but damn if the blackberry cobbler is not the tastiest confection this side of the Mason Dixon line.) When I got home, I had a cookie "midnight snack." All I ate on Sunday morning were cookies and string cheese.

Anyway, I was completely amused on Sunday afternoon on my way back from the gym when I saw the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked in front of the Jewish Community Center. I ran to get my camera, but by the time I got back outside, it was pulling away.Still, I think it is pretty funny to see the Weinermobile cruising up the streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs. Yum....

Husband's Giant(s) Super (Bowl) Adventure

Husband took this picture of me on Saturday afternoon while we hung out in Pennsylvania with Steph.
For those of you who know that Husband planned to be in Arizona this weekend for the Super Bowl, you may wonder what the fuck he is doing taking pictures of me in the back seat of Steph's car as we whiz down the highway towards Ikea. Here's the whole story. Since I am not capable of making a long story short, bear with me. I'll start at the beginning....

At the end of the regular football season, Husband won a small bundle of funds from a football pool. This small amount had already been spent in about 40 ways when the Giants came out of nowhere to clinch a spot in the Super Bowl. Husband took these two miracles as a sign that he was meant to see the Giants in the Super Bowl, and he made arrangement to go to Phoenix with his buddy Stupid McFuck (who earned this affectionate nickname from me because he is a Republican although their fiscal policies have screwed his family). Since Stupid McFuck is supporting his parents because the Republicans do not believe in unemployment or disability payments, he did not have the money to go, but Husband wanted to share his good fortune, so he paid for all the tickets.

All the tickets, however, did not include tickets to the actual game. The plan was to book a flight to Arizona and a hotel room. By the time Husband did this, there were no flights to Phoenix that we reasonably priced, so he bought two to Tucson, which is about two hours away. This worked out well because the only hotel rooms available in Phoenix were $650 per night, with a three night minimum, at the Motel 6. I am not exaggerating. That was the cheapest he found, and it was the Motel 6. Fortunately, there were many hotel rooms in Tucson, so Husband used his hotel points to secure free lodging at a Sheraton.

Once the travel and hotel were secured, Husband set about scoring tickets. He bought a parking pass for $100 (double the face value) on eBay. He was willing to spend up to $1,500 per ticket to go to the game. Entry tickets, however, remained way out of reach, with asking prices well over $2,000 on StubHub and other online outlets. Colleagues who also have undergone such insane endeavors to watch their team in persona the Super Bowl had told him, though, not to fret. In their experience, the odds were very good that he could get two tickets in his price range when he got there, as people would be desperate to unload what they had left at the last minute. (And they'd still make a handsome profit.)

Friday came. Husband woke up and discovered that his flight to Dallas (where he would connect to Tucson) was canceled. He called the special Executive Platinum members number and the airline booked him on a flight to Chicago, where he would connect to Tucson. A few hours later, he left for the airport.

All hell broke loose at LaGuardia. As there were over 6 inches of snow in Chicago, every flight out there was delayed - except the one he and Stupid McFuck were on. That flight was set to leave on time. Unfortunately, as the plane unloaded passengers from the previous flight, it caught on fire. Needless to say, it was canceled.

Husband booked it to the Admiral's Club. The nice people there put them on stand by for the next flight out. As they headed over to the gate for that flight, they heard their names called. The tickets went through, and they even had two first class seats! They high-fived (or at least in my mind, I picture them doing so). Super Bowl, here they come!

Cutting to the end, when they went to board, the gate agent informed them that their tickets were revoked so that some crew could get to Chicago. Dejected, the guys gave up and went home. (Good thing he didn't pay thousands of dollars for tickets on StubHub!) As a result, Husband joined me on my day of fun with Steph on Sat. and took this picture.

Today we shall watch the Super Bowl at our friends' apartment. Go Giants!

Appropriately Uncouth

When I called the unsurance company's intermediary a few days ago to supply them with the information they needed to reconsider approving a bilateral breast MRI, I was sitting on the porcelain throne taking an enormous dump. I figured it perfectly expressed my feelings on the matter, even if the woman on the other end (who actually wound up being very nice) had no idea what I was up to. It turns out that only my doctor can tell them what age I was at my first period, how I was at my first birth, what my ethnicity is, and what my prior pathology reports have concluded. Seems a lay person is not knowledgeable about these things about herself.

Since my doctor is an asshole who won't take five minutes to call it in, I am shit out of luck. See? The whole situation stinks.

Deep, Dark Secret #423: Uncontrollable Cravings

Food and eating are often on my mind. I hate cooking, but I love food. All kinds of food, from cheese grits at Waffle House to fancy fish at Le Bernadin, are equally valued by my mostly undiscriminating taste buds. From street food to gourmet, all I require to enjoy what I am eating is that it be yummy.

Thus when Suebob wrote up an observation she made at work about food and eating, I was aghast at the situation. To wit:

I was at an all-day work meeting and a box of See's Candy was being passed around.

The woman next to me carefully selected a piece and took a bite.

"Oh, my God, that's good!" she moaned.

She then put the other half of the piece on a napkin, where it stayed until the meeting was over 4 hours later.

She never ate the other half.

I don't get this at all. First off, just reading the post made me want.chocolate.right.now. My salivary glands went into overdrive. All I could think about was what kind of filling the piece of candy had. (I don't know why I assumed it did, but there you go - strawberry creme? caramel? coconut? I'm generally not so crazy about coconut, but sometimes it hits the right note...)

Next, just as most of the other people who left comments on the post did, I wondered who the hell takes a bite of a piece of candy, exclaims how magnificent it is, and doesn't finish it? I don't even take bites of chocolates like that. I shove the whole thing in my mouth, and if it is not good for some bizarre reason, I spit it out because I am infantile. Then I grab another one. And if it was good, I have to fight with myself not to eat more than one. (Or two. Or three.)

Now I will admit something completely repulsive, which may or may not distract you from the morally vacuous admission I will make next. To avoid eating too much of something good at home, I often throw a portion of the food away. However, there are times when I want it back so badly that I actually retrieve it from the trash. I'm not so depraved as to do so if there are nasty things in the garbage, but if the item I want is on the top of the pile, maybe on a clean-ish napkin, I may find myself eating it. Seriously.

Anyway, as I was eating dinner last night (an Amy's Organic Indian tofu and spinach wrap - yum!), I read the day's newspaper. An article in The New York TImes reported on a current case against a guy who is accused of brutally beating his stepdaughter to death a few years ago. The whole thing is a horrific tragedy, and it shook the city to its roots when it happened. So I'm reading this sad article and it mentions that it has commonly been reported that the guy beat the girl to death for eating a yogurt without his permission, but in fact, the snack item that triggered her murder was probably a container of Jell-O pudding. Immediately, I intensely craved pudding. Chocolate, vanilla, tapioca, rice pudding. The desire to eat pudding haunted me for the rest of the night.

Sick, isn't it? Cravings are scary. It's a good thing I never plan to be pregnant. I can't imagine what those types of cravings would do to me, given my current level of patheticness.