The Thorn is Out

When I applied to law school in 1996, the process was pretty straight forward. If you did well on the LSAT, had a decent GPA, and proved to be the slightest bit interesting, you were getting in somewhere. I applied to four schools, and was accepted to two second tier programs with scholarships, and waitlisted at two top tier schools. At the end of the day, I was glad that I did not get into my top choice program, as I suspect I would have felt compelled to finish law school and begin a miserable career as an attorney.

In 1997, when I applied to public administration programs, I knew that schools preferred people with some work experience. I hoped that my single year would be enough to get me through the doors of the two programs to which I applied. Immediately, I was accepted at one school and given a scholarship. The program I preferred to go to waitlisted me. Although I ultimately was accepted, I hated that the program was more business-focused than public service oriented, which struck me as odd for a public administration and policy school. I worked while I schooled, finished my two years there, and began a miserable career as a child care policy expert.

Given my history with graduate education, I am not sure why I expected it to be different this time. If anything, the admissions qualifications are even murkier: demonstrate talent. What the fuck does that mean? I tried my best, and sent my writing sample to two programs, knowing that only six people are admitted at one of them.

I knew that I didn't make the cut at Hunter when I didn't get a call in February (hence all my blather about silent bad news), but I didn't have an official rejection, either. At first, I just wanted it to be over with. The longer I lived in limbo, the more I knew that rejection would hurt. This morning, I sent an email to the program director, noting that I understood that the six spots were filled, but if something opened up in the late spring or summer, I would love it if they would consider me. She emailed me back a few hours later and said that she would keep me in mind.

Imagine my surprise when I found my rejection letter from the program in the mail when I got home from work. I realize that suggesting that they eat shit is inappropriate, but I sort of can't help but think it anyway. Fuckers.

Fun in the Sun

At the early hour of 10:45 PM on Friday, I met the train carrying my dear friend Alex at Penn Station. We stopped off on the way to my apartment to pick up some baked goods at the new Upper West Side Magnolia Bakery outpost, then chatted with Husband while stuffing yellow cake (chocolate frosting for Alex; pink frosting for me - in both cases, the cake was merely adequate) down our gullets. Husband packed it in around 12:30 AM, and Alex and I continued our conversation until 2:00. This is the latest night I have had in months.

Saturday morning was bright and sunny. Alex and I set out in a freezing wind to have brunch at a restaurant highly recommended by Sara. We were excited for our Meyer Lemon pancakes (Alex) and eggs and grits (me), but when the food finally came (worst.service.ever), they shorted Alex a pancake and my food was only OK. Still, it was a heavy meal, and we decided to walk it off in Central Park. Originally, we planned to run, but thought it was too cold to go out without coats. We were wrong, but enjoyed our 6 mile hike in the bright (albeit sort of cold) sunshine.

The evening was capped off at a party at sister-in-law's (SIL) 30th birthday party, in which a sommelier came to their apartment and told amusing stories about wine. The stories (and cheese and amazing cakes shaped like a wine bottle with SIL's name on it, a small cheese, and marzipan grapes) were the highlight of the evening for your teetotaling blog host. As usual, I ate too much and ended the evening with bad gas.

As there was more coldish sun today, Alex and I set out to run the reservoir in Central Park. We had a lot of fun, and it made me feel great. I haven't run in ages, thanks to sinus issues, the sea urchin spines in my feet, and general laziness. (It also made me miss Dr. P, who used to be my running partner when she lived in New York.) I resolved to start running regularly again.

And that's that.

And I Thought I Am Tall

Recently, I discovered that my brother-in-law's wife is shorter than I am. This discovery engendered a minor identity crisis because I have always been the shortest person in my in-law family. All these years, I thought I was short, but really, I am a tall short person. How distressing to live with such self-delusion for so long!

Anyway, while on holiday with my sister and her husband, I encountered two objects that made me feel slightly better about my situation.


This literal giant was housed near the giant penis armor of Henry VIII. (That made me feel small, too, by the way. Maybe I should pay more attention to all those spam emails I receive with offers to help me grow my penis larger...) Even with my hiking shoes, my head only floats a bit above the 5 foot mark.


Further, when a chocolate rabbit at Herrod's is about my height, what's to complain about? If Dana were not leaning in to take a bite, I think they'd be about the same height. I could literally eat my height (if not weight) in chocolate. Yum.

If Good Things Come in Small Packages, Keep Me the Fuck Away from Henry VIII

If my memory serves me correctly, this is Henry VIII's armor. I love that he had extra protection for his prized body part.

Another Failure to Chalk Up

I thought that finding my lost bra was a sign of good things to come, but it turns out that I missed my chance to be the hottest of the hot bimbos. What's up with that? Life is cruel.

What Once Was Lost Was Actually Hiding in My Closet

This morning as I dressed for work, I selected a very nice white button down shirt with pink and black stripes. I'm not sure when I wore it last, but as I withdrew it from my closet, I noticed a white bra looped around the hanger.

"Hmmmm... what's this?" my addled mind puzzled.

I stared at it for a moment, decided to wear it, and as I was removing the mysterious lingerie from its wire home, it hit me: this was the (expensive) bra that I lost that led me to go on my quest to buy (even more expensive) new bras! Hallelujah! It's a miracle!

I slipped into its warm embrace. The bra feels very nice around my rib cage - no squeezing. If today isn't my lucky day, then I don't know what is.

Grumble, Grumble

I've been killing time by frequenting a few MFA message board while the two MFA programs I applied to string me along. After reading some of the comments of people who have already been admitted to programs, it makes me wonder if I might not be better off if I don't get in anywhere. Such a large concentration of Cunty McCuntersons and blithering idiots would be hard to find in other places. Not that everyone is an irritating fuck, but I'm shocked by how many are. If I do get in somewhere, I hope I am not forced to slash any throats to save my sanity.

Seriously, though, back in late February, when people heard from both programs I applied to and I did not, I hoped that my silent bad news would just become real bad news so I could move on. Opening my mailbox and finding my rejection letter would've been a relief. Now that this has dragged on, I feel like a rejection would suck that much more since I've been waiting so long at this point. I dread the (inevitable?) rejection, and prefer the limbo status.

If time heals all wounds, it also allows anxiety to fester.

Not Baaad

While I'm at work learning if I still have a job after only 4 days (funding was cut while I was gone last week), enjoy my sheep's milk yogurt review over at Live Active Cultures. The review and the yogurt are way better than the pun.

Hippos Lurk, But So Does Happiness

After my trip to the Bung Hole wine bar yesterday, I figured that I was due for some good news today. Initially, I was disappointed. Returning to work, I discovered that my the grant that my new employer uses to fund my position was revoked while I was gone last week. There's a chance that the funder will be convinced to give it back to them, but I won't know until tomorrow or Thursday. Cool.

When I got home from work this evening, there was still no word from either graduate program that I applied to. However, my answering machine did contain the best news possible: Monkey Girl said that Count Mockula had her baby in the wee hours of the morning! Both mom and baby are doing well. (And MG: I can't find your number, so can you email it to me or call me back?) Yay!

My advice to Zadie is to stay away from hippos. Although they look very peaceful lying around in pools of mud, they can suddenly creep up and tip your canoe. Or at the very last, scare the crap out of you with their bad teeth, which makes me think of that hilarious shark from the Strange Wilderness commercial.

The Picture Says It All

After losing my planned post for BlogHer yesterday, which was infuriating (I re-wrote it and posted it today), my fucking piece of shit laptop lost an article that I worked on for almost four hours this most delightful afternoon. This was partially my fault, as I forgot to save it as another document after I downloaded it, but I did save it about 400 times while I worked on it, so I'm not sure why it never showed up in the temp file.


That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. As for the restaurant, I am curious who would eat at a place with such a name. Fascinating.

Yeah, I Did Ask That

Here's a recent conversation I had with a friend I hadn't seen in ages:

Me: Hey! How are you?

Friend: I'm really happy! Things are going so well. I started seeing someone.

Me: That's awesome. I was wondering about that, but I didn't want to ask. I thought it would be prying, and I didn't want to ask anything inappropriate.

Friend: We started dating about a month ago.

Me: Soooooo... is he circumcised?

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably because she is used to me)

Me: Yeah, I just realized how wrong it is that I felt uncomfortable asking you if you were dating someone, but not what his penis looks like.

Friend: (still laughing uncontrollably)

Me: I can't help it. I have this weird obsession with uncircumcised penises. I don't know why, but they fascinate me.

Friend: Well, I haven't seen it yet anyway.

Me: Right. It would probably be wrong for me to ask you to report back once you do, wouldn't it?

Friend: (laughing uncontrollably)

While I was replaying this conversation in my head, I thought about what a great GEICO commercial spoof this would make. (You know, those commercials where they hire a "professional actor" to dramatically repeat the story of the actual GEICO customer?) Fred Willard or Sarah Silverman could totally play me. Hilarious.

I Am the Blog Master of CUSS

There's a spam comment on my last post request the "blog master" of this blog to post more relative information before it goes on to plug some sort of site. The idea of being the blog master of CUSS is almost as hilarious as all of your brilliant comments about the horror of roaches on a plane. I wish I had thought of that spoof. Thank goodness I have such witty friends. Instead, the blog master thing reminds me of Ghost Busters. If I am the Blog Master, who is the Gate Keeper?

As blog master, my recent neglect of CUSS is due to the outrageous prices the hotel I stayed at this past week charged for internet access. It would have been $36 for 24 hours of wi fi. Now, I love blogging, but I can't justify $36 for internet access. When I was out and about, I meant to stop into an internet cafe and give a shout out and check my email, but I was having so mch fun with my sister and her hubby that I forgot to look for a place.

I'm coming home tomorrow, which will be grand, as I have not seen Husband for more than 3 hours in the past two weeks. I miss the bugger very much. While I was gone, he ate at lots of nice restaurants with his brother and sister-in-law. (This is a very fine juxtaposition to the places that I ate at with my sister and brother-in-law, which generally involved some sort of fast food. Sometimes, however, it was Lebanese fast food and in my mind, probably rivaled Husband's gourmet lunch at Jean Georges.) I'm still having a great time out here, as I am with Mara and my cousin, but it is fucking cold, I'm running out of clean clothes, and I am ready to stop paying 2x the marked price of anything I buy thanks to a crap American dollar.

Hopefully, there will be no motherfuckin' roaches on the motherfuckin' plane on the way back, as I think the flight is full. My roach hunting skills (which I will gladly pass on to Alex when she visits, although I hope that there are no targets in my apartment on which to demonstrate) are not as honed for varment killing with lots of innocent bystanders around. Smacking people with newspapers or stomping their toes while attempting to create a filthy insect-free environment may not be appreciated, although everyone hates roaches.*

*Warrior: My friend and I once saw some cute little mice in the bathroom of one of our favorite restaurants. Sadly, I never saw them again, either.

Cheers!

I think this might be the longest I have gone without blogging since I began CUSS two years ago. (Although possibly I went longer when I visited my friend in the middle of nowhere in the Dominican Republic in Dec. 2005, but in that case, there was no technology at all. This time, the internet access cost way too much.) Time has flown, and I barely noticed that I haven't touched a computer since Monday evening. Life can go on without blogging! Craziness!

Adventures began on Saturday evening when I was forced to put my New York skills into practice and kill a roach on the plane. The bastard popped up on the empty seat in front of me just as I settled in for the evening meal. Somehow, no flight attendant noticed as I chased it around with a folded newspaper, smashing and smacking up and down the row. It evaded me at first, but about two hours later, I took my victory by crushing it. I could finally sleep.

After that, things were calm. It was great hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law, whose 29th birthday was yesterday. As I mentioned, the week just happened so quickly. I've got lots of good pics to come, including one of a shop called the Bung Hole.

Hope all is well with everyone. I'll be back to my usual Chatty McChatterson state of being upon my return on Sunday. (I'm sure you are waiting with baited breath. Ha.)

Beware the Words of Shakespeare

Double double boil and trouble, the Ides of March are upon us. Friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your years, for I have a tale of woe. If brevity is the soul of wit, then unsex me now so I may accomplish my goal. (OK, that sort of made no sense, but run with me here.)

"If music be the food of love, play on," I thought to myself when I woke up with a hungry look this morning. I headed into the kitchen and while microwaving a mug of water for tea, I thought I should do some dishes and put the dry ones away. "Out damned, spot," I mumbled as I took a gander at a tea-stained mug.

As it is important to rotate the stock so that the same dishes don't always go on the top of the stack and be reused over and over again while the ones at the bottom never see the light of day, I lifted a stack of plates and shoved the clean ones under them. Alas, poor Yorick, this caused 10 little plates to fall.

Hath not a Jew eyes? Yes, and that is why I nearly wept at the broken dishes and shards that covered the kitchen floor. Two plates, gone. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Out with the vacuum while the tea sits getting cold.

(Wherefore art thy Romeo? I didn't want him to come into the kitchen barefoot, lest I missed some sharp pieces. Oh, yeah. He's in Europe for work, not coming back until tomorrow. By then, I'll be away with my sister and brother-in-law, so get thee to a nunnery! At least until we are reunited on Sunday the 23rd.)

When the hurleyburley's done, I finally settled down to eat a chocolate Vitamuffin, a dish fit for the gods. Can one desire too much of a good thing? As I greedily ate the muffin, I managed to smear chocolate everywhere - on the table, the newspaper I was reading, and on myself. As good luck would have it, this mess looked repulsive, but was easy to clean. I went on my merry wives of Windsor way, and so the day goes.

Et tu, Brute? May you have an excellent Ides.

This Just In: Nothing to Report

I thought I'd wait before I blogged today to see if I had any school news. Two of my friends were admitted into the nonfiction writing program (one got a call from the program director waaaaaay back on Feb. 25, the other got a big welcome packet in the mail this past Wednesday), but I have heard bupkes. I've been assuming I'm not in anywhere (I also applied to Hunter College, which called people on Feb. 25), but hoped to find out fer shure, dude, before I took a week to gallivant with my sister and brother-in-law.

My rule of thumb is not to call admissions offices and pester people, as they have a zillion things to do, but since it would suck for poor Husband if he had to call me and tell me about rejections while I am gone, I decided to be proactive. I rang the New School, where the very nice woman told me no decision had been made on my application yet. She said that everything will be finished up next week. Oh well.

Other things that are on my mind:

Good: Girl Scout Cookies. I just picked up a box each of Samoas and Tag Alongs (as they are known in Chicago; in NYC, they call 'em "Caramel deLites" and Peanut Butter Patties). Yum.
Bad: Caramel de"Lites" my ass. Two cookies have 7 grams of fat and 140 calories. Of course I ate three of them, and topped my indulgence off with two of the chocolate peanut butter ones (8 grams of fat, 150 calories). Pants are tight....

Good: Barack Obama's mom, Stanley Ann Dunham Soetoro. I read an article in today's New York TImes about her that made me cry. She sounded like an utterly amazing, fantastic, wonderful, cool person.
Bad: She's not running for president. (In fact, she sadly died of ovarian cancer when she was only 53.)

Just thought I'd share.

The Hardest Work in the World?

If I thought getting through 21 hours of my new job was challenging, I can't imagine what it would be like to work as a prostitute. Generally, even the fanciest ones face severe danger. If a client robs, beats, or rapes you, who are you going to turn to for help? Certainly not the police, as you'd then be arrested for breaking the law yourself. The law makes prostitutes even more vulnerable.

I think prostitution should be legal, and I wrote all about it at BlogHer. Hop over there and take a gander. Think I'm brilliant? Full of shit? (Well, that's sadly literally true, as my digestive system decided to melt down today, but that's another story.) Leave a comment over there and start the discussion: How do you think we can best protect sex workers?

Come for the Reservation, Stay for the Food

Although Husband and I are fortunate to have a very nice life thanks to Husband's chosen profession (which he adores), it's the little things that remind me that I will never truly "make it." While I was eating my microwave breakfast burrito, I noticed a blurb on the front of yesterday's New York Times Dining Out section. It read, "The selling of reservations irks restaurants."

For a second, I stared blankly. What the hell did that mean? Then I realized that it meant that people who scored reservations at choice, top rated restaurants actually find others willing to pay good money to buy their reservation and go eat an expensive, albeit probably excellent, meal.

Shit. I barely ever go to places that require reservations, and only call in advance if I am going out with a large group of family and/or friends. I've never wanted to go somewhere that requires me to call, months in advance, a phone number that will be busy all day. I like good food fine enough, but hand me a plate of mac and cheese, and I'm just as happy. People are weird.

Again?

Wow, it just struck me that I have to go to the same job again today and tomorrow. The best thing about consulting was the variety of settings in which I worked and the different types of work. I'll miss that. The best thing about my former employer (possibly the only good thing) were my co-workers. Until they all quit, and then pretty much everything sucked for 8 months until I finally also left. Then the best thing was the location. The South Bronx is not such a fabulous location, although I do find it interesting. I don't know my co-workers enough yet to look forward to seeing anyone.

OK, so I just gotta get through the next nine hours, then tomorrow, then Friday I get to work for myself on the book. Not to mention sleep for another 40 minutes.

Hope everyone has a joyous day full of happiness, good news, and fun.

What Hit Me?

The first day of the new job was fine. It was about the same as any first day - full of awkwardness trying to figure things out, meeting people, etc. Given that the organization is so grassroots at this moment that they have no fax machine, I was not terribly surprised to learn that they also do not know how to change people's voice mail messages, and as a result people who haven't worked there in years are still on the voice mail. Needless to say, I have no computer log in or email yet. But hey! At least there is email! Once I started some real work, it was good.

Fortunately, I like the people with whom I will work, and the others seem very nice. I was cornered at the end of the day by a nutjob who told me all about how Gov. Spitzer was framed so that the real criminals will get away with their crimes while all the attention is on the sex scandal. Sadly, I found myself silently agreeing with his rant even as I looked around nervously for an escape and backed away.

As if a first day at a new job is not tiring enough, I also signed up to be part of a focus group about Fidelity Investments, which is where I rolled my 401k into an IRA when I left my last job. It paid $150 for two hours (8 pm - 10 pm), so it was hard to say no. I figured I could use the cash for my upcoming trip with my sister and brother-in-law. Let's just say that it was difficult to keep my eyes open at the end there. Still, I am $150 richer for sharing my uninformed opinions on Fidelity's services, so no complaints.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho

Today is the first day of my new job. Nervous.

I'm Alive!

Just in case anyone was worried since I didn't post since I mentioned that my stomach might explode, it didn't. I was just running around like an idiot today, trying to finish articles, grade budgets (one thing I actually finished), take pictures for the book, edit the pictures and ftp them to the publisher, and eat Indian sweets. The last part was not taxing.

As my brother-in-law spruced up the book photos on his computer this evening, I learned that New York State's governor, Eliot Spitzer, who ran on a big reform platform and was formerly the State Attorney General who busted all the corrupt folks on Wall Street, was caught in a federal prostitution sting. It seems that he had a high-priced hooker sent down from NY while he was in DC one night, which is against a 1910 law that prohibits transporting a person across state lines for "immoral" purposes.* There's all kinds of media circus going on around this.

My friend wanted to know why he just couldn't settle for a DC call girl like the other politicians. A former colleague who works in New Jersey sent me an email asking me what was wrong with my governor. "My governor may pay for sex," I replied, "but yours is trying to buy a new Florida primary for his friend Hillary Clinton." I'm not really sure which is worse.

*Honestly, this law scares the crap out of me because I now fear it will be used against people who leave on state to go to another to obtain an abortion, but that's another story.

Feeling Like a Dinosaur

Husband's off to Europe for work. It's very quiet in here, except for the episode of Myth Busters that is blaring from the TV to cover up how quiet it is in here. I'd rank the effectiveness of the TV-blaring strategy as low right now.

I have a stomach ache that could kill a large animal. In fact, it makes me wonder if the dinosaurs did not become extinct because they all ate Uighur (pronounced "way-wooer")* food for a late lunch, then chased it down with an early vegetarian Indian dinner. They had very little brains, after all, as apparently do I.

*Uighurs are "a Muslim Turkic group who historically served as guides along the ancient trade routes," according to Robert Sietsma's Village Voice review of Cafe Kashkar, the restaurant at which I consumed the potentially fatal late lunch. It's in Brighton Beach, a community of Russians and other Eastern Europeans in Brooklyn. I was in the neighborhood with my new bestest friend Roger, who heroically filled in as a photographer for my book at the last minute after my friend Stef got food poisoning. (She did not get food poisoning from Cafe Kashkar, though.)

Uighur cuisine is tasty stuff, but also greasier than my hair when I haven't washed it in three days, which I haven't, but that's another story. I knew I was in for imminent future bad times as I shoveled the slick foods down my gullet, and for no good reason decided to make matters worse by meeting Dr. H for dinner and ordering deliciously rich Indian food (vegetable korma and paneer makhani - mmmmmmm). Assuming I do not explode, I will consider this a lesson learned.

Welcome to the Insect Graveyard

Since we live on the ground floor of our building and our windows look directly out onto the sidewalk, Husband and I never open our curtains. While I would prefer to allow the sun to shine in every once in a while, I also am not cool with people inspecting our fine home as they bop down the street. Two halogen lamps keep our living room brightly illuminated to make up for the lack of natural light and chase away some of the cave shadows that seem to form.

The halogen lamps work very well for us in more than one way. In addition to giving us light, they also appear to annihilate large numbers of winged insects. Recently, as I looked at the lamp while turning it on, I noticed that dozens of insect carcasses filled up the clear plastic piece at the bottom of the light.

While I am glad that my lamp kills flies, the unfortunate part is that the graveyard is below a large metal plate, and hence not possible for me to empty into the trash. Now every time I turn on the lamp, I am forced to look at this grotesque scene and contemplate about mortality. Oh, the conundrum!

Totally Inappropriate Comparison...

Although my dental appointment yesterday was mostly without incident, every time the hygienist accidentally scratched my tender pink gum with the sharp scraper tool while cleaning my teeth, I thought about how utterly awful a coat hanger abortion would feel.

Ouch! Now That's Funny! Ouch! Hilarious!

It takes a great storyteller to make me laugh while a method of torture prohibited in the Geneva Conventions (well, not specifically prohibited, but it fits in with the other methods that are, so I think it is covered) is deployed, but Average Jane sent me a link to a story about a Brazilian wax gone horribly, horribly wrong at Money in a Suit, and I laughed my ass off as I read it. (I also crossed my legs and hunched protectively over my crotch, all while giggling.) The Monkey in a Suit is a fine comedy writer.

While I am not knocking women who choose to undergo Brazilian waxes, I still can't help but wonder whether it is worth the pain. Obviously it is to some, otherwise they wouldn't pay people good money to pour hot wax in their cooter, and I've heard from many women who I very much respect who feel better with a shiny waxed snatch, so I sorta get it. But I also really, really hate unnecessary pain, and really, it seems far less painful to just leave the damn hairs there. My friend Mara did once point out that too much pooter puff could possibly get tangled up or accidentally get yanked while grabbing a tampon string to unplug oneself, thus causing unpleasant ouchiness, but I'm willing to take that risk. Trimming seems reasonable, and also does not carry the potential danger of skin being ripped out, burned, or bruised. (I guess there's a small chance one could get cut, but that my advice would be not to trim while drunk, high, or distracted on the phone to lessen that possibility.)

Pubic hairs strike me as peaceful bystanders in a beauty war. (Again, I do not mean to dis women who hate body hair for whatever reason. I get that you don't like it, just like I don't like how moisturizer feel heavy on my face.) They are just minding their own business, listening to their boss (the body), and suddenly, bam! Hot wax is dumped on the unsuspecting village of fuzz. Craziness.

30 Budgets in 30 Hours

When I agreed to teach a budgeting class at the local university grad center, I was informed that the maximum number of students they would allow to enroll was 15. As an adjunct lecturer, I would be paid for 15 hours of work. Although my scheduled time in the classroom was 14 hours, I felt OK about the one hour of pay for grading because there were only 15 students whose work I'd have to look at. Plus, I was paid separately to develop the curriculum, so although I put much more work into it as thing went along, it seemed fair enough.

Then the program allowed 30 students to enroll. Because it is a set contract amount for adjuncts, no additional pay was accorded for the 100% increase in students. However, this means that I also have a fuckload more budgets to look at and grade. It also means that my eyeballs may fall out from staring at so many numbers. If this is the case, I think I will try to get workers comp. (I don't know why that thought is causing me to laugh maniacally, but it is.)

Husband is leaving for a business trip to Europe (Paris, Rome, Milan, and London) on Sunday. On the 15th, I am going away with my sister and her husband to celebrate my sister's first spring break as a teacher. Husband could not join us due to work, so that sucks, but I am still looking forward to a fun 5 days with my sister. When I visited my parents in Chicago in December, Dana was not able to make it over there from Iowa due to weather conditions, so I have not seen my chicita since October. My hope is that I can finish all these stupid budgets before then, and retain my eyesight at the same time. I guess while Husband is gone, I can do a budget grading marathon. Oh fun times.

Miracles and Non-Miracles

Yesterday, I was offered a part-time program developer job at a small grassroots nonprofit organization in the Bronx! It occurred to me that although I have thus far spent nearly my entire career working with community-based organizations by providing technical assistance and training, I never worked at one. I think this is going to be very interesting. Just as important, the organization does not work in the child care field. Step one away from work that makes me miserable! Hurray!

After my interview, I headed further north in the Bronx to take some pictures of the Lourdes of America shrine for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (Yes, a church built a replica of the miraculous healing grotto in Lourdes, France so that parishioners here can enjoy its superpowers. I love it.) Rain fell from the sky in buckets. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, I get that this is a metaphor.) I worried that I would not get a good shot, but lo and behold, the second I stepped into the church yard, the rain stopped. I snapped away, filled my empty Snapple bottle with miracle water (the same water source that serves all city residents), and went on my way. As I left the churchyard, it began raining like cats and dogs. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, this is a simile.)

Then last night Clinton took Texas and Ohio, giving her the ammo she needs to justify her continued ego trip - I mean, run for the presidential nomination - although it could destroy the Democrats' chance at winning the White House in November by inciting anger, resentment, and bad will all around. I'm not sure how many times I can say this, but damn, I miss Pat Schroeder. What a class act. The thought of a McCain presidency is overwhelmingly depressing, so I will try to not dwell on it.

Perhaps it is time to register for cheese making lessons. This way, I'll at least have some concept of how to fulfill my ridiculous plan B, which is to move to a sheep and goat farm in the UK if the US is subject to four more years of Republican rule. My anxiety is like a bull in a china shop mixing kashi with borscht.

Big Day Ahead

Can Hillary Clinton carry Ohio and/or Texas in today's primary, and live to fight another month? I voted for Obama in the NYS primary, and honestly it will make me sad if Clinton loses today, but I am already sick of this election. The longer this drags on, the more fear overtakes me. I can't deal with another Republican administration. Whatever happens today, I hope that Democrats don't splinter and vote for McCain, which is an insane/scary "my-candidate-didn't-win-so-take-that" conclusion, but something I've heard too many say they would do.

How will my job interview go? I think it will be fine. I'm excited about it. Although I think I'd like this job and would be sad to not get it, I'm oddly more concerned with the primary.

Is it possible for me to take a decent picture of the Lourdes of America shrine at St. Lucy's Church in the Bronx for my book? Given my extremely limited photographic skills, this is the least likely of my questions to have a positive outcome. I'd have a friend photograph the place, but I'll be sort of in the neighborhood anyway for the job interview, so I'll give it a whirl myself. If it doesn't come out well, I can always go back with someone who is actually talented.

Fortunately, I'll have answers to at least some of these thorny questions by the end of the day. Stay tuned for more excitement. [Cliffhanger music playing...]

My Daytime TV Diet

So Des reports that she subsists on a steady diet of game shows while she is unemployed. While I wait for people to call me back on the various projects that I am working on, I devised the following menu of non-online entertainment:

America's Next Top Model reruns on VH1 and MTV

Project Runway reruns on Bravo

America's Best Dance Crew reruns on MTV

From these fine programs, I learn many things. First, Husband's assertion that fashion designers are misogynists is obvious from watching the shit that the designers produce and judges fawn over on Project Runway. The leading designer, Christian, is a young punk who fails every challenge that requires him to work with a real woman (i.e. - a woman who lost weight; a teenage girl) instead of a 9 foot tall model who weighs 84.5 pounds. Even when he doing his "best" work, I stare at it and wonder why any person on earth would wear something that fucked up and weird. I guess fashion is about making women look like fools and idiots.

On America's Next Top Model, I learned that Tyra Banks is hilarious. I also discovered that I will never be a model for several reasons that go beyond my 5'1" frame that carries 125 pounds. My biggest challenge is distinguishing expressions. Tyra is always demonstrating the difference between something like "smiling eyes" and "mysterious eyes," but they look the same to little old me. Further, even if I had the body, looks, and skills, I doubt I could put on the ridiculous outfits that designers create without severe mockery and snickering.

Thanks to America's Best Dance Crew, I discovered that I do not use complementary expressions like, "That is sick!" or "That's tight!," nearly enough. I also saw that my roller skating and gymnastics skills could be developed more. There are no wider social implications from this show, as far as I can tell. It's just fun.

Who says that television is not educational?

Passing on the Stuffing

At a party yesterday, a friend explained how she passed the time at work by researching on the internet how paraplegic men have sex. (Seriously, how on earth did people kill time at work before the internet?) She learned that men with some blood flow to their penises can engage in a practice called stuffing. Stuffing is exactly what it sounds like: cram it in, and hope that there will be some reaction to the action. Sometimes this works; others, there's just some raw genitals at the end.

Before I even discovered stuffing had a name, I realized that I was metaphorically familiar with the practice. For the last few years, I've been trying to forge a career based on it. Each time a job came along that didn't really excite me, I tried to make the pieces fit and hoped that I'd get some satisfaction from it. There were times when he work made me satisfied, but generally I felt tired and sore from the effort.

Last week, the always insightful Maria Niles wrote a post on BlogHer about the benefits of closing doors. The post hit me. How long have I said that I didn't want to work on child care policy any more, only to take every job that came my way because I feared that I would never work again? Too long. If I was serious, I'd need to really close the door on my child care policy career. It would be scary, but it didn't have to be permanent; I could always walk through it again in the future. My skills won't go anywhere, but I'll never fully explore my other options until I move on.

Two days after I had my epiphany, I went to have my fortune read. The tarot card reader told me that I am surrounded by opportunity, but my biggest obstacle to success is myself.

"You like things to happen in a linear fashion," Katie noted, "and the way things are happening now makes you feel insecure. You have to let go to get ahead."

On Friday, when I got a call and email about a consulting job with the city, my first impulse was to take it. What else am I doing now except trying to get pictures for my book about unusual New York, writing an article for Just Cause, blogging at BlogHer, and finishing up an article about termination for an encyclopedia of sex? If I didn't take the job, I could be homeless, starving, and unloved because Husband would get mad that I didn't work. My heart raced. I was standing in front of the door. All I had to do was call the lady at the city back and make the arrangements.

That's when I decided that I didn't want to be stuffed any more. I took Katie's words to heart, and took a deep breath. Husband would not drop me because I said no to a job to which I had reservations. In my mind, I quietly shut the child care door. It felt good.

Happy March!

Just sayin'. I'm going into March like a very nervous lion with a lot of decisions to make (should I hunt now or later? go where the gazelles usually hang out, even though I hate that pasture, or try to find a new place to harvest gazelle meat? maybe I should forget about the gazelles altogether and focus on zebras?), so I hope that I end the month like a very content lamb, albeit not one that has no idea she is about to turn into lamb chops.

God, I love metaphors.

Yogurt Review #3 - The Greek Gods Do Poseidon Proud

While I think it is good to review yogurt and pudding on CUSS, it occurred to me that some food snobs might not want to read a yogurt review on a blog that has "Snatch" in the title. I've been rejected from ad networks and syndication before because of my blog title, and I decided not to compromise CUSS. Hence, from now on, yogurt and pudding reviews will appear at Live Active Cultures, which I hope will evolve into a group blog. (HINT, HINT...)

Just in case you don't feel like clicking over there for today's thoughts on The Greek Gods plain nonfat yogurt, I thought I would share an image with you from the company's website:


They named the yogurt Poseidon, and put up a big wacky image full of pictures of the yogurt cup and the nutrition info. How can you now want to know more about what a yogurt named for Poseidon tastes like?