I Have Proof(s)!

Wow, I really wrote a book! I mean, I knew that I wrote a book and everything, but it's sort of hard for me to picture until the galley is in my grubby hands, which it finally is today.

I've been too busy jumping around and running from room to room squealing, "I've got a book! I've got a book! Motherfucker, I really wrote a book!" to have sat down with it and looked at it closely. However, my preliminary pokes at various pages indicate that it looks cool. And, no matter what I write, I will always cringe when I look at it later and think about a better way I could have said something. Still, super awesome.

Now I just have to figure out how to get the comments on the galley back to the publisher. I suppose this should be obvious, but I've never worked with a proof before. Do I notate my corrections (like forgetting to thank my brother-in-law for helping me get the photos ready to include?) in the margins on the page itself, or do I attach a post it note thingy? Am I supposed to use official proofreader markings, ('cause if so, I better fucking learn them pronto)?

The galley came with no coverletter or any other explanation of the process, so I'll ring the editor tomorrow. For now, I'm going to continue skipping to and from the dining room to the living room, and vice verse. Whooooooeeee! I wrote a book!

Safe Places: Perceptions vs. Reality

Until I left for college, I lived with my family in the uppity northern suburbs of Chicago. When I was an ambitious junior high student, I decided that I wanted to attend Northwestern University, which is only about 15 minutes from the home which my parents purchased six months before I was born. This pleased my parents immensely. However, by the end of my sophomore year of high school, it occured to me that college would be an excellent opportunity to live in another city. I set my sights on Boston, New York City, and Washington, DC.

My dad forbid me to apply to school in New York. While working at a CPA firm in the mid-1980s, he was sent to the City once a year to do an audit for a client. He hated everything about it: the crowds, the dirt and grime, and the crime. Why on earth would he send his precious eldest daughter to Sodom when she could stay in Chicago or go to other nice places, like Boston or DC.

The irony is that by the time I applied to school in the fall of 1993, New York was already one of the safest cities in the world. DC has always had an outrageous murder rate; almost 2/3 of the metropolis were and are significantly more dangerous than New York. But since New York had not shed its image as the Rotting Big Apple, my dad thought that DC was a better place to live.

Today, I work in the South Bronx. Many people continue to associate the area with the arsons, burned out buildings, and air of desperation that pervaded it in the 1970s, when the Yankees played a championship game, Howard Cosell saw fires in the surrounding community and announced that the Bronx was burning. I walk through a housing project to get to my office from the subway (which is actually an elevated train up here, just like in Chicago). I've never felt threatened thus far. Yet, I read on CNN that 15 people were shot and killed in Chicago in the past two weeks. I'm not sure there's been one murder in the entire City of New York in the same time frame. (Probably there was, but I refuse to watch the doom-and-gloom that is the local news, and I didn't notice anything in the Metro section of the Times).

Perceptions and fear play a big role in how we live our lives. Although my childhood community is held up as a paragon of educational excellence, I frequently think about how racism and classism influenced the educational opportunities that were offered to my best friend, who has half Dominican, versus me, who lived on the "wrong side of the highway (as did my BF)," versus the wealthier kids. When people say that they are afraid to go to Israel because of terrorism, I think about how my friend from high school moved to Israel after college. While she was back in the US for a visit with her Israeli boyfriend, the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center flew over her head as she boarded a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. It is the only terrorist attack she ever experienced; her boyfriend said he would never return to the US because it was too dangerous here. When people in Europe hear that I am from Chicago, they ask me about Al Capone.

In a media saturated culture, it is hard to get away from perceptions. I found that it took me years to really understand New York, and now I am scared of the dark empty sidewalk of the subrubs when I visit my parents. How do you decide where to go and what to do?

More Terms for Today's Equation

Tack these terms onto my previous equation for a new sum:

+ Irrational lunatics
+ Unseasonable cold
- It is not Monday
----------------------------------
Ready to stab someone

It All Adds Up to Extra Crabbiness with a Side of Bitch

Today's equation:

Had less than 6 hours of sleep Sun. night
+ Did not sleep well last night
+ Ragging it
+ Raining outside
+ Sitting in my cell (tiny office with no natural light, although there is an interior window missing glass that looks into the hallway where people congregate near the photocopier, printer, and shredder)
+ Performing menial data entry tasks that are boring
+ Nervous about book (supposed to receive galley last Friday; now hoping it'll be tomorrow)
+ Anxious about wait list
__________________________

Exceptionally crabby and on edge

Learning to Be a Compassionate Conservative

For my 7th grade social studies enrichment project, I devised a board game about homelessness. The game was inspired by an article I read in People magazine about four or five people and how they became homeless. Using only their real life stories, people went around the board and tried to find a permanent place to live. I even cut out the people's pictures from the magazine and made them into the men.

After playing the game for a little while, several of my fellow "gifted" classmates became frustrated by all the bad luck that happened on each turn. Just when they thought they were making progress, there would be some set back, again, based on the real life stories told in the article.

"How do you win?" one guy demanded to know.

I frowned. "I don't think it's possible."

"This is the dumbest game ever," he sneered. "I quit."

And that is the type of "compassionate" conservatism that pervaded the community I grew up in. People refused to believe that not everyone was born into an advantaged situation, and thus if they were homeless, it was their fault. Plus, if only someone worked hard enough, they would be fine.

Granted, we were only in junior high, so I can't entirely fault my classmates for their naivety. At the same time, I seemed able to grasp the concept and as one of the dumbest smart people in my school, I barely was admitted into the gifted program, so I'm not sure why the "best and the brightest" were unable to wrap their little minds around the idea that society really screws some people. Now might be a good time to point out that Donald Rumsfeld grew up in that area, so perhaps it is a collective willful stupidity that only a few of us are fortunate enough to avoid.

And, with that little commentary, I am off to get an offensively expensive hair cut.

Something's Fishy in Here

A good general rule of thumb is to be wary of "fresh fish" in areas in that are not near bodies of water (other than polluted rivers). Disregarding this nugget of wisdom on Saturday, Steph, Husband, and I headed to a sushi restaurant for lunch at the King of Prussia Mall. Right in the entryway was a large fish tank:



I had a difficult time using Husband's camera phone, so in case the contents of the tank are not obvious from this blurry shot, I'll enumerate: those ain't fish. The tank is instead filled with empty bottles of alcohol. (This had no bearing on my poor camera skills, by the way.) Despite this glaring warning to turn back, we asked for a table for three. Here's Steph eagerly awaiting her bento box:



Isn't she adorable? Miraculously, none of us got food poisoning, and somehow the sushi was even OK tasting.

While waiting for my fishy meal, I did some math. I learned about the King of Prussia Mall and decided I must visit this enormous paean to shopping someday when I was approximately 16 years old and working at Chiron Publications. (A bookstore that seems to no longer be there frequently special ordered exciting titles like In the Ever After or Uncursing the Dark for customers, and I processed the orders.) Currently, I am 32. This means that it took me exactly half of my life to achieve my goal and go to this mall. I don't know if that is impressive or pathetic, but I can't say that I felt I accomplished anything important on my trip. It was fun, though.

Hate Clinton? Hate Obama? McCain is Not the Solution in November

Lately I've been extremely distressed by statements made from people who I respect and love. I partially blame this on the vile campaigns run by the Democrats these days (and in particular, quite frankly, the Clinton camp) as they use cut-and-burn methods to secure the party's nomination. Whichever candidate you currently support, hear this: if that candidate does not become the Democrat on the ballot in November, thus prompting you to vote for McCain (or as bad, not vote at all), I will doubt your sanity and/or commitment to fairness, equality, and justice.

Personally, I loathe Hillary Clinton. Ever since she ignored my advice to return to our mutual past home state of Illinois and run for Senate there to fill a Republican seat instead of heading to our mutual current home state to run for Senate, she has made decisions that lead me to question what her values really are. (OK, to be accurate, the first question marks were raised in my mind when she backed Pres. Clinton's stupid welfare reform bill.) Increasingly, I suspect that she would trade away almost anything in order to gain power.

Yet. If she is the Democratic nominee in November, I will vote for her. She is intelligent and thoughtful, and while I don't entirely trust her, I certainly believe that she is a better candidate for the country than John McCain. McCain does not support reproductive rights; he wants to cut taxes for the rich (again - although we've seen what a fucking failure that is in terms of our budget and economy); he'll stay in Iraq until pigs fly (and Muslims and Jews eat flying pig pork) rather than find alternate solutions; and he thinks it is perfectly OK to pay women less than men as long as we get more education and training. Even if you are somehow brainwashed into thinking that McCain is better for Israel than either Democrat (let's be real - Bush has done Israel no favors and probably made the situation worse for average Israelis, and no politician is going to abandon the only democracy in the middle east), you have to admit that neither of them support unequal pay for equal work.

Forget your delusions. If you vote for McCain (or don't vote at all), you are voting against your interests. Bah.

The Legendary Mall of King of Prussia, PA

Until I was old enough to get a real job, I relied on babysitting to generate some cash flow, but it wasn't my preferred way to earn dough for my mall excursions. In much the same way I looked forward to putting my charges to bed so I could be free to watch TV or talk on the phone, I was eager to get a real job and start contributing to Social Security so I could retire. Even before my first job, I knew that working sucked.

A few months before I turned 16, I registered with the Village of Wilmette's youth employment program, WilWork. (And now that I write that, it makes me think of the propagandistic names for welfare-to-work programs, which is creeping me out, but I digress.) One of the employment notices WilWork sent me (through snail mail! Man, them's days were primitive...) was for an office worker at Chiron Publications, a Jungian psychology publishing company. It paid slightly above minimum wage, was right off the public bus line that went by my high school, and seemed like a far more interesting opportunity than working at a fast food joint - or babysitting. I called immediately to set up an interview.

Long story already too long, I got the job. My duties were too process orders for their various bizarre-o titles, type up invoices in triplicate (seriously!), package the books, and send them to the buyers. Many of these orders came from a bookstore located in the King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania. This was one of the largest malls in the country, and I became fascinated with it. "Some day," I thought to myself gazing out of the office window at the el station across the street, "I shall visit this mall, and see what riches it offers."

Years passed. When I became friends with Steph in college, who originated in PA, I learned that the King of Prussia Mall was every bit as fantastical as I imagined. Yet I still did not visit. Until today, when Husband and I are taking Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and motoring out to meet Steph in the Promised Land. She said we will eat in various food courts and gaze upon wondrous quantities of merchandise. It'll be a dream come true.

Cue the Eerie Music

My email in-box had a very nice email in it this morning from a woman who read on one of the various MFA forums that I obsess over that I was wait listed at the New School for non-fiction. She is also a non-fiction wait listee. I instantly felt less alone as I read Catherine's email (for no good reason, I was convinced that I was the only non-fiction applicant who was not immediately accepted), and checked out her blog, A Fly on the Wall. Cool stuff, plus her last entry was about poached eggs and hot cocoa. Hello! I love me some poached eggs and hot cocoa.

After my email checkings and various bloggings, I headed downtown to buy a discount suitcase at the infamous Century 21 department store, a place that I swore I would never shop at again because it is owned by crazy Syrian Jews who look down upon Askenazi Jewish riff raff like me who cannot prove our Jewish lineage because everyone was fucking killed in the Holocaust. (I read this last year in a New York Times Magazine cover story that I cannot find a link to at the moment.) I probably shouldn't have to show birth records signed by rabbis going back three generations to prove that I am Jewish because I went to Century 21 anyway because they have the best prices on luggage. If that is not a Jewish trait, sue my Katubah maker.

Anyway, while I was downtown, I decided to eat at Little Lad's Basket, a vegan cafeteria in the basement of a fancy office building near Wall St. that is run by Seventh Day Adventists from Maine. I love that place because it is cheap, and full of interesting characters. Generally, the tables are bustling with hippies, Muslims, Jews who keep kosher, Hindis, and random office workers. Today, it was empty due to Passover and the fact that I arrived just before it closed. Nothing was left on the buffet, though. I grabbed on of their oddly addictive bags of "herbal" popcorn, and went elsewhere for nourishment.

When I got home several hours later, I had an email from a nice woman named Kat who found CUSS while googling images of egg poachers. She also asked if I could provide the exact address for Little Lad's Basket, which she learned about from the blog.

Woooooooo.....

Deep, Dark Secret #439: I Don't Read Books

OK, so my title is slightly misleading. I do read books, but not nearly as many as I should. In recent years, I became super lazy and spent most of my reading time on magazines, newspapers, and blogs. While I believe that many of these sources have superior writing (well, not newspapers - it's fucking pathetic how awful news reporting is these days), they also are not providing me with models for what makes a good book with a plot, which I hope to write some day.

Fortunately, my friend invited me to join her book club a few years ago, so I've read one quality book about every month or so. As it became clear to me that learning to write is not just done in writing workshops, I decided that I should make an effort to read more books to see what works and what doesn't. In the past few weeks, I found that the best-selling memoir A Girl Called Zippy by Haven Kimmel is nothing more than a few short essays sort of strung together; that some of the most best character development can take place in "trashy" popular fiction, as I adored Bangkok 8 by John Burdett (its sequel, Bangkok Tattoo, is not quite as good); and that I still believe that The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson is a masterpiece of creative non-fiction.

One of the things I most dreaded about MFA programs was the mandatory literary criticism coursework. This is both because I am an intellectual slacker at times, and also because I am afraid that such coursework will demonstrate that I am, in fact, a clueless idiot. Now that I better understand the value of dissecting books to learn from them as opposed to just enjoying them while I read (or worse, skim), I hope that I get into a program so that I can challenge myself with this work.

If I am not accepted off the wait list at New School, my plan is to apply to low residency programs (basically, you live at home, and twice a year for two weeks, you attend intensive on-campus seminars, workshops, and lectures, then are assigned a mentor with whom you develop a contract; you go home, do your reading and writing, and correspond with your mentor) that emphasize reading as well as writing. Probably I should have applied to low residency programs when I also applied to New School and Hunter last fall, but I stupidly did not do so.

Anyhow, if anyone has any suggestions for well-crafted books, I'm all ears.

Setting the Medical Community Straight

"Suzanne, listen," Bubbe intoned when I called her this evening to see how she felt after her routine cataract surgery yesterday, "the doctor told me that I got diabetes from depression when Michael died."

Michael was my grandpa. "No, Bubbe. Depression doesn't cause diabetes," I explained.

"Yes! That's what the doctor told me. That's how your dad and I got diabetes."

"Um, I think you may have misunderstood what he was saying," I suggested.

"No, he told me this."

"Depression does not cause diabetes," I insisted.

"No? Well maybe the doctor doesn't know this," she said. I pictured the look of smug satisfaction on her wrinkled face, and gave in.

"Whatever you say."

Grow a Happy Bunny

My mother-in-law gave me a Grow a Happy Bunny toy when I was at her house for Passover on Saturday. (How I love that little innocent-looking asshole rabbit!) Thanks to my gutter-mind, the instructions make me fall down laughing:

"It will begin to grow within 2 hours and will be full size in 72 hours. When removed... it will slowly shrink back to its original size. Your grow item can be grown again and again! For Entertainment Purposes Only. Not for consumption."

Sounds just like the instructions for Viagra during its testing period!

Belated Earth Day Plea for Bush Conservation

Yesterday Count Mockula sent me a link to a pair of "Stop Deforestation" knickers. Those Brits are so cheeky! (Ha ha.) Unfortunately, at $2 to the £1, these undies would deforest my wallet. (Even without the awful exchange rate, I am way too cheap to buy $25 underwear, even if they are adorable and "crack" me up. Oh, me with the puns - my fake mustache is quaking with laughter...)

I Shot the Sheriff

But I did not shoot the deputy.

This is the kind of wackiness that may or may not take place at a cooking party thrown by Hot Pot, my brother-in-law's new business. Husband says that I look just like a sheriff from the Wild West. I am so going to invest in some Wild West Sheriff Gear and kick off my new career as a drag king. I believe that I have truly found my calling.

People Make My Eyes Bleed, But Goats Rock

Seriously, I love me some crazies. Who would I mock if there were no nutters around?

On a more cheerful note, I bought some goat milk yogurt at the grocery store this afternoon. It comes in all kinds of interesting flavors, and I chose apricot mango over cranberry orange for my first. The anticipation is killing me. As a Capricorn, it could be like a homecoming of sorts. Or something. In the meantime, I've reviewed three different flavors of sheep's milk yogurt, and Count Mockula wrote about some awesome yogurts, too, at Live Active Cultures.

In Defense of Gefilte Fish

Stop making those retching noises! One of my favorite things about Jewish holidays is the opportunity to indulge in gefilte fish. I realize that I am the only person below the age of 50 who enjoys this delicacy, but that is because my generation generally was forced to eat gefilte fish from a can or jar. That is truly nasty, vile, and disgusting shit, and it has as much to do with gefilte fish as potted meat food product does with steak.

In truth, gefilte fish resembles pate more than an actual fish. It is a ball of ground up whitefish, carp, and/or pike, mixed with salt, pepper, and onions. The recipe deviates a bit depending on which part of Eastern European it is made. Some people add sugar, others add beets, and still others might throw in some ground carrots and parsnip. Whichever derivation is used, the resulting fish ball should be sweet, and not covered in gelatinous goop. (This is exactly where the foul canned or jarred fish goes very, very wrong.)

Back in the olden days, when I was a young girl growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, we spent all the Jewish holidays at my grandparents' apartment. My bubbe cooked for days on end to prepare the feasts. Since I was lucky and only was served homemade gefilte fish, I never understood why people thumbed their noses at the humble dish. Then I got out to New York and was served something from a jar. If someone was unfortunate enough to believe that this was what the dish was supposed to taste like, hatred of gefilte fish made total sense.

At my in-law's Passover dinner on Saturday, they served gefilte fish freshly made at the fish counter of the local grocery store. (At least I think that is where my mother-in-law said it came from; she may have said a Jewish deli.) It was moist, sweet, and free of gelatinous goop. Delicious!

Springtime is For Shearing Sheep and Women

I posted an essay about shaving my legs and arm pits over at BlogHer today. It's one of the best essays I think I've written in a while. (It's weird how the MFA application process sapped my writing inspiration and abilities for a few months.) Synopsis: When I was young and idealistic, I didn't shave my legs or arm pits as a political statement and way to rebel again patriarchal beauty standards. Now that I am old and cynical, I don't shave my legs or arm pits because I am lazy, but this makes me embarrassed in public, so now I am stuck with the razor during the revealing months of spring and summer. Good times.

Whatever Floats Your Boat

"Where you going with that magazine?" I asked Husband as he walked down our small hallway holding a Business Week.

"I'm putting it in the rack in the bathroom," he replied.

"Oh, so that's what you jerk off to in there!" I teased, while nodding in a serious manner. "Makes sense."

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

My Adoration is Fickle

I still think The Biggest Loser is an entertaining program. It also provides some good advice on healthy eating and exercise. Watching severely obese people take control of their lives and become healthier individuals also continues to be inspiring. However, I am distressed by the amount of weight people lost and how quickly it happened. What's the message?

Dramatic lifestyle changes at the show's ranch aside, I understand that people with significant amounts of weight to lost may find that moderate changes can produce big results quickly. But plateaus definitely hit all of us, and I'm not sure that show portrays that enough. I also think that it underplays how much time contestants spend exercising, which may give viewers false hopes. My suspicion is that most of the audience is like me, and doesn't have four or five hours to spend exercising every day.

Further, in the second to last episode of this season, the contestants already lost enormous amounts of weight. At that point, it is no longer healthy or normal to lose over 6% of one's body weight in a week. That is a lot of fucking weight for people who are in decent shape. (In season 3, which I just saw in re-runs, the final four lost half of that - about 3% - in their final week on the ranch, which seems more reasonable.) And how does muscle get counted? If healthy people replace fat with muscle, they look better, but weigh more. The winner of The Biggest Loser is determined solely by what percent of one's body weight is lost.

I've been stewing over this for a few reasons. First, I would gladly way more if it was due to increased muscle mass. I seem to have lost some of my muscle tone in the last few months, and although my weight is pretty constant, my gut is hanging out way more. Give me a few more pounds if it'll pull me in. (Yes, I know this won't happen unless I start doing stupid crunches again.)

Watching the show also made me realize that from 1997-1999, I lost 25% of my body weight. Since I did it through small adjustments in my life that were pretty sustainable, it took two years. (In fact, a few nights ago, I asked Husband if he could remember how we used to eat before we lost weight, as I cannot remember at all what a typical meal was like. I suspect it involved a lot more dessert, but he could not pinpoint the many changes we made, either.) I think that sounds about right for most people.

I don't begrudge anyone who can lose weight faster, or the show for promoting rapid weight loss. I do hope that people who want to change their lives realize that doing it at home and on their own is likely to take a long time, and that they should not give up. When I first joined a gym 11 years ago, I was sure that it would only last for a little while. Yet here I am today, still going regularly, and maintaining a consistent weight for over 8 years.

That's my 2 cents on this topic.

If the Moon is Made of Green Cheese, Mars is Chocolate, Nougat, and Caramel

The New School logo on the small envelope jumped out at me when I reached into our mail slot to gather today's haul of junk mail.

"Alright, so I'm rejected," I thought to myself as I grabbed it. "At least I can eat the fucking Mars bar already."

I decided to open it in the hallway of the building. This was not such a great idea, as when I read, "I am happy to inform you that you have been wait listed for the concentration in Nonfiction for the Fall 2008 semester," I started jumping up and down. Had someone turned the corner, I might have knocked her over. I skipped through the lobby. At least I didn't squeal until I went into my apartment and shut the door.

Next order of business: attack Mars. Sure, I technically still have no idea if I'll be attending an MFA program in the fall (the wait list is active until June 30), but I wasn't outright rejected. A celebration of caramel, chocolate, and nougat was definitely in order. Especially after I ate a little sandwich bag that I packed with baby carrots, then noticed the insect in it as I was throwing the "empty" baggie away. Healthy is, like, sooooo overrated. And, according to the Mars bar wrapper, Mars bars are, "Suitable for Vegetarians," so everyone except those uptight vegans can indulge. :) Mmmmmm....

Now, back to waiting.

It's a Mystery

Why would a community health organization offer orange juice (but not water) as a refreshment at a course on how diabetics can take better care of themselves?

Mars is in Sight...

Thanks to my lack of sleep last night, I am on edge and jittery today. I couldn't stand it any more and called New School's admission office a few minutes ago even though I emailed them yesterday inquiring about my status. Although the nice guy who answered the phone could not tell me what the decision was, he did verify that my file came back to the admissions office yesterday, so I should find out soon. Hopefully, their office will process whatever it is quickly. If I can eat my Mars bar by Saturday afternoon, that would be nice.

Happy Book News

Last night I had dinner with a friend who mentioned some potential copyright issues regarding Off the Beaten (Subway) Track that I've been worrying about for a few months in the far recesses of my frazzled mind. In fact, the worry was so distant (but gnawing) that I forgot about it until I was falling asleep tonight, and then I couldn't sleep because I got so nervous. I am sure that everything will work out fine in the end, as it usually does, but it's my nature to freak out for the most part.

While I was pondering the vastness of the universe, I decided to google the book and see if anything new appeared. And goodness gracious, I was delighted to discover that it is now for sale at Barnes & Noble! It's been on Amazon and a few other fine internet establishments for a few months now, but man, I feel like it's the super big times now! (I'm only slightly curious as to why it is not available at Barnes & Noble until July 28, which is 4 weeks later than Amazon's date of July 1, but I'm not going to think too much about that right this moment. I swear...)

Since I can't wake Husband up to share the exciting news with him, I am glad that I have my e-buddies and the internets to tell. And, anyone who will be in New York City on August 9th is invited to my book party. Just let me know, and I'll get you the details. I think that the fine day of filing and data entry that I have ahead of me (count down: 8 hours until blast off) will go by a bit faster while I think about being an author who has a book for sale at both Amazon and Barnes & Noble. So cool.

NOTHING PISSES ME OFF MORE

There is probably nothing that pisses me off more than people comparing non-genocidal situation to the Holocaust. On CNN.com, women from the invaded polygamous fundamentalist cult in Texas made the following sick, dementing, and ignorant juxtaposition:

But the women on the YFZ ranch say they're being treated like Jews during the Holocaust.

"We have been persecuted for our religion," Kathleen said. "We are being treated like the Jews were when they were escorted to the German Nazi camps."

Really? Were you sent to a forced labor camp? Are you being starved? Were your children killed in front of your very eyes as you plead for their lives? Are you and your spouses and children being gassed to death or forced to line up naked by a pit so that you can be shot into a mass grave?

No? Then guess the fuck what? You are not being treated like Jews, gypsies, or homosexuals during the Holocaust. You are not in Darfur. If I had even an ounce of sympathy for you (as it is awful to have children taken away), there is nothing left but severe disgust. Fuck you and your false sense of victimization. And even though I disagree with your demented submissive lifestyle, I truly hope that you never know what it feels like to be a victim of genocide.

I've said it once, and I'll say it as often as I have to: statements like this demean the true meaning of genocide. The Holocaust (or any similar situation) should never, under any circumstances, be invoked unless there are actually people being hunted down and killed for their ethnicity/religion.

Re-Thinking My Incompetence, Or Other People Suck Much Worse Than Me

Every time I go to perform my glorified clerical duties at my newish job, I wonder what the hell happened to me.

In January 2002, I began a new job in which I planned a program to bring capital and technical assistance to community groups and early childhood programs around the City. When I was hired for that job, I wondered what the fuck the agency was thinking in bringing on a 25 year old to do this work. Then I remembered that I had three years of experience in that niche field, which was more or less three years more than any other likely candidate, so it made sense. Long story short, I fucked some shit up along the way, but mostly did a very good job developing and implementing the program before I burned out due to challenges to my sanity that were both internal (like money being stolen from my program and used for another, but I'm not still bitter or anything...) and external (like early childhood education is public priority #1,209,988, if that...) to the office.

In the olden days of my rough and tumble child care work, I often felt like an incompetent fool. Not the most incompetent fool around (I encountered enough people who made me wonder how they managed to tie their shoes, let alone do any work), but still a person who had a lot of things to learn. I tried to absorb as much as I could from mentors and colleagues. I also tried to acknowledge to myself that I was good at some stuff, although I semi-failed at that task.

Which brings me to the present day. As I sort through the clusterfuck of a mess of a data collection project, I realize that I may still make mistakes, but damn, compared to my predecessor, I am a model of competence, efficiency, and common sense. I even tell funny jokes (usually to myself, as I tend to work alone) while I fix shit. Go me and my non-profit management skill set! Now, if only that would help me get into an MFA program. (Still no word and hence, no Mars bar eating.)

Who's on First? No, Really...

A few summers ago, I swore that I was finished with the Chicago Cubs. The team broke my heart too many times, and I was determined to end the cycle of baseball fan abuse once and for all. Despite my pledge, I half-heartedly cheered for them in the playoffs last summer. Since I didn't follow them all season and had no idea who the players were, I was only half-committed to rooting them on, it didn't bother me when they were (predictably) quickly eliminated. Plus, I had emotionally exhausted myself watching the Mets - my new top team - self-destruct before the playoffs even arrived, squandering a season-long lead. The Cubs' defeat was nothing.

This baseball season marks the 100th anniversary of the Cubs' last World Series victory. Although I am convinced that any future Cubs World Series glory marks the coming of the Apocalypse, I think I am going to again pay attention to the team. There's some good potential there. (We all know where this is headed. Hit it, Elivs: the Heartbreak Hotel...) I viewed the end of yesterday's game, in which the Cubs blew a two run lead over Philly, but won it in the 10th. I hadn't the foggiest idea who the hell was on the field other than Derek Lee, who I at first failed to recognize, but it was fun to watch.

However, my commitment to two teams is going to cause my brain to explode. It is hard for me to learn so many names, and as it is, I am overwhelmed with remembering who the new Mets players are. (LoDuca is out; Schneider is in - or is it Church who is catching? No, Church is in the outfield replacing someone, maybe Millege? And where did Pagan come from?) Next step is to learn to connect the names to the faces, which is extremely difficult for me. If I am truly going to get back into the Cubs this year, that means I also have to learn their team from scratch. It's like taking on a full time job.

Fortunately, Husband is patient with my limitations, and no matter how many times I ask who's on first, Husband reminds me of the guy's whole back story. As any true fan knows, baseball sometimes requires sacrifices to be made.

Now That's the Life

I love that Tycho, our 13 lb. rabbit, no longer even bothers getting up before he eats. He just lays on the floor and cranes his neck into his food dish. We should all be able to take it so easy.

Misused Penis Cream Can Lead to Big Fingers

The good thing about watching too much reality programming on TV is that the ads are exceptionally worthy of mocking. First, I tore into a Bounty ad depicting a woman wiping up a jizz-like substance from a door mat. While my initial criticism was aimed at the fact that the woman cleaned up spilled pop while her lazy husband and son stood around staring at the mess one of them made, in the back of my mind, I wondered how the hell a puddle of splooge wound up on the door mat. Thanks to a Maxoderm ad I saw yesterday afternoon, I now know.

Maxoderm is a cream that supposedly gives guys bigger dicks. The couple in the ad beamed and grabbed at each other as the husband boasted that his wife bought Maxoderm for him. She then leered at the camera, purring about what a BIG difference it's made. Wink, wink. They practically cum on the spot.

Now, why this guy is not insulted that his wife would give him such a product is beyond me. I think it would hurt his feelings as much as it would if he bought me cream to make me grow bigger tits. When I asked him what he would do if I gave him Maxoderm, Husband claimed that if I bought some for him, he'd first smear it on his finger to see what would happen. "If it fell off, I'd know not to use it," he told me, nodding.

However, I learned from the Maxoderm site that the results would not be the same on a finger as a penis. Why not? Because, "A relaxed penis has less oxygen than any other organ." If that's the case, can you imagine how big Husband's finger would get from his experiment? It's be crazy. He could poke an eye out from across a room; steal a purse while at the other end of a subway car. I could boast to every that my husband has the biggest... finger. Amazing!

Gnus (Not News)

I still have no news on the MFA thing, so I thought I'd post a picture of gnus instead. Until I searched for a photo of gnus, I didn't realize what strange-looking beasts they are. Supposedly, all decisions at New School will be made by April 15, so perhaps I shall soon have some news to go along with the gnus. I better get in, as I have some great ideas for my candy bra picture, and the deal is that I only eat a candy bra if I get into a creative writing program.

Is that a Teledildronic Device in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

(Diagram from Gizmodo.)

The more I learn about people, the more I want to become a hermit. At BlogHer, I wrote about a guy who invented his own robot girlfriend. While "Alice" can consent to having sex with "Zoltan," it seems that dancing the horizontal tango with a robot involves something called a teledildronic device. Sigh. At least Alice doesn't have to wipe up Zoltan's jizz afterward.

Stay Away from the Pole, Old Lady

"I'm thinking of having my book party at New York City Fire Museum," I told my mom on the phone tonight.

"Really? Will there be one of those calendar firemen there?" she inquired.

"The space does come with a retired firefighter to show people around."

"Can we ask him if we can slide the fire pole?" she asked innocently.

"Why don't you ask him in a sleazy way?" I laughed. "I'm sure he'd love that."

My mom laughed so hard she could barely talk. "No, I'll have Grandma ask that in a sleazy way."

Since we both know that she would do that, we nearly laughed ourselves into asthma attacks.

Even My Sentences are Running!

There's a Mars bar waiting for me on my kitchen counter. It's been waiting patiently for me since I brought it back with me from London on March 23. I decided that I would eat it when I know whether or not I will be attending an MFA program in the fall. The Mars bar is getting lonely.

I'd like to know what is going on for the fall, and to eat this delicious, chocolatey, caramel treat. (British Mars bars kick the asses of the American version. They are more like a super extra smooth and tasty 3 Musketeers, which is my favorite American mass market candy bra. Mars bars are even better than 3 Musketeers.) However, somehow between my eating trip to London, my non-stop snacking thanks to anxiety, and my lax attendance at the gym (coupled with lazy workouts when I did manage to roll myself there), I am not fitting into my clothes very well. As in, pants are mad tight, and shirts clearly highlight my pot belly.

This all brings me to The Biggest Loser, which is an oddly compelling reality show about extremely overweight people trying to lose weight. Last week, the first time I tuned in this entire season (although there were only 3 left - better late than never!), people were sobbing their eyes out when they had to vote someone out for merely gaining a pound. (He lost over 100!) It was touching and weirdly inspiring. Not as inspiring as when Alex came to visit me recently, got me to run outside for the first time in forever, and then invited me to take part in a team triathlon with her (I'll run, she'll swim, and her friend will bike - playing on all our strengths), but uplifting enough for me to write a run-on sentence.

Best.Gynegology.Practice.Ever.

Steph is visiting her grad school stomping grounds in Chapel Hill, NC these days, and called me with some urgent news.

"Hey!" she yelled into the phone when I picked it up. "While I was eating at Mama Dipps, I saw the greatest t-shirt."

"Yeah? What's that?" I inquired, turning away from a rerun of Law & Order.

"It said 'Cooter's Garage,'" she chortled.

"Hmmm... next time I need my engine repaired, that sounds like a good place to go," I replied.

And that's when I realized that if I were an OB-GYN (like my friend Dr. H), I would so name my practice Cooter's Garage. Services offered on all models.

Proper Storage of the Juices Extracted from Grapes

At the wine tasting birthday party I attended last Saturday, the sommelier was very clear about the proper way to store wine: away from heat. Of course, this is logical, but Husband and I have kept our collection of extremely inexpensive wine (no bottle under $12!), underneath a excellent turquoise leather chair that we obtained at a street sale for $25. This chair is right next to the radiator that pumps out large quantities of steamy, hot air from approximately October to May. One day we may get around to installing the $10 wall wine rack we bought at Ikea in January, so I wanted to preserve the moment.

What is important to me about our current system for storing the juice extracted from grapes is that it is almost identical to that implemented by my parents when I was growing up. We always bought gallon cans of generic grape juice (white label with black stencils reading "GRAPE JUICE"). These cans were then carefully lined up against the kitchen wall, underneath the table. Inevitably, several cans were stacked next to the heating vent. My sister and I swear that those batches of juice were extra-pungent.

Continuing family tradition is important. Just as I am sad that my parents no longer buy large cans of generic grape juice and store them next to the heat, I will miss our heated wine cellar in New York. As for visitors to my home, until we break with tradition, I suggest carefully inquiring as to the storage status of the bottle if I offer you a glass of wine.

Enter the Time Machine with Me!

Husband's flight back from Nice was not due until late last night, so I decided to wander around the damp, but pleasantly warmish, city in the evening. Driven by cravings for chocolate covered caramel popcorn, I violated my principals and wandered into Times Square. (Ever since luxurification hit my neighborhood, the fancy popcorn store lost its lease - along with the vegetarian restaurant and the wacky dish shop - so that some ginormous fancier eatery could take over four store fronts, and the only remaining popcorn shop is on Broadway and 48th Street.)

Times Square is an area to be avoided at all costs. Not because it is criminally dangerous (at the popcorn store, I discovered that I had been wandering around with my backpack open and my wallet in view of everyone, and no one touched it, which I think would not have been the case even 10 years ago), but rather because it is packed with tourists. Now, there is nothing wrong with tourists. I love that they come to New York in droves and stay in hotels with very high occupancy taxes, go to shows, eat at restaurants, and buy things, thus helping to fill our dwindling city coffers. However, I hate that they don't know how to walk. It's not their fault. People from other parts of the country drive everywhere, so are not used to it. Since Times Square really belongs to the tourists, and I hate mowing them down while I try to get where I need to be, I do my best to avoid Times Square.

Still, the craving was overpowering, so after walking in the street to avoid the throngs of people casually standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I get to the popcorn shop. A woman is ordering at the counter. Three other women are standing in the middle of the store, not quite in line, but not clearly not in line either. I get behind them.

"Ew, it smells like popcorn in here!," shrieks Woman #1 as she covers her face with her coat.

"What's that buzzing noise?" Woman #2 yells as a batch of popcorn signals that it is ready to be removed from the giant popping vat.

I decide that they are not, in fact, in line, and move around them to stand behind the woman paying for her package of deliciousness. She leaves, and I move up to the counter.

"Wow, she means business!" Woman #3 casually reports to her friends behind me. "She just walked right up to the counter and ordered!"

"Yes, because that is what you do in store," I wanted to inform her, but instead purchase a single serving of chocolate covered caramel popcorn. (This is a new product, which I get to avoid overeating, but unfortunately it is pre-packaged and not quite as good, so the craving is only 3/4 as satisfied.) I leave to walk home and catch the Mets game.

The game is slated to start at 7:30, and I flick on the TV at 8:15. Mets are tied to San Francisco, 2-2. I don't notice what inning it is until Billy Wagner, the Mets reliever, comes on in the 9th when the score is tied 3-3. This is odd because it is only 8:54. How the hell did the game move so fast?

I keep watching, screaming at the TV when bad shit goes down and clapping when Wagner strikes out the side. Then the Mets are up, and Paul LoDuca hits a double. Now I am really confused. Paul LoDuca is no longer with the Mets. What the fuck is going on here? I check out the Mets home page. It says that due to heavy rain, the game against the Braves in Atlanta was canceled.

Yes, I'd been watching a re-run from last summer all along. I'm not sure how the "UltiMets Classics" logo that flashed every time there was a commercial break did not tip me off to this, but my cluelessness strikes again. Lesson learned: Times Square can lead to time warps. I must remain alert.

The Price is Right, But Who Cares?

Between running down to the basement to do laundry and vacuuming, I'm half-watching The Price is Right. My sister and I utterly adored this show when we were kids. As interactive viewers, we were not content with merely shouting advice at the TV's contestants. We also pretended that we were related to them.

"Bid $600 on the washing machine!" we'd yell at little white haired ladies. "Yay Grandma!"

Today, I'm not nearly as involved. It helps that Drew Carey is not such an inspiring host. In addition, it occurred to me a few years ago that most of the prizes are complete fucking crap that no one needs, and most likely does not even have space for in their homes. One of the Showcase Showdown packages included a cafe-style cappuccino machine and a spa/whirlpool thing that seats 4-6. The pudgy guy who was forced to bid on it managed to look excited, which I think likely makes him an excellent actor. Cast that man in a TV show or movie, pronto! That man has talent!

Watching The Price is Right back in the day when Plinko was new, my sister and I dreamed of someday attending the show. Now I know this will never happen. Even if I did get on, there is no way I could pretend to want a grand piano. The producers likely try and avoid contestants who would make faces, and say, "No thanks," although I think California law allows game show winners to take the cash equivalent instead of the prize. If that is the case, I'd jump up and down, shriek, and giggle. I gotta pay to do my laundry some way, you know. ($11.20 for four loads!!!)

My Bounty on Bounty

I just saw a Bounty paper towel commercial that left me slack jawed. Here's the paraphrased scene:

Dad and son stand, leaning over a big brown puddle of what I think is pop (or soda to you non-Midewesterners) and empty glass.

Dad: Wow, that's a three sheeter!

Son: No, it's a four sheeter!

Mom stands in background near paper towel dispenser.

Mom: It's a one sheeter!

She rips off a towel...

Cut to me in my living room. I think to myself, she is going to give the guys who made the mess the paper towel so they can clean it up, right? No way she is going to walk across the kitchen, get down on her hands and knees, and clean the spill while the guys just stand around, right? Right? Back to scene...

A female arm with the same color sweater as the mom was wearing swipes the paper towel over the pop. She then goes on to clean something that I swear is a blob of jizz off of a doormat.

Cut back to me. What the fuck? Seriously, I hope when she wiped up the spunk, she applied for membership in the jizzmoppers union. (No joke - there's really a jizzmoppers union.) At least she wouldn't also have to mop up spilled beverages as well.

Linky (Self-)Love

Mmmmm...French Canadian yogurt with pears and grains...

Awesome books I recently read...

Politics as usual...

No word from New School...

How to Settle Up?

"Twenty bucks says that I find rejection letter from New School in the mail when I get home," I grumbled to myself this morning after being frozen out of my email, voicemail, and the shared drive on the network at work this morning.

"You're on!" I answered back.

Really, I think I was agreeing with myself that such an event would be a fitting end to a shitty beginning. Probably that doesn't make it a bet, then. If it is legit, then I owe myself $20. The only item in the mailbox was a letter from a friend that also contained tickets to Mets games this summer.

Ooooh, baseball! Despite the Met's auspicious start (already a key pitcher is injured!), and my cluelessness regarding how the Cubs began their 100th season since their last World Series championship, I am psyched. Play ball! Twenty bucks says the season ends with both my home teams tanking...

April Fool's: One Day Late or Just a Shitty Morning?

I am supposed to be having a meeting this very second. However, the guy who is supposed to meet with me is not here. Where can he be?

The phone on my desk says, "Message for you." Perhaps he left me a message about the meeting? If that is the case, though, I'll not know, as no one in this office knows the voicemail password to my extension or how to reset it.

Maybe he emailed me. That would be rational, except that as of last week, I was still using my predecessor's email and that is what he would email me at. This week, the account was disabled, but I have no access to my email account because my computer, which appears to be circa 1999 (sorry Prince - no partying like it is), resets its setting every day, so until the guy who can put me back on the networks shows up, I can't check my email. Not that my meetee would email me there, anyway.

Also, it might be good that he isn't here. Since I lose my network settings every time I log off, I have no access to the shared drive, which is where the material we are to meet about is stored.

Happiness is a grassroots organization.

"The Onion" Speaks Truth

Every so often, I complain about how my gentrified neighborhood is rapidly becoming luxurified. Last weekend, while Husband was surfing the net for goodness knows what, he discovered that our zip code is now the 5th wealthiest in the nation. (The first four are all on the Upper West East (thanks, Anonymous commenter!) Side, including where Dr. P used to live, which sort of surprised me, as there is public housing near her old apartment. Come to think of it, there's also public housing in my zip code, so I guess the wealthy are so over the top rich that they dwarf the outlying poor residents on the bell curve, but I digress.)

Anyhoos, the humeros newspaper The Onion, which I have adored since my senior year of high school when I read a gut-busting article on the failure of pet vending machines (the inventor couldn't figure out how to fix the machine so that the pets weren't already dead when someone bought one), has a great take on luxurification. Check out Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened by Aristocritization. Totally.Fucking.Brilliant.

It's For the Best

As I re-read my blog post from yesterday, it occurred to me that whenever I was rejected by my top choice educational program, it always winds up being to my benefit in the long run. Had I attended NYU's law school, I likely would be a lawyer today. If I hadn't talked Columbia into taking me off the waitlist for the MPA program, I would've gone to NYU, had no debt from grad school (or very minimal debt), and been tapped into a much stronger and connected alumni network. So while my rejection from Hunter stings, I am looking at the positive side of it. It clearly was not meant to be.

Now we'll see if my tarot card reading was right. She strongly felt that I would be attending New School in the fall, and while I woulod be very overwhelmed at first, it would ultimately be a good fit for me. (Of course, she also thought I would get into Hunter, but the vibes from New School were stronger. We all know how Hunter worked out...) Hopefully, I'll get some notice yea or nay from them this week.

In the meantime, back to my exciting data entry and database management work. Thank goodness for mind-numbing repetitive tasks, right?