All You Need is Love

Last night, Husband and I had a date! We attended a performance of Passing Strange, a fascinating musical with an excellent cast and excellent book. The show explores which is more real - art or love? My biggest beef with the show was that I am not sure which side it came down on. Husband thought art, but I thought they suggested that you should abandon your dreams for love. Either one is unsatisfying to me.

Anyway, a few days ago, one of my most favoritest bloggers, Suebob (who I also like to count as one of the friends I made online), gave me a touching award, Now I get to tell the world about ten bloggers that I really love. (Fortunately, Suebob already sang the praises of Des and Count Mockula, and I agree with her completely. And I think it is clear that my feelings for Suebob echo hers for me, so this opens the playing field for me to include ten other folks.) Even though I have been shitty at reading blogs lately, and even shittier at leaving comments, I always love these bloggers who post regularly:

1. Alex Elliot has been my friend for over 15 years, and her stories at at Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting always crack my ass up and/or teach me something new. She's a fabulous friend and wonderful parent, and she was even on TV once to talk about the important of not judging new moms for how they feed their babies!

2. Average Jane is anything but. She leads an awesome life in the Midwest with her kitties and hubby and band. When I met her at BlogHer last year, I also thought she had the coolest hair ever. I sort of want to be just like her.

3. Eddie at Chicken Fat is one of my first blog friends. I adore his wit, thoughts on culture and politics, and appreciation for comfort food. Some day, I am going to get down to Marietta and hang out with him.

4. Liz Rizzo rules. She writes about sex and relationships at BlogHer and on a spectrum of topics at her own blog, Everday Goddess. I think she is incredibly brave in the many ways she lives her life on her own terms.

5. Hecticmom - Completely Undone is talented (she makes leotards for her baton champion daughter!), smart (a pioneering tech woman), and adorable (just check out her picture)! I am so hoping that we get to meet one day.

6. Her blog title, I, Asshole, says it all: SJ is just the best.

7. Jessica is another super awesome woman who inspires and awes me. She rocks.

8. Mar of Room for Thought is another one of those women I curse myself for not living closer to. She's insightful, wise beyond her years, and lots of fun. I LOVED it when she stopped over in NYC on her way to London and hung out with me in the rain. Yes, the woman is spirited!

9. I wish that I were like Woman with No Regrets. She's gone through some shit, and she's trucking through and not looking back. She's a smartie for sure.

10. Erika Journey at Plain Jane Mom is another mom who blogs with the goods. Like Suebob, she's a connector, and always finds great things to point her readers to. I can't wait to see her again in July at BlogHer.

Since CUSS is all about spreading the word, I hope that some of you will also write little commendations for your favorite bloggers. Happy end of May!

Getting the Work Done

At a (hopefully promising) job interview yesterday, I was unexpectedly presented with a case study. While I initially wanted to shit my pants* because I recently have not reviewed various underwriting procedures, I think I ultimately did fine.

As I told Steph about the interview today, she whistled. "That's brilliant!"

"What is?" I asked.

"Giving you a case to review so that they don't have to do the work themselves."

"Oh, it was an old application that was decided years ago already. I didn't do any of their current work, although that would be genius."

Hence I decided that if I am ever in a position to hire someone, Steph is right: this is a perfect way to unload work on someone else. I'll just bring different "case studies" to interviews, and if the work is done well, not only will I know that I found a good worker, but I'll be freed of whatever burdensome task I set before the applicant. Now, if only that would work at home, too...

*If the interview had been in the morning rather than afternoon, I suspect that I would have unloaded. I woke up after only 4 hours of sleep with horrific gas and crapped repeatedly over the course of the AM hours. Incidentally, I also burned my finger on a frying pan handle (why it was hot, I do not know), slammed my shin to a piece of furniture that resulted in a lovely purple bruise, and discovered that my only pair of pantyhose had a small hole in them. Given the early situation, I'm amazed that I was coherent at all.

I Eyed It Like It Was Vomit

Large cities tend to me dirty places. Given the high concentration of people in a condensed area, it is inevitable that there will be less than pristine conditions in commonly traversed areas such as subway platforms. Since New York is the biggest city in the country, it only makes sense that we are probably one of the messiest.

The common occurance of random acts of grossness is a big reason why I cannot understand why women here wear sandals with very thin soles. When the ground is often covered with things you do not want on your toes or feet, how is a barrier of no more than a few centimeters adequate protection? I'm not just talking about general grime. I'm thinking about the various neon green puddles that I observe regularly, food, dog (or worse, human) crap and piss, and vomit.

Last night as I was returning home, I found myself skirting a small pile of puke on the uptown 1,2, and 3 train platform. Unfortunately, a woman wearing strappy sandals was not as astute as I. Before I could shout, "Watch out!," she dragged her foot onto the beige mess. The barf hung just over the lip of the sandal, taunting her big toe. She didn't seem to notice the danger that lurked just at the tip of her pedicure, but it was enough to make me want to vomit.

Shit that Pisses Me Off

A quick list of shit that is vexing me:

Al Qaeda Warrior Uses Internet to Rally Women - According to the NY Times, a woman who benefits from the freedom's the west offers her - and who absorbed the lessons of feminism and demands to be heard - is blogging for jihad against the hand that feeds her. My favorite part is how she refuses to believe women in Afghanistan that the Taliban regime discriminated against them. When I read things like this, I just despair for humanity. Dealing with ignorance is one thing. Dealing with willful, crazy ignorance is another, and impossible. You can't reason with people like this.

People still are using interest-only mortgages to buy homes that they clearly cannot afford. In the past two weeks, I reviewed two applications to buy apartments in my co-op that were so far out of the buyers' budgets that I could only laugh hysterically. Yet there they were, acting as if there is no mortgage gimmick crisis going on in the nation. In fact, why shouldn't they get to live in places that are completely above their means? Waiting until you can actually afford something is so old-fashioned. You only live once, so who cares if you take down the responsible fuddy-duddies like me when you default?

The Minnesota Supreme Court screwed the child care industry by redefining what it means to be a nonprofit organization. Of course, their reason was faulty and lacked any knowledge of the economics of child care, which is a classic example of a market failure. Anyone who wants to be depressed can read my explanation of the pathetic situation ("Why Child Care is a Non-Profit Enterprise, Sliding Fee Scales Be Damned") at Just Cause.

Bah. Later I'll write about how I eyed a puddle of vomit on the subway platform like vomit.

A Treaser Hunt With THE Girl Who Wanted To Be In Professional Baseball, or The Trosure Hunt of 1775 Apartment

No matter what the title of the story is, this is one good yarn. Demand will undoubtedly be strong, so download it now while it is still free:

Treasure%20Hunt.pdf
(Hopefully the PDF is legible. It is quite a process to scan a document written by an 11 year old in pencil on lined paper that has become ragged over the decades.)

I am proud to say that I improved my punctuation and spelling skills, plus managed to gain a bit more control over digressions, in the 20 years since I wrote this "Treasure" (or Treaser or Trosure...).

Storytime Delay and Lessons from Bubbe

I discovered that documents written in pencil on lined paper in 1986 or 1987 do not scan well. Since the story is much better when read in its original form (and includes an important drawing), I am going to photocopy it and make it darker, then try to scan it again.

In place of "A Treaser Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted To Be In Professional Baseball," CUSS instead presents the following conversation with Bubbe:

"Hey Bubbe, how come Bob* isn't married?" I asked her, knowing full well what the answer would be. Bob is a friend of the family who is in his late 50s. He attended her birthday party with his mother.

She learned forward, her eyes gleaming with bochinche.** "Because he's a feygelah!!!"

My sister snickered. "Ask her why he's gay?" she said under her breath. I like instigating, so I followed her directions. "Bubbe, how come he's a feygelah?"

"Because," she leered. "His mother didn't hide nothing from him."

"Huh? What's that mean?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant.

"She let him see her naked, and that made him a feygelah." She nodded and leaned back into the cushions of the rust colored couch. "Yes."

And this concludes our lesson on human sexuality with Bubbe. Next time, tune in for a diatribe on why Barack Obama hates Israel. Or better yet, I'll get my story scanned and posted.

*Name changed to protect the slandered.
**I'm not sure how to spell this, but it is Puerto Rican slang for juicy gossip.

The Treasure of My Parents' Couch

The first sentence in the personal statement I included with my MFA applications was a lie. I wrote that I never planned to become a writer. (My memory only appears to go back to 7th grade, when, during my bat mitzvah speech, I asked God to provide me with a scholarship to Northwestern University so that I could later go to law school.) However, a document freshly unearthed from my parents' couch last night provided evidence to the contrary.

Among the videos and CDs that my parents stored on their couch was a free promotional Kellogg's cereal promotional clipboard/folder that I received in 1987 at a Cubs game. The clipboard/folder formerly resided in my bedroom, and I have no idea how it wound up on the couch, but when my sister pitched a fit and irrationally insisted on clearing the videos and CDs off the couch so people could sit on it, I noticed it.

Inside, I found several sheets of lined paper containing a story titled, "A Treaser [sic] Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted to Be In Professional Baseball." In my list of "a million different things" I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, "First of all, I want to be an author, second an advertiser, third a baseball umpire." More important, the original story illustrates that I did not, in fact, recently learn the magic of dialog. The ten page story, written in pencil, is chock full of dialog.

As soon as I get home, I will scan this hilarious story and post it on CUSS. (Dana and I damn near busted a gut laughing at it.) When I do, it will prove that:
1. I was a gifted 11 year old.
2. I have become dumber in my old age.
3. I am only now relearning writing skills I began developing over 20 years ago.

Fascinating.

Lara Lives

Bubbe's party was at a rocking Russian restaurant and banquet hall called Zhivago's. We assembled for brunch at 11:30 AM. Within 30 minutes, I saw more gold lame, see-through skirts with no linings, leopard print tops, and skin tight skirts, and stiletto heels than I have in the past several months. We also observed one middle-aged man wearing a mesh shirt, a guy in a tux, and enormous quantities of chest hair poking out of unbottoned shirts. These people know how to close down a weekend, I'll give them that. Needless to say, I joined them all on the dance floor with the various elder female contingent of my family.

Home is Where the Mess - Er, I Mean Heart - Is

When I stepped into my parents' house yesterday for the first time since December, I sensed something was different. A quick scan of the kitchen revealed a bald spot on the wall where the phone used to hang and cover a missing patch of maroon and navy flowered wallpaper. The phone sat on the kitchen table. A splitter jutted out of the phone's previous home, with one wire leading to the kitchen table, and the other snaking around the corner into the living room.

Then I remembered that my parents received a flat panel TV as a 35th wedding anniversary gift from my bubbe. My sister reported from a previous visit home that the TV required a land line connection for some reason. This was my parents' elegant solution.

Moving into the living room, I observed the new TV proudly gracing the top of a classy new glass TV stand. My mom's shrine to our family (framed photos from important family events, primarily but not limited to my sisters' and my weddings) took up the lower two shelves. The Shrine was arranged very well, with all pictures visible.

I flopped down on the couch. It took me a few minutes to notice that the other arm of the rust colored L-shaped sofa was covered with videos that used to occupy the cabinet in the old entertainment unit. I smiled, thinking about how the blue chenille thrift store couch that forms an L with the fading black fabric Ikea couch in my apartment is currently covered in old magazines and papers.

Two lessons: Like mother, like daughter; and, it's nice to be home.

There's No Place Like Home, or Surrender Dorothy!

Taking off for the fourth weekend in a row (which is fun, but exhausting), and heading over to my parents' house in Chicago this afternoon. The Reisman clan shall be celebrating Bubbe's 85th birthday party on Sunday at a Russian restaurant. My dad ordered two bottles of vodka for the event.

"Only the cousins will drink it," he told me on the phone on Tuesday, "and this way they'll still be able to stand up straight when the leave." I could sense his satisfaction.

"Except that if they have only two bottles of vodka, they won't even be tipsy," I noted. These relatives drink a lot of vodka at celebrations; their tolerance level probably exceeds what would kill a normal person.

Other weekend activities include seeing my friend Rachel, her partner, and their adorable daughter on Friday; going to the new Indiana Jones flick on Saturday afternoon (so excited!!! And unlike NYC, theaters in Chicago actually have matinée prices, so it was a bargain to pre-buy tickets); and eating grotesque quantities of BBQ shipped overnight from Neely's Interstate BBQ in Memphis. (When we went on a family outing to Graceland last year, Neely's was the highlight of the trip. It was probably the best meal I've ever eaten.)

Plenty of hijinks to follow.

The Anti-"Sex and the City" Meme

This week's entire Entertainment Weekly is completely dedicated to Sex and the City. While many women whom I hold in high regard absolutely adore that show, I could never bring myself to watch it. (First of all, I didn't have HBO when it was on, so even if I wanted to watch it, that was an obstacle.) I do love the idea that the show revolves around four female friends sharing their lives and supporting one another, but the fashion obsessions revolt me.

Spending $750 on a pair of stiletto heels just seems morally wrong. Not only because I can't fathom throwing away that kind of money on a freaking pair of shoes, but also it would just be more practical for me to pay a hit man $750 to break my ankles than to do so by wearing absurdly uncomfortable and dangerous shoes. The bags, hats, scarves, and whatever else was slavishly fawned over by the press and certain fans - just, ugh.

So, as the Sex and the City Movie comes to theaters near you and there is no escape from its press coverage, I present a meme for feisty, spirited women who share our lives and support one another, yet are also slovenly and/or miserly (or is it practical?):

What's the cheapest pair of shoes you own?: Not counting some flip flops that I bought at a Walgreen's in Florida a few years ago after my regular shoes ate holes in the back of my feet, the cheapest pair of shoes I own are children's Keds that are designed to look like saddle shoes. I think they were $25, which is actually sort of expensive.

What's your favorite piece of jewelry, if you own any?: When I was 16, I bought myself a Venus (the female symbol) from the NOW catalog. I wear it every day, except once in a while when I go to a wedding or something and put on some crappy sparkly necklace that I bought at Claire's Boutique.

What's your favorite t-shirt?: At this point, I have three favorites - my red "I [Heart] Pro-Choice NY" t, my lavender "Bush is a Tush" t, and my high school lacrosse team t-shirt.

If you could wear jeans every day, would you? Yes, except for days when it is the high 60s or low 70s and sunny with a very light breeze when I want to wear a knee-length skirt with tights and my awesome John Fluevog knee high boots.

Do you comb your hair every day? Well, if it happens to look nice when you wake up, why mess with a good good thing?

As with any meme, I can't wait to see how you respond.

Flat Iron-y

Dear Internet Marketing Professionals:

Thank you for reaching out to me to help promote your products. I am flattered by your claim that you came across my site (and even specified CUSS in your email to me) earlier today, and really enjoyed reading my posts, but I suspect that you are not exactly being honest with me. If you really read my content, you would probably know that CUSS is not relevant and appealing to the audience that you are looking to reach, and that, for example, sending me a flat iron to review is not a good idea for a variety of reasons.* On the other hand, if you really think it is a good idea for someone who just wrote about walking around with hair so greasy that she resembled a homeless person to write about your hair care and styling products, who am I to say no?

This is not to say that I am unwilling to receive free products and share my thoughts regarding these items with my blog reading friends. However, in the interests of saving your spambots time, let me outline some parameters. If your product falls into any of these categories, please email me with effuse praise about CUSS and offers for sample goods:

A. Fake mustaches: I love me a good fake mustache. Is yours the best?
B. Tweezers: I hate me some real whiskers on my chin and jaw. Is yours the most effective?
C. Dansko shoes: Supportive shoes are important to me, but how do I know what style is best unless I try a wide variety?
D. Lucky Brand Jeans: Generally, your jeans and cords make me ass look great, but like Dansko shoes, how do I know which styles are the most flattering if I can't model a cross section of your brand?
E. Yogurt: I'm a bit behind on my yougurt review blog, but very committed to updating it. Coupons for free yogurt are always welcome!
F. Spanx bras: I swear that the bra I have in beige is the greatest bra I've ever worn, but maybe it is nicer in black?
G. Airline tickets: Since I currently only fly American Airlines because of the frequent flier miles Husband accumulates, free tickets on your airline will allow me to investigate whether your bathrooms in business class smell fresh.

If any of these items are a good fit with your company, I very much look forward to hearing from you. Thanks again for your interest in CUSS.

Sincerely,
Suzanne

*These reasons include: 1. I have short hair. How the hell would I use a flat iron on it? 2. The odds are high that I will mock the crap out of the flat iron.

Cheap and Fast, Free and Slow, Dirty and Gross

My visit with my bestest friend Julie is over. She dropped me off at the bus stop, which for only $2.60 whisked me to the airport. Speeding down a highway in a public bus is always a bit unnerving. Speeding down a highway in a public bus while the driver talks on his cell phone is fucking terrifying. At least I only spent $2.60 to risk my life. Yeesh.

Fortunately, the Pittsburgh airport is such a civilized spot of tranquility that they offer free wi-fi! This is especially good as my flight may or may not be delayed. The woman at the check in counter told me that it was delayed, but the fancy electronic signs at the gate claim that it is ON TIME in glowing red letter. Since I believe that the sign is lying, I am glad that I can at least spend some time with my friend Blogger while I wait. Also, it may take the entire length of the delay to publish this post, as the free wi-fi is slower than molasses in January. (One of my favorite lines from Romancing the Stone, which was my favorite movie when I was 10 or so, which is about how old I was when I met Julie. Funny how these things work out.)

It will be nice to get home eventually and wash my hair. Julie and I somehow neglected to shower for the entire length of my visit. The grease accumulation on my hair is fast and furious. Since Julie also looks like she's been living on the street the last few days, we made quite a pair as we walked around campus to return her graduation attire and drop off some library books. I'm sort of surprised that they let me into the airport. Maybe I just slid through security's theoretical hands like a greased pig. Oink, oink.

Street Inflation

Steph left me a voicemail message yesterday inquiring as to "what hijinks you two bitches [Julie and I] are up to." Little did she know that at 10 pm, Julie finally located an air mattrss for us to borrow for the next two nights so we would not have to sleep on the floor of her apartment. Unfortunately, the pump that came with the air mattress did not plug into the wall. Since it was designed for people who were on camping trips, instead it plugged into the cigarette lighter of a car. A car that Julie did not own.

Hence we carried the uninflated air mattress and pump down the block to a party. Julie went in and found her friend who owned a car. The car was parked another few blocks away, but on a dodgy street. So we jumped into his car, and he drove us to Julie's apartment around the corner. As "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals (one of my favorite songs when I was a retro teen) played over the radio, we spread the air mattress out on the sidewalk and began the inflation process.



Julie and I then carried the inflated mattress up a set of stairs to her apartment, although we kept crashing it into doors and corners. Ah, good times.

Mmmm... Sucker!

"Hey, can I eat that chocolate Tootsie Pop?" I asked Julie.

"Yeah, sure," she said nonchalantly.

"You sure it's good?" I asked and bent down to pick it up off the floor, just to the side of her dining table.

"Yeah, of course!" she bristled.

I inspected it closely. It was fully wrapped, so why not? I pulled the waxy paper off the lollipop and stuck it in my mouth. Mmmm... chocolatey.

The door to Julie's apartment opened, and her boyfriend Bill appeared. He looked at me. "What are you eating?" A horrified look crossed his face. "That was on the floor.

"Oh, don't worry," I nodded. "It was wrapped."

"No, that's been on the floor for like six months!"

"Don't lie!" Julie snapped. "It was on a plate on the floor. It was only on the floor for the last 24 hours."

I contemplated it. Even if it was old, it was still wrapped, and it tasted OK. I shrugged. After all, a sucker is a sucker.

Where in the World Am I?

Blogger is finally doing its users right: we can now schedule a post in advance! If all goes according to plan, this post will go up exactly as my flight to Pittsburgh departs. Yes, for the third weekend in a row, I am running off to see a friend who I have not seen in eons. (Next weekend, it's on to my parents' house to celebrate Bubbe's 85th birthday at a Russian restaurant. "It has an orchestra!" she told me repeatedly on the phone, her voice trembling with excitement. "Great," I replied in the same way I might if I was told that there was an all-you-can-eat herring buffet and no other forms of nourishment. Oh, shit...) I'm not sure how all these trips wound up happening in the same month, but when it rains, it pours and all that.

This trip is very special to me, though, because I have not seen my friend Julie in ages. In addition, I will be attending her graduation from grad school. Growing up a in racist community screwed Julie for many years, and I am so proud that she has overcome the crap that was hurled on her and accomplished so much. It's not just the graduation, it's everything she's done since college, in communities around the western hemisphere. I am so inspired by her. After graduation, she is visiting Qatar for six weeks. She's totally fearless.

On a less tear-jerking note, this trip is going to be crazy. No, we won't be partying it up and falling down drunk to celebrate Julie's achievements. The insanity is going to emanate from the fact that her entire family will also be staying with us at Julie's tiny apartment. Her family makes mine look like a calm, buttoned up WASP clan. Sometimes when I'm with them, I wonder if I secretly entered some sort of alternate universe. (In fact, it'll be good prep for my trip to my folks' house next weekend.) I'm so excited. It's going to be just like back when we were in 5th grade, except that Julie reads The Economist now.

PS - I forgot to give a shout out to my dad on his 62nd birthday, which was May 10th. Happy belated birthday, Dad! I love you, even if you won't leave me alone about going back to law school. :)

"It's Free!" Yells the Town Crier

Today is Free Iced Coffee Day at Dunkin' Donuts. Even the location down the street from my south Bronx office is participating until 10 PM. I don't like iced coffee (too bad it isn't Free Donut Day), but the cheapie who resides deep within my soul is urging me to get some anyway because it's free, and Cheapy McCheapstein hates missing out on anything free. Even if I don't like whatever item is on offer. Plus, I already missed Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's, so it would be a shame to miss another national chain store promotion....

This has been a public service announcement. We now return to our regular programming.

Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

Barbie Lives!

Until yesterday, I never personally laid eyes on boobs that I absolutely, 100%, no doubt at all knew were fake. My innocence was shattered, though, in the locker room of a downtown branch of my gym. As I approached my locker, I noticed a topless woman stretching against the her locker. Without warning, she whipped around and I was confronted with two perfectly molded, symmetrical, round lumps soddered on to a lithe body. Anyone who ever saw a topless Barbie knows exactly what I mean, except that this woman had enormous erect knobs attached to the center of her flesh-covered half-spheres rather than smooth plastic.

I'm sort of proud of myself because I managed not to gasp. I was just so taken aback by the sight of her tits. And I feel bad being judgmental about it, but I really wanted to ask her why she did that to herself. It's her body and she needs to be happy with it, so it's not my business, yet I honestly could not help thinking that she looked totally fucking ridiculous. No matter how small her previous chest size might have been (and I include the possibility that she may have had a mastectomy), I suspect that she was gorgeous before her surgery. Now she just appeared so artificial and fake that it made me weirdly sad.

Now that I've met Barbie (this woman was also blond, with a pleasant face and trim figure), I have a slightly increased appreciation of my flab, and even my chin hairs (not that it stopped me from plucking away last night; maybe if I could grow a Van Dyke or something interesting versus sporadic bristles, I'd leave it alone). Perfection is way overrated.

It's in the Mail

On the Greyhound bus down to DC this weekend, I finished reviewing the proof for my book. From the bus stop, I ran over to Kinko's (a place that inevitably screws up any photocopying that I need done, and did not exceed my low expectations on Friday, either) and made a copy. Then I hit the post office and overnighted the manuscript. When the postal clerk asked me if the packaged contained anything fragile or hazardous, I replied, "Only my ego." She nodded and asked, "Do you need insurance for that?"

A Big Thanks to the Moms in My Life

(Part of this is included on my post at BlogHer.)

In my family, my mom (and dad) worked hard to do the best she could for her daughters. I learned that even if a job is tough, one sticks it out so that she can take care of her own. From my aunt, I learned that it is also important to work on behalf of others who were less privileged than our middle-class family. My aunt was a VISTA volunteer with Haitian refugees in Florida, and went on an educational mission to Cuba. She dedicated her career as a teacher to children with behavioral and learning disabilities in the lowest income communities around Chicago. That meant speaking up when she felt other professionals were not working in the best interests of a child, even if it earned her enemies and made her own life more difficult. My aunt also took my sister and I under her wings, and is a fantastic mother to her own daughter.

While I meet my mother-in-law until I began dating my future husband when I was 19, I immediately bonded with her over feminism. When she noticed that I wore a women's emblem (the symbol of Venus) on a necklace, and asked me if I was a feminist. When I enthusiastically said yes, she gave me her full approval. A few years later, she wistfully mentioned that she was interested in attending the March for Women's Lives to protest the Bush administration's attacks on reproductive rights, and I said that we needed to go together. Attending the march with Pat (and about 1,000,000 other men and women) was one of the most inspiring moments of my life.

Now that my friends are starting to have kids of their own, too, I'm happy and excited to see the fantastic work they are doing in raising strong children who are as committed to making the world a better place for women (and men).

Rock on, ladies. I love you.

I Remember Mama Voting

Today was a long day (wrote a post about the firing of the most powerful woman on Wall Street at BlogHer, and also one on public service and burnout at Just Cause; went to work and did my data entry tasks; edited the proof of my book; and joined Husband at a painful networking event for NYU's Young Alumni Leaders Circle, of which he is a member, not me), but I don't have it nearly as hard as millions of other women in this country who work at least one paid job, then go home to take care of their families. So while my eyes are still (barely) open, I want to take part in ACORN's I Remember Mama Voting event. The campaign asks people to think about your own mother or mother figure and how she may or may not have influenced your political views and your attitudes about voting and civic participation.

Where I grew up, it was assumed that everyone of legal age voted. (This was outside of Chicago, so generally our dead didn't also vote.) Our assigned polling station was at the Jesuit boys' high school down the street from our house. Part of the excitement I felt when I accompanied my mom as she went to vote was from entering what I considered a mysterious space. Incidentally, the actor Chris O'Donnell attended this high school, so he was probably there when I went with my mom to vote. (He also went to the same dentist as my family, but I digress.)

I think what makes this so interesting is that I associate my mom voting with Jesuit boys. My mom is not as involved in political causes as I am, but my family has always been Democrats surrounded by a Republican community. I just always knew that Republicans were not for us, although when I was older, I remember overhearing my father telling our neighbor a bizarre joke about my mom voting for Ronald Reagan because she thought Jimmy Carter had bad legs. I was utterly horrified at the thought. How could my mom vote for a Republican?!?! Fortunately, when I asked her about it, she had no idea what I was talking about, but it was my first exposure to the stereotypical notion that women don't vote on the issues, but rather on a candidate's attractiveness. I thought that was the dumbest thing any woman could do, and swore I would follow my mom's example and always vote for the candidate who would help "the people." Thanks, Mom!

To participate in I Remember Mama Voting, post your story on your blog and then link to it at ACORN's site.

The Sniff Test

"Where ya been?" I asked Husband when he walked in the door a few minutes before 12 last night. I knew he had a business dinner, but usually they don't last until midnight. (Although to be honest, I barely noticed what time it was because I was hustling to finish editing my book proof before Friday, and due to extremely poor time management, am mad behind schedule.)

"After the dinner, most of us went to a bar," he replied, leaning over to kiss me.

"A bar, huh? Was it in a strip club?" I inquired, joking. On the extremely rare occasion when he had to go to a strip club with colleagues, he left almost immediately. If they really went to a strip club, he'd have been home by 10:00. Plus, he wouldn't hide that he did. Instead, he'd discuss the club's profit margins. This is why I adore him.

"No! We did not go to a strip club!" Husband said indignantly as he headed to the bedroom to change. A few minutes later, he re-emerged in the dining room, where I was still sprawled out with the book and my laptop. "You coming to bed soon?"

I stopped what I was writing and looked him up and down. "Come here," I said and pulled him toward me. From my sitting position, my head was exactly at crotch level. Before he knew what was coming, I took a deep whiff. "Nope. Doesn't smell like a lap dance."

He swatted at my head. "Back off!" Then we laughed, and I packed my things up for the night.

Wanted: Opinions - What Would CUSS Readers Do?

As I'm editing the proofs for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track (now also sold at MTV's online store!), I discovered that the publisher set aside a page for a dedication in addition to the acknowledgments that I already submitted. I want to dedicate the book to Husband. What do you think of the following options:

1. To Husband. There's no one like you in the world.

or

2. To Husband, my favorite unusual attraction.

I think two is clever given that the book is about unusual attractions, but I fear that it could come across as sleazy, weird, or creepy. He sometimes is easily embarrassed, although after being with me for 13 years, his threshold has risen dramatically. The first one thus seems safer, but I hate playing it safe. At the same time, I don't want to do anything that will make him uncomfortable.

I'm not asking Husband which he prefers because I want it to be a surprise. (He never reads CUSS, so I'm not worried about him discovering my plans.) What do you think?

New Rule #1,284 (aka The "There is no crying in baseball" Rule)

After The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver made me tear up on the subway yesterday afternoon while on my way to a (useless) meeting, I hereby institute the following rule for myself:

I will not read anything other than:

A) magazines;
B) thrillers (like Bangkok 8);
C) amusing capers (anything by Carl Hiaasen, although his last book reeked worse than a body decomposing on a 105 degree day in the Everglades);
D) satires; and/or
E) politically witty tomes (like Sarah Vowell or Beth Lisick) if:

1) I slept less than 6 hours the previous night;
2) I have not seen Husband in more than 24 hours; and/or
3) I am using some mode of public transportation, such as a subway or airplane.

This rule shall be invoked to prevent embarrassing episodes of me bawling (in public) because I am emotionally overwrought, and the book that I am reading (or the movie I am viewing) took a dramatic turn that breaks my over-feeling heart. Yes, yes. I am all about pretending to be stone cold, what with all my ranting "mothering this" or "cunt-face ass-eater that," but it is all a facade. The reality is that underneath my mean, mocking, hard exterior, I am the biggest fucking softie on the planet. These devastating books and movies (for example, the love story between Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) fucking impact me. I'm a wreck for hours after a book/movie gives me a truly earned sob (not like those manipulative pap movies - The Other Sisiter, anyone? - that Steph so dearly loves but bring "a fucking tear to my eye").

So this new rule is for the good of my mental state, as well as my public image. And don't you fucking forget it, motherfucker. Now I'm off to the Kleenex box and/or Husband's t-shirt to wipe my nose.

The Emotional Gamut

Today (thus far):

4:45 AM: Cell phone alarm plays "Ride of the Valkyries," waking me from a nightmare in which my childhood friend Julie's house is possessed and must be burned down to end the curse. Relieved.

6:45 AM: Can't find gate 20D after Dr. P drops me off at Miami airport. Panic.

6:55 AM: Realize that the "20D" on my boarding pass is my seat number, not gate. Sheepish.

7:00 AM - 2:40 PM: Read excellent book on plane, bus from airport, and at home. Joy.

3:15 PM: Depart for orientation meeting for organizations with student interns, although it is technically my day off from work. While on subway, cry at tragic turn book takes. Depressed.

4:15 PM: Introduce self at meeting, notice large question marks on faces of orientation organizers and ponder why our intern's project description on list of student projects is utterly unfamiliar. Confused.

5:15 PM: Learn that our intern decided not to work with us after all. Unsure (why head of our organization insisted that I attend this meeting).

5:16 PM: Leave meeting. Enraged (at waste of time attending session when I could have been home editing my book).

6:00 PM: Three women glad in bright yellow jackets that end at the midriff, neon green tank tops, and plastic sunglasses with slats across the lenses enter my subway car with bottles of alcoholic beverage and a little dog on a lease wearing a tee shirt. The dog's name is "Gucci," and when the women are not yelling about riding the subway drunk, the are attempting to physically force Gucci to sit. Irritated.

6:20 PM: Get home. Wonder what is in store for me for the remaining six or so hours left in the day. Nervous.

One Man's Junk Is... Still Junk

(Not that junk, people!!!)

Sometimes near my apartment, homeless individuals will put a sheet, towel, or large piece of cardboard on the sidewalk and lay out a variety of items they've salvaged. The goal is to earn some pocket change by selling these treasures from the trash. I've always wondered if this actually yielded any sales until once Husband and I were walking by a now defunct OTB on 72nd Street and observed a man in a suit haggling with a homeless guy over the price of a broken toaster oven.

This method of sales seemed unique to the homeless population of New York City. However, this morning Dr. P and I went to the Swap Shop of Sunrise, FL, and I learned that other vendors use the same method to display their wares. Seriously, this was the crappiest flea market I've ever been to. (The nicest is the Aloha Swap Meet in Honolulu - that place kicks ass. The second crappiest is somewhere by O'Hare airport. There's an average flea market every Sunday on the backtop of a public school on 76th Street and Columbus Ave., but I digress.) Some vendors were normal, with tents and tables or stalls chock full of sunglasses, toiletries that "fell off the truck," and low quality underwear and linens. Others were a little fancier, inside the air conditioned hall. Others replicated the New York City Homeless Person Method of Selling Shit. They had large sheets or table clothes spread over their patch of pavement at the flea market and were selling items that clearly were on the overused side of used. Dr. P and I winced at the ones who lined the ground with second- (or third- or fourth-) hand car seats, which is really dangerous because buyers don't know if the product was damaged internally in an accident before. (I think it is even illegal to resell car seats in some states.)
Anyway, the whole flea market was quite a scene. There were even porn vendors.

After the flea market, we hit the beach. Happily, the water was super warm and we frolicked in the surf for a bit. I even didn't mind sitting on the sand. (I hate sand. A lot.) For some reason, my left arm and the back of my right hand burned, so we only stayed two hours. It was so nice to be in the refreshing breeze. (Incidentally, no one sold anything off their beach towels.)

Tomorrow, I'm heading back to NYC first thing in the morning. I can't believe the weekend is over already. Time sure flies when you are having fun looking at other people's used porn magazines.

Gone Fishin'

Husband and I are visiting Dr. P in southern Florida this weekend. I almost didn't make it here, though. As I was heading to the subway to go to the airport, I tripped on some unknown object and went flying. Unfortunately, I am not very good at remaining airborn, and quickly landed on the concrete plaza, smashing my knee, scraping my hands, and also getting mud on myself. Blah. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was uneventful, and I made it down in more or less one piece.

As we headed to Hollywood Beach for dinner and an evening stroll on the boardwalk last night, I noticed that we passed by the Fishing Hall of Fame and Museum. Boy, was I excited! I'm not sure I can convince Dr. P and Husband that this is something that we must go to, but I shall try my best. I'm sure that this fine establishment is chock full of fascinating information and wonderful moments in the world of fishing.

Beavers are Funny!

(Many thanks to Woman with No Regrets for sending me the link yesterday. Updated: Click here if the picture doesn't show up automatically.)

Actually, it was extra hilarious to get the cartoon when I got home yesterday evening because I had a beaver run-in of sorts on the subway while I was on my way back from work. The train was relatively empty until we pulled into 96th St. (Not too many people are commuting into Manhattan from the Bronx during the evening rush; I love reverse commutes!) When the doors opened, an overwhelmed mother tromped on with her three kids. The youngest one, who was about 5 or 6 years old, sat down next to me on the bench. Almost immediately, she reached out for my backpack and grabbed the little stuffed beaver keychain that I have clipped to the side.

I was quite taken aback at her brazen grab, but she was utterly transfixed by the critter. This is not entirely surprising, as it really is a cute little brown teddy bear that some demented manufacturer turned into a beaver by sewing a beaver tail onto its butt and sticking two mini white buck teeth under the snout, so it is definitely odd looking. Eventually, her mom asked her to stop touching my things, but by then I had turned to the girl and told her that she grabbed my beaver friend.

"How do you know what it is?" she asked me, eyes open wide. Her sister, who was about 10, snickered, although I think just in general and not at the double entendre.

"See his two big teeth and big flat tail?" I asked. She nodded vigorously. "That's how you know it's a beaver. Beavers need big teeth so they can chew through trees and use the wood to build their homes."

"Oh..." she intoned. More giggling from Big Sis.

"Um, honey," the mom said with a bit more urgency, "Can you please leave that woman's bag alone?" She made no move to enforce her request though, so the girl continued holding the beaver in one hand and petting him with her other one.

"Mom," the older girl smirked, "what do you call the houses beavers live in?"

"Dams," Mom replied warily.

"I thought so," daughter giggled.

By then, we pulled into the 72nd Street station, and the young beaver lover, her karate uniform clad eight year old brother, her giggly sister, her mom with no status as an authority figure, me, and the beaver exited the train and went our separate ways. It's always nice when you can educate a young mind about the wonders of beavers.

More Reading

While I marvel at the fact that a publisher is letting me write things like:

In a secluded corner of the park near the water, a man stood masturbating (or possibly shaking off after urinating) in the bushes. I am fairly sure this was not a performance art piece, as the park’s other visitors were assiduously ignoring him.

in my book about unusual things to see and do in New York City, and at the same time hoping that whatever evil pain has possessed my back goes away before I leave tomorrow to visit my bestest buddy Dr. P (who I have not seen since September - sob!) in Florida, others may want to check out a depressing essay about the overwhelming guilt I feel about not wanting to have kids in light of Holocaust Remembrance Day, which is today, and/or an inspiring article about two interesting women working in different ways to bring reform to fundamentalist Muslim communities.

I believe that the above is the longest run-on sentence I ever produced.