Conversations with My Mom

While watching the Cubs lose to the White Sox on Saturday:
"I think I'm constipated," I said.

"So are the Cubs," my mom replied.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"They don't have any runs!" she beamed.

I went to ask my mom something while she was sitting in the kitchen, staring at her calendar:
"I think you have a milk mustache," I said, noticing a thin white line above her lips.

"No, that Mylanta," she laughed.

Little snippets of conversation with my mom seem to be a good way to begin July's blogging (and fill up what is my 1,600th post). I'm hoping that July will be full of fun and excitement. I'm at my parent's house for the first week, then the BlogHer conference is in the middle of the month, and I'm spending the last week with Husband and 8 gazillion friends at a house we rented in upstate New York. See? Fun. What I am not going to do is obsess over grad school. (No, I didn't hear anything.) Right? Right.

I'm all up for hanging out in San Francisco with bloggers and friends and friends who are bloggers. Not only will I be hosting the Feminism & Gender meet up room, but also the Travel blogging one. Yay! And I'm hoping that things work out and Off the Beaten (Subway) Track debuts at the conference. Then it comes out for everyone. (I really hope people like it.) Yes, lots of fun, little anxiety.

Being a Tease

If women who lead men on are known as cock teases, are women who falsely set off the gaydar of others then twat teases? If so, that would be me. I don't mean to do this, but it seems that my style of dress, hair cut, and manners put me on the positive register.

Yesterday I went with my aunt and her two friends, a hetero couple in their mid- to late 50s, to the Chicago Gay Pride Parade. Despite rain and other parade interruptions, it was a lot of fun. (As an aside, it boggles my mind how fucking political these things are in Chicago. The Chicago Metropolitan Water Reclaimation District had a float in the parade, for fuck's sake.) During one of the long delays, my aunt chatted up the people sitting around us.

"My niece lives in New York," she said and pointed to me.

The man missing a tooth turned to me. "Oh, are you from Long Island?"

I made a sour face. "No!"

"Oh, I'm sorry why are you so offended?" he asked.

"Well, when you think of Long Island, what do you think of?"

"Snobs!" he said cheerfully.

"Yeah, so youo can see why I am offended!"

"Oh, honey! You're gay, so it's different!"

I started to tell him that I was actually not gay, but then stopped myself. What did I care if he thought I was a dyke? Plus, I would way rather be a dyke than a snob from Long Island. He then introduced me to all his friends, who were very fine people and we started talking about New York and that I wrote a book. If they look at my website, though, they will be very surprised to see that I live in NYC with my husband. Oh well.

Why Am I Wearing My Bathing Suit?

Is it because I am going to the Chicago Pride Parade with my aunt and her friends? No, although that is my plan for today. Is it because I like looking ridiculous? No, although that is true, too. What could it be? Find out at BlogHer and put on your swim gear, too. (Cheesy come-on, I know.)

Just Say No

"Hey, you Jewish?" a homeless man with approximately four teeth asked Husband as we waited with Dr. H at the bust stop last night. He blew cigarette smoke in Husband's direction for emphasis.

"Why yes I am," Husband answered, to my surprise. It wasn't that I was surprised that he admitted he was Jewish; it was that he didn't realize that by answering in the affirmative, he invited a life story saga from the guy that would eventually end in a request for money. Dr. H and I looked at each other the man went on to ask Husband if he's ever been to Atlantic City ("Yes," Husband nodded) and then said something about being the homeless Jewish comedian of the Boardwalk.

"Um, I don't like the cigarette smoke, so I am going to move," Husband finally choked out. The man frowned and tried to dissuade him, promising to stop blowing smoke in his face, but we were already walking away.

"Why did you tell him you are Jewish?" I asked Husband when we got farther away.

"He was wearing a weird little Yarmulke thing," he replied.

And that, folks, is why I love Husband. Wednesday is our eight year wedding anniversary. I'll be in Chicago, visiting my family, and Husband will be in New York, working, so that is a bit of a bummer. But he'll meet me in Chicago on Thursday, so we can celebrate then. Lots of exciting things coming up this week, plus guaranteed Reisman wackiness.

Whenever the Phone Rings, I Have a Mini Stroke

It's down to the wire with the New School's wait list. The letter I received about the wait list noted that they "expect to keep our wait list active until June 30." Every time the phone rings, I feel like the blood stopped running to my brain (although some might argue that happened a while ago, anyway).

So the constant calls of solicitors is not good for me. Almost every day, I get at least two calls requesting donations for this worthy cause or that excellent organization. Actually, I do not get the calls. I just answer the phone. The caller almost always requests Mr. Husband Last-Name-Pronounced-Like-an-Ethnic-Slur-Against-People-from-An-Eastern-European-Country-With-A-Long-History-of-Anti-Semitism. It's like if I called some named Ms. Count, but asked for Ms. Cunt, then expected her to give me money. Yeesh.

Plus, I discovered that the MFA admissions game is not over even when it technically ends. A few weeks ago, I met a woman who got into the nonfiction MFA program at New School off the wait list. "It was at the very last minute," she told me. Yesterday I emailed her and asked how last minute. "I didn't get in until the first week of September when school had already started, and I guess someone dropped out or didn't show up for first classes," she wrote. Ugh. Now I can be a nervous wreck at intermittent points over the entire summer.

It's the Coolest Invitation Ever Made

Click on the picture for a larger version. It's chock full of little details, like the reflection of the CUSS sticker in the subway door window!

Is my brother-in-law not supremely talented?!?!

Mars, A Frozen Block of Chocolate, Caramel, and Nugut

As I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the morning, I felt the powerful gravitational pull of Mars. Mars being the British chocolate bar that has been sitting in my freezer since April or so. I was saving it as a reward for whenever I had a final answer regarding my two MFA applications, but I have my period, insomnia, and a low level of self-control at this moment. Plus, (in theory, anyway)I am so damn close to the end at this point, why bother resisting? When Mars softly called my name from the freezer, I heeded its cry.

The problem with a candy bar that resided in a freezer for two months is that it is essentially a concrete block. Sure, it is a delicious concrete slab, but I nearly broke my front teeth when I bit into it. (A word of advice: let frozen candy bars melt down a wee bit before attempting to eat them.) The caramel was particularly challenging to consume, as it somehow managed to be both hard and chewy at the same time. I sort of slobbered all over the bar and wrapper as I ate it, partly thinking that my hot saliva would melt its tundra-crust, and partly because it took so long to slice off a piece with my choppers that saliva gushed out during the process. (A second word of advice: do not share a frozen candy bar unless you are really close with that person.)

It was good. I still didn't fall into a peaceful sleep after eating it, but it did quell some sort of deep hunger. When I woke up, I didn't remember my late night snack until I opened the freezer to grab the chicken-apple breakfast sausage and noticed an empty space where Mars lived for so long. Then I thought that by eating it, maybe instead of making Mohammed come to the mountain, I'd make the mountain come to Mohammed. I doubt it, but it would be nice if my year-long MFA process (I decided to apply last year around this time) would come to some conclusion. To be continued...

Another Happy Post

Great news: Granny's test came out clean! Yay! Now we can really celebrate when I get home next week.

I'm still nutty about the New School wait list, but I am also foaming at the mouth (this time with excitement; I know usually it is with seething anger over something) over the invitation to my book party. My brother-in-law made it for me. His hobby is graphic design, and he is completely self-taught. He made awesome retro post cards for this "save the date" notification for his wedding last year, and his creative idea for my book party invitation (which Husband added to) is so over-the-top hip, that it's almost too cool for me. I don't know if Off the Beaten (Subway) Track will live up to the freakin' invitation!!! (I'll post it here when it is sent out.)

Now I am off to a meeting for a new consulting gig. I've long joked that my goal is to work for every community development financial institution (CDFI) in NYC before I retire or die, and this will bring me one step closer to my goal. (It would make it three out of six, and there's one that is so evil that I would never work for them, so I am 3/5th there.) It's funny, but a few things that I joked about in the last few years are actually happening.

Happy Birth Days Carnival

I am proud to participate in my friend Alex's Hayy Birth Days Carnival. The wonderful idea behind the carnival is to share stories about bringing a new child into one's family.

"But wait," you are likely thinking, "you don't have any kids, and I am pretty certain that you are very happy to not bring a child into your family, although if God forbid something happened to any of your relatives or close friends, you would welcome their children into your home and do your best to give them the best life possible."

This is very true. I am very happy to not have any children living with me. Today I cleaned my apartment for several hours, and realized that I am a horrific failure at any basic housekeeping responsibilities as it is, as is my delightful husband. It turns out that we have been sleeping above 40 pounds of dust, as well as Husband's shoe graveyard. I am surprised that there are no shoe hauntings given the number of corpses I discovered.

But I digress. Since I do not have any birth experiences myself (other than my own birth, which I unsurprisingly do not recall - I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast, let alone my emergence into this world 32.5 years ago. I only hope that my first thought was something like, "Well, this shit is overrated."), I will share the story of my mother's birth. This is especially important to me today because my grandmother is having a colonoscopy today, and I am very worried about her. She had colon cancer 10 years ago. Her 86th birthday will be July 4th, and I would tell her birth story, but I do not know it. (I do know that her own mother died very tragically when Grannie was only seven years old.)

On to the story. So my mother and I are very much alike, so it is only fitting that she was born during an enormous blizzard on January 3, 1947. My grandmother had much difficulty in labor, and had to have a c-section. C-sections were pretty rare back then, but my mother's nose somehow managed to hook itself around my granny's tailbone and she was stuck. I think she was also breech, just to complicate the situation. (And if I am wrong on any of this, have no fear, my mom will correct me in the comments.)

The wonderful part of the story is that my mom came out OK. As Granny's close cousin Mary likes to say, "When I heard that Bernice was in labor, I thought, 'In this weather?' and I took the street car in the blizzard and rushed to the hospital to be with her. Oy vey." I love that people were there for them. And so I hope that Granny will be OK today. I can't wait to celebrate her birthday with her next week, and my mom's 61.5 birthday, too.

A Day of Furry Creatures and Bushes

Why am I holding a glass mug in front of my crotch? Yesterday our friend Steph hosted a yard sale at her home in Pennsylvania. (That explains the enormous amount of greenery surrounding me.) One of the items she offered for sale was a glass mug she got free while working at MTV Networks many moons ago. It was from the show, "That's My Bush," and thus said, "That's my Bush" on the mug. I joked that I was going to put pubic hair clippings in it. Husband pretended to be repulsed by this idea, yet suggested that we could collect clippings from all of our friends for the glass Bush mug.

Husband and I arrived at the sale around 10:30. We sat outside until after 4:00. During those many hours on the grass and under the trees, I saw more types of bugs than I have seen in the last five years. (Ah, the country.) Since we mostly sat in the shade under a large tree, and it is caterpillar hatching season, I saw many of the furry multi-legged creatures. Unfortunately, a good portion of them tried to crawl up my pants. (No, caterpillars! That bush is not for you!) The most successful one made it all the way to my knee before I felt an odd tingling sensation and removed the pervert.



Even if they were driving me mad, I thought they were kind of cute. They have funny little markings on their heads that remind me of masks. (Sort of like Kiss members paint on themselves, but cuter.) Husband decided to photograph one of the more innocent moments of caterpillars wandering around on me.

Later, we used our yard sale earnings (about $30 for random items we carted over from our apartment) to celebrate Steph's birthday a few days early. After dinner, we hit Dairy Queen. (Thus prompting a discussion of how terrifying Carvel Ice Cream's evil Cookie Puss ice cream cake is.) It was a perfect day.

I'll Give You One Crotch For Looking At, Mofo

(Hat tip to Suebob at Red Stapler, who hat tipped Keving Charnas.)

While viewing this ultimately horrid little video, for a moment I was inspired by its hilarious mockery of bikini hair removal. "Perhaps," I thought optimistically, "this could be awesome."

Optimism is for fools. Who knows if the translation is accurate, but still. If the final message of the ad doesn't make me want to gauge people's eyes out, nothing does.

The Lucy Stone League

My writing class is fabulous. The assignment for this week is to write a profile of the worst boss I ever had. (In prior weeks, we were assigned to write a piece about something we didn't want anyone to know and a piece in which each paragraph begins with the phrase, "I remember..." We get two pages in which to express ourselves, and working within very specific parameters is helping me in many ways.) The instructor gave us an example of an excellent profile, a story called "Mazie." It was written by the infamous New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell in 1940, and is about a woman who works at a movie theater on the Bowery. To say she is a total character is an understatement.

At one point in the piece, Mazie talks about meeting Fannie Hurst and being suspicious of her because she didn't want to appear in Hurst's writing. I'd never heard of Fannie Hurst before, so I looked her up online. (Sorry mom, I don't have any encyclopedias sitting around the apartment, although I know this is your preferred method of research.) Hurst was a well-known novelist in the 1920s and 1930s. Even better, she was a member of the Lucy Stone League, an organization that fought for women to be able to keep their maiden names after they got married and use them legally. (Motto: "My name is the symbol for my identity and must not be lost." I get shivers down my spine reading that.)

Is this not the coolest thing ever? Now, I acknowledge that a woman's maiden name is really her father's family name, indicating that you are your dad's property (thus a boy is also his dad's property) and thus changing your name at marriage just signals that another man now owns you. To some women, it is important to take their husbands' names, and who am I to tell them otherwise? If that's what you want, good for you. But, I felt very strongly associated with the name I was given at birth. Suzanne Reisman is me. So I didn't change my name, and happily, most people didn't bat an eyelash. (And those who did received swift tongue lashings from me that made them sorry they said anything. Stupid fucks.)

I just love picturing these strong, smart, sassy women in the 1920s sitting around in their little fur stoles and chapeaus agitating for their rights. Even better, it turns out that the League is again active today, and fights for equal rights! I'm totally joining up. It's just amazing what unexpected things you can learn while taking a class, isn't it?

Good Things

Last night was the scene of yet another one of my horrific anxiety dreams. In it, I was staying at some chateau resort with my nuclear family (yes, a nightmare within a nightmare - ha ha!!!) and Husband's nuclear family. Everyone was trying to get me out of bed in the morning and involved in the chateau's fun programming, but I was too depressed to get up because everyone else was a success and I was a miserable failure.

When I actually did wake up (which was surreal, because in the dream I was sleeping and waking up, so it felt like i was already up, so how could I still be sleeping?), I was of course disturbed by the dream. Then I noticed that the chest pain I experienced yesterday was gone, so that cheered me up. I also thought about how my assignment went over in class the prior night (pretty well), so that made me feel better, too. Sometimes I think I don't toot my own horn enough, so for the record I am noting that I had some really clever lines in my class assignment. I loved that people appreciated them.

Then this morning I took a gander at my book's status on Amazon.com, and was pleasantly surprised to discovered that at the moment, it is the #41 best selling book in books about New York. (A specific category to be sure, but it makes me really excited.) I'm not sure what led to the little spike in pre-orders, but that's cool. Thanks to all of you who pre-ordered it! (For the record, I just found out that the book will not ship until the end of July, so it will be another month before people can get their hot hands on it, although there is a good chance that it will be on sale at the on-site bookstore at the BlogHer Conference. It'll also be available at my book party in August, in fine bookstores near you, and at the public library my mother-in-law works at in Long Island, as she is planning to order multiple copies.)

The point is, while I am still anxious to get into New School, I'm going to try to focus on all the good things that are happening with my writing. Positive thinking feels much better than chest pain.

Hello Anxiety My Old Friend*

I've come to talk with you again.**
Because a deadline softly creeping***
Left its seeds while I was sleeping.****
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Is giving me chest pain*****
Amid the sound of anxiety.******

*Apologies to Simon & Garfunkel
**Not that we don't talk at least once a day as I nervously peel flesh off my cuticles
***New School's wait list letter said they expect the wait list to be active until June 30, which is just around the corner
****OK, the seeds are so bad that I have nightmares almost every night about everything from falling onto the subway track when a train is coming to Husband leaving me
*****Seriously, I have actual chest pain on my left side today, and it is killer
******Wow, all these asterisks are annoying. Sorry about that. Anxiety makes me do stupid shit.

And I Thought I was Full of Shit...

A few years ago, Husband saw a book called What's Your Poo Telling You? at a bookstore. Knowing my obsession with crap (both because I have a mysterious undiagnosed digestive ailment and because doody is funny), he surprised me with a copy. Since it appeared in our apartment, the book has delighted many of our guests with helpful knowledge about why their shit looks or smells a certain way.

Recently, someone pointed out that the book has a little blurb on animal dung. The first bullet point is about rabbits. According to the shitty experts, rabbit can produce in excess of 500 pellets of poo a day. Now, let's reflect on my 13 pound rabbit, Tycho Bunnae. While the beast is definitely a big shitter, I am very lucky that he doesn't even come close to crapping out 500 pellets a day. I could never keep up with that level of production.

Just a fun fact, as well as a chance to reflect once again on how lucky I am.

Goulash Over Noodles

One of today's specials listed on the wipe board outside the diner near my gym is goulash over noodles. I just like how that sounds. It sort of describes the customer service I received at the post office last week.

"I'd like to buy insurance for this letter," I told the postal clerk when I stepped up to the window. I tried very hard not to be distracted by the lipstick smeared all over her face, but it was difficult.

"You can't buy insurance for a letter," she intoned.* The lipstick smear moved up and down, hypnotizing me.

"What? But I want to insure this," I was confused.

"We don't insure any letters," the lipstick smear was upside down now, frowning at my stupidity. "What's in the envelope?"

"A gift card," I replied.

"Who buys gift cards these days? Doesn't everyone know what a scam they are?" she ranted while selling me a certified delivery service. "You just lose money on them, whether they expire or they charge you monthly rates for not using it. Gift cards are a big scam!"

"Um, whatever." My eyes darted to either side of me. Could this be one of those postal workers who goes, well, postal? "Thanks for your help."

"No problem. Want anything else? Stamps?" the lipstick smiled.

Yeah, how about some sanity? I thought. Fortunately, Crazy McCrazyson sent the letter along, and Des received her birthday present. From now on, I order gift cards online and have the companies send them directly, the way God intended.

*FYI - According to the USPS website, you cannot insure a letter sent via Standard Mail. However, I would've upgraded to priority mail happily so I could get insurance had the option been offered to me.

It Was Smashing

On Friday afternoon, I took the train up to Stamford, CT, where Husband works. He picked me up at the train station in Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and we motored up to Massachusetts for our godson's 2nd birthday celebration extravaganza. Since we took off around 2 pm, we beat most of the traffic, and were able to enjoy a delightful evening with my friend Alex, her husband Big Giraffe, and their two kids.

The party was set to begin at 11 am on Sat., so we offered to help out and pick up a few last minute items. First on our list was balloons. Around 9:30, Husband and I headed over to the local party store, parked Fred, and picked out a ginormous Winnie the Pooh mylar balloon and a dozen regular ones. The party store was a bit of a madhouse, so it took a few minutes for them to take our order, and we were told to return around 10:15. We paid and headed out for our next item, which was ice.

When I approached the passenger door of Fred, I thought, "Hmmm... that's odd. Why is there glass all over the front seat?" Just as my brain was slowly processing the message my eyeballs sent in, Husband said, "SHIT! Someone fucking smashed my window and stole the GPS."


Indeed, it was true. Clearly, we would not be bringing the balloons and ice to the party.

Cutting a long story short, we filed a police report and drove Fred to an auto glass repair shop. Fortunately, the good folks there were able to fix Fred that day, and 10 hours later as we drove back to NYC in the pouring rain, we were nice and dry in the car.

Happy Day Wishes

Happy birthday to Des!

And another round of congrats to Sara and her family on the arrival of their baby!

Happy early birthday (real birthday is June 21, but we are celebrating today) to my godson, Alex's younger son!

Happy Flag Day!

June 14 is happy day at the otherwise crabby CUSS. Smile.

The Butch is Back!

That Elton John! He knows me so well!

In a recent conversation about hair cuts and short hair, someone (and I'll be damned if I remember who) told me that she accidentally wound up with a Caesar cut back when George Clooney was sporting the look. I could almost relate, as I spent nine months in 2006 and a small part of 2007 wandering around with a cut so short I resembled a 12 year old boy. (Twice my brother-in-law approached some kid, thinking he was me.) When I finally figured out that this was not the look I really wanted, I swore that I would keep my short hair on the longer side of short. Mostly that has gone very well.

Then, yesterday. I tried a new salon for a variety of reasons. When I left, I noticed that my hair was pretty darn short, but I filed it in the cabinet all the way at the back of my head because it looked cute. Husband took a picture of me that night, which I meant to post today, but he took the camera to work with him, so no photos today. (I wore my Sweet Corn Festival t-shirt in solidarity with Mar and my sister, who both live in flooded Iowa City.) I think I knew that when I took a shower today I would return to my 12 year old boy look, although this time a 12 year old boy with a Caesar.

No more short, short cuts. I swear.

Is that a Basketball Under Your Shirt or Are You Just Knocked Up?

In my excitement over my friend's new baby, I forgot to mock the crap out of the Clear Blue Easy website. Click on it, and you will notice three photos in the bottom left corner. One of those is of a woman who is about to burst, she is so filled with child. Under that picture, the caption reads, "Am I Pregnant?"

Anyone who looks like someone shoved a basketball between her skin and abdominal muscles who doesn't know that she's pregnant (or has a horrific tumor) has serious issues. Oy.

Something Nature Intended to Emerge from a Vagina

Yesterday I had an epiphany about what Activia may believe "better digestion" is, and I wrote about it. However, right before I saw the Activia ad, I saw a great commercial about some new type of digital pregnancy test from Clear Blue Easy. It seems that the stick now reads, "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant," which is very straight forward.

But man, remember when it was impressive to have something that was digital? Now digital items are very common. Clear Blue Easy won me over though, with the following line in the ad, "It's the most sophisticated thing you'll ever pee on."* I don't think I'm pregnant, but that line makes me want to run out and buy their digital test, just so I can pee on something with digital technology. I love it!

Incidentally, whether the Clear Blue Easy digital test truly is the most sophisticated thing I ever pee on, I am relieved that they are selling a product that relates to things that are supposed to emerge from vaginas. Speaking of which, my friend Sara just gave birth to a baby girl! (Perhaps one day in the distant future, little Farf will laugh that this pregnancy test was once the most sophisticated thing a woman might pee on, as the pace of technology speeds ever faster.) Mazel tov to Sara and her family!

*Note: I am 99% certain that the ad actually said this and I was not hallucinating. There is a small chance, however, that I was oxygen deprived from running and thus misunderstood the ad. Or that I was still recovering from my discovery that Activia encourages women to shit through their vaginas. If the ad did not actually say that their product is the most sophisticated thing you will ever pee on, than it should. Because that is a brilliant line.

Want to Crap Through Your Vagina? Activia Can Help!

I've been meaning to blog about this for ages - and I'm sure I am not the first nor will I be the last - but what the fuck is with those scary Activia commercials? First Jamie Lee tells me that if I want "better digestion," I should eat Activia yogurt. But what is "better digestion?" Does it loosen up a constipated brick or plug up up a leaky diarrhea faucet? Does adding Activia's special cultures to my gut make my farts not smell like a small furry animal crawled up my ass, died, and is decomposing up there? If so, that would be great! (And I'd make Husband eat enormous quantities of Activia...) I need details, people!

However, I suspect that there are no details because no one would eat Activia if they knew exactly how the "better digestion" works. This suspicion is fueled by the terrifying diagram that follows friendly Jamie Lee. A very fit torso appears on screen. Suddenly, little green circles gather excitedly, bumping off each other like some physics experience with atoms flying all over the place. Then, they coalesce into a big green arrow that points down. Well, what might be down there?

That's when it hits me that the ad is suggesting that "better digestion" happens when you shit through your vagina instead of anus. (Why else would the arrow point toward the cooter? It's not like this is some "educational" film for 12 year old girls that hints ever so politely that one day, blood might come out from down there.) If that is the case, I will stay far the fuck away from "better digestion." I've got enough problems without worrying about shit in my cooch. Nasty.

The Mad Hatter

As an American Jew with Eastern European origins, I am pretty damn pale. I also have very dark hair on my arms and legs (if I don't shave the gams, which usually don't, but did recently so I could wear a skirt to work), not to mention my pits and nether regions, and increasingly, my chinny chin chin. I decided that the dark hair is nature's way of protecting me from the sun. Other people have pigment and melanin, I have lots of dark hair for the rays to penetrate before giving me skin cancer. It's almost ingenious, except that I do not really have enough hair on my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and back to wander about uncovered without endangering my supple and youthful skin. (Uh huh.) So it's either sunscreen, which I hate on my face because I swear I constantly feel it, or a large hat.

After discovering yesterday that wandering around the Upper West Side does looking like Little Bo Peep in a wide brim straw hat with black ribbons that tie under my chin does not deter people from asking me for directions (perhaps if I had taken Missy's suggestion and ate the strawberries in my cooler/"basket" while walking around and sweating profusely, that would make me scarier, not that I mind if people ask me for directions), I wore a different hat this morning. I figured that the good people of the south Bronx are significantly more likely to mock me while I walk down the street to work than the batty old ladies wearing similar hats in my neighborhood. My blue fisherman-style hat (reversible to orange!) is also ridiculous, but it does have the Mets logo on it since I got it free last year at a Mets game. The orange side (which I never wear facing out - I'm a winter, and I learned in the modeling class that I took at the community center when I was in 4th grade that winters should never, ever wear orange!) also has a gas company logo, but on the blue side, I glued a Cubs patch over the Gulf patch so that I could show my dual team love. It's awesome.

Anyway, by the time I arrived at work, I was a sweaty mess, and I was sure that I would have a vile case of hat head that would be hard do fix once the sweat dried into a hair-spray like substance. I immediately ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to fix things up. To my surprise, my hair actually looked better than it did before I put the hat on and left my apartment. Go figure.

The Crazy Lady on the Street

Because I wanted to save $2 by not taking the bus 16 blocks to Whole Foods, I walked. This was OK for the way down, which mainly involved carrying my water bottle and the little cooler I planned to put my frozen goods in so that they would not cook on my way back home. I also stopped at the post office and picked up a flat rate priority mail box for some shoes that I am selling on eBay.

My return trip was a bit more complicated. By removed the frozen chicken & apple sausages I purchased from the bulky outer box (they are also in plastic bags), I fit all three packages into the cooler. I then removed the pound of ripe red strawberries from the plastic container and put them in one of those plastic veggie bags. They then nicely fit in the cooler as well. The spinach, red onion, blueberry, and goat cheese side salad, however, was just big enough that the cooler would not close all the way. So I took Tycho's carrots (complete with green tops - his favorite part) out of their plastic veggie bag, put the salad in it so that leaks would be somewhat contained, and threw it in my mini backpack. Then I took off with the flat box tucked into my left armpit and under my left arm, the water bottle in my left hand, and the carrots balanced on the cooler, which I held in my right hand.

Even without the wide brimmed straw hat that ties under my chin with black ribbon - necessary on a slightly windy and blazingly sunny day like today, but making me look like a deranged version of Little Bo Peep - I would have looked like one of those homeless people wandering around with their random possessions. At least I didn't wear my hot pink sunglasses with mirrored lenses a la the '80s.

Before I was even half way home, a rivulet of sweat that began on my upper, upper thigh reached my ankle, and the carrot tops wilted. This did not stop a normal looking woman from asking me if I knew where Bed, Bath, and Beyond was located. (I did, and pointed it out to her.) Perhaps her own good judgment was affected by the heat.

Hot Happenings

It's hot here. Not in the Paris Hilton "That's hott" way. It's hot as in the I sweat through my underwear walking down the block hot. (And no, reducing the pube mass down there would not have made me any less sweaty.) When it's 95 degrees and 97% humid, there is nothing except air conditioning and/or a freezing shower that will help. It is to remain this hot for the next few days. Bah.

Last week I began a prose writing course at mediabistro. As I have never enrolled in a "real" writing class before, I had no idea what to expect. I learned that I cannot distinguish between concrete and abstract narratives. It sounds easy enough - is this sentence providing concrete or abstract details? - but this is a deceptive lie. Fortunately, I am not the only clueless student, and perhaps the distinction will sink in over the next seven Wednesday evenings.

The class is taught by the associate director of the New School's MFA program. One of the women in the class is a computer programmer and current nonfiction student in the New School MFA program. She rocks. Incidentally, she was wait listed last year. She said she was admitted at the last minute. (Die, false hope that this has raised! Die!)

Even if my brilliant inability to distinguish between abstract and concrete narrative does not convince the powers that be at New School that I am perfect for their MFA program, I feel very good about the class so far. It is good experience for any future program that might be fooled into admitted me; I am learning things; and hopefully, I will also walk away from the course with a new friend. All good things, assuming that I first do not melt in this hideous heat.

May I Recommend A Film?

So I hear that Sex and the City is a great movie. I'll probably even see it at some point. But for a truly awesome flick, involving some of the most hilarious dialog ever spouted, go rent The Long Kiss Goodnight. Geena Davis is just one of the greatest feminist actresses ever, and she's top notch in this over-the-top action extravaganza. Plus, it co-stars Samuel L. Jackson. Fuck the motherfucking snake on the motherfucking plane - the man is in top form in this movie.

This is The Bourne Identity (another flick I adore) with a faulous female lead and 4,255 times more jokes. Of course, since it starred a woman, it absolutely tanked at the box office when it came out in 1996. Quite frankly, I think that is a sign of just how good it is. The masses usually don't turn out for movies featuring complex, strong women who shoot bad guys (a market Davis has cornered).

So what are you waiting for? We can discuss why this movie rocks the house so hard at the Feminism & Gender Meet-Up at BlogHer. It will be fun.

Feuchtgebiete

Was ist das? Ist ein Buch von Deutschland über unshaved snatch und warum douche ist nict gut! Ich weiss nicht Deutsch so zurück zu Englisch.

It's not every day that I get to put my horrid high school German (a class that is the frequent center of my helpless nightmares about failing, as I was so bad at it and only did OK due to the generosity of my teacher, Frau Klemm) to use on CUSS, but I was inspired by the New York Times cover story on Feuchtgebiete ("Humid areas," according to Babal Fish), an explicit fictional book causing a sensation in Germany because of its raunchy descriptions of the narrator's body and her rejection of "hygiene." Sounds right up my alley, and I'm not making a bad pun here.

According to the article, which is both offensive in how it describes feminism and unintentionally hilarious, the author Charlotte Roche was inspired to write Humid Areas (I just love that title!!!) by the douche aisle:

s. Roche explained, to howls of laughter, how the lemon-scented products called out to her in uncensored terms that she was, as the commercials put it, not so fresh, or at least not fresh enough.

“It’s not feminist in a political sense, but instead feminism of the body, that has to do with anxiety and repression and the fear that you stink, and this for me is clearly feminist, that one builds confidence with your own body,” Ms. Roche, the mother of a young daughter and more serious in person than onstage, said last week in an interview after her reading here.

How much do I love this woman?!?! Plus, the cover of the book is the same grotesque Pepto-Bismal pink as CUSS. So, so cool.The book opens "in a hospital room after an intimate shaving accident." Oh, how I snicker!

Why this merited as a cover story is slightly beyond me, given all the other the things going on the world that probably require more attention (like "Mortgage Defaults Mounting," which is in the business section). Feuchtgebiete will be out in English nächste Jahre.

The Hope Cycle

Today is the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy. Clearly, I was not around at that time, but every time I read or think about this event, I sob. I weep because I believe, in my heart of hearts, that the world was robbed of someone who truly could make it a better place. Someone who inspired hope in everyone he met, except for the evil conservatives who continue to this day to exploit ethnic, gender, and class differences to enrich themselves.

Two op-eds in today's New York Times have lines that I feel perfectly encapsulate what RFK means to me. His oldest daughter, Kerry Kennedy, wrote, "My father had often quoted St. Luke, that from those who have been given much, much will be expected." He put this belief into practice, not imposing on people, but listening to what they had to say about their experiences and the life they led. Son Joseph P. Kennedy III wrote:

Robert Kennedy had a wonderful way of allowing others to tell him how the world looked through their eyes. Indeed, so many people across this nation were grateful for his belief in their worth — they knew his faith in the humanity of his fellow Americans.

We will never fully know what the full extent of Sirhan Sirhan's robbery was. Tears stream down my face as I ponder the irony of his assassination: Sirhan was angry that Kennedy supported Israel in the Six-Day War. Yet if anyone would lend an ear to his side of the story, it was RFK. By taking him away, he ensured that hardliner after hardliner would take office and support Israel's every move, no matter how it bad they may be. (And please do not forget that I believe in that Israel's existence is essential and no less improper than the formation of any other nation. Just as I live in the US and do not agree with every American policy, I also think that Israel has some pretty shitty policies in place that should be criticized and that right-wing politicians only encourage. Sorry for this obligatory digression.)

Almost 40 years to the day, Barack Obama captured the Democratic nomination for President. While I do not believe that Obama is the second coming of RFK, I cannot help but think how appropriate it is to have him as my party's Presidential candidate. He embodies so many of the things that RFK wanted to happen, and he has some of the finest of RFK's qualities. It is a lot to ask Obama to live up to the standard set by RFK, mythologized by his untimely and horrific death. But for the first time in a long time (maybe ever), I look at a national candidate, and I feel the hope that I believe people must have felt in 1968. May it come to fruition this time around.

Like Raw Tuna

A few months ago, I went to a nice-ish restaurant near my apartment. I ordered a fresh tuna burger, rare.

"Like it might swim away," I joked to the waiter.

He looked down at me. "That is called 'black and blue,'" he sniffed.

Well, excuse me and my lack of knowledge regarding fancy foods. When I think black and blue, I think of what my right knee and elbow look like right now. (Perhaps I should not have run two miles and then spent 20 minutes on the elliptical machine after my little accident, but I didn't drag my ass to the gym just to go home and it only stung a little at the time....) However, a nice frozen tuna steak would be great to put on the injury at this moment.

Why Am I Flying Off this Treadmill?

One of my many (albeit minor) fears is that as I run on the treadmill, I will slip and somehow get sucked off. I could only imagine how incredibly painful, not to mention embarrassing, it would be as I landed on my head, knee, arm or whatever while all the pretty people at my gym just continued jogging away, pretending not to notice the klutz in the shlubby outfit. Until last night.

As usual, I approached the treadmill from slightly to the side. I looked over my shoulder to tell Husband something as I stepped onto the belt, and then I was confused. Why was I falling? Why did I fall on my arm and leg again as I tried to stand up? And damn, where was the skin that used to cover my elbow? Help! I made some sort of pathetic noises and the treadmill sucked me down. The woman on the treadmill in front of me turned around as Husband ran over and turned the treadmill off.

No, I didn't turn it on. Some motherfucker just left it running. Of course, I should have looked before I got on it, but generally I don't expect the machine to be going. "Who the fuck left this one?" I muttered. (OK, it wasn't a mutter, but more of a loud growl that everyone around me could hear.) The woman on the treadmill in front of me turned back to her machine very quickly. Uh huh. I got your number, lady.

For the record, it hurts like fuck when you fall over and over again on a treadmill. I think this must have been worse than a regular fall, since I probably would not have tried to stand up again if I knew the damn thing was on and would just throw me back down. And yes, from now on I will make very certain that the machine I step on it not already in motion. My new bruises from the incident are shaping up nicely, though.

Best.News.Ever!

No, I didn't get into the New School's MFA program (or rejected, for that matter). I also have nothing new to report about my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track (although I did verify that it will be out in early July). I am fucking psyched because my very favorite musical of all time, Chicago's longest-running, is back for a limited time after an 8 year hiatus!!!

Yes, Co-Ed Prison Sluts will amuse, delight, and nauseate audiences once again! Man, how can you go wrong with an improv comedy musical about life in a co-ed prison? The classic songs include: Shit, Motherfucker (about swearing at people who come onto you), Eating People (about being arrested for cannibalism), and A Book Can Take You Anywhere! (about the importance of reading). And who can forget, Hey, Little Girl, the most hilarious song ever written about child molesters? (OK, the only hilarious song about that topic. It's wrong, I know.)

Somehow, I convinced Husband that we must pre-buy tickets. (He's indulging me this one last time.) Who else is coming? It's gonna be GREAT!

Our Shack

My friend Sara showed me her apartment this afternoon. When she bought it in December (January?), I saw it then, and when the renovations began a few weeks later, I saw it then, too, but there was no kitchen any more. Today, it was gorgeous, complete with a kitchen full of appliances and cabinets, a built-in entertainment system in the living room, and nicely painted bedrooms. She even has new, matching furniture. My very brown eyes turned green.

My apartment, on the other hand, is filled with junk. We've owned it for over five years now, and still only managed to paint the living room and bathroom. Husband and I furnished the space through a combination of Ikea, secondhand shops, and cast off items rescued from trash piles on the street. (I swear we recently contemplated bringing from a broken piano thrown out by a synagogue.) Our bedroom TV stand is a computer desk that broke 7 years ago when we moved it into our previous apartment. Husband's nightstand is a microwave cart that became obsolete after friends' gave us a hutch they no longer needed in their dining room. My writing desk is our former dining table. (Our new dining table is actually very nice, and we got it for a great price at Macy's.) We have two worn out couches in the living room, and two used purple leather armchairs that the prior owner's cats clawed. Need I go on?

Generally, I love our eclectic style. Today, though, I thought about how nice it would be to live somewhere that a normal 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career might find acceptable. Then I remembered that although I may be a 32 year old woman married to a man with a promising finance career, I am not normal, nor is Husband. I also recalled that I am too cheap to pay for nice things. (Not that they cannot be acquired through sales), and how much I would miss the turquoise armchair stashed in a corner of our oddly-shaped dining room. My desire to acquire matching furnishings diminished, and I felt better about living in a hovel.

Murder in the Laundry Room

Are the concepts of common courtesy and sharing completely dead? I ask myself this question multiple times a day, and today is no exception. The laundry room in our building has eight driers. The building has 135 units. Of course, not everyone does their laundry (or has their maid do their laundry) at the same time. Plus, some lucky bastards have washers (which empty soapy water into my kitchen sink - grrrr) and driers in their apartments, so generally things work out in the laundry room.

Given the small number of machines, good manners dictate not monopolizing all the machines. Further, it is pretty important to take your laundry out of the drier within a few minutes of the end of the cycle. I always aim to get down a few minutes early so that I can be there when the drier stops and get my stuff out. Sometimes, I'm a little late, and once I came down 2 minutes after the load stopped and found someone had already removed my clothes and was loading hers in the drier, which I was annoyed at but understood. Hence I was furious to find someone claimed half of the driers for himself and left his laundry sitting in them for two hours. (It was done when I went down to start my wash, so I know.)

Somehow, I refrained from smoting him on the spot. I folded my towels, packed them up, and headed into the elevator. When I noticed him shuffling his two bulging laundry bags out of the corner of my eye, I even held the elevator door open for him. My good deed was rewarded with a polite, "Thank you."

There's no real point to this story except that I wish people were more considerate. Perhaps if more people were able to attend high quality early childhood programs, there would be more sharing in our society. Or maybe I remain annoyed at the person who thinks that there is no public benefit to child care. Either way, I will try and return to enjoying this splendid June day.

What Will June Bring?

Thus far, June hath wrought a Mets team that is playing baseball as opposed to whatever the hell it is they've been doing for the last few weeks. Please keep it up.

If I'm lucky, June will bring me some good news about grad school. The wait list at the New School is expected to be active until June 30. My fingers are crossed. On Wednesday, I'll be starting an 8 week prose writing course taught by the associate director of New School's MFA program, so perhaps that will help my situation. Even if it doesn't, I should at least learn a lot. I've never before taken a course like this.

If the world is fortunate, Hillary Clinton will stop embarrassing herself and drop out of the Democratic race already. She is just digging herself deeper and deeper into a hole. It's really depressing, actually.

Many things may or may not go down this month. Yeah, I'm anxious.