Offensive Things to Say in Yiddish

Several years ago, my parents gave me a book called Drek!: The REAL Yiddish Your Bubbe Never Taught You by Yetta Emmes. (Of course, my bubbe did teach me some of what was in the book, like kurvah, which means "whore." She pretty much bitterly refers to any woman who is not yet widowed as a kurvah, but I digress.) With apologies to the adorable Millie, whose online Yiddish lessons I so enjoyed yesterday, here are some choice phrases in the book that I enjoyed learning this afternoon include:

• Gey tren zich - go fuck yourself


• Ich cock ahf im - I shit on him!


• kish mich in tukhes - kiss my ass


• Bareh nit - don't fuck with me


• Drek oif a shpendel - shit on a stick


• Groisser potz - big prick

I wonder how to say these things in Ladino, which is a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, the way Yiddish is a mix of German and Hebrew...

For a Good Laugh, Watch Millie

I'm working on a story about growing up as the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, and as part of the work, I want to include a lot of Yiddish to convey what my grandfather was like. He loved telling jokes in Yiddish, so I looked around online to see what I could find (and falsely attribute to him, but whatever - that's why it's a memoir and not a biography; lower standards of accuracy).

My good search yielded this hilarious woman, Millie, who has an blog in which she dispenses little Yiddish lessons. She is completely adorable and her joke (which I sadly am not able to embed - never mind; I found it on YouTube, so see below) is good for quite a laugh. Definitely check it out.

It's more how she tells the joke than the joke itself, but the joke strikes me as a very good example of one of the cleaner ones my grandpa used to tell. Millie reminds me of some strange cross between my mom's mom (Granny) and my dad's mom (Bubbe). I just want to hug her!

New Title

Starting sometime in June, I will officially be known as Aunt Suzanne to my sister's baby! I am so, so, so, so excited. I am also really sad that my sister lives so far away.

My sister told my parents on Tuesday night. My mom had asked her to print some pictures from my grandmother's birthday party last summer, so she stuck pictures from her sonogram in with the others. As my mom looked through the batch, she came to the sonogram shot.

"What's this?"

"That's your unborn grandchild," my sister replied.

"What? I don't have an unbor.... Oh!" my mom exclaimed. "Wait! How did this happen? I, mean, I know how this happened, but how did it happen?"

Last nght, my dad told me that he has not stopped smiling since he found out. "I go to bed with a grin on my face, and when I wake up, I am smiling." I know how he feels.

Thanksgiving

With all that is going on in the world lately (and always, I suppose), it seems harder than ever to focus on the positive things in life at Thanksgiving. But maybe that's the point: it's a time to think about what is good and to ponder what one can do to make those good things go further.

Of course, as I typed this, I managed to gouge a large chunk of skin out of my kneecap. (Perhaps a reminder that I am better at cynical sarcasm and righteous indignity rather than sincerity?) So, I'm cutting my Thanksgiving post short to mop up the blood oozing out of my knee.

Hope you have a great day!

Furry Beaver

I went to the gym yesterday morning. One of the TVs in the room had the Today show on. It was right in my line of vision. The teletype was on and I half-watched without sound while running on a treadmill. A woman brought some animals onto the stage, and Kathie Lee and some giantess reacted to each one as if I were a serial killer on the loose. I rolled my eyes.

Then, it happened. The animal lady's assistant carried an enormous brown beaver out. It was adorable, although understandably terrified of the women poking at it with a stick of celery and kept trying to escape. "Damn, that beaver is large and furry!" I said to myself and cracked up. "I want to touch that soft beaver!"

Unfortunately, I almost fell off the machine at that point, so I missed one of the women's comments, looking up just in time to see Kathie Lee wrinkling her little button nose and the teletype reading, "No, this is just the way beavers smell."

Trust me, my furry beaver was no better after a six mile run. Heh heh.

Resisting Urges

I discovered an individually wrapped string cheese in my backpack. It's been in there for about a week, I think. I seriously considered eating it for a second or two, as cheese is really damn expensive these days and I hate waste, but then I noticed that the hermetically sealed package reads, "KEEP REFRIGERATED." Better judgment prevailed.

Jane & I

Whenever I get my hair cut, I initially hate it. Then, I wait seven to ten days to see how it turns out. This is my haircut from Nov. 6 (and lipstick!):


I asked a stylish British woman in my literature class where she got her very short hair cut, and then I made an appointment there. When I sat down in Nelson's chair, he said, "Don't worry! I'll give you a very feminine hair cut, not butch at all." Of course, that made me worry. Was he implying that my current (overgrown) cut made me look butch? And why make assurances like that in the first place? I assumed that he didn't plan to make me look butch.

Anyway, when he was done, I thought it was way too short and that I looked dykier than ever. However, my friends from school thought it was very chic. (Although when I saw Steph on Sunday, the first thing she said to me was, "Holy Christ, is your hair short!") I'm still undecided about it. Sometimes it looks great and other times like I am a pointy headed weirdo. It can't be that bad, or a random guy would not have compared me to Jane Weidland Wiedlin last week (updated with picture below).

Whatever the case, I won't need it cut again for a while, and saving money is always a good thing.

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

Circulation

It's 24 degrees outside, and an ominous sign that my hands are freezing although I have yet to leave my apartment. I'm heading down to Philly today to see my beloved Steph. We are taking in a Maurice Sendak exhibit, which sounds really cool. (A few weeks ago, Husband, my cousin, and I saw a Babar exhibit in NYC, so this children's book writer-illustrator exhibits are in vogue right now.) Husband was supposed to join me (and drive), but he hurt his back. Thus I am taking the bus.

Bolt Bus is only $10 to get there, and it has wifi, a feature that I will sadly not take advantage of since I don't want to lug my laptop around the museum, and it is way too cold to leave it in Steph's car. The downside to the $10 bus is that I have to wait for it outside. Did I mention that it is 24 degrees and my hands are already freezing although I have yet to leave my apartment?

As Seen on TV

The phone rang at ten to midnight. When the answering machine picked up before I did, my mom's voice filled the living room.

"Nothing to worry about. But I was excited and wanted to tell you..."

I picked up the phone and cut her off. "Hi. What's up?"

"Oh, your dad and I were watching some weird channel on cable that plays home videos. The one on TV was of the hot dog eating contest, and we saw Scott [brother-in-law] and then we saw you!"

"That must be the South Street Seaport qualifying round in 2005," I laughed. I'm sure this was extra exciting to watch on their new-ish flat panel TV. I ate 6.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, earning me the unofficial title of Best Female Eater in the South Street Seaport Qualifying Round. (The only other woman, a bailiff, could only choke down five hot dogs.) More impressive, I stood next to Eric "Badlands" Booker, a champion eater who sprayed me with bits of wet bun as he consumed his winning quantity of food. If it played in HD, I bet they would have seen that.

My mom told me that the voice over gave all of the non-famous eaters fake names. I was named as June, but I forgot the fake last name. I also forgot the name given to Scott, but he was described as "Blah Blah, a future shingles sufferer," which I found odd and creepy.

The funny thing is that this is not the first time I have been randomly spotted on TV eating hot dogs. The same summer I entered the South Street Seaport contest, I also ate at the West (East?) Hartford, CT qualifier. MTV used that event as part of their documentary, "Real Life: I'm a Competitive Eater." Since I stood near celebrity eater Tim "Eater X" Janus, I made it into the show.

I "retired" from competitive eating attempts that same summer. It seems that my method of eating, which I called the rabbit method because it involved constant nibbling down of food, was not only ineffective, but that the absolute elastic capacity of my stomach is 6.5 hot dogs. While I managed to consume Sno Caps after the Connecticut attempt, I did not do so well after the Seaport, and decided that it was not worth branching out into other foods. Since the party's over for me, it's nice to know that both of my attempts to break into competitive eating are well documented, even if not in my own name.

Flattery Makes Me Giggle and Blush

As usual, I've been obsessing about my hair for the last few weeks. Since I went super short in March 2006, I've been mistaken for a dyke many times. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course, except that I'm not a dyke. After my last hair cut two weeks ago, I decided that enough was enough, and I should grow my hair back.

Then after class on Wednesday night, I went out with a group of people. My friend Vicky's friend's friend met up with us.

"I hope I won't offend you," he said to me, "and I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you look exactly like Jane Wiedlin."

"Huh?" I said, clueless as usual. The name rang a very faint bell, but part of the problem was that I could not hear what he said over the background noise.

"You know, the guitarist from the Go-Gos."

I sort of did know. I certainly knew enough to know that it was a major compliment. Vicky's friend's friend used his Blackberry machine thing to search the internet for a picture of Ms. Wiedlin. When he showed it to me, I nearly fell over:



Fuck yeah, that is a big compliment. I puffed my chest out and everything. Usually, if I'm compared to any famous person, it is Anne Frank. And while I think Anne Frank was an amazing person, it is just a wee bit depressing to be compared to her. But Jane Wiedlin! Shit! I'll keep the hair cut, and this is almost enough to make me start wearing make-up.

The Heat is On

In New York City, landlords either blast the heat so that the old people in the building don't complain and the other tenants sweat their balls off, or they are slumlords who provide no heat at all and tenants are forced to use ovens and space heaters to keep warm. I am fortunate enough to live in a building that provides heat, albeit way too much heat. Generally, I keep the radiators turned off and even an icicle like me is toasty.

This morning I had to open the valve on the radiators. Even Tycho seems to be cold. (Serves him right for shedding like a maniac in November, although I can't entirely blame him for not knowing it is the cold season since the apartment is usually hot.) As I write this, it's four degrees warmer in the Chicago area than in New York (34 degrees - above freezing! - versus 30.) Freezing temperatures were also reported in Georgia. (Stay warm, Eddie! And by the way, your son's Beetle is my dream car.)

Speaking of heat, it seems that the stupid Democrats in Congress are re-warming up to that assfuck Lieberman. They should be freezing that douche nozzle back to Connecticut. I guess they think they need him because in Minnesota, usually one of the coldest places in the nation, a hand recount of the 2.9 million ballots cast is underway. Convicted criminal Ted Stevens lost his bid for re-election in Alaska (as I said to a friend yesterday, I love when Americans do the right thing by small margins), so that's a plus even though I'm not sure I want the Dems to have a super majority.

Also in hot news, the winner of the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant was (drum roll, please) Tokyo Circus! Not who I wanted, but he's certainly deserving of the title. The man did splits on a stage covered with beer and who know what other fluids wearing only a g-string pouch-y thing. Major kudos. I am glad that the audience has higher standards than I do, as I tend to vote for the cutest guy who is willing to show his balls. I'm a sucker for attractive male nudity. (Yes, I'm talking about the tour guide guy again, lecherous hag that I am.)

And that's my report on the temperature.

Let Me Love You Down

While I used the bathroom at Whole Foods this afternoon, a love ballad played over the PA system. I think the last time I payed attention to a hip hop ballad was when Boys II Men were not Jewish (or at least not publicly) and singing "End of the Road." Yeah, those were the days.

Anyway, while peeing at Whole Foods, I swear that the chorus of the song piped into the bathroom was, "Let me love you down," although I may have misunderstood the words. (I'm really bad with lyrics, although maybe not as bad as my friend Sara, who thought the song "Ohio" by Neil Young was a love song. Not that I should talk, as I didn't know what the song was called, who sang it, or what it was about, either. I didn't think it was a love song, though. But I digress...) In one verse of what I know refer to as My Whole Foods Bathroom Song, the singer crooned something about not being too young for the lady in question, so I'm guessing that "let me love you down" means that by taking on a younger male lover, the woman in question will be loved down, if that makes sense. If anyone knows this song, I'm curious to know what it is about.

What struck me as funniest about the whole thing was that the song seemed very out of place at Whole Foods. And that it played in the bathroom only, as the rest of the store didn't have music.

Accent on Accents

Since I am a sucker for well told Holocaust stories and Daniel Craig (really, the two should not be put together, as it is wrong to get all teary eyed and drool at the same time), I am looking forward to its late December release date. I watched the trailer for Defiance, a movie based on a true story about three Jewish brothers who relocated a Jewish community to the forests of Belarus to escape (and fight) the Nazis. The trailer reminded me of something that I've been wondering about for years.

Why, in movies like this, do characters speak English with Eastern European accents? I understand that this is a device of sorts to remind the viewer where the story is set, but we know that we are watching a movie set in Eastern Europe, and that the people there didn't speak English in the first place. It doesn't make it more historically accurate to have non-English speaking characters use heavy accents, nor does it help place the audience. I always feel weirdly manipulated by this technique because it is so distracting. If it were set in post-War America or some other English speaking place, then it makes sense to use the English with Eastern European accents. Otherwise, just speak English or use whatever the native language is and subtitle the film.

Am I being too harsh? Also, is it uncharitable to add that the real life Tuvia Bielski looked nothing like Daniel Craig? (Not that Mr. Bielski was unattractive, but he was not a blond haired, blue eyed god. I guess they do this when casting women in films all the time, so I'm not exactly complaining, but I think it is a little odd.) Perhaps I am more curmudgeonly than usual because I am sad that Mara left this afternoon and Husband is out of town until Thursday...

The Yuppies are Here!

OK, so the Yuppies invaded my neighborhood about ten years ago, but the recent boom in luxury condo construction caused the luxurification of a gentrified community. The latest project, which began over a year ago when developers tore down my gym, a pool hall, a chicken joint, and a parking garage, then dug a pit several stories deep, then threw up a structure over the last few months, is coming to a close. To remove the special large construction crane from the site, an extra large crane was trucked in on Friday night. Two lanes of traffic were closed on Amsterdam Avenue to accommodate the crane and its grounding and a small section of W. 76th Street was also closed to traffic.

This is what it looked like as the special extra large crane was taken apart tonight:



I think the whole contraption is about one block long.

All of this reminded me of the drinking song of the Lower East Side artist/performance artist community, which was sung with gusto on Thursday night at the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. I'm not sure who wrote it or what the title is, but it is hilarious.The chorus is:

So lift up your kilts and show 'em your balls,
Drink all their liquor and piss on their walls,
Make love to their women and shit on their beds,
The Yuppies are here, and we're better off dead!

Ah, good times. I'd say that I'll be glad when the construction is over, but then I'll have to deal with all the rich asshole idiots who move in. Bah.

Good Old Fashioned Fun

Tavern Night at the Queens County Farm Museum was fantastic! Husband and I were seated in the part of the farmhouse built in the 1770s. We shared a table with three other people. Two of them have attended the event for the past 14 years. The other woman was also a tyro. We talked about international affairs, travel, things to do in New York (I think they should have written Off the Beaten (Subway) Track instead of me!), and the newbie's family.

More important, the food was great. It was cooked in the fireplace/hearth in the room in cauldrons, iron spits, and copper pots. The fire kept the room toasty, and along with candles, served as the only source of lighting. I was fearful that there would be no bathroom in order to maintain authenticity, but fortunately no chamber pots or outhouses were required.

At the bar, I ordered a whipped syllabus. The drink is concocted with cream, egg whites, white wine, sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest, then topped with meringue, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It was fabulous! Husband and I shared a hot buttered rum, which literally consisted of hot rum and a huge wad of butter that the bartender threw in. Husband also imbibed something called an orange shrub, which was insanely potent. One of the volunteers at the event (dressed in colonial garb, of course) told us that a cherry shrub is made by fermenting cherries in whiskey for three weeks, so I think that the orange shrub must be similar.

As for the fare, the menu consisted of:
- Fresh bread with freshly churned butter
- Pickled artichokes and cucumbers
- Black olives
- Cream of peanut soup (tasted like melted peanut butter - yum!)
- Roast beef with a brown sugar glaze
- Chicken fricassee
- King's Arms sweet potatoes (amazing)
- Maced green beans (pretty yummy)
- Cinnamon flop (a fantastic gooey cinnamon cake)
- Apricot fool (some sort of flavored whipped cream - delish)

Next year, we want to bring our in-laws. Husband and I think that Mother-in-Law, a former history teacher whose favorite musical is 1776, will love it.

From Mr. Lower East Side to the Queens County Farm

For the first time since my inaugural experience in 2005, I made it to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. My experience at the Mr. Lower Side Pageant was one of my first blog posts in October 2005. I had the greatest time then, and the greatest time in 2008.

This is a pageant hosted by the Lower East Side's most infamous performance artist, Rev. Jen.. (She's the proprietress of the Troll Museum - it's in her apartment - which is probably the highlight of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track.) I confessed to my friend Sara that I am a little bit of jealous of Rev. Jen because she leads this interesting life, not that it is one that is right for boring me, but still something that I am envious of. (Sara said she thought the same thing.) Anyway, the pageant features talent, swimsuit, and evening wear/interview components, usually of which are conducted over the audiences shouting, "Show us your balls! Balls! Balls!" On a semi-frequent basis, the contestant complies, and raucousness ensues. Usually the and cock flasher is not someone's whose cock and/or balls I really want to see (like the furry guy in his mid-60s, whose talent is standing on stage completely naked and staring at the audience*), but I was pleased that a cutie with pierced nipples eagerly pulled himself out at the first request.

OK, now not only am I digressing, but I sound like an old pervert. (Yeah, I am a pervert, but whatever.) I was forced to leave the pageant a bit early to be sure that I was home when my friend Mara and her two year old daughter arrived at my apartment, so I'm not sure who won. My friend Vicky stayed behind to represent, and I can't wait to hear about what I missed. Another friend took video, incidentally, so I will try to get some footage from him and post it. (I swear I only drooled a little when I wrote that.) I so cannot wait for next year.

In stark contrast to the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant, Husband and I are attending a colonial dinner at the Queens County Farm Museum tonight. Dinner is served in a farmhouse from the late 1600s, on dinnerware from the 1700s. The food is cooked on an open hearth using recipes from the 1700s. When I made the reservation in May, I snagged the last two spots. I'm pretty psyched for it.

And that is not only what I like about living in New York, but what I like about my life: I can do all these different activities that satisfy my varied interests with a range of friends. That's about all anyone can ask for, isn't it?

Then

A friend posted this picture on Facebook. I think it is from the spring of 1994, but it could be fall (or even the early summer) of '93 . The two guys with me are John (red hair) and Jim (dark hair). We went to a photo booth. If the picture is from Spring 1994, I had a crush on Jim at the time. As usual, it was unrequited.

I have my hard copy of this picture in one of my photo albums. It's always been one of my favorites. I just love how it conveys the fun I had sometimes, back in the day. Plus, I look adorable (I usually hate how I photograph), and I can't get over how much damn hair I had.

Looking at this picture reminds me that while it was a pain in the ass to deal with all that hair, it was kind of fun to have, too. I'm seriously considering growing my hair out again. I just got another cut, and it is way too short. It's easy to care for, but honestly, I'm sick of falsely projecting that I am a dyke, and I never had that problem before I cut all my hair off.

Anyway, I just love this picture.

Run, Suzanne, Run!

Somehow, my brother-in-law convinced Husband and me to sign up to run a 15K race with him in December. I'm not quite as concerned about my ability to run over 9 miles (not that I have done so before) as I am about running 9 miles in freezing December. As Husband pointed out, though, if it's cold we don't have to go.

Prior to this past Saturday, the last time I ran over a mile was when I went to visit Dr. P in Florida in early October. It was hot and humid and we walked a few times, so I was a bit concerned about my diminishing capacity for running. On Saturday, I hit Central Park and ran the outer loop. Husband told me that the distance of that run is 10K (6.4 miles), so I was pleased (and rather surprised) when I clocked in at 66 minutes. I walked up one giant hill, and stopped a for a minute to fill my water bottle at a drinking fountain. A few days later, Husband realized that the track is actually only a tad bit over 6 miles. Ooops. Still, I remain pleased with myself, given the crappy shape I let myself fall into.

Saturday's run also reminded me how much I enjoyed running off my tension and anger. A few years ago, I regularly ran and always felt much better after doing so. Since I was crabby about last night's class, I figured that a long run at the gym would be good. And, assuming that I can move my legs later tonight and/or tomorrow, it was! Even when that twat Sarah Palin showed up on TV and said that she has faith in Obama as commander in chief as long as he understand that terrorists are out there to get us, I remained cheerful as my short legs pumped up and down on the treadmill.

Running. If it doesn't give you shin splints, screw up your knees, or otherwise cause your body to fall apart, it's great! Better than data analysis!

Backfire

I hate my workshop. Two weeks ago, our writing workshop professor asked us to hand in a copy of the comments we left on other students' papers so she could have a sense of what we were thinking about feedback and criticism. I suspect that my complaint about Cunty McCunterson's rude comments and illustrations in my paper played some role in this exercise. While I am not obnoxious, I also do not think I leave the most useful feedback in the world. I try my best, but sometimes I just don't know what to say. I hoped that the professor might have some useful tips for me.

Instead, she photocopied Cunty McCunterson's comments and handed them out to the class as an example of how we should all provide feedback. Of course, Cunty's comments were far more constructive when she knew that the professor would be reading them. Only an idiot would turn in something rude and insulting when she knew the prof would see it. Sigh. I knew this would backfire on me.

There's another woman in the class who didn't read anyone's work for two weeks, and yet we all workshopped her story last week. She also yelled at someone last night for using the word "analysis" to describe the analysis of film that another student wrote, insisting that "analysis" was too Freudian. (I wonder how upset she would be if she knew that I applied for a part-time data analysis job yesterday.) I watched the person whose piece we were discussing doodle in his notebook the whole time. I'm not sure he cared what anyone in the class thought.

That I am counting down until this class is over (only four to go...) is upsetting. It didn't have to be this way. I like the professor a lot on a personal level and tremendously value what her insight. But that two or three people have managed to make class so dysfunctional and unpleasant for six of us (I think one person is unperturbed because she is low key like that), infuriates me. I can't believe how much money I paid for this. I am getting things out of it, so it's not a total loss, but it's enough to make me apply for a part-time data analysis job. Ba dum dum cha.

A Letter to the American Catholic Church

Dear Powers that Be in the American Catholic Church:

I read today in the New York Times that you are urging your bishops to challenge Obama regarding legal abortion. While obviously you have the right to free speech and to advocate for your religious interests, please remember that this is not the Vatican City nor Europe. In fact, the same amendment that permits you to urge your bishops to challenge Obama also says that you don't have the right to force your religious beliefs and practices on the population through the government.

I find your constant bitching about legal abortion to be hypocritical. I understand that you feel that a fertilized egg is equivalent to a life. However, I cannot understand why a woman who would otherwise die if she were not given an abortion is not considered a life worth saving. When you advocate to ban abortion, you don't make exceptions for women who would die without one. This infuriates me because it shows me that you could not care less about the lives of actual people who happen to be female. Once a female fetus is born, you write off her right to life.

Also, when you threaten to excommunicate or withhold communion for politicians who represent their constituents who believe that abortion is a personal decision based on a woman's religious beliefs and moral values, and not from politicians who support the death penalty based on their constituents' belief that it is OK for the state to kill people that we are pretty sure committed murder, I don't believe that you value all life equally. If it is wrong to take a life, why aren't you pulling the same punches with death penalty supporters? Or, for that matter, politicians who deny health insurance to children, which certainly leads to at least some deaths per year?

Quite frankly, all your double standards, combined with your parent church's 2,000 year history of enthusiastically killing Jewish people (or at least keeping quiet when other people do), provides you with no moral authority to lecture Obama, me, or anyone about the value of life. Please stop interfering in my democratically elected government.

Sincerely,
Suzanne Reisman

My Super Sweet Socialist Revolution

I battled the laundry room today. It was me, three maids, and eight driers that refused to dry anything. We took turns. We shared tips on getting the driers to work. We commiserated. I dreamed of a washer dryer in my own apartment.

Hours later I was folding laundry in my bedroom, watching a My Super Sweet 16 marathon called the Blingiest Bling. Going back a step, throughout the election, I kept reading op-ed pieces about how rich people shouldn't have to pay high taxes because they earn their money through hard work, and asking them to pay their proportional share of the benefits they reap from society is an outrage. So as I watched 15 year old girls whining about how they "earned" a $350,000 party and a car. Then their parents reinforce their misguided beliefs by saying that their daughters "deserved" such riches.

As my anger mounted, I realized that anyone who watched this show and wasn't enraged by the ridiculous inequities in society must be brain dead. Then it hit me: MTV must be crafting the boilerplate for a socialist revolution. How awesome is that?

A Blue State

In my 32.75 years of existence, I've only lived in two states: Illinois and New York. Appropriately, these are both states that are "blue" - i.e. have gone Democratic in presidential elections. New York as a state is turning even bluer, as out of 29 House seats, we are down to sending only 3 Republicans to Washington.

My mood for the last few days has matched the color of New York. Sure, I'm ecstatic that Obama won the election, and every morning I'm devouring the news as to who he's appointing to his administration (Rahm Emanuel is a fellow liberal Jewish New Trier graduate, which is a rarity) and what his next moves are. Still, it's been raining and gray and I've been sitting around with not enough work to do, which is upsetting. In this exciting time, I want to be doing public service work again. My consulting job owes me money and more work.

I'm hoping that I am offered the position that I interviewed for two weeks ago. But that's stressing me out because I know that I can't really handle a full-time job, school, and my other commitments. I could do it, but I'd never see Husband, socialize or go to the gym. That's not good. The problem is that there are no part-time jobs that are in my field at my skill level. Frustrating.

Plus, I know that Steph moved away five years ago and Dr. P has been gone for 18 months, but I still miss them like hell. My other friends are great, and I appreciate them immensely, but last night we had a post-election celebration party, and I felt their absence acutely. As Husband put it, there was not enough cackling without them in attendance.

Hence, I spent the day stuffing my face with chazerai: jelly beans, chocolate, cookies, and other goodies left over from last night. All that junk food is both comforting and also makes me feel worse. It certainly is negating the 6 mile run I did in Central Park yesterday. Bah. I hate being old, unemployed, and lonely.

Too Real

In my dream, I accepted a job at the place I interviewed at a few weeks ago. While in real life, the organization is in a small office and employs fewer than 10 people, in my dream it was a large government agency that my friend J. worked in. I ran over to tell her I was now her work colleague, and as she introduced me around, a large albino spider got on my hand, crawled up my arm, and ran on my head. It was so realistic that I woke up itching, and semi panicked that a spider or other bug really was on me. (You know how dreams work - if I have to pee in real life, it works its way into my dream, in which I constantly run to a bathroom until I wake up and run to the bathroom.)

I'm still itchy as I write this.

Wow, 2 Years Later, I Am Still Grossed Out

From November 7, 2006, although I can't believe that I didn't comment on how prepubescent the model looks, not only lacking pubic hair, but also hips:

From completely bare, a dementedly popular torture chamber - er, I mean waxing salon - that seems to believe that people are not mammals:
Like all fashion trends, beauty treatments come and go, one day they're hot, they next day they're not. The need for hair removal doesn't change, but how you get to be bare down there and the style you choose, like fashion, changes from season to season. The experts at completely bare know that the Brazilian bikini is out. Now it's time to go completely bare with a flair. Accessorize your own jewels…with crystals.

Whether your choice of hair removal is completely bare's core treatment - EpiLight™ permanent hair reduction - or a French wax, - you can be sure that your bikini area will sparkle.

Accessorizing your privates is the hottest rage. From crystal flowers to customized favorites, you too can now decorate your own jewels. Whether it's a special occasion or you just want to sparkle everywhere, you can choose from an assortment of real swarovski crystal designs so you can shimmer and shine.

There are several points at which I refuse to believe that the proprietors of completely bare are not falling on the floor as they shriek with laughter. "Can you believe that women pay for this shit?" I imagine them asking themselves, wiping the tears from the corners of their cosmetically enhanced eye sockets and high-fiving each other. I mean really, who on earth can, in one paragraph, admit that beauty trends come and go, but that they have the secret to the one trend that will stay cool forever?

Another response: is there not something frighteningly childish about tearing out all your pubes and gluing sparkly things on in their place? If I were a guy (or woman) about to engage in some hot action with someone and I saw that, I would run away screaming. As fast as I could. Because this is something that 8 year olds think is cool. And this is coming from a woman who really likes sparkling things and bows and ribbons. It's not like I am the most mature and age-relevant person out there.

(Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Husband, he thought that it was a tatoo of a zipper. I admit that would be kind of cool, as it demonstrates some bitchin' humor.)

Ladies: crystals on the cootie are creepy. Show some fucking respect for yourselves and your adult "jewels."

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Election Time Dilemma

(Sorry about the sideways picture, but its a long story of technology snafus and swearing.)

As an election activity at the elementary school at which my sister works, a "Wishes for Our Country" tree was set up in the lobby. The idea idea is that kids would decorate a paper star on some side and write a message of hope for the nation on the other. It would then be put on the tree. Sounds good so far, right?

The day before the election, Dana was surprised to notice a Cristmas tree in the lobby with two boxes of lights.

"Why is there a Christmas tree?" her co-worker, who attended Catholic school as a child, asked Dana.

Dana wondered the same thing. It turns out that the Christmas tree was the voting tree. She felt very uncomfortable with it, as it obviously represents a Christian holiday, especially with all stars hanging from it and a pseudo angel topper. The school is not supposed to have religious displays. However, since she is neurotic like I am, she is worried that she is overreacting although obviously she is insanely pissed about it since she's obsessed over it for days now and asked me to post it on my blog.

What do you think? Should she say something to the principal, who she has a good relationship with?

Digging Deep

"What does this mean to you? Dig deeper!

Numerous people in my workshop wrote this comment on my story about developing breasts and being tormented by their ginormous size and then undergoing breast reduction surgery (if they bothered to give me back my paper at all, which one person did not, but that is another story). It vexes me because in many cases I don't say what the situation means because it means (or meant) nothing.

For example, I talk about how breasts have not worked out so well for the women on my maternal side. My granny is a short women who walks around stooped over, maybe partially from the two watermelons stuck to her chest. On the other hand, my mom is a woman of average height with a very small frame who had two small boobs until she lost one to cancer when I was 4 years old. The people in my class wanted to know what I thought about her scarred chest when I was growing up, and the honest answer is that I didn't. It was just a fact of life that I accepted. My mom had cancer. They had to cut off one of her boobs. The end.*

The point is that this made me realize two things. First, I am not a deep person. I really do often accept things for their surface explanation. This is not entirely true, as I also analyze certain things that happen until I've beaten the dead horse to a bloody mixed metaphor, but still - I'm shallow. The second thing is that I am lazy. I'm probably not as shallow as I claim (see dead horse metaphor), but digging deep means extra work and maybe even painful revelations, and I'm not going there. Sometimes I just want to tell a funny story. Why look for the underlying pathos just to make the story more literary? It's all very distressing to think about.

*Now you know the truth, so if I ever do write a best-selling book about puberty and there are paragraphs describing how I didn't want to get boobs because I was scared of cancer and blah blah blah, you can all go to the tabloids and say that I am a liar just like James Frey. And then I will have to lie and say that I had recovered memories in the process of writing the book and blah blah blah and it will all be very scandalous. If you do sell me out, I hope that the tabloids pay you good money. Then you can take me out for afternoon tea and we can laugh about it.

I Just Wanna Celebrate

Theo and Barack Obama* share a moment of victory in my apartment in the wee hours of the morning/late last night.

Man, last night was exciting.

*Yes, that is really Husband wearing a 99 cent paper mask he bought at a costume/card shop down the street that is disturbingly realistic, causing people to do double takes as when they notice a neckless Barack Obama with white hands walking down the street/on the subway/at an election results party/etc.

The Rewards of Voting

I am going to vote. If all goes well, today will be as sweet as the bag of Brach's Caramel Candy Corn that I consumed over the last few days. Theo is hoping that he can come to the polling station with me. We'll see.

Actually, voters in New York and Seattle can get orgasmic rewards for voting. Babeland is offering a free mini vibrator or penis sleeve thingy to anyone who walks into one of their stores and says they voter. Word of honor is honored. That voting rewards are worth $15 and $20, respectively. I am awed by their amazing generosity.

Other freebies for voters include coffee from Starbucks and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. But the vibrator or dick sleeve is definitely the voting gift that keeps on giving. I'm speechless. Me! Speechless!

It's Up to Us

When I heard that Barack Obama's grandmother died, I went to the New York Times webpage to see how people were reacting. One wise, eloquent person wrote:

"May she rest in peace knowing that we are going to carry her grandson over the finish line tomorrow."

Now I can't stop crying. We must win this election tomorrow. We must.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

It doesn't feel possible, but tomorrow is finally election day! I am so excited and nervous. With a modicum of luck, the 2008 election season will end tomorrow, and with even more luck, the next president of the United States will be Barack Obama. My fingers are crossed.

At the same time, once the election is over, what will I spend too much time obsessing over? I'm going to need something with which to fill my free time. It's a good thing that I had a job interview last week...

So let's sing it:
Tomorrow, tomorrow
I love you, tomorrow
You're only a day away!

Sunday Homily

Normally I hate Sundays. I have hated Sundays for about as long as I can remember because I knew that once Sunday was over, it would be Monday, which meant another week of school, which I found a dreary and dreadful prospect. Even when I liked school (i.e. - college and beyond), Sundays continued to carry a taint. When I was out of school, it meant a week of work, which was almost as bad as school.

This Sunday, however, I am cheery. First, I love daylight savings time. I woke up at what would have been 11 am, but it was only 10! How awesome is that?!?! A full night of rest and yet the day lay ahead of me, full of possibilities. As Teddy Roosevelt liked to say, delightful.

Plus, this is the first Sunday in November, a month full of exciting and fun events. Tuesday is the election, for which I have great hope. I'm not counting on anything, my fingers are crossed, I'm knocking on wood and saying "ken ahora" (Yiddish for "no evil eye" or "not to jinx it"), but I am still excited at the prospect of positive change. And, boy, do we need it since the Bushies are pushing through horrific last minute regulatory changes that really screw women (don't forget, IUDs are now "abortions," etc), the environment, and the economy. On Nov. 13, it's the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant, which I loved in 2005. That night, Mara and her family are also coming into town. The next day, Husband and I are having "an authentic eighteenth-century dinner prepared on an open hearth, served on period tableware" at the Queens County Farm Museum, which is a site in my book. Later in the month, we'll go see the Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons, which are inflated the day before Thanksgiving near our apartment, and have pizza and hot chocolate. Finally, there is Thanksgiving, which is one of my favorite holidays.

All in all, I'm just ecstatic about November. There's so much to look forward to!

Daylight Savings Time Ramblings

If you live in the United States, don't forget to set the clocks back and hour at 2 am. The nice thing about this is that you can screw up really badly at 1 am, then go back in time one hour and do it over. Sort of like Groundhog Day but not really, since it is only an hour not a full day, and the people who were affected by the screw up are going to remember that you screwed up. So unless you can also erase memories or no one witnesses the screw up, maybe one should not think of Daylight Savings Time as an opportunity to screw up and go back in time to fix it.

When I was growing up, my mom always wished that Daylight Savings Time would come after Halloween so that it wouldn't get dark so early and kids would have more time to Trick or Treat when it is light. She finally got her wish, although about 25 years too late to affect her children. Oh well. She's a civic-minded person sometimes, so I'm sure she is happy for my friends who have kids and all the others out there who benefit from the change.

I did not go Trick or Treating this year, but I wore my dirndl to two Halloween events. The tailoring helped me breathe, although the tailor made it way too big on top, which pisses me off. (I forgot to mention that when I picked up the dirndl from the shop on Tuesday, I noticed that someone had dropped off a new suit jacket with a $1,299 price tag. That's when I realized how out of place the dirndl was in the shop, and I laughed and laughed.) At one party, I ate chocolate with bacon bits in it. Surprisingly delicious - smoky and salty perfectly offset by sweet. At the other, I ate more chocolate and my friend from school told me my fortune, then one of her friends cast a one-word spell that involved lighting a piece of paper on fire in her palm. It would have been great if the tailor made the waistline a little too big as opposed to the bust. Harumph.