Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
An Expensive Way to End 2008
Bubble bath and champagne, anyone? The menu only starts at $525...
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Enjoying California: A Pictorial with Rambling Commentary
Despite my unfortunate mislabeling of the previous post as "fun trips that are not fun any more" rather than "fun trips," I am having a great time on my jaunt through the sunny (albeit not overly warm) state of California.
Here Liz and I are outside the Museum of Jurassic Technology:
(I got my ridiculously fashionable coat on sale at Esprit during the snowstorm that prevented me from visiting Alex a few weekends ago. While shopping, '80s music was playing over the sound system and I felt like I was in junior high all over again - the setting and sounds were the same, although to be fair, I didn't shop at Esprit back in the day, as it was out of my price range, but I am majorly digressing here. The point is, the coat is cute and now too tight because I've eaten an enormous quantity of marzipan and other baked goods while on my trip.)
On my birthday (Saturday), we drive up to see Suebob. She showed us around her town and treated us to the yummiest tacos and guacamole ever. Her house is adorable, and I loved meeting Goldie, her sweet golden retriever. (Husband was not tormented by Goldie, so no worries.)
Then Husband and I headed to Santa Barbara, where we stayed at an overpriced hotel by the ocean. I decadently ate lobster tail for dinner. For dessert, Husband and I picked up marzipan petit fours from The Andersen, a Danish bakery, and ate it once the stupid hotel found a room for us with working heat. Luxury hotel my ass...
On Sunday, we started out bright and early and hit the little town of Solvang, which was founded by Danish immigrants who were sick of midwestern winters. The town remains 60% Danish, and is full of cheesy architecture that I loved. We bought more marzipan pastries from Olsen's, which displayed a ginormous gingerbread house:
From there, we drove up the road to a lavender farm that Liz recommended. It was heavenly, which of course means that we departed the sublime and descended into the grotesque. We made a pit stop at the world famous Madonna Inn (featuring a waterfall in the men's restroom as well as loads of pink decorations and ornate insanity around the hotel) on the way to San Luis Obispo, where we had to check out Bubble Gum Alley:
Then it was on to Hearst Castle, which was probably the most obscene place I ever visited. It is very nice that the man was generous to his guests, but damn. It is hard to say an ill word about the gorgeous indoor swimming pool, which had thousands of pieces of Venetian glass tile glowing under the water.
After a long day, what better way to relax than to spend the night in a spacious, heated yurt? (Maybe something with a bathro
Once we unpacked, we sat on the porch and gazed at the gajillions of stars in the sky. It was incredible! In the morning, I took this photo of our lodgings:
If it had a bathroom, it would have been perfect... Oh well. It was still a worthwhile experience. Husband and I hiked two short trails in two different state parks for breathtaking views of nature:
Winding up our sightseeing journey at Winchester Mystery House, designed by Mrs. Winchester (inheritor of the Winchester Rifle Co. fortune) to confuse the spirits of the people killed by Winchester rifles. Featuring doors that open into walls (or sheer drops, as seen below ), stairs that end at ceilings, and mysterious nooks and crannies, it was quite a contrast to Hearst Castle.
Last, but not least, Husband and I landed in Count Mockula's delightful home, where her sweetie cooked us a yummy meal, her adorable baby entertained us, and we savored after dinner hot chocolate before heading off to our (free) hotel, from which I am blogging right now while attempting to keep my eyes open. We'll see Kara and her family again tomorrow (and Suebob, too!), then head to San Francisco for a few days.
Good times!!! (Pictures can be made bigger by clicking on them. And thanks for bearing with this loooooong post.)
Here Liz and I are outside the Museum of Jurassic Technology:
(I got my ridiculously fashionable coat on sale at Esprit during the snowstorm that prevented me from visiting Alex a few weekends ago. While shopping, '80s music was playing over the sound system and I felt like I was in junior high all over again - the setting and sounds were the same, although to be fair, I didn't shop at Esprit back in the day, as it was out of my price range, but I am majorly digressing here. The point is, the coat is cute and now too tight because I've eaten an enormous quantity of marzipan and other baked goods while on my trip.)
On my birthday (Saturday), we drive up to see Suebob. She showed us around her town and treated us to the yummiest tacos and guacamole ever. Her house is adorable, and I loved meeting Goldie, her sweet golden retriever. (Husband was not tormented by Goldie, so no worries.)
Then Husband and I headed to Santa Barbara, where we stayed at an overpriced hotel by the ocean. I decadently ate lobster tail for dinner. For dessert, Husband and I picked up marzipan petit fours from The Andersen, a Danish bakery, and ate it once the stupid hotel found a room for us with working heat. Luxury hotel my ass...
On Sunday, we started out bright and early and hit the little town of Solvang, which was founded by Danish immigrants who were sick of midwestern winters. The town remains 60% Danish, and is full of cheesy architecture that I loved. We bought more marzipan pastries from Olsen's, which displayed a ginormous gingerbread house:
From there, we drove up the road to a lavender farm that Liz recommended. It was heavenly, which of course means that we departed the sublime and descended into the grotesque. We made a pit stop at the world famous Madonna Inn (featuring a waterfall in the men's restroom as well as loads of pink decorations and ornate insanity around the hotel) on the way to San Luis Obispo, where we had to check out Bubble Gum Alley:
Then it was on to Hearst Castle, which was probably the most obscene place I ever visited. It is very nice that the man was generous to his guests, but damn. It is hard to say an ill word about the gorgeous indoor swimming pool, which had thousands of pieces of Venetian glass tile glowing under the water.
After a long day, what better way to relax than to spend the night in a spacious, heated yurt? (Maybe something with a bathro
Once we unpacked, we sat on the porch and gazed at the gajillions of stars in the sky. It was incredible! In the morning, I took this photo of our lodgings:
If it had a bathroom, it would have been perfect... Oh well. It was still a worthwhile experience. Husband and I hiked two short trails in two different state parks for breathtaking views of nature:
Winding up our sightseeing journey at Winchester Mystery House, designed by Mrs. Winchester (inheritor of the Winchester Rifle Co. fortune) to confuse the spirits of the people killed by Winchester rifles. Featuring doors that open into walls (or sheer drops, as seen below ), stairs that end at ceilings, and mysterious nooks and crannies, it was quite a contrast to Hearst Castle.
Last, but not least, Husband and I landed in Count Mockula's delightful home, where her sweetie cooked us a yummy meal, her adorable baby entertained us, and we savored after dinner hot chocolate before heading off to our (free) hotel, from which I am blogging right now while attempting to keep my eyes open. We'll see Kara and her family again tomorrow (and Suebob, too!), then head to San Francisco for a few days.
Good times!!! (Pictures can be made bigger by clicking on them. And thanks for bearing with this loooooong post.)
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Yesterday
My last day as a 32 year old began with a three mile run at the hotel gym. From there, Husband and I headed over to Culver City to meet Liz and tour the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I read about the museum several years ago on Roadside America, and I though that there would be no better way to spend a few hours before turning 33 than finally visiting it.
Oh.Dear.God. The museum was probably the nuttiest, creepiest, and weirdest place I have ever been. I almost felt guilty for asking Liz to join us. I'll sum it up by saying that at one point I was certain that the exhibits were actually created by people who sat around thinking up fake exhibits they could develop from scratch, but I subsequently realized that it was all real. The exhibits ranged from deranged letters sent to scientists at Mt. Wilson Observatory to oil portraits of the dogs who went into space with Russian cosmonauts. There was also a display of disintegrating die, an exhibit on superstitions in a pitch black room, holographic images of various things, a section on items from trailer parks, ethnographic studies of cat's cradles, and a room dedicated to the singer M. Delani. The museum was approximately 2 degrees. This made the free tea and cookies served in a cute Russian-esque room (the tea was even made in a samovar!) extra enticing, which made me worry a little bit about cyanide poisining. Perhaps our stuffed bodies would be part of a future exhibit?
After the museum, we stopped into the Center for Interpretative Land Use, which was totally awesome. All of my urban planning nerd friends would love it. There was a wonderful slide show on the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The Center was also very well heated, which was critical to thawing out our feet.
Husband and I parted ways with Liz, and headed into Hollywood to meet my friend Norma, a former co-worker, and her husband for dinner and a night of comedy. On the way, we made a quick stop at La Brea Tar Pits. I was most impressessed with the vending machines. Not only did they take credit cards, but a 20 ounce bottle of pop was only a dollar. One dollar!!! That's the best deal I've gotten in ages. A 12 ounce can of Diet Coke runs me a buck in NYC, and here I got a 20 oz. bottle! I'm certain that this was the best tasting Coke Zero that ever graced my lips. Bargains are so refreshing.
Anyway, we wandered around Hollywood a bit before dinner at Loteria. Norma had described the restaurant to me as the "newest, freshest, and bestest" Mexican cuisine in the city, and it lived up to its promise. The meal was delicious, the company was fantastic, and the comedy at the Improv was side splitting. It was great seeing Norma and meeting her hubby. They put together an excellent evening.
Today, after breakfast at IHOP (just as exciting to me as Loteria), we are meeting up with the always wonderful Red Stapler for continued good times. I can't wait.
Happy birthday to me!
Oh.Dear.God. The museum was probably the nuttiest, creepiest, and weirdest place I have ever been. I almost felt guilty for asking Liz to join us. I'll sum it up by saying that at one point I was certain that the exhibits were actually created by people who sat around thinking up fake exhibits they could develop from scratch, but I subsequently realized that it was all real. The exhibits ranged from deranged letters sent to scientists at Mt. Wilson Observatory to oil portraits of the dogs who went into space with Russian cosmonauts. There was also a display of disintegrating die, an exhibit on superstitions in a pitch black room, holographic images of various things, a section on items from trailer parks, ethnographic studies of cat's cradles, and a room dedicated to the singer M. Delani. The museum was approximately 2 degrees. This made the free tea and cookies served in a cute Russian-esque room (the tea was even made in a samovar!) extra enticing, which made me worry a little bit about cyanide poisining. Perhaps our stuffed bodies would be part of a future exhibit?
After the museum, we stopped into the Center for Interpretative Land Use, which was totally awesome. All of my urban planning nerd friends would love it. There was a wonderful slide show on the Trans-Alaska pipeline. The Center was also very well heated, which was critical to thawing out our feet.
Husband and I parted ways with Liz, and headed into Hollywood to meet my friend Norma, a former co-worker, and her husband for dinner and a night of comedy. On the way, we made a quick stop at La Brea Tar Pits. I was most impressessed with the vending machines. Not only did they take credit cards, but a 20 ounce bottle of pop was only a dollar. One dollar!!! That's the best deal I've gotten in ages. A 12 ounce can of Diet Coke runs me a buck in NYC, and here I got a 20 oz. bottle! I'm certain that this was the best tasting Coke Zero that ever graced my lips. Bargains are so refreshing.
Anyway, we wandered around Hollywood a bit before dinner at Loteria. Norma had described the restaurant to me as the "newest, freshest, and bestest" Mexican cuisine in the city, and it lived up to its promise. The meal was delicious, the company was fantastic, and the comedy at the Improv was side splitting. It was great seeing Norma and meeting her hubby. They put together an excellent evening.
Today, after breakfast at IHOP (just as exciting to me as Loteria), we are meeting up with the always wonderful Red Stapler for continued good times. I can't wait.
Happy birthday to me!
Friday, December 26, 2008
Nosiness
My nose is frequently cold.* Usually to warm it up, I press my face into Husband's neck. This tends to amuse him, but he worries about me when he's not around, so for Hanukkah he gave me a custom knit nose warmer in Mets team colors:
Very awesome! He's so clever, that Husband of mine.
Hope everyone's holidays were full of warmth!
*As are my fingers and toes. The extremities could use a little more blood circulation, I think.
Very awesome! He's so clever, that Husband of mine.
Hope everyone's holidays were full of warmth!
*As are my fingers and toes. The extremities could use a little more blood circulation, I think.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Xmas
Husband and I are departing today for our fabulous road trip up the coast of California. As I finalized our itinerary on Sunday night, I realized the difference between arrangements Husband made and those that I took care of.
He booked lodging in Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, Sacramento, and San Francisco. Three of the four hotels he reserved rooms in are free, thanks to his extensive travels for work and the points that he racks up while traveling and charging everything on his Starwood awards credit card. The hotel in San Francisco is particularly over the top - the St. Regis! When Steph, who is meeting us in San Francisco and staying with us, heard what hotel we'd be at, she wondered if they'd even let us (me and Steph, that is - Husband will be fine) in their luxurious halls. Then we laughed maniacally.
It was not until I checked out the hotel website last night that I realized that this might not be a joke. Damn, that place is swank! It even has an indoor pool. Steph said she was glad that I gave her time to de-fur herself, which is when it occurred to me that if I am to frolic in its waters, I should probably shave off my overcoat as well.
I found us a place to stay in Big Sur. It involves yurts.
He booked lodging in Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, Sacramento, and San Francisco. Three of the four hotels he reserved rooms in are free, thanks to his extensive travels for work and the points that he racks up while traveling and charging everything on his Starwood awards credit card. The hotel in San Francisco is particularly over the top - the St. Regis! When Steph, who is meeting us in San Francisco and staying with us, heard what hotel we'd be at, she wondered if they'd even let us (me and Steph, that is - Husband will be fine) in their luxurious halls. Then we laughed maniacally.
It was not until I checked out the hotel website last night that I realized that this might not be a joke. Damn, that place is swank! It even has an indoor pool. Steph said she was glad that I gave her time to de-fur herself, which is when it occurred to me that if I am to frolic in its waters, I should probably shave off my overcoat as well.
I found us a place to stay in Big Sur. It involves yurts.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Surreal Night
For the first time in about two years, I made it to Rev. Jen's Anti-Slam.* (Last time I attended an anti-slam, it was the second show hosted at Cake Shop.) It was the special XXX-mas Show, and boy was it ever special! Many of my favorite contestants from the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant were skulking around, and in the audience was the Mangina!
The show started out strong. Victor Varnado, the self-described foremost black albino comedian in the world, told a joke about a crack whore offering to suck his dick for money. "No, thank you," he told her. "No, I will SUCK YOUR DICK OFF!" she bellowed in reply. He said he was unsure if this was a good thing or not. Then he generously ceded the stage to some guy with a guitar who sang funny songs about how fun it is to put things in other things, like his dick in your butt. The guitar guy was OK, but Husband and I wanted more Varnado. We haven't seen him in years and years.
Soon after, Liam McEneany took the stage and made us laugh our asses off with stories about growing up as the fat kid. He claims that he has trouble getting laid, but he is totally adorable and hilarious, so I think this is a lie. (I'd do him if I wasn't happily married and wanted to stay that way, so I assume other unattached ladies would also be interested.)
From there, there was a lot of interpretive song and dance, ranting into the microphone and rambling around the stage, poetry (some of which was good), Christmas song sing-alongs, and general mayhem. As the evening wore on, a group of men at the men at the back of the room burst into various Christmas songs (sometimes accompanied by a trumpet) between nearly every performer. Husband, cousin Rebecca, and I took off around 12:40 AM, after a woman demonstrated how to make paper flowers from tissue paper that is used in gift boxes and gift bags. (Don't forget to top the flowers off with fake blood!)
Ah, good times. Tonight: Husband, Rebecca, and I will commence a six hour marathon of The Wire on DVD so that we finish season one. Good times, indeed.
*I know the link to the story of the anti-slam says it began three years ago, but that was written 10 years ago at this point, which sort of blows my mind. It also says that it is hosted every Monday at Mo Pitkins, but it's been the last Wednesday of the month at Bowery Poetry Club for almost a year now.
The show started out strong. Victor Varnado, the self-described foremost black albino comedian in the world, told a joke about a crack whore offering to suck his dick for money. "No, thank you," he told her. "No, I will SUCK YOUR DICK OFF!" she bellowed in reply. He said he was unsure if this was a good thing or not. Then he generously ceded the stage to some guy with a guitar who sang funny songs about how fun it is to put things in other things, like his dick in your butt. The guitar guy was OK, but Husband and I wanted more Varnado. We haven't seen him in years and years.
Soon after, Liam McEneany took the stage and made us laugh our asses off with stories about growing up as the fat kid. He claims that he has trouble getting laid, but he is totally adorable and hilarious, so I think this is a lie. (I'd do him if I wasn't happily married and wanted to stay that way, so I assume other unattached ladies would also be interested.)
From there, there was a lot of interpretive song and dance, ranting into the microphone and rambling around the stage, poetry (some of which was good), Christmas song sing-alongs, and general mayhem. As the evening wore on, a group of men at the men at the back of the room burst into various Christmas songs (sometimes accompanied by a trumpet) between nearly every performer. Husband, cousin Rebecca, and I took off around 12:40 AM, after a woman demonstrated how to make paper flowers from tissue paper that is used in gift boxes and gift bags. (Don't forget to top the flowers off with fake blood!)
Ah, good times. Tonight: Husband, Rebecca, and I will commence a six hour marathon of The Wire on DVD so that we finish season one. Good times, indeed.
*I know the link to the story of the anti-slam says it began three years ago, but that was written 10 years ago at this point, which sort of blows my mind. It also says that it is hosted every Monday at Mo Pitkins, but it's been the last Wednesday of the month at Bowery Poetry Club for almost a year now.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
(Fictional) Police Dramas
During the snow storm that hit NYC this past weekend and prevented me from getting to Massachusetts to see the Alex Elliot family, Husband, cousin Rebecca (who is staying at our place while on winter break, which is very handy as she will take care of Tycho Bunnae while we are away), and I watched six episodes of season one of The Wire. Husband and I received the DVD set from my parents for Hanukkah. We love, love, love it so far. The plan is to watch the last seven episodes on Xmas Eve while eating corned beef, Chinese cuisine, or some other traditional Xmas Jew-y food.
Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!
Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.
Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!
Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.
Monday, December 22, 2008
'Tis the Season
For Hanukkah last night, Husband gave me this cute sweater dress:
I am surprised and delighted that it fits, and I plan to bring it with me on my trip to California.
More exciting, however, is the mop that I purchased for myself:
It would be even better if my apartment looked as sparkling clean as the home pictured on HSN, but whatever. As I put the mop together, my cousin laughed and told me that it looked phallic as I clenched it between my legs while struggled to slide slot A into slot A. We also had a good chuckle over the "instructions" that came with it:
I am disturbingly overjoyed at the prospect of using it tomorrow. Finally, the bottle of floor cleaner that Sara gave me a month ago when I did laundry at her apartment will be put to use!
Happy holidays indeed!
I am surprised and delighted that it fits, and I plan to bring it with me on my trip to California.
More exciting, however, is the mop that I purchased for myself:
It would be even better if my apartment looked as sparkling clean as the home pictured on HSN, but whatever. As I put the mop together, my cousin laughed and told me that it looked phallic as I clenched it between my legs while struggled to slide slot A into slot A. We also had a good chuckle over the "instructions" that came with it:
for fun, try attaching the cloths or mop pad using only your mind. It helps if you squint.
I am disturbingly overjoyed at the prospect of using it tomorrow. Finally, the bottle of floor cleaner that Sara gave me a month ago when I did laundry at her apartment will be put to use!
Happy holidays indeed!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Come Light My Menorah
My original intent was to blog about how frustrated I am that Husband and I did not get to go to visit our friends Alex and her family yesterday due to adverse weather conditions. Alex's older son had told me that they were making a cake in honor of my birthday and that he specially picked out green frosting, which Alex apologized for (as green frosting is kind of not delicious) but I found it hilarious. We were all so looking forward to it, but then the snows came and the roads were bad and Husband and I grudgingly decided that we didn't want to risk it. Boo.
Instead, we sat around on Friday night and Saturday watching the first season of The Wire on DVD. Husband and I requested the box set from my parents for Hanukkah, and holy fuck, this show is just as brilliant as all the critics said it was. One episode had a five minute scene where two cops looking into an old murder re-create the scene and just say, "Fuck," or "Motherfucker," but with different tones that express exactly what they are thinking. I felt like I was being handled by geniuses. We are about halfway through the 13 episodes.
Then when I wrote the title for this post, I realized how many aspects of Hanukkah lend themselves to sleazy come-ons and double entendres. Like, "Hey, is that a dreidel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Or, "Wow, that shamus* could light my wick any time!" Or "Why don't you smear some apple sauce on my latke,** big boy." OK, that last one is stupid, but it makes me laugh.
Happy Hanukkah!
*The middle candle in the menorah, which sits higher than the other candles and is lit first and then used to light the other ones.
**Potato pancake
Instead, we sat around on Friday night and Saturday watching the first season of The Wire on DVD. Husband and I requested the box set from my parents for Hanukkah, and holy fuck, this show is just as brilliant as all the critics said it was. One episode had a five minute scene where two cops looking into an old murder re-create the scene and just say, "Fuck," or "Motherfucker," but with different tones that express exactly what they are thinking. I felt like I was being handled by geniuses. We are about halfway through the 13 episodes.
Then when I wrote the title for this post, I realized how many aspects of Hanukkah lend themselves to sleazy come-ons and double entendres. Like, "Hey, is that a dreidel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Or, "Wow, that shamus* could light my wick any time!" Or "Why don't you smear some apple sauce on my latke,** big boy." OK, that last one is stupid, but it makes me laugh.
Happy Hanukkah!
*The middle candle in the menorah, which sits higher than the other candles and is lit first and then used to light the other ones.
**Potato pancake
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Corrupt Corruption
In the last few years, every time Husband went to an investor meeting for some company in which his firm invested, he came home with generous goodie bags with things like gift certificates to move theaters and restaurants, North Face jackets, fancy chaise chairs for picnics, and large canvas bags perfect as beach totes. Back when the iPod Shuffle was a shiny new invention, Husband received one as a hand out, which he gave to me. I've used it at the gym ever since.
Not long after I loaded my little music machine up with quality hits from Madonna, the Beatles, Bon Jovi, Dido, and Christina Aguillera, I found that I could not sync it again. A little message flashed on screen saying that my Shuffle was "corrupt." I don't care enough that I'll buy a new one until the whole unit dies, but today as I charged it, I thought about how appropriate the corruption charge is.
The pursuit of personal wealth accumulation is out of control. The Madoff ponzi scheme debacle has bankrupted several foundations which supported organizations that assist low income communities. The executives of investment banks and hedge funds are for the most part still paying themselves fat bonuses for their failures, the bills for which the taxpayers are footing. Perhaps some of this rubbed off on my iPod Shuffle, huh?
Not long after I loaded my little music machine up with quality hits from Madonna, the Beatles, Bon Jovi, Dido, and Christina Aguillera, I found that I could not sync it again. A little message flashed on screen saying that my Shuffle was "corrupt." I don't care enough that I'll buy a new one until the whole unit dies, but today as I charged it, I thought about how appropriate the corruption charge is.
The pursuit of personal wealth accumulation is out of control. The Madoff ponzi scheme debacle has bankrupted several foundations which supported organizations that assist low income communities. The executives of investment banks and hedge funds are for the most part still paying themselves fat bonuses for their failures, the bills for which the taxpayers are footing. Perhaps some of this rubbed off on my iPod Shuffle, huh?
Friday, December 19, 2008
Bring on the Holiday Travel!
Oh, I am sure that I will regret the title of this blog post, just as George W. Bush will regret encouraging foes of America to bring it on if ever accidentally develops any level of consciousness about the outside world. Still, it is time for Holiday Travel. I got off easy last weekend when I went to Chicago to visit my family, with no delays on my flight out and only a 20 minute delay on the return.
Tomorrow, my sister and brother-in-law are flying from Chicago to Miami for a last hurrah vacation before the baby is due. They are staying with Dr. P, which makes me very jealous. (However, Dr. P is coming up here in January for an interview, and I am so excited about the visit and potential return to New York that I am only a little jealous that Dana gets to hang out with one of my bestest friends and I don't.) My fingers are crossed that they weather allows them a timely departure.
Also tomorrow, my parents and bubbe are leaving Chicago to visit my great uncle and great aunt in Las Vegas. My dad loves Vegas, and I am sure that they will have a great time. I hope that they get out there with no issues as well.
Then on Christmas, Husband and I take off for LA, from which we will drive up Highway 1 and on to Sacramento, with stops to see (in geographic order) Liz Rizzo, Suebob, Santa Barbara, Solvang, San Luis Obispo, Hearst Castle, Big Sur (we stay in a yurt!), Winchester Mystery House, Warrior II, and Kara. Also, we will spend New Year's Eve with friends in San Francisco, where Steph will also join us. So excited. Hopefully, there will be no injuries this year involving sea urchins and/or medical helicopters or slipping on tile and fracturing my elbow thus requiring an immediate return to NYC for surgery, as unfortunately happened to my sister-in-law this week while she vacationed with my brother-in-law in Mexico. (Feel better, SIL!!!)
What are your holiday plans?
Tomorrow, my sister and brother-in-law are flying from Chicago to Miami for a last hurrah vacation before the baby is due. They are staying with Dr. P, which makes me very jealous. (However, Dr. P is coming up here in January for an interview, and I am so excited about the visit and potential return to New York that I am only a little jealous that Dana gets to hang out with one of my bestest friends and I don't.) My fingers are crossed that they weather allows them a timely departure.
Also tomorrow, my parents and bubbe are leaving Chicago to visit my great uncle and great aunt in Las Vegas. My dad loves Vegas, and I am sure that they will have a great time. I hope that they get out there with no issues as well.
Then on Christmas, Husband and I take off for LA, from which we will drive up Highway 1 and on to Sacramento, with stops to see (in geographic order) Liz Rizzo, Suebob, Santa Barbara, Solvang, San Luis Obispo, Hearst Castle, Big Sur (we stay in a yurt!), Winchester Mystery House, Warrior II, and Kara. Also, we will spend New Year's Eve with friends in San Francisco, where Steph will also join us. So excited. Hopefully, there will be no injuries this year involving sea urchins and/or medical helicopters or slipping on tile and fracturing my elbow thus requiring an immediate return to NYC for surgery, as unfortunately happened to my sister-in-law this week while she vacationed with my brother-in-law in Mexico. (Feel better, SIL!!!)
What are your holiday plans?
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Squeeze This, Asshat
As it is winter here in New York, I have been making good use of my cozy bear hat for the last few weeks. Responses to the hat range from frowns that someone "my age" would wear such an item to a preschool age girl saying, "Look Daddy! That girl's a teddy bear!" Generally, people restrain themselves.
However, two nights ago as I entered a little magazine/cigarette shop near school, a man was leaving the store. As he held the door open for me, he said, "Can I squeeze..." I froze. What the fuck was this guy going to try and squeeze? "... your ears?" Before I could respond (I was sort of in shock from the weird request), he grabbed a little ear stub in his greedy hand and manhandled it. Then he walked away.
At least he didn't ask to squeeze my tits. Shudder.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I'll Drink to That!
A mojito in a diner cost me $8 last night. Eight dollars!!! And, of course, I could only manage to drink half of it, even though it was fairly tasty. With the first sip, my gut started to feel funny, as my liver yelled, "What are you putting in me? Get that gunk away from my pure lifestyle! Harridan!"
My liver will once again be forced to cope with one little drink, as I intend to imbibe tonight as well. Last night was the final workshop of the semester, something to celebrate. (Not that the class was completely awful, and I did learn many things, but it presented me with intellectual and emotional challenges that I am glad I don't have to face until at least Jan. 26, when school starts again. Hopefully, I'll be better equipped to cope with nasty comments, pretentious fools, and implications that I am a talentless hack now that I know how it goes. Even better, perhaps no one will be an asshole! And damn, that is one long winter break. But I digress...) I am sad that my lit class is over tonight, as I also learned a lot (and at various times, also felt like Trig Palin at the RNC convention, but overall this was not the case) and immensely enjoyed the reading we did and how the professor parsed the material to show us the craft in each piece. She's an interesting person, as were all the people in the class.
Blah blah blah. At any rate, I survived my first semester as an MFA student, and I think my liver needs to deal with my one toast. I'm hoping for a grasshopper (some green alcohol and milk)or toasted almond (amaretto and milk), but I'll settle for a amaretto sour if I must. Or cheap sangria. Whatever.
My liver will once again be forced to cope with one little drink, as I intend to imbibe tonight as well. Last night was the final workshop of the semester, something to celebrate. (Not that the class was completely awful, and I did learn many things, but it presented me with intellectual and emotional challenges that I am glad I don't have to face until at least Jan. 26, when school starts again. Hopefully, I'll be better equipped to cope with nasty comments, pretentious fools, and implications that I am a talentless hack now that I know how it goes. Even better, perhaps no one will be an asshole! And damn, that is one long winter break. But I digress...) I am sad that my lit class is over tonight, as I also learned a lot (and at various times, also felt like Trig Palin at the RNC convention, but overall this was not the case) and immensely enjoyed the reading we did and how the professor parsed the material to show us the craft in each piece. She's an interesting person, as were all the people in the class.
Blah blah blah. At any rate, I survived my first semester as an MFA student, and I think my liver needs to deal with my one toast. I'm hoping for a grasshopper (some green alcohol and milk)or toasted almond (amaretto and milk), but I'll settle for a amaretto sour if I must. Or cheap sangria. Whatever.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Evil Bastards at Ann Taylor
Dear Bastards at Ann Taylor:
First, Husband told me that you are systemically screwing your best salespeople (i.e. - highest commission earners) by refusing to give them hours. When I heard that, I swore I would not shop at your store, even if your petites tend to fit me better than any other brand. In solidarity with the women working at the store, I pledged to look like a slob in ill-fitting clothes.
I forgot about my pledge when I went to your website today. My eyes lit up like eight candles on a menorah at the words "take an additional 30% off." I saw a very cute dress on sale that I thought I might look nice in. Then I discovered that not only are you fucking your salepeople, but you are cheating short people. Because the dress is inexplicably not on sale in petite. If I could reach up to your face, Ann Taylor, I would spit in it.
In conclusion, thank you for ripping off those of us who are torso-challenged. It stopped me from shopping at your store and supporting your evil labor practices. Please bend down extra low and kiss my ass.
Sincerely,
Suzanne
First, Husband told me that you are systemically screwing your best salespeople (i.e. - highest commission earners) by refusing to give them hours. When I heard that, I swore I would not shop at your store, even if your petites tend to fit me better than any other brand. In solidarity with the women working at the store, I pledged to look like a slob in ill-fitting clothes.
I forgot about my pledge when I went to your website today. My eyes lit up like eight candles on a menorah at the words "take an additional 30% off." I saw a very cute dress on sale that I thought I might look nice in. Then I discovered that not only are you fucking your salepeople, but you are cheating short people. Because the dress is inexplicably not on sale in petite. If I could reach up to your face, Ann Taylor, I would spit in it.
In conclusion, thank you for ripping off those of us who are torso-challenged. It stopped me from shopping at your store and supporting your evil labor practices. Please bend down extra low and kiss my ass.
Sincerely,
Suzanne
Eruption
There's a mountainous red zit on my forehead, approximately half an inch above my left eyebrow. Since I am in the chin hair plucking phase of my life, I haven't had to deal with real pimples in a few years. (Although there was the unfortunate transition period in which I had both acne and chin hairs. That was evil.) I realized that I forgot how to deal with volcanic zits.
When I first noticed Mt. Krakatoa bursting through the surface of my skin yesterday, I left it alone. I know that is technically what one is supposed to do, but in my zit-covered prime, picking at them seemed far more productive than sitting there, waiting for it to disappear on its own. This morning I remembered that I should poke at it. I grabbed my trusty tweezers and squeezed.
A small glob of pus oozed out. "Oh, yeah. That's how it works," I thought, as memories of zits past haunted me like ghosts visiting Scrooge on Christmas eve. I squeezed harder, not remembering what happens when the molten center of a zit bursts forth. Pus exploded out and hit the mirrored medicine cabinet. Ooops.
When I first noticed Mt. Krakatoa bursting through the surface of my skin yesterday, I left it alone. I know that is technically what one is supposed to do, but in my zit-covered prime, picking at them seemed far more productive than sitting there, waiting for it to disappear on its own. This morning I remembered that I should poke at it. I grabbed my trusty tweezers and squeezed.
A small glob of pus oozed out. "Oh, yeah. That's how it works," I thought, as memories of zits past haunted me like ghosts visiting Scrooge on Christmas eve. I squeezed harder, not remembering what happens when the molten center of a zit bursts forth. Pus exploded out and hit the mirrored medicine cabinet. Ooops.
Monday, December 15, 2008
For the Lexicon
In class this summer, I learned that Shakespeare invented 3,000 words in English and used them in his plays and poems. How awesome is that? I hope that I can introduce some new vocabulary into the American vernacular through blogging. My first suggestions are:
Pootbood: (noun) This was appeared as the word verification for a comment I wanted to leave on Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting. I think it works very nicely as a new curse word, especially when someone is lying to your face. "You pootbood!" has a nice ring to it, and says to me, "You fucking liar! How dare you!"
Rantom: (noun) My brother-in-law invented this word at breakfast yesterday morning. It is for a rambling rant on that ranges across several random topics. I really love it. I frequently have rantoms.
Along with douche nozzle, I am working to incorporate rantom and pootbood into my vocabulary, so I shall be ready with a smart word for every possible situation. New words take time, though.
Pootbood: (noun) This was appeared as the word verification for a comment I wanted to leave on Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting. I think it works very nicely as a new curse word, especially when someone is lying to your face. "You pootbood!" has a nice ring to it, and says to me, "You fucking liar! How dare you!"
Rantom: (noun) My brother-in-law invented this word at breakfast yesterday morning. It is for a rambling rant on that ranges across several random topics. I really love it. I frequently have rantoms.
Along with douche nozzle, I am working to incorporate rantom and pootbood into my vocabulary, so I shall be ready with a smart word for every possible situation. New words take time, though.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Slipper When Wet
"Watch out when you go in the shower," my mom said to my sister on Saturday morning. "The tub is slippery."
"Duh! That's how tubs are!"
"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."
That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.
For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.
Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.
"Duh! That's how tubs are!"
"No, really. The cleaning people came and removed five inches of soap scum, so it's extra slippery."
That said, I had a very nice visit today. My nuclear unit took in the latest movie starring my long lost twin Adrien Brody, Cadillac Records, which I enjoyed. Lots of food for thought. Then I obtained a new white turtleneck for a mere $7, which I will use to replace the stained one I've had since junior high.
For dinner, we celebrated my birthday at Red Lobster, which was a special treat for me. (Sometimes I just want to promote osmosis my eating salty cheddar biscuits. Ha ha - no really, my peach-bourbon BBQ shrimp and scallops were good.) Afterward, we had cake at home. Usually I love yellow cake with fudge icing from Jewel, the local grocery chain, but the cake I picked out wasn't so moist and the frosting detached from the cake in clumps. I took the opportunity to interview my grandma and bubbe about their families, though, and that was nice for the most part.
Assuming the weather is agreeable (it's supposed to rain), I'm heading back to my own ten inches of soap scum this evening, and I'm sad that it went by so fast, although I look forward to seeing Husband. And I got an upgrade on the flight back, so that will be nice.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Worst.Headshot.Ever!
Seriously, this is the worst photo I've ever taken:
I look like Adrien Brody's long lost twin:
Oof.
But, for anyone who wondered what I look like with lipstick and terrible, terrible lighting, there's the answer.
I look like Adrien Brody's long lost twin:
Oof.
But, for anyone who wondered what I look like with lipstick and terrible, terrible lighting, there's the answer.
What's Fucking Cookin' in the Windy City
Despite foreboding reports from CNN that due to weather conditions, yesterday was one of the worst days to travel, my flight not only took off on time, but also landed early. The flight was smooth. I was even upgraded to a nice comfy seat!
Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.
In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.
"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.
"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.
Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.
The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.
One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:
Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!
Both my parents were at work when I arrived, so I took a cab to my friend Hanah's apartment. The cab driver and I had an interesting discussion about Haiti (where he is from), consumerism and how it leads to dissatisfaction with life in general, and text messaging. When I got out of the cab, he thanked me for the nice chat and said that I could call him directly if I needed a ride back to the airport.
In the evening, I went to dinner with my parents and bubbe at a diner called What's Cooking. I was the youngest person in there by at least 25 years. At the table next to ours, two regulars chatted it up at top volume with the staff about the Blagojevich scandal.
"I know one place the Blagojevichs won't be eating tonight!" the gentleman with the coke bottle lens glasses bellowed.
"Yeah, at Anthony's!" his friend with unwashed hair yelled back.
Although I had no idea who Anthony was, my mom and I could not help but join them and the bus boy in laughing. The sort of reminded me of Statler and Waldorf, the two old men Muppets who heckle people.
The TV news is all Blagojevich, all the time. A businessman showed a reporter a picture of himself and Rod as babies. (At least I think that is what was going on. I was not watching the TV, but heard the anchor announce, "Blagojevich is the baby on the right.") No one else seems to want to be in pictures with him right now, as everyone is trying to distance themselves from his taint.
One thing that really riled me up is the flack that Blago's wife, Patti, is taking for a phone call in which she curses like a sailor. I noticed a story about it in the New York Post, a newspaper best used as litter pan liner, but the Sun-Times headline on the topic read, "Foul-mouthed first lady," as if being a woman and using bad language is a crime. Well then, arrest my fucking ass, shitheads, because I don't see anything wrong with swearing it up. This excerpt from the article is pretty fucking hilarious, though:
Patti Blagojevich -- who publicly used her first lady platform to promote food allergy awareness, treatment of lazy eye and a children's book club -- secretly was recorded directing a deputy governor speaking with her husband "to hold up that f- - - - - - Cubs s- - - . . . . f- - - them," according to the complaint.
Yeah, fuck that shit! How fucking dare she?!?! If you are going to fucking advocate for the fucking treatment of fucking lazy eye, don't even fucking think of letting a little f-bomb drop. Seriously, I fucking hope she gets her fucking mouth washed out with fucking soap! Fuck and shit on that!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Hubris! The Hubris!
Assuming that I do not get messed up by a blizzard (an actual one, not the political one), I will be in the Chicago area this afternoon for a weekend visit with my family. Initially, Husband was to join me on Friday afternoon, and my sister and her hubby were to arrive on Friday night. However, Husband canceled due to a potential storm at work, and Dana and Ryan nixed their plans out of fear of potential weather conditions. So that leaves little old me.
Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**
Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.
*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.
Thanks to the political tornado that just roared through Chicago, I think it should be an interesting time to be there. Like most denizens of Illinois, I was never a huge fan of Blagojevich, but quite frankly, his Republican opponents for office were pretty much equally corrupt and disgusting. Or at least it seemed so when good ol' Blago was somewhat sane. There is only one explanation I can come up with for why a man who has been under investigation for corruption for three years would try to sell a Senate seat, pressure the Tribune to fire its editorial board, and demand high paying jobs: he's been driven insane by hubris. I sort of picture him in a muumuu in the heart of darkness,* whispering, "The hubris! The hubris!" as Fitzgerald tries to drag him out of his cocoon.**
Anyway, should be an interesting trip. Besides talking about politics,*** I plan to interview both my grandmothers about our family history. I'm sure that this will generate some colorful commentary, which I look forward to sharing.
*Springfield, IL, the state capital - if you've never been there, let me assure you that the best part about it is that the municipal parking garage near the capitol building was extremely cheap the last time I was there, which was spring 1994.
**Man, that would make a good parody movie, wouldn't it? Sort of Tropic Thunder meets All the President's Men.
***When I asked my bubbe what she thought about Blago's corruption, she said it was bad and then began ranting about how corrupt the Bush administration is. Forget falling fruit - sometimes the fruit is still hanging on the tree. I think this has many layers of meaning, but I'm rambling too much already.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I Forgot to Step Away from the Hyperbole
Last night in workshop, I made the following statement:
"Many times this semester, I've felt a lot like Trig Palin at the Republican National Convention. Everyone surrounding me is totally with the program and knows what's going on, and I'm sitting here, blinking, wondering where I am and how I got here."
No one laughed. This is not the first time I made an exaggerated statement that produced no reaction. I forgot that people in my workshop are not so into hyperbole. Or my random political jokes. Oh well.
I found it hilarious, though. I love me some extravagant exaggeration.
"Many times this semester, I've felt a lot like Trig Palin at the Republican National Convention. Everyone surrounding me is totally with the program and knows what's going on, and I'm sitting here, blinking, wondering where I am and how I got here."
No one laughed. This is not the first time I made an exaggerated statement that produced no reaction. I forgot that people in my workshop are not so into hyperbole. Or my random political jokes. Oh well.
I found it hilarious, though. I love me some extravagant exaggeration.
Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings: A Review
In a previous post, I discussed the difference between earned and entitled. (Quick recap: to earn something means that one worked for it and deserves to be compensated for the effort and results; to be entitled means that one did nothing productive or positive but for some reason believes that they should be compensated anyway.) It seems that the same people who caused the global financial collapse still do not understand this important distinctions between the two words.
A headline in yesterday's New York Times Business Section read, "Bonus Season Afoot, Wall Street Tries for a Little Restraint. Tries? Well, par-done-ay moi, aren't you the same assholes who paid yourselves billions of dollars in bonuses over the last few years? You shitheads are lucky there aren't mobs with pitchforks outside your mansions, calling for your heads. You are going to have to "try" a little harder.
The article does note that the top echelons of executives are foregoing bonuses this year, even though they worked very hard all year. Now, here is a prime example of the difference between "earned" and "entitled." At least, in theory, the honchos who destroyed the nation and assisted in rendering people homeless through the sale of shitty mortgages earned their salaries through hard work. To insist that one also gets a bonus for such poor performance is a demonstration that one feels entitled to wealth that one did not earn. In fact, all these fucks should be fired. Their assets should be seized to repay as much of the taxpayers' cost of bailing out their banks as possible.
One line in the article cracked me up:
Oh, poor executives who earned billions of dollars over the last few years! It brings a fucking tear to my eye to think about how you'll just have to live on your six or seven figure salaries alone this year, and even in future years, now that bonuses will be stingily parceled out over a longer term to match it to performance, forcing you to demonstrate that you earned your compensation! Such sacrifice!
A headline in yesterday's New York Times Business Section read, "Bonus Season Afoot, Wall Street Tries for a Little Restraint. Tries? Well, par-done-ay moi, aren't you the same assholes who paid yourselves billions of dollars in bonuses over the last few years? You shitheads are lucky there aren't mobs with pitchforks outside your mansions, calling for your heads. You are going to have to "try" a little harder.
The article does note that the top echelons of executives are foregoing bonuses this year, even though they worked very hard all year. Now, here is a prime example of the difference between "earned" and "entitled." At least, in theory, the honchos who destroyed the nation and assisted in rendering people homeless through the sale of shitty mortgages earned their salaries through hard work. To insist that one also gets a bonus for such poor performance is a demonstration that one feels entitled to wealth that one did not earn. In fact, all these fucks should be fired. Their assets should be seized to repay as much of the taxpayers' cost of bailing out their banks as possible.
One line in the article cracked me up:
“Clearly they’re trying to spread the pain out a little bit,” said John Pierson, president of 10X Partners, a finance recruiting firm in New York. “But if I worked at Morgan Stanley and was looking at this, I would not be happy.”
Oh, poor executives who earned billions of dollars over the last few years! It brings a fucking tear to my eye to think about how you'll just have to live on your six or seven figure salaries alone this year, and even in future years, now that bonuses will be stingily parceled out over a longer term to match it to performance, forcing you to demonstrate that you earned your compensation! Such sacrifice!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
In the "Holy Shit!" Department
Illinois government has always been corrupt, as my dad pointed out when I called him this morning, but this really (literally) takes the cake:
Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich taken into federal custody for attempting to sell Obama's Senate seat, among other disgusting abuses of power and appalling and vile corrupt acts.
I'm traveling to Chicago to visit my family this weekend. It should be an interesting time.
Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich taken into federal custody for attempting to sell Obama's Senate seat, among other disgusting abuses of power and appalling and vile corrupt acts.
I'm traveling to Chicago to visit my family this weekend. It should be an interesting time.
Lipstick Jungle
Last week, I entered enemy territory. I traversed the block between Amsterdam and Broadway, then I turned right on the corner of 76th Street, walking less than half a block. I took a deep breath. Then, trying to be brave, I pushed open the glass door. Before I knew it, I was in Sephora.
Some friends at school convinced me to wear lipstick. As I crept down the florescent aisles of Sephora, squinting at the prices in the blinding light, I doubted myself. This shit was expensive. I approached a salesperson with a headset.
"Hi, do you have any lipstick under $15?"
"Sure," she said and smiled. She was probably thinking, cheap bitch. She pointed me to a display case full of Sephora-brand cosmetics, then started to walk away.
"Uh, can someone help me pick out a color? I haven't bought lipstick since 2000." (Which, incidentally, was when I bought two Clinique Chubby Sticks for my wedding. I have plenty left of both and still wear them once in a while.)
She gave me a funny look, and called for reinforcements on the headset. Another black-clad headset wearer approached. She squinted at my face the way I did earlier at their prices, then handed me a brown lipstick on a cotton swab. I wish I could say that I applied this sample with grace, but somehow it wound up all over my teeth. I'm still not sure how that happened. Then I tried two lighter colors.
I walked out $14.01 lighter in the wallet and heavier in the sparkly pinkish lipstick that smells like grape Bubblicious department. I'm surprised at how different I look wearing just a little lipstick. It makes me nervous. If I cave on lipstick, will I suddenly find myself spread on the waxer's table? It's a slippery slope, I tell you. Slippery.
Some friends at school convinced me to wear lipstick. As I crept down the florescent aisles of Sephora, squinting at the prices in the blinding light, I doubted myself. This shit was expensive. I approached a salesperson with a headset.
"Hi, do you have any lipstick under $15?"
"Sure," she said and smiled. She was probably thinking, cheap bitch. She pointed me to a display case full of Sephora-brand cosmetics, then started to walk away.
"Uh, can someone help me pick out a color? I haven't bought lipstick since 2000." (Which, incidentally, was when I bought two Clinique Chubby Sticks for my wedding. I have plenty left of both and still wear them once in a while.)
She gave me a funny look, and called for reinforcements on the headset. Another black-clad headset wearer approached. She squinted at my face the way I did earlier at their prices, then handed me a brown lipstick on a cotton swab. I wish I could say that I applied this sample with grace, but somehow it wound up all over my teeth. I'm still not sure how that happened. Then I tried two lighter colors.
I walked out $14.01 lighter in the wallet and heavier in the sparkly pinkish lipstick that smells like grape Bubblicious department. I'm surprised at how different I look wearing just a little lipstick. It makes me nervous. If I cave on lipstick, will I suddenly find myself spread on the waxer's table? It's a slippery slope, I tell you. Slippery.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Politically Incorrect, But It's How I Feel
Since I'm exhausted (no reason why - I slept plenty, didn't run around needlessly, nor did I overwork myself), I probably should not blog about this topic, as the very fine filter that stops me from saying things that I will really regret is not functioning right now. But for the last few weeks, I've been stewing over this, and I read yet another item fawning over the rabbi and rebbetzin (i.e. - rabbi's wife), and it just bothers me.
First, the disproportionate attention heaped on this couple makes me squirm. Every fucking picture of men with beards and peyot crying as if this were their unique tragedy makes me want to puke. Of the hundreds of people killed, the missionary Jews were a tiny percentage. Lots of people lost family members that day; the Lubavitcher community is not special in their grief. The very idea that Jews somehow merit more attention and sympathy because they were killed is partially why people fucking hate us in the first place. This close attention makes me cringe.
Plus, these people were missionaries. They were not angels sacrificing their lives to do good for others just for the sake of humanity. They were there to convert secular Jews into Hasidic ones; to save our souls. Just like any missionary, they did some good works along the way. I'm sure that it can be hard to find kosher food in a vegetarian city. Sigh.
I might add that the very tiny indigenous Jewish-Indian community had nearly no ties to the Chabad house. There are many reasons for this, and they all reflect poorly on Chabad House.
In order to become missionaries, the rabbi and rebbetzin left another child behind in Israel. Dying in a hospital. Dying from a rare genetic disorder that they already had a kid die from. And that makes me the angriest of all. I'm not saying that they deserved for anything bad to happen to them; they absolutely did not. But they sure as fuck don't deserve the accolades I've read about brave people out to do good in the world and help other people. They abandoned their own dying kid to convert others. Enough said.
First, the disproportionate attention heaped on this couple makes me squirm. Every fucking picture of men with beards and peyot crying as if this were their unique tragedy makes me want to puke. Of the hundreds of people killed, the missionary Jews were a tiny percentage. Lots of people lost family members that day; the Lubavitcher community is not special in their grief. The very idea that Jews somehow merit more attention and sympathy because they were killed is partially why people fucking hate us in the first place. This close attention makes me cringe.
Plus, these people were missionaries. They were not angels sacrificing their lives to do good for others just for the sake of humanity. They were there to convert secular Jews into Hasidic ones; to save our souls. Just like any missionary, they did some good works along the way. I'm sure that it can be hard to find kosher food in a vegetarian city. Sigh.
I might add that the very tiny indigenous Jewish-Indian community had nearly no ties to the Chabad house. There are many reasons for this, and they all reflect poorly on Chabad House.
In order to become missionaries, the rabbi and rebbetzin left another child behind in Israel. Dying in a hospital. Dying from a rare genetic disorder that they already had a kid die from. And that makes me the angriest of all. I'm not saying that they deserved for anything bad to happen to them; they absolutely did not. But they sure as fuck don't deserve the accolades I've read about brave people out to do good in the world and help other people. They abandoned their own dying kid to convert others. Enough said.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Warm Fuzzies
It's a bit chilly here in New York City, so I've been wearing my hat with bear ears every day. As I walked down to the subway platform yesterday morning, I noticed a man carrying his preschool age daughter behind me. The girl pointed at me and said, "Daddy, that girl is a teddy bear!" I could not help smiling the rest of the day.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Barbie Sex
It's interesting, although not surprising, that all the comments I received thus far in response to my confession about Barbie confirmed that a lot of girls had their Barbies and Kens engage in sexual activities. We live in a culture saturated by images of sex and sexuality. If Barbie wasn't supposed to be knocking boots, then why would she have fuck-me heels, mini skirts, and giant boobs? (Of course, it's more complicated than that, but that's the message we get.) I'm particularly impressed by Bryna's Barbie house uses - pancake house by day, whore house at night. Hilarious.
All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.
I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:
All of this reminds of me of a short story I ready by AM Homes when I was in high school. I was in my early stages of rabid feminism, and on a tear about Barbie and how bad she was for girls because of her unrealistic body and consumerist bent. A friend gave me an anthology of stories that we related to Barbie, and one of them was A Real Doll by Homes. Basically, this teenage guy has sex with his sister's Barbie and Ken dolls. (Separately, not as a threesome. To paraphrase George Michael, sex is better when it's one human on one doll.) It is a demented tale of sexual obsession with elements of unrelated torture and ideas of feminine sexuality and body image.
I was completely disturbed and utterly fascinated by Homes's take on how girls use their Barbies, and realized how normal I was in comparison. Now that I know that other people played Barbie whore house, I'm a little disappointed in myself. Despite my love of the Barbie Dream Store and all of the consumer-oriented Barbie products that I wanted, I guess I never had the capitalist instincts in me to think about how Barbie could profit by exploiting penisless Ken's lust. Nor did I have the technology to make a Barbie porno as these teen girls were clever enough to put together, complete with commercial:
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Barbie Memories
Instead of going to bed when I got home from post-class hanging out (which I would do if I had better judgment), I farted around online for a while. "Why not check out the status of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track on amazon.com?" I thought to myself. "Sleep is overrated, anyway."
I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:
Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.
That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.
Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.
I was distracted from my fact finding mission when I opened the Amazon homepage and was greeted by this:
What's Your Favorite Barbie Memory?
Over the past 50 years, Barbie has filled homes with memories and inspired millions of children to dream--to see themselves as astronauts, rock stars, doctors, fashion designers, professional athletes, and even female Presidents. Shop the Barbie Store for great deals just in time for the holidays.
Gah! I swear that must be James Bond Villainess Barbie! It is so evilly insipid and scary, I can easily imagine it luring James Bond Ken into bed ("Hello, Mr. Bond," it says with a Russian accent as it removes its top. "Would you like to heat up this new cold war?") and then trying to bludgeon him with a frozen Chicken Kiev.
That said, I loved Barbies until I was nine or ten years old, which was several years beyond my peers' interest in playing dolls. In second grade, I received the Barbie Dream House and the Dream Store as gifts for Hanukkah, and I went to town setting up the store on the first floor of the house. I liked combing Barbies' hair, dressing her in glamorous dresses and stiletto shoes that inevitable fell off her feet and got lost in my bedroom carpet until I found one by stepping on it barefoot and driving a mini hole in my sole, and, in the later years, assisting Ken in scoring. It is almost sad how much interest my penis-less Ken had in humping my ultra smooth Barbies.
Somehow I don't think Amazon wants me to share my memories of the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic as Ken and Barbie went at it.
Wounds that Lead to More Wounds
After I gouged my knee on the bookcase next to my computer desk on Thanksgiving as I types my sappy holiday thoughts, I covered it with a bandage. When I later changed the dressing, the bandage tore of several little chunks of skin, so that I now had four wounds instead of one. I used a larger bandage to cover those wounds, particularly because everything on my knee hurt when it rubbed against my jeans. I think you know what happened next. I'm not using paper medical tape to cover the entire area with a gauze pad. Hopefully, the tape will not rip off more skin when I eventually remove it.
This could be a great metaphor for life or some shit like that.
This could be a great metaphor for life or some shit like that.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Flashback: January 30, 2007
From the CUSS archives. I swear I was way funnier in the past.
When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)
Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.
I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.
When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)
Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.
I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.
Two Words Starting with E, Different Meanings
earn*
1a: to receive as return for effort and especially for work done or services rendered 1b: to bring in by way of return (bonds earning 10 percent interest)
2a: to come to be duly worthy of or entitled or suited to (she earned a promotion)
2b: to make worthy of or obtain for (the suggestion earned him a promotion)
entitlement*
1a: the state or condition of being entitled : right
2b: a right to benefits specified especially by law or contract
3: belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges
In the sad state that is America today, many people seem to have mixed up the definitions of earn and entitlement. For example, lately I have heard a number of people who have never worked a day in their lives (because they inherited money or mooched off a trust fund or married into money or married someone who makes a lot of money) complain that Obama's proposed tax plan was stealing from them. "Why should I fork over my hard-earned money to the government to spend it on lazy people?" one woman, who has not worked in decades because her spouse supports her,** whined to a friend.
See, you didn't earn that money, lady. Your spouse did. Or your mom or dad or grandpa did. To earn something, you have to actually do something. Being born or marrying to the "right" people does not count. People who work multiple jobs and still can't pay for housing, health care, and education earned their money. And they are entitled to live decent lives.
Really, you are angry that someone is chipping away at your entitlement, saying that you did not earn your privileges. You are furious that other people are somehow as deserving as you are (if not more so) to live above the poverty line. Believe me, even when you pay your fair share of taxes, you will still live a far better life than the vast majority of Americans, who struggle to make ends meet.
Let's stop confusing earning with entitlement, shall we?
*Thanks to my friends at Merriam-Webster Online for the definitions.
**And I am not lumping stay-at-home moms into this category, as those women work hard, even if they are not paid for their labor.
1a: to receive as return for effort and especially for work done or services rendered 1b: to bring in by way of return (bonds earning 10 percent interest)
2a: to come to be duly worthy of or entitled or suited to (she earned a promotion)
2b: to make worthy of or obtain for (the suggestion earned him a promotion)
entitlement*
1a: the state or condition of being entitled : right
2b: a right to benefits specified especially by law or contract
3: belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges
In the sad state that is America today, many people seem to have mixed up the definitions of earn and entitlement. For example, lately I have heard a number of people who have never worked a day in their lives (because they inherited money or mooched off a trust fund or married into money or married someone who makes a lot of money) complain that Obama's proposed tax plan was stealing from them. "Why should I fork over my hard-earned money to the government to spend it on lazy people?" one woman, who has not worked in decades because her spouse supports her,** whined to a friend.
See, you didn't earn that money, lady. Your spouse did. Or your mom or dad or grandpa did. To earn something, you have to actually do something. Being born or marrying to the "right" people does not count. People who work multiple jobs and still can't pay for housing, health care, and education earned their money. And they are entitled to live decent lives.
Really, you are angry that someone is chipping away at your entitlement, saying that you did not earn your privileges. You are furious that other people are somehow as deserving as you are (if not more so) to live above the poverty line. Believe me, even when you pay your fair share of taxes, you will still live a far better life than the vast majority of Americans, who struggle to make ends meet.
Let's stop confusing earning with entitlement, shall we?
*Thanks to my friends at Merriam-Webster Online for the definitions.
**And I am not lumping stay-at-home moms into this category, as those women work hard, even if they are not paid for their labor.
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