Over the course of the semester, my friend Alex thought about starting a blog. I told him all about - probably in far more detail than he ever wanted to know - how much I loved blogging, and how I made all these awesome friends through blogging, and how it helped my writing, and blah blah blah. Somehow, my babbling did not discourage him, and he recently entered the esteemed world of blogging.
In my efforts to be a supportive member of the blogging community, I encourage folks to check out Chaos Collage, the fruits of Alex's blogging exploits. He writes a lot about music, particularly music that the youth enjoy these days, so I am pretty darn clueless in that area. Even when I was a youth, I was an extremely dorky one who either listened to pop shit on the radio (Vanilla Ice, anyone?) or played my mom's and aunt's 45s from the 1950s and '60s. Man, I love them oldies. OK, I liked Madonna a lot, too. Alex is a funny writer, so even if you are a cultural loser like me, there are some great bons mots to enjoy.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Special Anonymous Guest Post & Photo
We have been having a very bad, awful week at work. My co-worker and I were glumly walking out to lunch when we both saw this chair, which had been pushed under a counter, probably to hide what was on the seat.
We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.
"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.
"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."
Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!
We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.
"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.
"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."
Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Better than Horrific
So the super never showed up last night, nor did he call us to let us know that something else came up. This morning he told Husband he'd be by at 8:15. When I called him at 9:00 to see what was going on, he seemed irritated that I interrupted him. However, he did show up at my door within two minutes.
He is truly, honestly wounded that Husband and I don't find the repair job acceptable. He said he's just trying to save the building some money, and a professional tiler would not do a better job. Since I beg to differ, I'll provide some evidence.
This is the original "repair" job that the super was surprised that we found unacceptable:
My favorite part is the "new" tile with a big fucking crack in it. Granted, after we complained, he did fix it. That cracked tile is still there, albeit smeared over with grout:
Oh look! The big chip is still missing from the side. The crack is still ther, just hidden from our cheap camera under all the grout. Speaking of grout, many of the tiles are smeared up with the rough substance. Such pickiness!
He also argued with me about whether water went into the little hole in tile that I pointed out in yesterday's blog post. First, he said that water from the shower couldn't possibly reach that area, which is stupid. Then, when I pointed out the mildew stain from the leaky faucet directly above the hole, he denied there was a leak. We turned the shower on, and I watched a trickle of water flow down into the hole. "See?" my super said. "No leak." When I insisted that there was water seeping into the hole in front of my eyes, he touched the wall. "Oh yeah," he marveled. "It is leaking." I gnashed my teeth. He then put grout directly into the wet hole, sealing in the moisture behind the tiles.
If I paid someone who left me with my current tile situation, I would sue them. And that's the difference between the earnest effort my super made, and the result I expect. I'm sorry to hurt his feelings, and I do think he genuinely believes he is trying to help us, but this leaky faucet is getting plugged by someone else. Harumph.
He is truly, honestly wounded that Husband and I don't find the repair job acceptable. He said he's just trying to save the building some money, and a professional tiler would not do a better job. Since I beg to differ, I'll provide some evidence.
This is the original "repair" job that the super was surprised that we found unacceptable:
My favorite part is the "new" tile with a big fucking crack in it. Granted, after we complained, he did fix it. That cracked tile is still there, albeit smeared over with grout:
Oh look! The big chip is still missing from the side. The crack is still ther, just hidden from our cheap camera under all the grout. Speaking of grout, many of the tiles are smeared up with the rough substance. Such pickiness!
He also argued with me about whether water went into the little hole in tile that I pointed out in yesterday's blog post. First, he said that water from the shower couldn't possibly reach that area, which is stupid. Then, when I pointed out the mildew stain from the leaky faucet directly above the hole, he denied there was a leak. We turned the shower on, and I watched a trickle of water flow down into the hole. "See?" my super said. "No leak." When I insisted that there was water seeping into the hole in front of my eyes, he touched the wall. "Oh yeah," he marveled. "It is leaking." I gnashed my teeth. He then put grout directly into the wet hole, sealing in the moisture behind the tiles.
If I paid someone who left me with my current tile situation, I would sue them. And that's the difference between the earnest effort my super made, and the result I expect. I'm sorry to hurt his feelings, and I do think he genuinely believes he is trying to help us, but this leaky faucet is getting plugged by someone else. Harumph.
Sickness Leads to Accusations of Shoplifting
So, other than the facts that my cough is hurting my throat and my constant nose blowing has helped remove the skin around my schnozz and mouth, the worst thing about this little bout with a cold/the flu is that I can't go to the gym. While I was at Alex's house last weekend, her Wii Fit assured me that I was a normal weight (BMI = 24.1), but suggested that maybe I want to get it down to 22.
That sounds about right to me. I look fine in jeans (Lucky Brand jeans are amazingly flattering on me), but damn, when I get dressed for work in dress pants, I could be mistaken for a 6 month pregnant woman. It's to the point where I don't want to go to the grocery store while dressed for work lest I be accused of shoplifting, as I seriously appear to have stuffed a Butterball turkey down the front of my pants.
The ailment has only moderately curbed my appetite, although fortunately the explosive digestive experience I had on Wednesday has not recurred. (I really can't understand why anyone would risk that scary diet pill - Alli - that makes you shit yourself if you eat more than 15 grams of fat in one sitting.) Anyway, enough bellyaching. I need a nap. (And, seriously? Where did January go?!?!)
That sounds about right to me. I look fine in jeans (Lucky Brand jeans are amazingly flattering on me), but damn, when I get dressed for work in dress pants, I could be mistaken for a 6 month pregnant woman. It's to the point where I don't want to go to the grocery store while dressed for work lest I be accused of shoplifting, as I seriously appear to have stuffed a Butterball turkey down the front of my pants.
The ailment has only moderately curbed my appetite, although fortunately the explosive digestive experience I had on Wednesday has not recurred. (I really can't understand why anyone would risk that scary diet pill - Alli - that makes you shit yourself if you eat more than 15 grams of fat in one sitting.) Anyway, enough bellyaching. I need a nap. (And, seriously? Where did January go?!?!)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Great Bathroom Wall of Tile
The bathroom wall saga continues. Quick recap: while Husband and I were away at the end of the year, the super of our building asked permission to enter our apartment and tear up the bathroom wall to repair a pipe that was leaking. We were promised that the wall would be returned to the condition in which it was found. Uh huh...
For reasons I cannot possibly fathom, the super refused to allow the management company to hire a professional tiler to fix the enormous holes that were ripped in the wall. (The management company was perfectly willing to do this.) Instead, he had his handyman do it, but the tiles were cut to the wrong size, pasted in so that the insulation was still exposed, and fell out when I looked at it closely. The next day, Husband asked the super to stop the work until a professional could come in. When we arrived home that night, the outrageously crappy tiling job was ripped out, and a new job was done. It was not as horrifying as the first job, but did contain problems like this:
Yes, that is a small hole next to the faucet into which water drips, probably causing a mold problem to fester. This is in addition to all the old tiles that were cracked or chipped during the work and not replaced, but left there to look like shit. And the corner, which was originally a curved tile, that is now two glued together at a 90 degree angle with exposed ceramic. Not to mention that the new tiles are a different shade of white than the old ones. Furious, Husband called the management company, which agreed to order appropriate tiles and have them professionally installed.
Today the super told Husband that he refuses to accept that his work is not as good as a professional. When he arrives here at 7:00, I would like to ask him to return the $130 holiday gift we gave him in December, as he obviously enjoys shitting in my bathroom and telling me I should be grateful it isn't diarrhea and that he left me a mop. I would also like to break into his apartment and shatter all the tiles in his shower and tell him that it is perfectly fine. And really, why is he fighting this? The repairs are not fucking coming out of his personal pocket. I trusted him to come into my home when I wasn't there and do what needed to be done to save the building from extensive damage. His repayment is to take my old shower, which was rather ugly, and make it worse.
We all know where this leads: he better hope that he doesn't need access to make repairs ever again if no one is home, as I will now let the whole fucking building collapse before he ever touches a fucking thing in here. Hey, I have homeowner's insurance.
Update: The super did not show up or call us to cancel.
For reasons I cannot possibly fathom, the super refused to allow the management company to hire a professional tiler to fix the enormous holes that were ripped in the wall. (The management company was perfectly willing to do this.) Instead, he had his handyman do it, but the tiles were cut to the wrong size, pasted in so that the insulation was still exposed, and fell out when I looked at it closely. The next day, Husband asked the super to stop the work until a professional could come in. When we arrived home that night, the outrageously crappy tiling job was ripped out, and a new job was done. It was not as horrifying as the first job, but did contain problems like this:
Yes, that is a small hole next to the faucet into which water drips, probably causing a mold problem to fester. This is in addition to all the old tiles that were cracked or chipped during the work and not replaced, but left there to look like shit. And the corner, which was originally a curved tile, that is now two glued together at a 90 degree angle with exposed ceramic. Not to mention that the new tiles are a different shade of white than the old ones. Furious, Husband called the management company, which agreed to order appropriate tiles and have them professionally installed.
Today the super told Husband that he refuses to accept that his work is not as good as a professional. When he arrives here at 7:00, I would like to ask him to return the $130 holiday gift we gave him in December, as he obviously enjoys shitting in my bathroom and telling me I should be grateful it isn't diarrhea and that he left me a mop. I would also like to break into his apartment and shatter all the tiles in his shower and tell him that it is perfectly fine. And really, why is he fighting this? The repairs are not fucking coming out of his personal pocket. I trusted him to come into my home when I wasn't there and do what needed to be done to save the building from extensive damage. His repayment is to take my old shower, which was rather ugly, and make it worse.
We all know where this leads: he better hope that he doesn't need access to make repairs ever again if no one is home, as I will now let the whole fucking building collapse before he ever touches a fucking thing in here. Hey, I have homeowner's insurance.
Update: The super did not show up or call us to cancel.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Intestinal Pneumonia
I discovered that I really like the sound of the words pneumonia and spumoni. There's something pleasing about that "moni" aspect. I also like the Tommy & the Shondelles song "Mony, Mony." Interesting.
So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.
However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)
When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.
Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...
So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.
However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)
When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.
Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Pneumonia Ice Cream
"How are you?" my dad asked me when I spoke to him on the phone earlier.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
Monday, January 26, 2009
No Whine with This Cheese
Man, have I been whiny lately. I am happy to report that my first class of this semester was good. Fingers crossed, I think I will learn a lot from this workshop. The instructor laid down some clear ground rules, which pleased my fuddy duddy side. I suspect she will not indulge anyone who compares my writing to Oscar Meyer. Plus, she gave a quick lecture about what she looks for in nonfiction writing that actually provided some good insight and guidance.
The other exciting aspect of the class is that no one seems like a pretentious fuck. I walked out of my first class last semester and blew up over some of the outrageous, obnoxious things that my fellow writers said to introduce themselves. No one made me want to stab them in the face tonight. Hurray! Plus, one of the guys sells mattresses. (Or at least I think that was what he said he did for a living when I met him at a student event back in September.) Joe Biden also sells mattresses (or at least he looks like he should), so I am excited that vice presidential material is hanging around me.
The other exciting aspect of the class is that no one seems like a pretentious fuck. I walked out of my first class last semester and blew up over some of the outrageous, obnoxious things that my fellow writers said to introduce themselves. No one made me want to stab them in the face tonight. Hurray! Plus, one of the guys sells mattresses. (Or at least I think that was what he said he did for a living when I met him at a student event back in September.) Joe Biden also sells mattresses (or at least he looks like he should), so I am excited that vice presidential material is hanging around me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday Spazz Sessions
On the way home from a lovely weekend visit with Alex Elliot & family, Steph, Husband, and I discussed cars that our parents had driven when we were kids. Steph mentioned a Cadillac Eldorado that her dad lusted after and finally purchased after years of motoring around in Toyotas, only to have it sit around in the garage after they drove it from Pennsylvania to Disney World one summer. Husband said that his dad installed an 8 track machine so that he could listen to Sesame Street songs in the sensible sedans they drove. I talked about the Bobcat debacle.
I am not sure when my dad bought the Mercury Bobcat two door hatchback or why, but by the summer of 1984, the air condition no longer worked and the driver's side door didn't close properly. (The driver had to pull the door up while yanking it closed, or it would pop back open.) The car had four bucket seats, making it inappropriate for car pooling, and yet my mom inherited it. I fondly recalled sitting on the fuzzy light blue "hump" with no seat belt in the back between the two bucket seats while we sat sweltering in traffic jams on the way to my allergist appointments. The Cubs game blared over the radio. That was probably the best summer I ever had.
As I regaled Steph and Husband with my tale of the Bobcat, I realized that not only was that a great summer, but it was probably the last time I was ever consistently happy. When I went back to school, none of my friends were in my class. I had a horrific asthma attack while running in gym, and was sent to the hospital via ambulance. After that, I wasn't allowed to exert myself in gym, so by the end of third grade, just when I was sliding into early adolescence, I lost touch with my friends, stopped exercising and gained weight, and hid in books.
In fourth grade, I experienced my first bouts of depression, gained more weight, and failed a test in school for the first time. (I got a 49% on a fractions exam.) From then on, it was low self-esteem, and increasing frustration as I began to understand what a horribly unfair place the wider world was. Suddenly, it mattered that I didn't live in a nice house or wear trendy jeans. At the same time, I knew that millions of people had it worse than me, and I was lucky.
Almost 25 years after I cheered for the Cubs with all my heart while my mom hoped that we wouldn't get into a car accident that would send me straight through the windshield, it vexes me to realize that no matter what I attempt to do to improve my situation and be happy, I'll never have the same constant satisfaction with life. Sure, I'm happy at times - and frequently - but underneath it all is the frustration that I can't balance what I want. I can't find a combination of paid work, writing, education, leisure, family, friends, exercise, etc. that satisfies me. It's always too much of something, leaving me stressed, anxious, and worried. And yet I know I've got it good, making me feel guilty for not being happier. The hump on which I perched so cheerfully is long gone, leaving me without a vehicle to get where I should go.* Maybe the summer that the Cubs finally deliver is when it will all come together for me, too.**
*How's that for a metaphor?
**Of course, I happen to think that a Cubs World Series victory is a sign of the apocalypse, but that's another story.
I am not sure when my dad bought the Mercury Bobcat two door hatchback or why, but by the summer of 1984, the air condition no longer worked and the driver's side door didn't close properly. (The driver had to pull the door up while yanking it closed, or it would pop back open.) The car had four bucket seats, making it inappropriate for car pooling, and yet my mom inherited it. I fondly recalled sitting on the fuzzy light blue "hump" with no seat belt in the back between the two bucket seats while we sat sweltering in traffic jams on the way to my allergist appointments. The Cubs game blared over the radio. That was probably the best summer I ever had.
As I regaled Steph and Husband with my tale of the Bobcat, I realized that not only was that a great summer, but it was probably the last time I was ever consistently happy. When I went back to school, none of my friends were in my class. I had a horrific asthma attack while running in gym, and was sent to the hospital via ambulance. After that, I wasn't allowed to exert myself in gym, so by the end of third grade, just when I was sliding into early adolescence, I lost touch with my friends, stopped exercising and gained weight, and hid in books.
In fourth grade, I experienced my first bouts of depression, gained more weight, and failed a test in school for the first time. (I got a 49% on a fractions exam.) From then on, it was low self-esteem, and increasing frustration as I began to understand what a horribly unfair place the wider world was. Suddenly, it mattered that I didn't live in a nice house or wear trendy jeans. At the same time, I knew that millions of people had it worse than me, and I was lucky.
Almost 25 years after I cheered for the Cubs with all my heart while my mom hoped that we wouldn't get into a car accident that would send me straight through the windshield, it vexes me to realize that no matter what I attempt to do to improve my situation and be happy, I'll never have the same constant satisfaction with life. Sure, I'm happy at times - and frequently - but underneath it all is the frustration that I can't balance what I want. I can't find a combination of paid work, writing, education, leisure, family, friends, exercise, etc. that satisfies me. It's always too much of something, leaving me stressed, anxious, and worried. And yet I know I've got it good, making me feel guilty for not being happier. The hump on which I perched so cheerfully is long gone, leaving me without a vehicle to get where I should go.* Maybe the summer that the Cubs finally deliver is when it will all come together for me, too.**
*How's that for a metaphor?
**Of course, I happen to think that a Cubs World Series victory is a sign of the apocalypse, but that's another story.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Is Being a "Dumb Fuck" a Metaphor?
Classes start again on Monday. My goal for the semester is to incorporate metaphors and similes into my writing. I noticed that the writing that we studied in my lit class last semester tended to make liberal use of these literary tools, so I think I should make a strong effort to add more in my stories.
I use metaphors and similes all the time in real life. They just happen to be rather foul. My favorite metaphor was when I described the pieces of toilet paper that resurfaces after flushing the crapper as ghosts haunting their watery graves. I think that is a beautiful image. Also, the idea of romanticizing un-flushed used toilet paper makes me laugh my ass off, like a clown high on nitrous oxide. (OK, that is a scary simile. Clowns are the devils of the circus.) Somehow, though, I suspect that many of the people in my program will find it infantile, so I need to work on developing appropriate metaphors and similes.
Unfortunately, I also love mixed metaphors. That's due to my adoration of hyperbole, another feature of my writing that is less than lauded by literary types. Whatever. If patience is an old lady in a rocking chair waiting for death to relieve her of the excitement of watching paint dry, act like a bull in a china shop. Or something like that.
I use metaphors and similes all the time in real life. They just happen to be rather foul. My favorite metaphor was when I described the pieces of toilet paper that resurfaces after flushing the crapper as ghosts haunting their watery graves. I think that is a beautiful image. Also, the idea of romanticizing un-flushed used toilet paper makes me laugh my ass off, like a clown high on nitrous oxide. (OK, that is a scary simile. Clowns are the devils of the circus.) Somehow, though, I suspect that many of the people in my program will find it infantile, so I need to work on developing appropriate metaphors and similes.
Unfortunately, I also love mixed metaphors. That's due to my adoration of hyperbole, another feature of my writing that is less than lauded by literary types. Whatever. If patience is an old lady in a rocking chair waiting for death to relieve her of the excitement of watching paint dry, act like a bull in a china shop. Or something like that.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Blog for Choice Day
Hey kids! What time is it?
Howdy Doody time!
No, sorry! It is Blog for Choice Day! This year's topic: What is your top pro-choice hope for President Obama and/or the new Congress?
I don't really know where to begin. I'm just glad that the Bush administration, which re-defined birth control pills and IUDs as "abortions" are gone, and that logical people are in charge. If I could have it all, I'd love it if Congress would overturn the Hyde Amendment, but I'm not going to hold my breath. Shit, we've got people protesting the words"freedom of choice" in a fucking doughnut ad, so I really don't think that allowing Medicaid to pay for abortions is a realistic goal. I think it is fair - and the argument that we shouldn't use taxpayer money for something that is morally objectionable to some doesn't apply because then I could say that I object to using my taxpayer money for Guantanamo Bay, Iraq, and other murderous Bush policies, and you could say you object to using it for nuclear power plants and so forth, and no one would pay for anything - but the shit storm would potentially fuck us over, so to speak. Yeah, happy 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, assuming you have a clinic that is in your community and a way to pay for what I consider to be health care.
Anyway, I will aim for something more achievable. I can't wait for the overreaching new "morality clause" to be revoked, for the global gag rule to get yanked, and maybe even for restored funding to family planning clinics to make birth control affordable for uninsured women. Also, I like the acknowledgment that people of faith are pro-choice, too, not just "nonbelievers"* like me. Any of those (and all of them) would rock.
*Sorry, but what the fuck was with that? I love that those of us who profess no faith in god got a shout out as a worthwhile humans who contribute to society, but I do believe in things. "Nonbelievers" sounds sociopathic, or like we're cynical assholes just sitting around criticizing shit, which may be true in my case, but whatever. Why not call us secularists or something flattering? Yeesh.
Howdy Doody time!
No, sorry! It is Blog for Choice Day! This year's topic: What is your top pro-choice hope for President Obama and/or the new Congress?
I don't really know where to begin. I'm just glad that the Bush administration, which re-defined birth control pills and IUDs as "abortions" are gone, and that logical people are in charge. If I could have it all, I'd love it if Congress would overturn the Hyde Amendment, but I'm not going to hold my breath. Shit, we've got people protesting the words"freedom of choice" in a fucking doughnut ad, so I really don't think that allowing Medicaid to pay for abortions is a realistic goal. I think it is fair - and the argument that we shouldn't use taxpayer money for something that is morally objectionable to some doesn't apply because then I could say that I object to using my taxpayer money for Guantanamo Bay, Iraq, and other murderous Bush policies, and you could say you object to using it for nuclear power plants and so forth, and no one would pay for anything - but the shit storm would potentially fuck us over, so to speak. Yeah, happy 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, assuming you have a clinic that is in your community and a way to pay for what I consider to be health care.
Anyway, I will aim for something more achievable. I can't wait for the overreaching new "morality clause" to be revoked, for the global gag rule to get yanked, and maybe even for restored funding to family planning clinics to make birth control affordable for uninsured women. Also, I like the acknowledgment that people of faith are pro-choice, too, not just "nonbelievers"* like me. Any of those (and all of them) would rock.
*Sorry, but what the fuck was with that? I love that those of us who profess no faith in god got a shout out as a worthwhile humans who contribute to society, but I do believe in things. "Nonbelievers" sounds sociopathic, or like we're cynical assholes just sitting around criticizing shit, which may be true in my case, but whatever. Why not call us secularists or something flattering? Yeesh.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Unshaved Snatch Underwear
Oh, how I adore Etsy for their homespun products, and Count Mockula for her keen eye for the muff. (Scary that the mannequin has a camel toe, isn't it?)
Actually, the hairiness is a good depiction of my morning. Fortunately, I made it past hump day without melting down. Yay!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
O, My Darlin' Clementine
Last week, Suebob posted a photo of a moldy cantaloupe that she found in her fridge. I showed it to Husband, and he asked me if it was named Archibald. (When his mother was growing up, her British father found a moldy - or mouldy? - cantaloupe in their house, and named it Archibald.)
Then last night, Husband sheepishly approached me while I sat at the computer desk, hiding something behind his back.
"Can you take out some trash?" he asked. (He was in his pajamas, whereas I was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.)
I had a sinking feeling that I knew what he was holding. When I said sure, he whipped out a bag with a moldy clementine. Seriously, seriously, moldy. Before I chucked it, I had to snap a shot:
As I threw it out, I sang it a funeral dirge. Oh my darlin, oh my darlin, o my darlin Clementine/You were lost and gone forever/Oh my darlin Clementine.
Happy Inauguration Day!!!!!
Then last night, Husband sheepishly approached me while I sat at the computer desk, hiding something behind his back.
"Can you take out some trash?" he asked. (He was in his pajamas, whereas I was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.)
I had a sinking feeling that I knew what he was holding. When I said sure, he whipped out a bag with a moldy clementine. Seriously, seriously, moldy. Before I chucked it, I had to snap a shot:
As I threw it out, I sang it a funeral dirge. Oh my darlin, oh my darlin, o my darlin Clementine/You were lost and gone forever/Oh my darlin Clementine.
Happy Inauguration Day!!!!!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Greetings, Not From the Machine*
Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! Is it just me, or is it extra resonant this year, knowing that tomorrow we will inaugurate our first black president? I'm getting choked up just thinking about it.
Also, I have been reading Dreams from My Father in preparation for my lit seminar this semester. (It's the first book on the reading list, which is awesome.) Although my life story is nothing like Barak Obama's except that we both worked in Chicago at some point and are both dedicated to public service, I've really identified with his quest for identity and place. Again, it is not remotely the same, but at the same time, I also grew up with a living family who wanted the best for me, not knowing a portion of my heritage and wondering what they were like.
Discrimination comes in many forms, and its effects are pernicious whether through racism or anti-Semetism. Many businesses in America displayed signs on their doors reading, "No Blacks, No Jews, No Dogs," although the order was sometimes changed, and sometimes Jews were allowed, but not Irish. One of the things that I am most proud of as a Jewish person is the role that American Jews played in the civil rights movement, and continue to play in social justice movements. There is a concept called tikkun olam, in which it is everyone's responsibility to fix the world. Of course, on the flip side, one of the things that most upsets me about being Jewish is how many Jews are slumlords and exploiters of low income communities. In many cases, these are the only Jews that ever come into the lives of disadvantaged communities of many ethnic groups, and it is no wonder that the view of cheap, miserly Jews continues to thrive in those cultures.
At any rate, it is my hope that we are entering a new era of honest dialogue between ethnic groups, genders, classes, and all the other barriers that prevent real progress. Shit, if we can make a machine that takes pictures, calls people, sends emails, and fits in my pants pocket, I'd think we could figure out how to get along.
*Since Blackberries seem to do everything except change diapers and wipe butts, I like to call them "machines." Husband has had a machine for a few years now, and while I coveted one every now and then, I realized that I didn't really want one. Too much stuff to manage. Really, I just like a phone that works.
Also, I have been reading Dreams from My Father in preparation for my lit seminar this semester. (It's the first book on the reading list, which is awesome.) Although my life story is nothing like Barak Obama's except that we both worked in Chicago at some point and are both dedicated to public service, I've really identified with his quest for identity and place. Again, it is not remotely the same, but at the same time, I also grew up with a living family who wanted the best for me, not knowing a portion of my heritage and wondering what they were like.
Discrimination comes in many forms, and its effects are pernicious whether through racism or anti-Semetism. Many businesses in America displayed signs on their doors reading, "No Blacks, No Jews, No Dogs," although the order was sometimes changed, and sometimes Jews were allowed, but not Irish. One of the things that I am most proud of as a Jewish person is the role that American Jews played in the civil rights movement, and continue to play in social justice movements. There is a concept called tikkun olam, in which it is everyone's responsibility to fix the world. Of course, on the flip side, one of the things that most upsets me about being Jewish is how many Jews are slumlords and exploiters of low income communities. In many cases, these are the only Jews that ever come into the lives of disadvantaged communities of many ethnic groups, and it is no wonder that the view of cheap, miserly Jews continues to thrive in those cultures.
At any rate, it is my hope that we are entering a new era of honest dialogue between ethnic groups, genders, classes, and all the other barriers that prevent real progress. Shit, if we can make a machine that takes pictures, calls people, sends emails, and fits in my pants pocket, I'd think we could figure out how to get along.
*Since Blackberries seem to do everything except change diapers and wipe butts, I like to call them "machines." Husband has had a machine for a few years now, and while I coveted one every now and then, I realized that I didn't really want one. Too much stuff to manage. Really, I just like a phone that works.
greetings from the machine
This is my first attempt to post from my blackberry, which I was required to obtain for work. I discovered that I am not thrilled to enter the 21st century afterall, although it is convenient to have while I wait for my lunch date, who is really late. Yes, exciting times.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Ridiculousness
It is approximately seven degrees in New York. I know that this is not nearly as cold as it is in Chicago or Iowa or other Midwestern or northern states, but for NYC, it is much colder than usual. Still, an intrepid friend who lives in Staten Island had a belated New Year's BBQ today. He made lamb and sausage on the grill on his terrace, which we ate inside. It was fun.
On the way to his apartment, Husband and I passed this house:
The picture makes it look like the house is supported by the Hummer, which makes me laugh. In person, however, it was clear that the stupid SUV is so fucking oversized that it is double the height of the car port.
Another ridiculous item I came across this weekend is the American Life League's protest of Krispy Kreme donuts for offering a choice of a free donut on inauguration day. According to the nutters, the words "freedom of choice" indicate that Krispy Kreme supports abortion on demand. Honestly, if a Southern-owned donut chain were that liberal, I'd freaking eat there all the time. Instead, this is just fucking stupid, albeit sort of funny (the comments on the post I linked to are gut busting). The pseudo-abortion link reminds me of king cakes, which are eaten in New Orleans at Mardi Gras. A plastic toy baby is baked into the cake, and whoever finds the baby in his or her piece gets good luck...
The last ridiculous thing that crossed my mind is how surprised I am that animal rights groups have not been protesting the way geese are being treated by the media covering the US Airways crash landing in the Hudson River. If geese are people too, then there were a lot of fatalities when the flock was decimated by the plane's engines. Fortunately, I haven't seen any groups suing on behalf of the geese. Maybe someone should alert the American Life League.
On the way to his apartment, Husband and I passed this house:
The picture makes it look like the house is supported by the Hummer, which makes me laugh. In person, however, it was clear that the stupid SUV is so fucking oversized that it is double the height of the car port.
Another ridiculous item I came across this weekend is the American Life League's protest of Krispy Kreme donuts for offering a choice of a free donut on inauguration day. According to the nutters, the words "freedom of choice" indicate that Krispy Kreme supports abortion on demand. Honestly, if a Southern-owned donut chain were that liberal, I'd freaking eat there all the time. Instead, this is just fucking stupid, albeit sort of funny (the comments on the post I linked to are gut busting). The pseudo-abortion link reminds me of king cakes, which are eaten in New Orleans at Mardi Gras. A plastic toy baby is baked into the cake, and whoever finds the baby in his or her piece gets good luck...
The last ridiculous thing that crossed my mind is how surprised I am that animal rights groups have not been protesting the way geese are being treated by the media covering the US Airways crash landing in the Hudson River. If geese are people too, then there were a lot of fatalities when the flock was decimated by the plane's engines. Fortunately, I haven't seen any groups suing on behalf of the geese. Maybe someone should alert the American Life League.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Sloganeeringhat
Once again proving that by the time you read something in a mainstream newspaper, it's probably too late to be of use, today's New York Times has an article about people scamming troubled homeowners by charging money to "fix" the loans, then disappearing.* The Times notes this is a growing scam, but it has actually been a huge problem for at least a year now. (One deputy attorney general in California said that dealing with the swindlers has been all she's done, with 300 calls received in the past year.) Perhaps reporting on the issue six months ago may have alerted people to the scams and helped them avoid them, but whatever. The media just reports what's happening; it's not there to help people make informed decisions or anything. Bah.
Anyway, one of the things I've been tasked with at my new job is to come up with a clever marketing slogan to alert people to the presence of mortgage "fixing" scams and let them know that there is free, government-approved housing counseling available. The best I've come up with thus far is:
Although it is to the point and accurate, this is probably not going to fly for a variety of reasons. If anyone has any other suggestions (legitimate or not), I'm all ears. I promise to give you credit if I use it.
*As a random side rant (or as my brother-in-law would say, rantom), the fact that people can go up to someone who is about to lose his or her home, promise her that they can save it, and then steal whatever cash that the homeowner may have used to actually save the home, blows my mind. How can the goniff sleep at night, knowing that they've made others homeless? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people? How did some manage to become such fucking assholes?
Anyway, one of the things I've been tasked with at my new job is to come up with a clever marketing slogan to alert people to the presence of mortgage "fixing" scams and let them know that there is free, government-approved housing counseling available. The best I've come up with thus far is:
In trouble with your home loan?
Stop getting fucked up the ass!
FREE housing counseling is available.
Call blah blah blah and stop the bleeding.
Although it is to the point and accurate, this is probably not going to fly for a variety of reasons. If anyone has any other suggestions (legitimate or not), I'm all ears. I promise to give you credit if I use it.
*As a random side rant (or as my brother-in-law would say, rantom), the fact that people can go up to someone who is about to lose his or her home, promise her that they can save it, and then steal whatever cash that the homeowner may have used to actually save the home, blows my mind. How can the goniff sleep at night, knowing that they've made others homeless? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people? How did some manage to become such fucking assholes?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Haircut Double Entendre
I never thought about haircuts as anything but the things I get every two months that make me look extra dyke-y (or, when done well, like Jane Wiedlin). On Monday, I wrote about the latest brouhaha over women who get short haircuts on BlogHer. (It seems that some guy in London whose wife cut her hair short sparked a debate over whether that women with short hair are signaling that they are no longer interested in sex because they are making themselves unattractive through their new haircuts.) Then yesterday I learned that there is something called a haircut in the securities market.
My new favorite online dictionary,* Investopedia, explains that a haircut is:
One could extrapolate and say that a man whose wife cuts her hair short has a reduced market value in the eyes of society, but that would be silly, wouldn't it?
*I still do love Urban Dictionary for all my slang research, though. It seems that a third definition of haircut there is:
Now I feel complete before I go to off to work, which this post is making me late to. Hope it added to the educational value of your day as well.
My new favorite online dictionary,* Investopedia, explains that a haircut is:
1. The difference between prices at which a market maker can buy and sell a security.
2. The percentage by which an asset's market value is reduced for the purpose of calculating capital requirement, margin and collateral levels.
One could extrapolate and say that a man whose wife cuts her hair short has a reduced market value in the eyes of society, but that would be silly, wouldn't it?
*I still do love Urban Dictionary for all my slang research, though. It seems that a third definition of haircut there is:
a drinking act involving:
- two people
- alchohol
- energy drink or gatorade
one person tilts their head back and closes their throat. the other person then pours small amount of energy drink, large amount of alchohol, and small amount of energy drink in that order. the drinker then tilts their head up and swallows the drink simultaneously. this is done for two reasons: you dont feel it going down no matter the alchohol percent and it gets you very drunk very fast.
Now I feel complete before I go to off to work, which this post is making me late to. Hope it added to the educational value of your day as well.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Grass is Always Greener When You're Born a Ramblin' Man
As usual, I'm behind. I promised people who submitted essays for the potential anthology COngratulations, You're a Woman Now! that they would hear back about their work by the end of 2008. I'm not even close to finished reading the submissions. (But I swear I will, and I apologize profusely.) I haven't read blogs in a few days, which makes me feel disconnected from the online community I so cherish. Yet I'm spazzing out about what to wear to work for the rest of the week, so I'm not going to make much progress on the things that I want to do. (And oh my god, I didn't realize how short my wardrobe falls for a 5 day a week job that requires more than cords and definitely is not jeans-friendly.... Panic.)
Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?
On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)
Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?
On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Nude Housecleaning
As I got ready for a shower this afternoon, I realized that the bathroom was a disaster area. As Dr. P is staying with us this weekend and was to arrive within a few hours, I figured I should clean up. Unfortunately, I was already undressed.
Undeterred, I vacuumed the chunks of wall and tile from the floor, then mopped, all in the nude. Then I realized that we'd been tracking wall chunks into the hallway outside the bathroom as well, so I vacuumed there, too. As I bent over, I reflected on the premium prices that some people pay to secure the services of a nude housecleaner, and I laughed and laughed. Because really, the whole cleaning thing is sweaty and gross. I can't imagine why anyone would find this appealing to watch. In fact, the whole time I was parading around naked with the vacuum, Husband didn't even look away from the TV while he did his crunches.
Yeah. People are weird.
Undeterred, I vacuumed the chunks of wall and tile from the floor, then mopped, all in the nude. Then I realized that we'd been tracking wall chunks into the hallway outside the bathroom as well, so I vacuumed there, too. As I bent over, I reflected on the premium prices that some people pay to secure the services of a nude housecleaner, and I laughed and laughed. Because really, the whole cleaning thing is sweaty and gross. I can't imagine why anyone would find this appealing to watch. In fact, the whole time I was parading around naked with the vacuum, Husband didn't even look away from the TV while he did his crunches.
Yeah. People are weird.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
And the Password Is...
Husband sent me the following vital information:
"Pussy" seems like an easy password to steal. For those using such a simplistic password, may I suggest "eel-skinner?" I wouldn't want your accounts invaded or anything like that.
I thought you might be interested in this list of the top 500 passwords.
At #5 is "pussy".
http://www.whatsmypass.com/?p=415
"Pussy" seems like an easy password to steal. For those using such a simplistic password, may I suggest "eel-skinner?" I wouldn't want your accounts invaded or anything like that.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
AAA
Three As are a cause for suspicion these days. The bond rating agencies ignored all common sense, succumbed to pressure, and gave AAA ratings to all manner of junk securities. (As Husband explained to me, when there's a lot of shit in a lot of buckets, the smell of each bucket doesn't offset the others, which how how the rating agencies justified giving excellent ratings to buckets of shit.)
I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.
Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.
Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)
I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.
Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.
Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Yin & Yang
Good news: I had a good 2nd day.
Bad news: I came home to find the progress on my bathroom to be unacceptable. It seems that the building staff is attempting to replace the tile in the shower and bathroom walls themselves rather than hire a contractor. (I suspect that this is because the managing agent balked at the quoted prices.) The upshot is that it looks like shit, with the wrong size tile used on some places and other tiles already are cracked. The new tiles don't look anything like the old ones. I would rather have had them put in a funky color and at least have a cool stripe than two different shades of white. Worse, Husband touched a tile and it fell off the wall.
Good news: I won't be home to deal with it.
Bad news: I came home to find the progress on my bathroom to be unacceptable. It seems that the building staff is attempting to replace the tile in the shower and bathroom walls themselves rather than hire a contractor. (I suspect that this is because the managing agent balked at the quoted prices.) The upshot is that it looks like shit, with the wrong size tile used on some places and other tiles already are cracked. The new tiles don't look anything like the old ones. I would rather have had them put in a funky color and at least have a cool stripe than two different shades of white. Worse, Husband touched a tile and it fell off the wall.
Good news: I won't be home to deal with it.
Monday, January 5, 2009
I Made It!
This is probably the only time I'll write about work since I try hard to pretend that my "professional" life and my "writing" life are two very separate things, partly so that I may continue to have a "professional" life. Anyway, the first day was good, if a bit overwhelming. First days are always overwhelming, though.
The time flew (it helped that a co-worker's birthday was celebrated), and I learned many things and attempted to start many others. I only made two slightly inappropriate comments, and both were as we were leaving. (I said that I didn't care that a foundation that worked to preserve the "purity" of Judaism by discouraging interfaith marriages had to close its doors after Madoff - a Jew - scammed all their funds, then I made a nasty comment about the Hasidic people who own an electronic shop and refused to let my new co-worker return her brand new flat screen TV - still in the box - after she figured out that it was one inch too large for their entertainment unit.) The work will be very interesting once I really dig in. I'm excited. Still nervous and overwhelmed, but excited.
When I arrived back at my castle (ha ha) after slaving away all day, I was dismayed to see that the super was still in the process of soliciting bids to fix the hole in the wall in the bathroom. Fortunately, the shower was fixed, so it is now possible to bathe in relative comfort, with both cold and hot water in a pleasing combination that is more than a trickle. I shall prepare for work tomorrow (I'm still adjusting to the idea that I will go to a job five days this week, and next week, and on and on) by washing my hair with the ridiculously fancy mint oil shampoo that I absconded with from the ridiculously fancy hotel in San Francisco.
The time flew (it helped that a co-worker's birthday was celebrated), and I learned many things and attempted to start many others. I only made two slightly inappropriate comments, and both were as we were leaving. (I said that I didn't care that a foundation that worked to preserve the "purity" of Judaism by discouraging interfaith marriages had to close its doors after Madoff - a Jew - scammed all their funds, then I made a nasty comment about the Hasidic people who own an electronic shop and refused to let my new co-worker return her brand new flat screen TV - still in the box - after she figured out that it was one inch too large for their entertainment unit.) The work will be very interesting once I really dig in. I'm excited. Still nervous and overwhelmed, but excited.
When I arrived back at my castle (ha ha) after slaving away all day, I was dismayed to see that the super was still in the process of soliciting bids to fix the hole in the wall in the bathroom. Fortunately, the shower was fixed, so it is now possible to bathe in relative comfort, with both cold and hot water in a pleasing combination that is more than a trickle. I shall prepare for work tomorrow (I'm still adjusting to the idea that I will go to a job five days this week, and next week, and on and on) by washing my hair with the ridiculously fancy mint oil shampoo that I absconded with from the ridiculously fancy hotel in San Francisco.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
I Want to Wake Up in a City that Never Sleeps
While I very much loved my trip and all the fabulous people that I saw that I want to see more often, I am glad to be home. The (free) luxury hotels (and yurt)were nice, but sinking my head into my deformed pillow when I arrived at my apartment this morning was like snuggling up with an old friend. Plus, speaking of old friends, sleeping with Theo (my teddy bear) only reminded me how merely adequate my well intentioned travel stuffed dog companion is.
Still, being home is not all rainbows and butterflies. I brought back an unintentional souvenir of a cold. There is a long line of gutted tile running along my bathroom wall, and everything that was in the bathroom is now cluttering the dining room. The shower is supposed to work, but doesn't. The workmen are coming back to patch things up tomorrow, and thankfully Rebecca will be here to remind them that they didn't really fix the shower.
Where will I be tomorrow? Downtown, starting my new job. I'm scared shitless. At least the toilet flushes better than it has in years.
Still, being home is not all rainbows and butterflies. I brought back an unintentional souvenir of a cold. There is a long line of gutted tile running along my bathroom wall, and everything that was in the bathroom is now cluttering the dining room. The shower is supposed to work, but doesn't. The workmen are coming back to patch things up tomorrow, and thankfully Rebecca will be here to remind them that they didn't really fix the shower.
Where will I be tomorrow? Downtown, starting my new job. I'm scared shitless. At least the toilet flushes better than it has in years.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Happy Birthday Mom!
Sixty-two years ago today (well, it's still today in California and Illinois...), my mom was born in a blizzard. It was a difficult delivery, as she was breech and her nose somehow managed to catch itself on my granny's tailbone, if I recall the story properly. (If I don't, my mom will correct me in the comments.) I am so glad that things worked out.
The funny thing is that Husband and I went to the San Francisco Streetcar Museum this afternoon. Why is this funny? Well, my granny's cousin always tells us how she heard that "Bernice was in the hospital having a hard time," so she rushed over to the hospital in the blizzard on a streetcar. San Francisco operates old streetcars on its F line, with different cars paying homage to cities that also operated streetcars in its past. I looked for a postcard depicting the "Chicago" streetcar known as "The Green Hornet," but sadly there were none. I thought it would make a great birthday card for my mom. (Yes, I am admitting that I otherwise forget to send one, although I did call her.)
Later this evening, Husband and I passed by a storefront with the words Fecal Face Dot Gallery on its awning. We laughed and laughed, and I thought about how my mom would also chortle if she were with us.
Happy birthday, Mom, you nutty fecal face! I love you.
The funny thing is that Husband and I went to the San Francisco Streetcar Museum this afternoon. Why is this funny? Well, my granny's cousin always tells us how she heard that "Bernice was in the hospital having a hard time," so she rushed over to the hospital in the blizzard on a streetcar. San Francisco operates old streetcars on its F line, with different cars paying homage to cities that also operated streetcars in its past. I looked for a postcard depicting the "Chicago" streetcar known as "The Green Hornet," but sadly there were none. I thought it would make a great birthday card for my mom. (Yes, I am admitting that I otherwise forget to send one, although I did call her.)
Later this evening, Husband and I passed by a storefront with the words Fecal Face Dot Gallery on its awning. We laughed and laughed, and I thought about how my mom would also chortle if she were with us.
Happy birthday, Mom, you nutty fecal face! I love you.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Rescue!
While walking back to our hotel from Ghirardelli Square, I noticed an abandoned pirate on the sidewalk. I was horrified! Who would throw aside a perfectly good pirate like trash! Since his whiskered yellow face and brown musket were covered with sand, dust, and cobwebs from neglect, I procured a tissue (unfortunately, a used one, but I doubt that the pirate cared) from my coat pocket, and scooped the little guy up.
As we continued on, I stopped at a little corner grocery to purchase a libation for myself (Cherry Coke Zero, the most expensive bottle I ever bought at $2.01!!!). At the store, I snagged a piece of wax paper that was intended for use in picking pastries up from the case of baked goods, and further enrobed my new friend. He rode the rest of the way safely in my coat pocket.
Upon our arrival, I plunked my adopted pirate into the bathroom sink for a bath. At that point I noticed that much of the gunk that previously covered him had already transferred itself into a gunky part of the tissue, so he was already in better shape than when I first came across his sad little body. After he floated around in the hot bath for a few minutes, I wiped him down with a (clean) tissue. The rejuvenated pirate seemed very grateful, and I now have a guard for my desk at my new job!
Often times no good deeds go unpunished, but I am pleased that I took a few minutes early in this new year to help a plastic trinket in need.
As we continued on, I stopped at a little corner grocery to purchase a libation for myself (Cherry Coke Zero, the most expensive bottle I ever bought at $2.01!!!). At the store, I snagged a piece of wax paper that was intended for use in picking pastries up from the case of baked goods, and further enrobed my new friend. He rode the rest of the way safely in my coat pocket.
Upon our arrival, I plunked my adopted pirate into the bathroom sink for a bath. At that point I noticed that much of the gunk that previously covered him had already transferred itself into a gunky part of the tissue, so he was already in better shape than when I first came across his sad little body. After he floated around in the hot bath for a few minutes, I wiped him down with a (clean) tissue. The rejuvenated pirate seemed very grateful, and I now have a guard for my desk at my new job!
Often times no good deeds go unpunished, but I am pleased that I took a few minutes early in this new year to help a plastic trinket in need.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Out with the Old, In with the New
There's nothing like starting a new year than by breaking things. By things, I specifically mean bathrooms. And by bathrooms, I mean home and hotel facilities, one on each coast.
Yesterday morning, Husband and I awoke to urgent voicemail messages from my cousin, who is staying at our apartment while we gallivant about California. It seems that the pipes in our bathroom are leaking. The super and a maintenance dude came over to poke about, and after ripping up the linen closet (and patching it back up), concluded that the walls and floors of the bathroom need to be torn open to fix the problem. Work is to commence on Friday, Jan. 2 and hopefully will conclude on Monday, Jan. 5, which is my first day of work and I was already a nervous wreck about it before I learned that I won't have a functional bathroom that day.
I rang in the new year today by nearly breaking the toilet in the hotel. The result of my spontaneous self-cleansing strongly resembled an eel. Steph warned me yesterday morning that the toilet was not as powerful as it should be. ("It took me three flushes and a lot of hoping. I almost started looking around for a wire hanger, but then figured that this place was too fancy. A wooden hanger would work," she explained, "but wire hangers can be bent so that you can get as far away from the shit as possible, whereas a wooden hanger, it is what it is.") I thought about my honeymoon trip to London in August 2001 and how I had broken the toilet with a shit brick, and then feared that my eel turd would be even worse. Fortunately, it went down in two flushes and nothing resurfaced. Whew!
Happy new year and shit...
Yesterday morning, Husband and I awoke to urgent voicemail messages from my cousin, who is staying at our apartment while we gallivant about California. It seems that the pipes in our bathroom are leaking. The super and a maintenance dude came over to poke about, and after ripping up the linen closet (and patching it back up), concluded that the walls and floors of the bathroom need to be torn open to fix the problem. Work is to commence on Friday, Jan. 2 and hopefully will conclude on Monday, Jan. 5, which is my first day of work and I was already a nervous wreck about it before I learned that I won't have a functional bathroom that day.
I rang in the new year today by nearly breaking the toilet in the hotel. The result of my spontaneous self-cleansing strongly resembled an eel. Steph warned me yesterday morning that the toilet was not as powerful as it should be. ("It took me three flushes and a lot of hoping. I almost started looking around for a wire hanger, but then figured that this place was too fancy. A wooden hanger would work," she explained, "but wire hangers can be bent so that you can get as far away from the shit as possible, whereas a wooden hanger, it is what it is.") I thought about my honeymoon trip to London in August 2001 and how I had broken the toilet with a shit brick, and then feared that my eel turd would be even worse. Fortunately, it went down in two flushes and nothing resurfaced. Whew!
Happy new year and shit...
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