True Age

According to one of those online "true age" quizzes, I am 28. (Or maybe it said 29 - I can't remember, which is a sign of how accurate the quiz is, isn't it?) My "true age" was determined through a series of questions about my height, weight, some moderate exercises, lifestyle (smoking, drinking, drugging), and a few actual health-related questions about asthma and family history with diabetes and hypertension. Since I am the most boring person on the planet, the lifestyle questions clearly brought my age down.

Perhaps a more reliable true age quiz would ask whether anxiety caused me to peel the flesh off my cuticles, if I had mysterious ailments, and at what age I was told to wear reading glasses with my contacts. Because that last question's answer? Would be 33 year old. Yep. The eye doctor told me yesterday that my eyeballs were straining to focus and I should wear reading glasses in the afternoons.

My plan is to get the crotchitiest, most elderly looking pair I can find at the pharmacy, then partner them with some hideous chain. Then it will be obvious that my true age is 77. Gah. At least March 2009 will finally end in about 28 minutes.

The March of Time

How is it that there are still two more days left in this blasted month of March? This has been the longest month ever. Days seem to go by, and then a week is over, and then another week, and yet it is still fucking March!!!

Assuming that April will be a fresh start, I am so looking forward to Wednesday. Husband is returning from his business trip to Europe, and even more exciting, my mom is coming to visit! I took two days off work, and she will be here until Sunday. I have not seen my mom since mid-December, so I gleefully anticipate her arrival. I'm sure that, just as long as I waited for her to arrive, her trip will somehow be over in no time. At least after that, I have something else to look forward to. In mid-April, I am heading to DC for a conference, and hanging out with some friends over the weekend. It will be nice to see my ladies.

Time is a vicious tease. (Ooh, a metaphor!)

Damn, Damn, Damn

Earlier this week, Husband worried that he was coming down with a cold. I advised him to take it easy, particularly since he was leaving for the Old World for a week, and being sick while traveling is miserable. Of course, I did not take my own counsel, staying up all hours and running around in chilly, damp weather, and now I'm knocked again with a fucking cold. Will this winter of discontent never end?!?!

Yesterday evening I journeyed out of my sick cocoon and was distracted by a store offering 70% off the original ticket price of certain items. I found a great sweater, and was pleased by my savings. The cashier told me that they had another shop around the corner with more items, so my friend and I sauntered over there. I found a flattering wrap dress that was originally $98. When I went to pay for it, the cashier said it would be $39.

"Oh, the sign said that the items in that section were 70% off the original price," I told him.

"Right," he nodded. "That's $39."

"No, it's less than that."

He sighed and pointed at the tag. "It was originally $98."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, I am aware of that. And 70% off of 98 is NOT $39. It is $29 and change."

Long sigh from the cashier.

"OK, forget it," I snapped. "I don't want it anym..."

"That'll be $29.40."

Damn, people! Of course, when I woke up this morning and looked at the original price of the sweater, I discovered that they overcharged me by $5.60. Gah!!!!

Husband's Robed Weekend Companion

On Wednesday, Husband departed for a week long business trip to Europe. He was in Madrid until this afternoon, in London this weekend, and in Milan on Tuesday. It seems that the hotel that he is staying at in London was worried that he would be lonely by himself over the weekend, and arranged for a companion dressed only in a bathrobe to meet him in his room:



Seriously, this was how he found the room when he stepped across the threshold.

Husband was amused. I worried who else this companion may have shared a bed with before he arrived. Was it a free gift for all guests, or just Husband's to bring back after their weekend snuggle? Husband said there was no price, and the mini bar list included Orangina, but not a teddy. This made me feel a bit better. There is nothing sadder than a hotel pimping teddy bears out to lonely business travelers.

Maybe the Childhood Concussions Did Have an Effect...

A surge of excitement ran through me as my lit professor handed back our papers from the previous class. I had worked extra hard on mine, and thought that it was one of the best things I had written in a while. In addition to telling the story of my best friend from 4th grade and exploring racism in my hometown, it had metaphors!

The professor generally keeps the papers she likes best at the top of the pile, so I was a bit disconcerted when mine came in the middle of the stack. Looking it over, I was struck by the lack of comments on it. "Oh my God," I fretted. "She hated it!" In the following nanoseconds, I realized that I was a talentless hack who should drop out of school and never show my face again. Then I decided that it might be more productive to ask her why she didn't like it.

"Oh, I always look forward to reading your work," she replied. "But I read this one already, so I was disappointed that it wasn't anything new."

"What? You did?" I urged the hamster to run more quickly on the wheel that powers my brain so that I could figure out how this was possible. Maurice grunted at me before reluctantly picking up the pace.

"Yes, this is a nice expansion of something you handed in earlier in the semester."

I frowned. I knew that I had been thinking about this particular story for a few weeks, but I was pretty sure that it hadn't left my head until I wrote the paper I now clutched in my bony hand. Finally, Maurice got his furry ass in gear and I realized that I had, in fact, handed in the same basic story my second week of class. Worse, I had just looked at that first story again on Monday night, and thought about where I wanted to go with it, making no connection to the fleshed out version that I eagerly anticipated receiving back on Wednesday night.

Very, very scary. I would think that I completely have lost it, except that I think that Maurice threw some information out of the mental filing cabinet to make room for all the details I learned about the Obama administration's mortgage refinancing and loan modification program. (I am a very good resource on this!) Still, not good.

On the Radio, Part II

I think I have a voice for silent movies, but whatever - I was very excited to do my first live radio interview yesterday! In the event that anyone has a fleeting interest in foreclosure prevention and New York City, I think this is the link to the podcast. I come on halfway through the two hour program, and my colleague and I engage in conversation for 50 minutes.

When I entered the studio and saw the microphones and headsets, I thought I might throw up. My heart battered my rib cage. Fortunately, the host was an excellent facilitator with great questions, and my colleague was a pro at live shows. I quickly relaxed and had fun. I like radio better than TV (not that I've been on TV), as I did not have to worry about how my hair appeared.

Of course, the first person to call into the show was a raving lunatic conspiracy theorist type. Somehow, that struck me as appropriate. The rest of the show was great, and afterward, the host invited me to come back and talk about my book! Very exciting!

Adding Insult to Injury

Picture it: New York City, 2009. A young girl (OK, not so young or a girl - a 33 year old) stands in her dining room, holding an unsigned letter from her co-op apartment's management company, eyes wide in disbelief, sputtering "I can't believe this!" over and over again. The paper explains that her share of the "work" done in her apartment in January is $500.

One might remember this "work:" over the holidays, the super knocked on her door. The occupants were out of town, but their cousin was keeping an eye on the rabbit and fort. Said cousin contacted owners of said apartment and explained that the super told her that there was a leak in the basement and that he wanted to hire a plumber to tear open her bathroom wall and possibly floor to locate and fix the leak. The not-so-young-girl agreed, and the work commenced. The leak was repaired, new pipes were installed, and everyone was happy.

However, when she got home, she discovered that there was a big fucking gap in her wall, as the super took it upon himself to re-tile and fucked it up. A battle then commenced over how this would be fixed. The management company acknowledged that it was their responsibility to put things back to their prior semi-shitty condition. More negotiations took place. No work was done.

So when the not-so-young-girl received a bill for work which not only was not her responsibility, but also fucked up her apartment, she blew a gasket.

There's a Sea Monster in My Sink! Eeeeek!

Husband and I went shopping for new fixtures for our bathroom today, and I had to share this:



(Apologies for the poor quality of the picture.) This is a sea monster sink. On one hand, it is the coolest sink ever. I cannot stop laughing. On the other hand, seriously - it is a faucet shaped like a giant fish with little critter handles. People pay money for this not as a joke? I mean, I would totally love this sink, but only so I could tell guests to use my sea monster sink because it would be so hilarious, and because I love sea monsters, as one of my first blog posts attested. But seriously!

Blockhead? No...

Ah, Husband! How I adore him!



This is the top of the puzzle clock that I bought us as a first anniversary gift. (It's the paper anniversary.) After 7.5 years and one move, it finally needed to be rebuilt. Husband was not so helpful in this task... OK, that is not entirely true. Once he stopped goofing around, we finished it together. I present: the puzzle clock:



Also, the photo has a nice view of my apartment. If we ever move, I will suggest the realtor stand in that corner for a nice overview shot.

(And, on an unrelated topic, may I say how delighted I am that it is Friday? Only one more full week in this wretched month!)

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

Here's an excerpt from a post I wrote for BlogHer* on Tuesday about couples and yearly check ups:

I don't have a primary care physician. Instead, I have in my contacts list** (in alphabetical order) an:
-Allergist (2-3 visits yearly)
-Breast surgeon (2 visits yearly)
-Dentist (2 visits yearly)
-Dermatologist (as needed, but usually once every four or five years)
-Gastrointerologist (as needed, which hasn't been for over a year, but at one point was once a month)
-Gynecologist (1 visit yearly)
-Ophthalmologist (1 visit yearly)
-Podiatrist (only used once, after I stepped on a sea urchin in Hawaii)
-Reproductive endocrinologist (2 appointments to determine whether I had PCOS, but I keep the name just in case, sort of like the podiatrist)

With all my various parts cared for, who needs an internist? For the first time in four years, I visited a primary care doctor back in August, but only because some forms filled out to enroll in school. That is when I discovered that my "regular" doctor left the practice at least two years ago. Ooops. The new doctor managed to screw up my vaccine schedule, which makes me less inclined to return for care. Whenever I need a new doctor for any of my organs, I usually can just turn to friends for advice. (If I count my doctor friends, I also have two pediatricians, another dentist, another OB-GYN, another breast surgeon, and multiple colo-rectal surgeons in my contacts list. Plus one primary care physician who I would never trust, but that's another story.)

Probably it would be good to have a primary care doctor to coordinate all my files and keep track of what is going on with me and my team of specialists. Ironically, though, I hate doctors. The thought of adding one more doctor whose job it is to just follow along seems like such a waste of time. I have good cholesterol, my blood pressure is nice and low, and my sodium is a-OK. My weight is healthy for my frame, and I don't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I am the picture of good health, except for all of the specialized health problems that I have...

*And thank you, Zandria, for being the sole comment on that post! :)
*Also, I could use a good therapist to deal with my stress and frustration levels, if anyone in New York City has a recommendation... Anyone?

Neighborliness

I couldn't fall asleep last night. As I lay in the darkness, listening to Husband breathe, clinging to Theo (my teddy bear), my mind would not let go of several disturbing things that I'd read over the past few months. Basically, we are in this whole mortgage meltdown mess because a lot of people feel no remorse about ripping their neighbors off. Brokers unethically baited-and-switched homebuyers into loans different than those promised, pocketing huge fees for luring unsuspecting borrowers into riskier loans that were more lucrative for banks to package, securitize, and sell to unsuspecting investors. I read an article about credit card debt collectors lying to grieving relatives about their responsibility to pay for their deceased loved one's debt, then justifying it by saying that they were doing people a favor by letting them clear the air. When I can't fall asleep because the amoral behavior of other people keeps me awake, I wonder why those people don't have consciences and how that happened.

I was particularly distressed last night because earlier that evening, my mom told me that they have had to help their next door neighbor several times over the last ten days. My parents have shared a driveway with Mrs. S for over 33 years. When my sister and I were kids, she invited us over to bake traditional Danish Christmas cookies and decorate her tree with paper basket ornaments. She also hosted a Christmas party for the neighborhood kids, teaching us how to play moose (I have no idea if I spelled that properly), a game with cookies that are the size of pebbles. We also went on chocolate egg hunts at her home during Easter. Even today, Mrs. S brings a plate of Christmas cookies and homemade marzipan to my parents every December.

When my sister was born, I slept in one of Mrs. S's spare bedrooms. When my mom was taken to the hospital once in the middle of the night, Mrs. S opened her door to my footie pajamaed body. When I first figured out why toilet seats were necessary, I was on an overnight visit at Mrs. S's house. I sleepily crept down the hall and plunked myself down on the toilet without looking, only to be rudely awakened by cold water lapping at my tushie. For some reason, Mrs. S had left the seat up.

Ever since my parents moved into their house, they also kept an eye on Mrs. S. She has diabetes, and sometimes would fall into a diabetic coma. Many times over the years, my dad rushed over in the middle of the night after my mom looked out our kitchen window and into Mrs. S's and noticed that she was behaving oddly. Her friends and relatives would call our house when they were worried that Mrs. S didn't answer the phone, and ask us to see if her car was in the driveway, and if so, check on her. My parents did this with no complaints; why would they mind helping out?

Anyway, my parents received dozens of calls from Mrs. S's family last week, and also had to call the paramedics a few times when she was not responsive to a glass of orange juice or insulin, depending on the situation. When my mom mentioned something to a co-worker about a 2:30 am check in she made, her colleague said that it was very nice of my parents to be so concerned.

"Why wouldn't we be?" my mom wondered.

"A lot of people," her co-worker sighed, "just dont' care."

I know that these people justify their actions in many ways, but it boggles my mind that they sleep soundly at night, while I stay up worrying about the world.

I'm Not that Senile Yet (I Hope)

I sat slack in my chair, staring blankly at the computer screen, when Husband walked into the living room.

"I forgot what I was doing," I told him, not that he asked.

"You were making a doody," he nodded.

"Do you think that its a good idea to encourage me like that?"

"Right. I forgot who I was talking to."

Lord, I Was Born a Rumbling Man

The less pleasant symptoms of my undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment returned last week, making my life stink. These include:

• Gas that could kill infants, toddlers, and small animals;


• Explosive bowel movements that fill a toilet bowl; and


• Acid reflux.

Thus far I have been spared the once a month, wake up in the middle of the night vomiting that is so violent it comes through my nose. Unfortunately, I also have not experienced the only upside of this misery: weight loss!* Even more disappointing, my ailment strikes hardest during my free time. So while my evenings and weekends are spent groaning and trying not to smoke Husband out of the apartment with my toxic fumes, the stupid condition doesn't lead me to miss work. It's bullshit.

Still, the other odors in the air at the Allman Brothers concert that I attended on Friday night were far stronger than my noxious gases, so I didn't feel too self-conscious in that regard. The show did remind me how conservative I am at heart. Not only is smoking not permitted in public places in New York City, but the historic theater that the show was at was recently restored, so I was seething from the second the envelope of various smokes enrobed my head when when I walked through the lobby. People were also spilling their beers everywhere. Between the ashes and the beverage, I fumed about the useless of restoring the building. Plus, all the smoke gave me a headache and made my throat itch. Later, I fell asleep during one of the many jam sessions. I did groove to special guest Bruce Willis's harmonious harmonica, though. That was exciting.

Rumble, rumble.

*No need to worry, though, I'm just trying to look on the bright side of a bad situation; every cloud has it's silver lining; etc.; etc.)

Craftiness

Craft shops are my shopping weakness. It's impossible for me to walk out of an art/craft supply store without at least one thing for which I have almost no use. My apartment is littered with cute rubber stamps, cross-stitch supplies (canvas, thread, needles, patterns), cray-pas, and tubes of acrylic paint. I want to make things from these supplies, but need another two hours a day if I am to do so.

My ultimate craft supply impulse purchase, though, is googly eyes. However, unlike the other materials that create clutter in my cramped quarters, googly eyes are at least useful. One never knows when a sudden need for googly eyes will arise!

A few years ago, I won an enormous dildo in a raffle at a Planned Parenthood fundraiser. When I arrived home, I placed it on the bookcase next to our computer. The next day I was out and about, but Husband used the computer all day. Upon my return, I noticed something odd about my new sake penis. Husband explained that it was making him uncomfortable to be stared at with only one eye, so he reached into my googly eye drawer, extracted two googly eyes, and taped them on the dildo.* It was hilarious. Once again, googly eyes save the day!

*I posted photos of this, but I am craftily blogging from work, so I don't think I can look up the post to link to it.

Crazy Old Aunt Suzanne

The tech person at work helped me figure out how to use the chat function on my computer, as the director decreed that this is how we should communicate internally as of this week. I could't find the icon on my desktop, in the right corner at the bottom of my screen, or on the program menu.

"Just click on the balls," Greta said. (The program's icon is two circles.)

"I don't have an balls," I cracked.

After Greta inspected my machine and installed the program, I still had issues. "Greta, my balls don't like to be clicked on," I duky reported.

We snickered. She said that I should watch myself a bit more, though. "The problem is that I can't," I explained. "I'm like the crazy old aunt that no one wants to be seen in public with."

"You're not old enough to be that bad yet."

"I know! I'm so fucked."

You Belong to the City

Cue the saxophone...

It is a few minutes before one when I step off the subway, yet the 72nd Street platform is full of people waiting to get home or to their late shift at work. My raincoat flaps in the breeze created by the train as it roars out of the station, and the odor of unwashed bodies fills my nostrils. I look for the homeless person(s) responsible for the smells, but the only people I see are "regular" folks like me or subway workers climbing onto the tracks in their neon orange vests, lanterns in hand.

As I exit the station and walk through the deserted plaza, where just a week or two ago an evangelical cult tried to teach me about the dangers of temptation by waiving free granola bars in my face during the morning rush hour (I took one, but I stored it in my desk drawer, in case of an emergency, so take that, missionaries!), I heard my name. "Good night, Suzanne!" I looked up from the stone pavers and smiled at the doorman from my building, heading back to his family. "Good night, Felix."

In the few blocks to my apartment, I passed a ConEd crew entering a manhole, workers at a corner bodega bustling to arrange bouquets of flowers, and a short man in a puffy coat walking a tiny dog with pink ribbons. Upon entering my building, the night security guard greeted me. "You been gone since I saw you this morning?"

"Yeah, it's been a long day," I said and we grinned.

Something Not Funny Happened Part Way Through the Writing Program

My goal was to attend an MFA program to better understand the craft behind writing a book, then to write a hilarious account of the horrors and indignities that I suffered through during puberty. My writing sample (or portfolio or whatever the fuck they call it) was an uproarious account of my first bra shopping experience and adjusting to having boobs. This culminated in the absurd experience of a breast reduction at the age of 22. I had a whole draft chapter on my first period and then what happened when I stopped getting it at all at age 17. Funny shit.

The problem is that as I've been studying literature, I find myself writing not so funny stories about the Holocaust and my family, the prejudiced community in which I was raised, and how direct and indirect discrimination impacted my decision to pursue a career in social justice. Sure, sometimes I am able to throw in a good joke about my bubbe's tuchus (that's butt in Yiddish), as my grandfather used a wicked sense of humor to deflect the pain of losing his family in the Holocaust (a tactic I also employ when I talk about subjects that are difficult for me, even if I can't compare what he experienced to anything I did), but I'm finding myself scribbling all sorts of serious little stories. It's both cathartic and distressing to explore these topics.

I hope that as I progress and develop my voice, I can strike a balance between the serious and the hilarious. Writing. Harumph....

Congratulations, You're a Book Winner Now!

Last year, Alex Elliot and I thought that the world needed an anthology of first period stories. We asked the blogosphere for submissions at Congratulations, You're a Woman Now!, and 38 women and one man heeded our call. The stories are all fantastic - Alex and I laughed, we cried, and, we checked the backs of our pants for leaks, and we doubled over in sympathetic cramps. We thought we'd be able to select a group of authors in December and reach out to publishers with the project in January. We were stupid.

In the meantime, Rachel Kauder Nalebuff, a highly achieving 18 year old feminist, just presented her anthology of period stories,My Little Red Book to the world. It is a wonderful collection of short essays in which women of all ages from around the world reflect on their periods. Profits go to awesome charities supporting women globally. I was psyched that some publisher took on the book and that it would be doing good work in addition to getting women to share, but also sighed a lot. Sigh.

I had the chance to interview Rachel for BlogHer. She's just an awesome woman, and her book team rocks the house, too. In fact, they are offering copies of books to women who blog about their first period! Anyone who is interested in a copy can enter the contest by posting her essay, then linking to it in the comments of at my BlogHer post. I am beyond mortified that no one has yet done so, and I know that CUSS readers are brilliant, intrepid, and funny writers with great stories to share who also love free books. (Hint, hint....)

Stories should be posted by Friday, March 13 (somehow, Friday the 13th seemed like an appropriate deadline for stories about first periods). Spread the word...

The Month

Man, March took forever to end. It was like the longest month in the history of recorded time. It's so great that it's finally ove...

What? It's only been a week?

Shit.

The More You Know

Back in the days when Saved by the Bell starred a young Mark-Paul Gosselaar, a fresh faced innocent girl by the name of Elizabeth Berkely, and a pre-Dancing with the Stars Mario Whateverhislastnameis,I'mtoolazytolookituprightnow, NBC ran public service announcements with featuring a celebrity who imparted wisdom about things like the evils of letting friends drive drunk, which concluded with the graphic of a star and the words, "The More You Know." I got the impression that "The More You Know" is a good thing. This was a bald faced lie.

See, The More I Know, the more I realize what scumbags people are. Take two cover stories from yesterday's New York Times. The first one was about how the guy who ushered in exploding loans during his tenure at Countrywide now is making bazillions of dollars by buying those exact same loans for pennies now that they have gone bad. His new company, nicknamed "PennyMac" (seriously, is it possible to more directly spit in people's faces?), is reaching out to borrowers to modify the loans. What seemed very possible is that he is giving people temporary modifications that will explode again in a few years, so he can duck out and find new ways to profit. Fists clenching, fists unclenching...

Story #2 was about a debt collection agency that uses grief counseling to trick grieving family members into paying off their dead relatives' debts, even though they are not legally liable for them. The company has the balls to say that they are helping people through their grief by giving them the opportunity to rectify their loved ones' debits. FUCK YOU. Am I the only person who has the urge to kill someone close to the executives of the company, then start calling them and asking them to heal their wounds by paying for their sister's credit card bill?

The More I Know about the world, the more I like my imaginary cave hermit life.

schmoozer, loser

6:52 pm
Greetings from the corner of a fancy awards dinner! When I was invited to the event last week, I was excited. What a great opportunity to meet people, I thought. Of course, I forgot how bad I am at schmoozing.

I also appear to be one of four women not wearing stilettos. The fact that I am decked out in neon green wellies is probably not making me a more enticing person to network with, either. But it is slushy and cold, dammit! What else should I wear?

Ok, off to my table, where hopefully my host will not be embarrassed by me. At least I left my bear hat and backpack at the coat check...

Update from home: Once I joined my table, all was well. No one seemed at all disturbed at what I thought passed for "festive attire," as the invitation specified. Lots of cool reproductive rights and social justice types to chat with, plus the woman I sat next to graduated from my high school in 1987. Everyone rocked! I am very glad that I attended, and thankful to my host for thinking of me.

Reason #27,294 Why I Love New York

This is the first thing I saw when I left my building this morning:



Thanks to the anonymous mini snowman builder, I will smile all day.

Two Memes

I was tagged by Verite Parlant at Whose Shoes Are These Anyway? for the writers meme and Liz Everyday Goddess for the seven things meme. I figured that I'd kill two birds with one stone, especially since Liz tagged me back on Jan. 27...

25 Writers Who've Influenced Me*

1. Susan Faludi - Backlash changed the way I looked at the world
2. Jonathan Kozol - Savage Inequalities and Death at a Young Age mobilized me
3. James Baldwin - two articles I read in class last year on race were so brutal that I couldn't breathe
4. Stephen King - the man gets human interaction
5. Anne Lamott - I wrote all about Bird by Bird a few weeks ago
6. Zia Jaffrey - I haven't actually read her books, but she is an incredible teacher and has been my north star for writing
7. Grace Paley - the woman gets human interaction
8. Alice Walker
9. AM Homes
10. Lionel Shriver - The Post-Birthday World shook my foundations and helped me reaffirm decisions that I made about relationships
11. Judy Blume - got me through adolescence
12. Barack Obama
13. Carl Hiaason
14. David Wallechinsky and Irving Wallace - fostered my love of random facts with The People's Almanac and The Book of Lists series
15. Howard Zinn
16. Alan Paton
17. EB White - Charlotte's death was my first true heartbreak
18. World Book Encyclopedias - before the internet, it fed my need to know things, fast, and with cool illustrations
19. George Packer
20. Gail Collins
21. Sarah Vowell
22. Zilpha Keatley Snider
23. Edwidge Danticat
24. Jackson Taylor - his first book is coming out soon, but he's another instructor who encouraged me and gave me a chance
25. Ayn Rand - she reminds me how not to be

*Note that many of these are recent influences as I've been looking at writing in a new way this year, but that Faludi and Kozol influenced the decisions I made about what I wanted to do with my life in terms of equality for all.

Seven Things You Didn't Know About Me*

1. I once dyed my body (and the bathroom counter) pink while attempting to dye my hair pink.
2. I want to learn Yiddish.
3. My motto seems to be, "The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence," even though I don't want that to be my motto.
4. I can't wait to be an aunt in June!
5. Rahm Emanuel, Donald Rumsfeld, Ann Margaret, Liz Phair, and Charlton Heston graduated from the same high school as I did.
6. I dropped out of law school on the third day.
7. Although as a kid I never expected to travel outside of the US, I love international travel (in large part because of the eating opportunities).

*Unless you are new to CUSS or my life otherwise, you probably already do know these things.

I'm supposed to tag other people, but I like leaving it loose. If you do take either meme, I do adore link love!