Don't Ask, Don't Tell

"Do you ever wish I was less petty?" I asked Husband as we sat in a taxi, returning from his brother's apartment.

"Yes," he said with no hesitation.

I have no idea what prompted me to ask him, but damn, am I sorry I did. I snarled and made nasty little comments for the next hour, as I could not help be petty. It will be so tragic when I do the first load of laundry in our newly installed washer dryer tomorrow and all his undershirts come out pink. Mwa ha ha ha...


Seriously, though, I am so excited to take the washer and dryer for a spin.

The Gift of Fear

One of the discussions I attended at BlogHer was about understanding your audience. (Obligatory self-deprecating joke here: Since I sat next to Maren at the panel, I had direct access to understanding what approximately 25% of my audience enjoys about CUSS.) I asked Twanna Hines from Funky Brown Chick about how she deals with creepy readers, and she recommended a book called, "The Gift of Fear," which basically advocates for listening to your gut instincts when assessing potential threats.

I have yet to check the book out (I'm still working my way through "The Liar's Club," which reminds me that I should update the quote about Republicans that I paraphrased on Wednesday), but it became relevant on Tuesday during a subway ride. As usual, I sat on the train, spacing out. A slightly homeless-looking guy got on the train a few stops before mine and plopped down next to me. I paid no attention.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him fidgeting. I turned my head slightly. He was manhandling a pair of scissors and the corners of his mouth were turned up into a strange grin. Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) went ballistic, and thoughts shot through my head:
-OH MY GOD! Those scissors look sharp.
-I should move. He could stab me, and my reflexes are very slow.
-If I get up to move, will it enrage him, thus encouraging him to stab me?
-Maybe I should sit really still.
-No, you should move. ASAP.

I stood up and glided toward the door. He didn't look up. I breathed a sigh of relief, but continued observing him from afar. At the next stop, I changed cars. As far as I know, he didn't subsequently stab anyone, but better safe than sorry.

WWCRD: Salary Histories

Welcome to the latest edition of What Would CUSS Readers Do? Today, the royal we here at CUSS seek feedback on salary histories. The issue came up yesterday when I decided to apply for a job that required a salary history in order to consider the application complete.

My feeling (and Husband's) is that salary histories are bogus. An organization that seeks to hire someone has an idea of what the job is worth. If they find a candidate that they like, they should offer them that salary. What the person earned prior to that job is irrelevant, as they did not perform that job at that company. Further, it is no one's fucking business what I earned at other jobs. Until the search committee is prepared to tell me what they earn, I am not sure why it helps to know what I earned.

Yesterday, a friend argued with me, saying that she used the information to determine whether or not a person would even consider the job. Again, I think that is a strange way to determine one's interest in a job. Perhaps for a variety of reasons, a candidate would accept a different salary for doing a different job. How would a recruiter know that unless the candidate was asked directly? If a company does not want to waste their time with a candidate who would not be interested in the position based on salary, and they do not want to reveal in advance what that salary is, then why not just contact the person and ask, "Hey, what salary do you require?" instead of playing guessing games?

What do you think? Do salary histories help employer's find appropriate employees, or are they merely ways to (potentially under)pay people based on past jobs that may have no bearing on the job that is to be performed? (Yeah, loaded question, I know.)

Non-Paraphrased Quote of the Day

I came across this gem in an ad for SlimquickCleanse in "InTouch"
magazine. (It depicts a very plump cartoon woman under the word
"before," and the same cartoon woman less plump under the word
"After*"):

"*Dramatization. The cartoon shown used SLIMQUICKcleanse for 7 days to
jump start her weight-loss program, then continued to lose weight by
adding other SLIMQUICK products to her diet and exercise routine.
Result not typical. Cartoons lose weight easily. Real people require
regular exercise and a reduced-calorie diet to lose weight."

I shit you not; the ad actually explained that cartoons lose weight
easily. Yeah.

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Paraphrased Quote of the Day

Paraphrased Quote of the Day

"A Republican can't enjoy a meal unless he knows that other people are hungry."
-Mary Karr, The Liar's Club

(I forgot to bring the book to my exile at Cosi, so as soon as I have both the book and internet access in the same place, I will update this into the Quote of the Day.)

God, I wish that I could come up with lines like that!

Back in Action

Although I rescheduled my interview for this afternoon (excited and nervous!), I was a fucking wreck yesterday. Frustration, lack of sleep, and the mess that I arrived home to triple teamed me into a crying blob of jelly. I attempted to clean things up a bit, napped for a few hours, then showered. I feel much better today.

I didn't take many pictures at the BlogHer Conference, as I am not very good at photography and I always forget to take out my camera. I ride the coattails of my friends. However, I did get a few snaps (in random order):

Laurie of LaurieWrites and Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad at Thursday's reception.

Gorgeous view of the Chicago River from my filthy hotel room.

The plastic beaver cream cheese knife that Suebob of Red Stapler gave me - a beaver spreader!

With Pam Mandel, travel writer extraordinaire, of Nerd's Eye View at Thursday's reception.

Moi, Count Mockula, Maren, and Suebob graced the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile with our loveliness on Friday.

Carmen (whose blog I forgot - sorry!!!) and I tested out the bathtub of the Presidential Suite at the CheeseburgHer party on Sat. night. It passed my rigorous requirements for spectacular views, but I swear was a bit dirty.

With BlogHer co-founder Lisa Stone at the CheeseburgHer party. (If I look tired, it is because of my crazy partying at the Playboy party on Friday night. OK, OK! I confess: there was no Playboy party. We invented it to compensate for not being invited to any sponsored parties and make people jealous...)

Laurie Kingston of Not Done Yet; Virginia DeBolt, techie extraordinaire, of BlogHer; and Maren at dinner at Gino's East of Chicago on Saturday night. (Maren and I each had 1.5 slices of deep dish pizza, then foolishly each ate a cheeseburger at the following CheeseburgHer party. On a related note, may I add that my interview pants are tight today?)

Even if I was functional yesterday, I could not have uploaded these jewels of fun until today, as I have no internet access in my apartment right now. Another casualty of the renovation. I really hope the damn thing is over before next year's conference in New York...

Greetings from Pittsburgh, Part 3

Actually, the greetings are from Corapolis, PA in a hotel room about 10 minutes from the airport. The ground stop at LaGuardia was extended and extended and extended, so at 10:30, the plane unloaded its human cargo. We were given vouchers for a very clean Marriott near the airport.

The problem is that the hotel has only two shuttles, which run every 30 minutes. I need to be at the airport at 7 AM for my 8:25 flight. Since each shuttle only seats about 10 people, I am getting up at 4:30 to be sure to be there. If I miss it, there are no other flights available to New York until Tuesday. I really do not want to rent a car and drive home....

Speaking of missing things, I will not be back in time for my interview at 11:00.

Greetings from Pittsburgh, Part 2

Two hours after the plane landed to refuel in Pittsburgh, we remain on
the tarmac. The best part is that the ground crew at this airport is
gone for the day, so we can't even get off the plane for the night.
Actually, that may be for the best, since sleeping over here is likely
to prevent me from getting to my job interview tomorrow morning at
all. Assuming I do get home at some point in the wee hours of the
night/morning, I can probably get by on adrenaline, even if I look
like a zombie.

This is much less fun than my six hour Greyhound adventure last
Tuesday. The flight attendants are nice, but the pilots sure don't
have Jennifer's sense of humor. Also, sitting on the ground at the
airport does not allow for much sightseeing. Bah!

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Greetings from Pittsburgh!

BlogHer was a trip and a half. I laughed and laughed with my
roommates, Suebob and Maren. I romped with Count Mockula, her mom,
and her genius toddler daughter. I wore a paper bag hat, sat in the
bathtub of the Presidential Suite in the Sheraton, and ate a
cheeseburger at the CheeseburgHer party. I socialized with
Sassymonkey, Denise, LaurieWrites, Heather Clisby, Megan Smith, Major
Bedhead, Amber Rhea, Pam Mandel, Sarah and the Goon Squad, Average
Jane, Liz Henry, and other exceptional women. Updated to add the Graces: Mitchell and Davis, who made my lunch on Sat. one of the highlights of the conference.) I wanted to meet
Nordette Adams, and failed. I collected swag. I ate Mars Bars,
courtesy of Sassymonkey. I dined at Gino's East of Chicago with Liz
Rizzo, Virginia DeBolt, Laurie Kingston, my parents, the
aforementioned roommates, and Count Mockula clan. And on and on.
(Oh, yeah. I attended some panels and also did a book signing.)

So I am tired. I want to get to my furnitureless, dust-infested
apartment (except for the bedroom, which has almost all of the
remaining furniture and boxes, but not so much dust at my last time of
residency). I want to prepare my bag and outfit for an interview I
have tomorrow morning. Then I'd like to sleep in my bed, which has
dirty sheets because we haven't changed them since construction began,
but this kind of dirty sheet smells like Husband, who is in Vegas
nowe, and makes me happy. And I want to prepare for my interview
tomorrow. (Noted twice, not out of senility, but to emphasize
importance.)

Instead, I am sitting in an airplane in Pittsburgh. The flight was
scheduled to arrive in NYC twenty minutes ago. Planes are not allowed
to land at LaGuardia right now due to a storm, so we flew in circles,
slowly progressing east, until we ran out of gas. (Like me, but no
refueling in sight!)

It could be worse. I could still be at O'Hare. And at least I have
six Mars Bars in my bag. And a Vosges chocolate bacon bar (thanks,
Suebob!). Plus, BlogHer will be in NYC next year. Yay!

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Dirrrty Conference

Our first night of BlogHer, Maren noticed that a pillow on our bed appeared to have a moldy pillow case. The bathmat had a crusty orange substance on it. I called reception, and the woman told me that housekeeping would be by with fresh linens. We waited and waited, but not one came, so we just cast aside the offending items and went to sleep.

Then last night Maren and I discovered that there were mold-like splotches on the sheet, in addition to what might have been a make up smear. Our top sheet was so threadbare we could see through it, even in the sections that didn't have holes. Maren's "new and improved" pillow case had three holes in it. (Suebob's bedding was fine.)

Continuing on our dirty theme, but in a more fun way, the three ladies of 3011 realized that our lack of invitations to exclusive unofficial BlogHer parties freed us up to attend the early evening soiree at Playboy headquarters. (You know how it is - Hef tires out so easily these days!) The swag was fantastic - bunny ears and puffball tails, crotchless underwear and peekaboo bras, and vibrators. We mingled with the likes of George Clooney, Adrien Brody, Daniel Craig, and Matt Damen. It was so fabulously exhausting that we could hardly stay awake during the otherwise delightful Sparklecorn party (complete with unicorn cake).

The only party that will be more exclusive will next year, when the conference takes place in NYC in early August. The Party in My New Bathroom* will include the most select group of bloggers and other fine individuals. I feel bad for Hef, but I don't think there will be space for me to return his favor.

*Assuming the fucking renovation is even finished by then, but that's another story.

My New Beaver Spreader

I forgot to bring my furry little beaver to BlogHer this year. However, my friend and roomie Suebob rendered the stuffed animal moot: she gave me a plastic cheese/butter knife shaped like a beaver. (Right now, I am unable to upload the delightful photo.)

Now I can ask people to take pictures with my beaver spreader!

Insomnia and Punishment

I'm having a delightful time at BlogHer thus far. However, insomnia
struck again, leading me to read the news on my BlackBerry machine
thing in the bathroom. This was a bad idea, as I came across this
nugget of brilliance in a "NY Times" article on Obama's health plan:

"They said the notion of establishing a new government health plan to
compete against private insurers seemed un-American. They questioned
the wisdom and fairness of taxing the rich."

The people who uttered this make $38,000 a year and owe $3,000 in
medical bills from the birth of their youngest child, which I think
the article said they struggle to pay. And that is the problem with
Americans: we buy into the dumbest fucking ideas about the status quo,
fearing change. Another couple in the article insisted that a
government insurance option would mean "less choices.". Less choices
than what? Crap plans that literally cost an arm and a leg? How is
it un-American to offer competitive health insurance, and how does
that lead to fewer choices. And why, oh why, is it unfair to charge
tax rates proportionate to the amount of resources that people own in
a society? If the top 1% of households in the US own more than 70% of
the nation's wealth, why is it "unfair" to tax them? Trust me, the
wealthiest work no harder for their silos of income than the average
person. Money earns money.

And what the fuck does "choice" really mean? It's a term marketers
use all the time, but when you really think about it, what "choice" do
most of us really have, especially when it comes to health insurance?
Our current choices are: 1. Take what your employer offers you and
hope that it covers your needs, if your employer even offers anything;
2. Pay over $10,000 per year for a personal plan; 3. Get no insurance.
What kind of "choices" are these?

Over the last few years, I've watched income inequality grow and grow,
and I tried to fight it. But more and more, I'm not sure I should
bother. If people don't want the best, then maybe that's what they
deserve. The appropriate consequence is that they get exactly what
they ask for. Bah!

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Roadtrip to BlogHer

Last night, Dana, Ryan, and I feasted on green peppers wrapped in
bacon and stuffed with cheese and crab meat, artichokes with garlic
butter, and steak. (Marcus watched, but will have his taste via Dana
today.). For dessert, Dana and I each downed two slices of hot oatmeal
pie. It was quite the good-bye meal, as I am not sure when I'll see
them again.

All of that food was delicious going in, but not so much going out.
Maren is picking me up in 30 minutes, and I hope I will not make our
four hour ride to Chicago too smelly. Although I am sad to leave
Dana's house, I am beyond excited for BlogHer. I cannot wait to see
everyone, hang out, and meet new people.

There's no time to stop at the I-80 Iowa Trucking Museum, the Figge
Art Musuem, John Deere Plaza, or the Walter Payton Museum. BlogHer,
here we come!

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: 5th Stop

Walcott, IA boasts what they claim is the World's Largest Truck Stop.*
This gem was the 5th stop on my Greyhound adventure!

"You can have as much time as you like on this meal stop," Jennifer
informed us. "But I will be leaving here in 25 minutes."

If weather permitted (see note below), I would have used my time to
run across the compound and see the Iowa 80 Trucking Museum. Alas, I
made do with searching for the women's restroom in the Arby's/gas
station convenience store. This should have been simple, but when I
followed the sign with the arrow that said "Restrooms," I got lost in
a maze of the men's room, laundry rooms, and shower rooms. A ten year
old girl wandered around with me for a few minutes, then she
remembered from a previous visit that the ladies' room was in the
opposite corner.

Anyway, I discovered that I can read on moving buses, so between
Davenport and Walcott I read what I decided was my first YA novel.
While looking over some papers on Sunday night, I found a spiral
notebook with "Always" written on the cover. It seems to be about a
boy who moves into what in reality is my parents' house and befriends
an amazing girl down the street. Her name is Suzannah Rawlings, and
she bears a suspicious resemblance to me when I was in 8th grade. Her
best friend is a freshman at another local high school named Rachel,
and her sister's name is Diana. She wants to go to Northwestern or U
of Chicago, and be a politician when she grows up, so she can "help
people.". It is god awful for the most part, but not too shabby for a
13 or 14 year old. A quick look ahead reveals that it ends in
tragedy. Typical of me.

Anyway, the next stop (although Jennifer is late!) is Iowa City, where
Diana - er, I mean Dana - and Marcus will scoop me up. I'm still
pissed that I didn't consider checking the price of flights, as I
would have been with them for the last few hours instead of on a bus,
but at least I found interestimg things to see along the way.

*i think that South of the Border, in SC along 95, is larger, but the
pouring rain and my lack of an umbrella prevented me from exploring
the compound, so I'm not sure.

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: 3rd and 4th Stops

"This is Moline. Finally!" Jennifer announced as we pulled into the
bus station. It is next to John Deere Plaza, which seems to house a
John Deere Museum. (I saw a gargantuan tractor through a window in a
glass building at the end of the plaza. More monster trucks were
parked outside.)

Moline is the HQ for John Deere, I assume. It is also one-fourth of
the Quad Cities. (The other three are
Rock-something-or-other-i-forget,IL; Davenport, IA; and Bettendorf,
IA.). The downtown area seemed cute.

It was a quick leap over the Mississippi from Moline. Here, the
mighty river is about as wide as the Hudson River between NY and NJ.
Whatever town we entered (I think Davenport)on the other side reminded
me of the area around my parents' house. Grand mansions and Victorian
houses with extra green front lawns lined the road.

We passed a quaint shopping area before hitting bustling downtown
Davenport. The bus terminal, which is next door to the modern-looking
Figge Art Museum (built of opaque glass) actually had a busy waiting
room.

"I hate detours," Jennifer muttered as she opened the door. She
raised her voice. "In about 20 minutes, we'll stop for food."

I'm guessing this is the truck stop Dana told me about. I definitely
couls use a bathroom. I tried not to imbibe too much, but
accidentally bought a liter of Diet Coke (a diuretic) instead of a 20
oz. bottle back in Chicago. I drank 9/10th of it by the time we
arrived in the second half of the Quad Cities. Ooops.

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: Westbound on 74

"Can you tell me where the terminal is in Moline?" the former snorer
asked the bus driver as we entered the gazillionth expressway on-ramp.

"In the bus station," she replied with no trace of irony.

(It seems it moved there from the airport a few months ago. Of course.)

Starting to get stir-crazy...

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: 2nd Stop

DeKalb is the home of Northern Illinois University. NIU was one of
the five or six colleges my dad attended before he finally graduated.
(His college career did not, however, prevent him from the draft. He
was called up four times, until some Jewish doctor failied him on a
medical exam. One of his going away parties was the first and last
time my mom got drunk. her hair was super short, which meant her
friend had nothing to hols onto when my mom barfed her guts out,
causing her face to fall in the toilet. But I digress)

Actually, there is not much to say about DeKalb. We stopped in the
parking lot of Luluko's restaurant. No one got off or on. On the way
back to the highway, we drove through cornfilds. I did not observe
any dilapidated barns, something which fascinates my sister and me.
Living in Iowa, she sees them all the time, but I don't get a lot of
them in Manhattan.

Go westn young woman, go west. Moline awaits.

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: First Stop

The first stop on my bus journey is in Aurora, IL. We pass the gaudy
Hollywood Casino. It is like an art deco castle that exploded.

Next to the Aurora Transit Station is Walter Payton's Roundhouse,
which to my great excitement, contains the Walter Payton Museum.
(Payton being the legendary Chicago Bears player who died a few years
ago. The best lines of "The Superbowl Shuffle" are his: "My name is
Sweetness, and I like to dance. Running the ball is like making
romance. (Words I forgot) to give Chicago a Superbowl chance.). Oh, if
only I had time to explore this treasure! I must come back some time.

I do get to use the bathroom in the station, though. This is probably
as important as the museum.

Now onto DeKalb!

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: Hitting the Road

The bus loaded up at 11:45, and as we pulled out of the station, the
driver introduced herself and reviewed the rules. Turns out that
Jennifer is hilarious. Some bons mots:

"There is no smoking on this bus. If you smoke in the lavatory, I
will smell it and do what is legally required and remove you from this
coach. If you must smoke in the lavatory, I suggest you bring a
friend. That way you'll have someone to talk to while you stand on
the side of the road."

"I'll try to keep the temperature at a happy medium. If you are cols,
snuggle up to the person next to you. If you are hot, take off an
item. However, do both within reason, and absolutely not at the same
time."

"I'm what's known as a rock 'n' roll bus driver - I roll down the
road and rock you to sleep. Introduce yourself to your neighbor now
because it's always good to know the name of the person you sleep
with."

I like her. She'll be a good guide through Aurora, IL, DeKab, I'll,
Moline, I'll, and Davenport, IA before she gets me to my sister in
Iowa City in the next 5 hours, 20 minutes. And the guy behing me is
already snoring away!

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

Adventures on Greyhound: At the Station

My bus to Iowa leaves at 11:45. Since both my parents work today,
neither could take me directly to the Greyhound station and public
transit from our suburban domicile is not exactly available. I
hitched a ride with my dad on his way to his first appointment at
8:15. He dropped me at an L stop, which I took downtown then walked a
few blocks.

Upon my very early arrival, I decided to rent a locker for my small
(but heavy) bag. I figured I could explore the neighborhood for an
hour. The "Smarte"Locker system took my $3 and assigned me a locker.
I opened it. There was a bag in it already. I viewed this as an
omen, and settled into the station to wait.

--
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Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

My Next Career

Another Monday, another America's Next Top Model Marathon to entertain me while I'm on the treadmill. As I explained to my dad, it is the perfect show to watch while my brain is deprived of oxygen.

Perhaps the oxygen issue led me to decide that I have a future as a model. I realize that there are several barriers to achieving this new career:
-I am too short.
-I am too "fat."
-I am too old.
-I think too much. (The ANTM contestants are always yelled at for this sin.)

These industry biases, however, will not stop me from climbing to the top of a niche: the cheekbone model. Yes, I shall become a cheekbone model. I have excellent bone structure and decent skin in my small face that can be exploited for close shots of cheekbones.

I shall be rich!

Double Tongued

For dinner last night, Granny took Bubbe, Mom, Dad, and me to dinner at a Jewish deli called The Bagel. I sat sandwiched between the grandmothers, and found myself surrounded by tongue. Granny ordered the boiled tongue, while Bubbe opted for pickled tongue.

Before I departed for Chicago, I was supposed to buy a train ticket to visit my sister and nephew in Iowa. Shit hit the fan and splattered far and wide last week, though, so I didn't have a chance to do so until Friday night/Saturday morning at 12:30 AM. "Train sold out," flashed at my across the monitor when I put in my online request. Fuck - that left me with Greyhound.

My six hour Greyhound odyssey will begin at 11:45 am on Tuesday. I think I will try and dehydrate myself in advance so I won't need to use the on board facilities. I will also not have another mint milkshake (as I did with my friend and her four year old daughter when I arrived yesterday), as that left me with an angry digestive system.

The only plus side is that I'm curious what the Greyhound bus station in Chicago is like these days. My only reference point is from Adventures in Babysitting, when teenage Brenda (Penelope Ann Miller) runs away from her lux suburban home and then changes her mind and calls her friend Kris (Chris? either way, Elisabeth Shue) to pick her up before her parents find out what she planned. Hijinx ensue, including a homeless woman stealing Brenda's glasses, leading Brenda to wander around with blurry vision and pick up a furry little beast that she thinks is a kitten but is actually a jumbo sewer rat. Oh, the hilarity!

At any rate, the Greyhound station featured in the film was torn down and a new one built on the Near West Side. I also have not been to the Near West Side in eons, and am curious what that formerly extremely crime-infested neighborhood is like these days. Yeah. I'll hope that my contact lenses don't pop out of my eyes, and if they do, I will avoid touching anything that looks furry. (Given how bad my vision is, that would be pretty much anything.)

Snake on (the Way To) a Plane

A series of black clouds with lightening bolts hovered over me as I
left my apatment this morning. I walked to the corner to get a cab to
the airport, staring at sidewalk. The sidewalk slithered. This
confused me for a nanosecond until I realized that I was gazing upon a
panicked snake.

The snake slithered back and forth in a series of s-curves. Its pace
was breakneck as it moved toward the street. "Uh, don't go there!" I
silently urged.

No matter how unfortunate things are right now, I don't have it as bad
as that poor, terrified snake. Good luck, little guy!

--
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Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

What?!?!

Husband and I had to put our copious "treasures" into storage so that
the floors in our living room and dining room could be sanded and
finished. This required packing over the weekend and every night this
week. It took three movers two hours to load the truck.

One of the movers was a beefy white guy with a lot of tattoos, a
shaved head, goatee, and Southern accent. He told us about his dog,
which is some mix breed that is the state dog of Louisiana. "The dogs
are very good at hunting black boys," he mentioned.

I stood still, rooted to the spot, so horrified I was speechless.
Husband nodded. "Really? They hunt black bears?"

It seems that I slightly misunderstood the gentleman's accent. Whew!

--
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The Non-Guide to the BlogHer Conference

It's that time of the year, when the BlogHer conference is just around the corner, and people freak out and worry obsessively: what to wear, what if no one wants to talk to me, etc. etc. It's also that time of the year when "experienced" BlogHer attendees write posts and guides to BlogHer to sooth newbie's fears. Here's my non-contribution to this literary tradition:

Forget all the soothing internet back-patting that's going on: you are right to freak out. It will probably be overwhelming. But it will also be fine, and you will be excited to come back again. And again. And again.

My first BlogHer conference was in San Jose in 2006. Before I went, I feared that I would wind up in a corner eating cheese by myself. (This is what happens to me at pretty much every conference I go to, so I didn't think that BlogHer would be different.) And that's almost exactly what happened, except I didn't eat cheese in the corner by myself. I ate cookies. Lots of cookies. I also spoke to some cool people, and I met my blog heroine, Suebob. Suebob even went out to dinner with me, off-site. I was sure after that she would never want to talk to me again, but not only did we keep in touch and hang out at subsequent conferences, I even visited her at her lovely home, and we shall be roommates at the conference this summer. See? It all worked out. (And what did I wear? I think I wore a different pro-choice t-shirt every day. I had a reason, but I can't remember it. I also wore jeans and some weird gym shoes that were supposed to help work out my legs.)

In 2007, my several friends joined me at the Chicago conference. Just knowing that Count Mockula, Alex Elliot, and Super Des were there, and thus I would not eat cheese (or cookies) by myself in a corner, made me more confident and relaxed. As I result, I talked to more people. This was good. (And what did I wear? I can't remember. Probably jeans and t-shirts. During the ice breaker, some idiot bitch asked me if I was a lesbian, and when I said no, she sneered at me and pointed to my CUSS logo shirt and said that I "project" lesbian. Whatver.)

The following year, Count Mockula had a baby (totally awesome) and didn't come to the conference in San Francisco. Des did not attend, either. Alex and I roomed together again, and I spent the entire conference hanging out in the bookstore, chatting various people up, except for the session I attended on not having children. Maybe I went to another session or two involving other things, and I attempted to attend one of the infamous swag parties, but fled the noise and crowds promptly. The important part is that I had oodles of fun, and I got to sign my book, which rocked. (And what did I wear? More t-shirts and jeans, although I gussied up a bit for the book signing and wore a silk-y shirt with jeans.)

Now we are back to my hometown this year. Alex can't attend, but I shall be rooming with Mar, a newbie, and the aforementioned goddess Suebob. I will attend parties and a session or two and hang out. I will eat unhealthy foods, possibly by myself, but more likely with others because I've done this before and I know more people. I will do another book signing (this time, during Friday's cocktail reception) and have lots of fun. Yay!
(And what will I wear? Yes, t-shirts and jeans...)

So, What Do You Do?

"So, what do you do?"

It's a common question. I just no longer have a good answer for it. A few years ago, it was easy. I puffed up my chest and told people that I work at a nonprofit agency on public policy and programs.

Now I could also answer that I'm a writer, although I don't feel like a writer. Writers are people who write every day, whether or not they earn a living from it. Sometimes there are days when I don't write a word other than what is on my to do list. I was thinking about how much like a poser I feel when I tell people that I'm a writer, and then I realized that I was narrating what scene in my head. Maybe constantly thinking like a writer to qualifies me as a writer, even if I don't write daily?

The funny thing is that I still think of myself as a policy person even though I don't do anything policy related on a daily basis, either. But just as I narrate things in my head on an ongoing basis, I think about policy every day. I certainly don't feel like a pretentious douche (scent: Summer Rain) when I tell people that I'm currently unemployed and looking for a job in public policy or program management the way I do when I say, "I'm a writer."

The difference, I'm thinking now, is that being good at your job as a writer is a lot more subjective than as a policy person/program manager. In the latter, it is obvious if you understand what is going on in the world and whether you are good at it or not. Obviously, there's a baseline for writing, but it is a lot more subjective as to whether one is good at it.

Just thinking while suffering from insomnia for no discernible reason...

More to Love

While I was at my parents' house two weeks ago, I found this photo of Husband and me from 1996 or 1997:


Here we are in July 2009:


There was a hell of a lot more of us to love back then. It is also nice to see that while we are almost entirely different people, not much has changed in my parents' kitchen.

(Thanks to everyone for the advice on photo editing software! I tried Piknik, Picasa, and Paint, and Paint was exactly what I needed to semi-disguise Husband. (I probably didn't block enough of his face out, but it would ruin the point of the picture if I blocked everything.)

Exploiting My Weakness for Laughs

My friend Jennifer is a multi-talented performer who just moved to New York from San Francisco. I went to see her tonight in a stand-up comedy show, where I thought she was clearly the best comedian until a guy got up and found my Achilles heel.

"When you were in high school, all you wanted was dick, right?" he asked me.

"Uh, no," I said.

"Really? Are you a lesbian?"

(Heaving big internal sigh.) "No, but everyone thinks I am."

"It's the short hair cut," he said, then paused. "Actually, you look a lot like Jane Wiedlin. You got that pixie thing going on."

Swoooooooon. I don't care that he was not nearly as funny as Jennifer. From then on, whatever he said, I laughed. Hard and loud. I wished I wore makeup. I am such a sucker.

My Celebrity Lookalike and Me

So Burn Me at the Stake Already, You Fascists

During the last presidential election, Husband regularly received mailings from the McCain campaign requesting donations. (He regularly gives to Democratic candidates around the country.) After the election, issues of The National Review mysteriously appeared every month in our mailbox. On Friday, when I retrieved our mail, I discovered the scariest sacrilege yet: an envelope depicting black cloaked priests lying face down in the aisle of a crowded church, next to a picture of priests holding a "Dominicans Friars for Life" banner at a march. In the upper left corner, the envelope read, "God is calling new men to the battle. And the Dominicans are answering - again. (Battle plan enclosed.)"

Inside, a six page letter read:

Dear fellow Catholic:

About 800 years ago, a poisonous heresy arose in southern France. Left unchecked, it could have threatened the very existence of the human race.

Its adherents saw the human body as a prison for the soul, and thus adopted an anti-life philosophy. They forbade procreation, applauded divorce, and openly encouraged suicide.

The Church called these beliefs Albigensianism.

Seeking good men to fight the Albigensian heresy, Pope Honorious III approved the founding of the Order of Preachers, better known as the Dominicans.

St. Dominic and his preachers rose to the Pope's challenge, using Truth to blot out heresy. They did their job so well that, nowadays, you'll never meet an Albigensian.

I interrupt this letter for a moment to point out that we would never meet an Albigensian regardless of the Dominicans because they all would have killed themselves or died through lack of reproduction. Also, Husband is not a "fellow Catholic," so "God" is apparently not very good at dictating "Truth" in mailing lists. But back to the scariness:

Today, the Dominicans are rising again - to defend Christian morality against an attack that is even more widespread, vicious, and uncompromising.

Yeah, that first part of the sentence scares the fucking shit out of me.

What is this latest, most ferocious attack on Christian truth and morality? Pope Benedict XVI calls it the Dictatorship of Relativism. Relativism is the "universal heresy" because it dissolves all truth and eliminates all categories of good and evil. This deranges the mind and morals of modern man to a dangerous - indeed frightening - degree.

Fore example, relativism not only dictates that abortion is merely a personal choice, but also dictates that the government muse guarantee the "right" to this choice... Relativism can also cause people to take a good thing - such as holy matrimony - and tamper with its very definition to fulfill their own selfish purposes.

Right. I forgot that love is selfish. Of course, I also think that abortion is "merely a personal choice," and my people killed Jesus according to this institution's "Truth," so what do I know? I'll cite one more line:

Relativism is profoundly irrational - anything that denies objective truth denies reason.

Am I the only one whose eyes are bleeding? That is the most fucked up twisted "logic" I've read since Husband's free issues of The New Republic stopped arriving last month.

But on a serious note, the remaining four pages of this toilet paper screed boast about the increase in enrollments at their vocational school, and how their latest crop of 54 trainees are going to stamp out my irrational belief in religious freedom and my vile heresy against the One Truest True Truth. It is pretty damn terrifying to think about these people and what they would do to me in order to "save" me. Shudder.

Ironically, I also pulled out a receipt for a donation I made in late May (right before Dr. Tiller was killed by a psychopath who believed he had to stop abortion) to the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice. I very well might send them more money. Because now I've seen the enemy's battle plan - the Truth - and it is chilling.

This Made Me Laugh My Ass Off

My days of cheerful optimism are behind me now, as none of the six interviews I have had turned into a job. (To be fair, I didn't yet get a rejection from two opportunities, and in theory I have another interview coming up, although they have yet to confirm a date, which is really the cause of my despair cloud.) Husband is stressed about work this week, which makes me feel worse. Plus, I have writer's block, so I'm not using my free time as productively as possible.

At least I can read this email and laugh my ass off:

On this, a day in one of the worst summers in decades, and in the worst economy in decades, let's take a moment to remember how much we fucking hate George Bush. Don't forget. Don't let it go. It's soothing. While you are counting pennies, he is counting skeet at his "ranch."

Did you know that the first day he walked in to his family ranch was the day after he was inaugurated? I haven't forgot. Did you know his ranch is state-of-the-art and 10,000 square feet? Do not forget why we are all jobless and fucked. Did you know that Crawford didn't exist before his Neo-con men created it?

So while it is depressing, know that now is the perfect time to spend what little money you have left on cheap, subversive comedy! We have a bar, so you can drink your problems away while laughing at nonsense. You can't afford drugs, so fuck it. See you at The Annoyance.

-Mick Napier, Artistic Director

The Annoyance is the producer of my all-time favorite musical, Co-Ed Prison Sluts. Singing along to "Shit Motherfucker" is always fun. (Chorus yrics: Shit/motherfucker/fuck you, you cunt or a prick/blow job/suck my dick.) It's nice to have something to chuckle over when your career is in the toilet (and not the nice new one with the smiley face on the underside of the lid).

The Best Seat in the House

I realized that at the end of our renovation project, the bathroom will easily be the nicest room in our apartment. That makes the toilet - smiley face lid and all - officially the best seat in the house! Which makes me want to install a small flat panel TV on the wall opposite the throne, right behind the door. How awesome would that be?!?!

--------

Since I was frantically trying to find an outfit to the wedding I went to yesterday that didn't make me look matronly, I didn't have a chance to look into the photo editing software that everyone has thus far recommended. I hope to do that this afternoon. A bif thanks for the great suggestions!

Looks Can Be Deceiving

At the southeast entrance of Central Park stands a statue. It's
nothing special to my eye, just a guy on horseback following an angel.
Huband's prior employer was in the area, and he passed the statue
every day. It was common to find people, especially Southerners,
posing in front of the statue for pictures, unaware that it depicts
Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman being lead by the Angel of Death on his
destructive march to Atlanta.

I thought about the happy tourists, deceived by the appearance of an
angel statue, a few minutes ago when a biker nearly ran me down. His
traffic light was red, I had the pedestrian crossing symbol, and as he
swerved slightly to avoid me, he yelled, "Fucking watch where you are
going, bitch."

"No, you fucking ran a red light, so don't you dare talk to me like
that, you fucking asshole," I screamed as he streamed by, my hands up
in a defensive measure, a mere second away from pushing him. He's
lucky I have such bad reflexes.

I was all gussied up (even wearing low heels!), as I was on my way to
a wedding, which made me wonder if he would be such a dickhead if I
didn't look so harmless. The adrenaline pumped so hard in me that I
almost ran after him to kick his bike. How did he know that I was not
a psychopath who would do something like that, rather than a
rageaholic who would instead blog about wanting to bash his face in?
Looks, as the Angel of Death can testify, can be deceiving. Harumph.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com

New and Improved

Anyone have any suggestions as to where I can get free photo editing software? I want to post a picture I found of Husband and I from the summer of 1996 or 1997, but he doesn't want his face appearing on CUSS, so I have to find a way to draw a mustache on him or something. The picture is a nice example of how much more of us there used to be to love, so I want to post it.

In other news, we had a friendly toilet installed today:


It has quite the power flush, which is very important around here. Unfortunately, it also is gurgling and won't stop. I'll miss our old deranged toilet seat, but the floor looks a million times nicer:


The contractor told me that they used 700 pounds of concrete to even out the underlying floor and walls in the bathroom. The bathroom is maybe 60 square feet, so that's impressive.

Either the dust or the unhealthy food I consumed today (ate six Oreos for breakfast and two scones for lunch) is giving me a headache and stomach ache. Seriously, I think my parents got it right when they decided to forgo home improvements and just let their house slowly deteriorate around them.

Back at the Ranch...

Upon our return from Chicago, we found the apartment covered with dust and the following:

The copper pipe sticking out of the wall in front of the tub? That's where the toilet goes...


The blank wall under the window? Usually taken up by a sink.

We knew that the bathroom would not be back online when we returned, but it is delayed a day further than anticipated. We are literally shit out of luck until Friday. Last night, we used Husband's hotel points to stay in a hotel. From now until Friday, he's staying in a hotel by his office in Connecticut. Tonight I'm borrowing a friend's couch, and then playing it by ear. I'll probably head up to his hotel tomorrow night.

It's not all bad news, though. We got a sneak peek at the new floor:

I love it!

The Meatloaf Bakery

After consuming an enormous anniversary breakfast at Ann Sather
Restaurant (I ate: a Swedish pancake, Swedish meatball, Swedish potato
sausage, what was supposed to be one egg but was at least two, a
cinnamon roll with extra icing, and a fruit salad, all for less than
$10!), Husband and I wandered around the neighborhood. Our plan was
to walk to Lincoln Park Zoo and rent a paddled boat (not a sea monster
one, though), but that was foiled by construction on the zoo's lagoon.
Before we knew that, we stopped at an army navy store, where I got
two pairs of shoes for 75% off, and a vintage clothes store where
Husband snagged a white tux jacket and ruffle-y shirt.

As we carried our goodies up Clark Street, we noticed a shop across
the street with a sign that read "The Meatloaf Bakery.". We were
compelled to investigate. Turns out it is an eatery where different
types of meatloaf (beef, lentil, etc.) are baked to look like cupcakes
(with mashed potatoes as frosting) and other pastries. I don't think
it was only because we were so full that we wanted to puke. Husband
wondered what diabolical mind would come up with such a disgusting and
evil concept, although I am oddly tempted to some day set foot into
the store and test if the reality is as foul as it sounds.

Updated July 3

You need a picture to understand why this grosses me out:

Meatloaf of various kinds are yummy. Cupcakes are yummy. Meatloaf that looks like a cupcake is creepy because you think you are about to eat a cupcake, but it is really meatloaf. Mind fuck!

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: http://www.cussandotherrants.com/
Book: http://www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com/

Chaotic-ness

Although the apartment is full of dust, the bathroom lacks tiles on
the floor and wall, and there are boxes everywhere, a friend slept
over last night. (At least the carpet beetles are gone.) After she
and Husband headed to their respective meetings, I transported Tycho
to his bungalow colony (i.e. - boarding at the vet). When I arrived
home covered in sweat and rabbit fur, the plumber already removed the
bathroom sink, and five guys were unloading packages of cement mix.

Now I'm waiting for a follow up eye doctor appointment, which is the
fifth I've had in six months. (My left eye became blurry, although
only when wearing contacts. It took three tries to figure out that
the lack of clear vision was due to a weak prescription.). After that,
I meet up with Shonda, a blog friend from Oklahoma. I don't know that
I've ever spent time with someone from OK. Regardless of state, I am
psyched to meet her in person.

In the evening, Husband and I are heading to Chicago. We'll spend our
anniversary tomorrow downtown, then head to my parents' house for
family craziness. This will nbe my nephew's first trip to Grandma and
Grandpa's house. Plus, Husband's parents are taking a holiday to meet
Marcus, and it is my granny's 87th birthday. Whew!

--
Sent from my mobile device

Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com