If only I could wear it when the Wall Street Journal photographer comes to take my picture tomorrow. Better that type of helmet head than the kind that my hair is likely to whip itself into tomorrow.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Helmet Head
During the monsoon that drenched the east coast on Saturday, Husband and I joined Alex Elliot and her family at the Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester. My expectations were low, but it turned out to be pretty awesome. Husband photographed me in this stylish helmet:
If only I could wear it when the Wall Street Journal photographer comes to take my picture tomorrow. Better that type of helmet head than the kind that my hair is likely to whip itself into tomorrow.
If only I could wear it when the Wall Street Journal photographer comes to take my picture tomorrow. Better that type of helmet head than the kind that my hair is likely to whip itself into tomorrow.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Mystery Guest at the Westin Copley Place
On Friday afternoon, Husband had a meeting in Boston. Since I most unhappily remain unemployed, I hopped with him into Fred the Red, our semi-trusty PT Cruiser, and motored up. We already planned to go to Massachusetts on Saturday morning to spend the weekend with Alex Elliot's family (her son's 6th birthday party is on Sunday), so it was just easier to go up with him and make an extra night of it.
When we returned to the hotel after dinner,* the street was blocked off, cops wandered around in neon safety vests, and crowds gathered along the curb. Husband and I speculated that this had something to do with Sen. Kennedy's funeral. A cop verified our suspicions, and we went into the hotel.
In the lobby, some SWAT-type team finished checking in and the strapping men hoisted their large black bags onto their backs. I asked the concierge what was going on.
"Well, there's a senator, Ted Kennedy..."
"Yes, he died," I interrupted. "I know that the funeral is this weekend. But what's going on here?"
"Oh, there's a dignitary staying here, but we don't know who it is."
A couple in their early 60s the gift shop were convinced it was Barack Obama. Husband tried to explain that if Obama was here, there would be Secret Service everywhere and metal detectors. I pointed out that there were not snipers on surrounding buildings. The cashier ignored our logic. "It's Obama! I know it!"
A letter slipped under the door of our hotel room noted that, "We have a dignitary staying in the hotel for the next two nights, and as such have extensive security measures in place in the hotel as well as the area surrounding the building outside... but the front entrance to the hotel will still be open for drive in traffic."
Who could it be?**
*Which, incidentally, leads me to an important question: I ordered a lobster salad on brioche, and when it arrived, it was on bread. I thought brioche had to be a roll or bun (and I'm 90% sure that the menu said "brioche roll"), so I asked the waiter if they ran out of brioche. "No, this is brioche bread," he replied. It was certainly thick and buttery, but I spent the rest of the evening convinced that it was toasted buttered white bread and that the staff was laughing at me. I looked up brioche, and it said it can be baked in a loaf. But I wonder if it would look different than any other kind of toasted bread?
**"It might be a prince from Seychelles," Husband decided. He cracks me up.
When we returned to the hotel after dinner,* the street was blocked off, cops wandered around in neon safety vests, and crowds gathered along the curb. Husband and I speculated that this had something to do with Sen. Kennedy's funeral. A cop verified our suspicions, and we went into the hotel.
In the lobby, some SWAT-type team finished checking in and the strapping men hoisted their large black bags onto their backs. I asked the concierge what was going on.
"Well, there's a senator, Ted Kennedy..."
"Yes, he died," I interrupted. "I know that the funeral is this weekend. But what's going on here?"
"Oh, there's a dignitary staying here, but we don't know who it is."
A couple in their early 60s the gift shop were convinced it was Barack Obama. Husband tried to explain that if Obama was here, there would be Secret Service everywhere and metal detectors. I pointed out that there were not snipers on surrounding buildings. The cashier ignored our logic. "It's Obama! I know it!"
A letter slipped under the door of our hotel room noted that, "We have a dignitary staying in the hotel for the next two nights, and as such have extensive security measures in place in the hotel as well as the area surrounding the building outside... but the front entrance to the hotel will still be open for drive in traffic."
Who could it be?**
*Which, incidentally, leads me to an important question: I ordered a lobster salad on brioche, and when it arrived, it was on bread. I thought brioche had to be a roll or bun (and I'm 90% sure that the menu said "brioche roll"), so I asked the waiter if they ran out of brioche. "No, this is brioche bread," he replied. It was certainly thick and buttery, but I spent the rest of the evening convinced that it was toasted buttered white bread and that the staff was laughing at me. I looked up brioche, and it said it can be baked in a loaf. But I wonder if it would look different than any other kind of toasted bread?
**"It might be a prince from Seychelles," Husband decided. He cracks me up.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Big Excitement
In February 1986, a reporter named Jeffrey Zaslow came to my school to
interview fourth graders about weight and diet. (I don't think the
term "body image" was yet invented back then.) I was one of the
students quoted in the article. ("Models look like popsicle sticks,"
I opined. I also shared that my mother would lie on her bed and use
pliers to zip her jeans. This anecdote appeared anonymously, and when
my mom read it, she turned to me and said, "Look Suzanne! Another
girl's mother uses pliers to zip her jeans!" I said, "Um, mom?
That's you.")
interview fourth graders about weight and diet. (I don't think the
term "body image" was yet invented back then.) I was one of the
students quoted in the article. ("Models look like popsicle sticks,"
I opined. I also shared that my mother would lie on her bed and use
pliers to zip her jeans. This anecdote appeared anonymously, and when
my mom read it, she turned to me and said, "Look Suzanne! Another
girl's mother uses pliers to zip her jeans!" I said, "Um, mom?
That's you.")
While I was at my parents' house in July, I dug the article up to use
as source material for my MFA thesis. As I re-read it, I realized how
nothing has changed in how society views women's bodies and the
pressures girls face to be thin. Plus, the quotes from the kids
interviewed were intense. All the girls at my school thought they
needed to be thin (and most were). One guy in my class said, "Fat
girld aren't normal." Another boy at another school explained that it
was OK to be overweight if a person could not help it, but 4th grade
girls can help it. Yipes!
I thought about how cool it would be to check in with people 23 years
later and see if our attitudes differed now that we are in our 30s.
Everyone in the article from my school is on Facebook. It would be
easy for me to send a message.
I emailed the article's author, who had quite a career since 1986.
Lately he's famous for his books - "The Last Lecture,""The Girls from
Ames," and a new one about the pilot who safely landed the USAir plane
in the Hudson River earlier this year - but he is now writing a column
on life transitions at the WSJ. Perfect! Of course, after I sent the
email, I felt like a total douche and was sure the staff mocked my
conviction that this would be a compelling story.
A few hours later, I got an email from Jeffrey Zaslow. He and his
editor loved the idea! I followed up with my former classmates, and
four out of six of us (including moi) agreed to be interviewed. On
Monday afternoon, the WSJ is sending a photographer to my apartment
(which is still a disaster and may be filled with toxic fumes, as the
tub is scheduled to be reglazed that morning). The idea is to run our
pictures from 4th grade and now. The article will appear in the WSJ
on Wed., Sept. 2.
I am beyond excited!
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Noodles
Husband and I joined a group of friends and family in celebrating our friend Dr. F's son's first birthday. Our other friend Maria arrived before we did, and was waiting for the festivities when the evening's entertainment, Noodles the Clown, arrived in civilian clothes.
"Oh, no!" she said when she realized that Maria was with the party. "You didn't see me like this!"
"No problem," Maria replied. "Your secret is safe with me."
Noodles leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Later, I will change genders and species."
"Uh, oh. OK." Maria said, wondering what exactly this clown had in store for us.
Turns out that she changed from Noodles to Mickey Mouse, back to Noodles (to perform a birthday rap with a beat circa 1985, sort of like my mom likes to do at family functions), then to Elmo, ending the night as Noodles. It was as exhausting as it sounds, and a good time was had by all.
"Oh, no!" she said when she realized that Maria was with the party. "You didn't see me like this!"
"No problem," Maria replied. "Your secret is safe with me."
Noodles leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Later, I will change genders and species."
"Uh, oh. OK." Maria said, wondering what exactly this clown had in store for us.
Turns out that she changed from Noodles to Mickey Mouse, back to Noodles (to perform a birthday rap with a beat circa 1985, sort of like my mom likes to do at family functions), then to Elmo, ending the night as Noodles. It was as exhausting as it sounds, and a good time was had by all.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Alli: Causing a Real Shit Storm
Cross-posted at BlogHer:
Filed under "Who Didn't See This Coming?:" The US Federal Drug Administration (FDA) is investigating reports that alli, the only FDA-approved nonprescription weight-loss drug, caused liver damage, according to The Washington Post. (Man, if that sentence wasn't a mouthful, I don't know what is. Except, of course, that people using alli can't have a mouthful because of how alli works, but more on that later.) While there is no conclusive link, more than 30 people using alli and Xenical, its stronger prescription sibling, were hospitalized with liver issues between 1999 and October 2008.
OK, so people using alli (pronounced like "ally" - clever, no?) can really eat a mouthful, just so long as said mouthful doesn't contain too much fat. This is because alli "works" by stopping a person's body from absorbing fat. Anyone remember Olestra and "anal leakage" side effect? Yeah, it's like that. But worse. Basically, if you make a mistake and consume too much fat while using alli, you will essentially shit yourself. I'm sorry, there's no nicer way to say it. What distresses me about alli is that a lot of people (especially women, who alli is primarily marketed towards) are so desperate to be thin (and also continue eating what they want to) that crapping their undies is a better option than, god forbid, being overweight. (And let's not confuse overweight with healthy because they are often very different things. Certainly someone who is thin but uncontrollably poops through her thong is less healthy than someone who is overweight but can control her own bowels. Plus, studies have shown that what people we consider "overweight" are actually healthier than people considered a "healthy weight", but that's another story.)
BlogHer Health and Wellness Contributing Editor Catherine Morgan blogged about alli back in July 2007, noting that 1. FDA approval of the drug concerned her, as many drugs get approval and then are shown to be unsafe; and 2. "Limiting your fat intake per meal WILL facilitate weight loss, even without a pill that gives you diarrhea. She also pointed out that the only way to sustain weight loss is through a healthy diet. For these excellent insights, she was raked over the coals by some commenters. (Several claimed that people who eat too much fat - whether on alli or not - are at fault because they have no willpower or self-restraint. Another person demanded that she present her medical credentials for making such a ridiculous argument. Seriously.)
Although I clearly am irritated that people would attack Catherine's scientific, evidence laden post, I understand why. We live in a world we are pounded day in and day out with messages about body acceptability. We are also bombarded nearly 24-7 with ads selling tasty foods. At the same time, busy schedules, socio-economic pressures, and other issues may preclude people from having access to fresh foods, the time to prepare meals, and ways to exercise. These are not excuses, they are realities. And the reality is that drug manufacturers take advantage of our insecurities by selling us miracle pills to make us thin. Is GlaxoSmithKline, the distributor of alli, any better than a snake oil salesman peddling his wares from his wagon at the turn of the century? No, both sold people easy access to things that were and are just out of reach.
I'm not going to lie: I'm no more immune to the pressure to be thin than anyone else. No matter what I look like, I always think I am fat, except for a period of time about seven years ago. I had been having various digestive issues for almost a year and seeing a gastroenterologist, when one day I came home from work and needed to use the toilet maybe more urgently than I ever did in my entire life. When I was done, I was horrified to notice orange grease floating in the toilet. (As this is a family blog, I won't describe what else was in it.) For the next six months, whatever I ate slid out of me undigested like it was a vat of Olestra. I lost a lot of weight, quickly. And despite the fact that I was becoming nutritionally deprived, smelled from gas, had constant cramps, and my ass hurt from the amount of wiping I needed to do every time I used the bathroom - and I mean every time I sat on a toilet, something very bad came out of me (TMI, I know - sorry) - I liked how I looked. At least I liked how my body looked in a tight pair of jeans. My face looked like a zombie because I was seriously ill.
Many unpleasant tests later (for details, see Part I and Part II, but warning: it involves collection buckets and a refrigerator), no one understood why I naturally produced the as-yet-uninvented-alli, and I was warned to be very careful about how much fat I ate. The bottom line is that not digesting fat is really, really unhealthy. That's why I am not surprised that alli may cause liver damage.
Filed under "Who Didn't See This Coming?:" The US Federal Drug Administration (FDA) is investigating reports that alli, the only FDA-approved nonprescription weight-loss drug, caused liver damage, according to The Washington Post. (Man, if that sentence wasn't a mouthful, I don't know what is. Except, of course, that people using alli can't have a mouthful because of how alli works, but more on that later.) While there is no conclusive link, more than 30 people using alli and Xenical, its stronger prescription sibling, were hospitalized with liver issues between 1999 and October 2008.
OK, so people using alli (pronounced like "ally" - clever, no?) can really eat a mouthful, just so long as said mouthful doesn't contain too much fat. This is because alli "works" by stopping a person's body from absorbing fat. Anyone remember Olestra and "anal leakage" side effect? Yeah, it's like that. But worse. Basically, if you make a mistake and consume too much fat while using alli, you will essentially shit yourself. I'm sorry, there's no nicer way to say it. What distresses me about alli is that a lot of people (especially women, who alli is primarily marketed towards) are so desperate to be thin (and also continue eating what they want to) that crapping their undies is a better option than, god forbid, being overweight. (And let's not confuse overweight with healthy because they are often very different things. Certainly someone who is thin but uncontrollably poops through her thong is less healthy than someone who is overweight but can control her own bowels. Plus, studies have shown that what people we consider "overweight" are actually healthier than people considered a "healthy weight", but that's another story.)
BlogHer Health and Wellness Contributing Editor Catherine Morgan blogged about alli back in July 2007, noting that 1. FDA approval of the drug concerned her, as many drugs get approval and then are shown to be unsafe; and 2. "Limiting your fat intake per meal WILL facilitate weight loss, even without a pill that gives you diarrhea. She also pointed out that the only way to sustain weight loss is through a healthy diet. For these excellent insights, she was raked over the coals by some commenters. (Several claimed that people who eat too much fat - whether on alli or not - are at fault because they have no willpower or self-restraint. Another person demanded that she present her medical credentials for making such a ridiculous argument. Seriously.)
Although I clearly am irritated that people would attack Catherine's scientific, evidence laden post, I understand why. We live in a world we are pounded day in and day out with messages about body acceptability. We are also bombarded nearly 24-7 with ads selling tasty foods. At the same time, busy schedules, socio-economic pressures, and other issues may preclude people from having access to fresh foods, the time to prepare meals, and ways to exercise. These are not excuses, they are realities. And the reality is that drug manufacturers take advantage of our insecurities by selling us miracle pills to make us thin. Is GlaxoSmithKline, the distributor of alli, any better than a snake oil salesman peddling his wares from his wagon at the turn of the century? No, both sold people easy access to things that were and are just out of reach.
I'm not going to lie: I'm no more immune to the pressure to be thin than anyone else. No matter what I look like, I always think I am fat, except for a period of time about seven years ago. I had been having various digestive issues for almost a year and seeing a gastroenterologist, when one day I came home from work and needed to use the toilet maybe more urgently than I ever did in my entire life. When I was done, I was horrified to notice orange grease floating in the toilet. (As this is a family blog, I won't describe what else was in it.) For the next six months, whatever I ate slid out of me undigested like it was a vat of Olestra. I lost a lot of weight, quickly. And despite the fact that I was becoming nutritionally deprived, smelled from gas, had constant cramps, and my ass hurt from the amount of wiping I needed to do every time I used the bathroom - and I mean every time I sat on a toilet, something very bad came out of me (TMI, I know - sorry) - I liked how I looked. At least I liked how my body looked in a tight pair of jeans. My face looked like a zombie because I was seriously ill.
Many unpleasant tests later (for details, see Part I and Part II, but warning: it involves collection buckets and a refrigerator), no one understood why I naturally produced the as-yet-uninvented-alli, and I was warned to be very careful about how much fat I ate. The bottom line is that not digesting fat is really, really unhealthy. That's why I am not surprised that alli may cause liver damage.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Why I Love Barney Frank
According to a NY Times op-ed blurb, a crazy bitch (classification mine, not the Times at a town hall meeting hosted by Rep. Barney Frank screamed at him about why he supported President Obama's "Nazi policy." Rep. Franks replied, "On what planet do you spend most of your time?"
Cackle. Seriously, though, it is about time someone started standing up for common sense.
Cackle. Seriously, though, it is about time someone started standing up for common sense.
ENTJ
The fifteen second Facebook Meyers-Briggs personality test classified me as an ENTJ. ENTJ stands for extraversion, intuition, thinking, and judgment. Normally I am skeptical about personality tests in general, and even more so about ones that take less than a minute to complete, but I've taken longer versions of Meyers-Briggs at leadership conferences, and I always come out an ENTJ.
What does it mean to be an ENTJ? The Facebook fifteen second explanation says:
Anyway, an ENTJ is basically a pushy person with strong opinions who values planning and success, hates wastefulness, and tries to hide a sentimental streak as wide as the Mississippi River. (Not the Mississippi up north where it's narrow, either.) Yeah. How about youse?
What does it mean to be an ENTJ? The Facebook fifteen second explanation says:
You are frank, decisive, and assume leadership readily. You quickly see illogical and inefficient procedures and policies, and develop and implement comprehensive systems to solve organizational problems. You enjoy long-term planning and goal setting. You are usually well informed, well read, enjoy expanding your knowledge and passing it on to others. You are forceful in presenting your ideasI agree that describes me well, particularly that last line, not the the title of this blog would illustrate that point or anything. There's a much longer explanation on the Personality Page (along with a longer quiz, I think). My favorite line from that is, "ENTJs want their home to be beautiful, well-furnished, and efficiently run." Ha ha ha! If "beautiful" and "well-furnished" means crammed with random used furniture, some of which was scavenged from trash, then certainly that is true, too. (Part of what freaks me out about the renovation that might one day finish if I am lucky is that it made the apartment too nice - I feel like I don't belong here.)
Anyway, an ENTJ is basically a pushy person with strong opinions who values planning and success, hates wastefulness, and tries to hide a sentimental streak as wide as the Mississippi River. (Not the Mississippi up north where it's narrow, either.) Yeah. How about youse?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Well, Do They?
It's been months since I played the game where I look at my blog stats go through the list of how people who visited CUSS got here. When I looked at the referrals yesterday afternoon, a nestled among the usual suspects (unshaved, Jewish pussy, kosher pussy, hairy pussy, etc.), there was a real head scratcher.
I turned to Husband. "Hey, listen to this crazy search. Someone came to my blog by googling, 'do orthodox jews put carrots in an entryway.'"
Husband glanced up at me from the newspaper. "Well, do they?"
I suppose the question is better than the direction I originally thought the question was taking, unless "entryway" is a euphemism.
I turned to Husband. "Hey, listen to this crazy search. Someone came to my blog by googling, 'do orthodox jews put carrots in an entryway.'"
Husband glanced up at me from the newspaper. "Well, do they?"
I suppose the question is better than the direction I originally thought the question was taking, unless "entryway" is a euphemism.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Three Adjectives
My friend decided to join a dating site. One of the many irritating tasks to complete her profile involved filling in three adjectives to describe yourself.
"What do you think of whiny, judgmental, and anxious?" she asked me.
After I picked myself up from the floor of the Indian restaurant (I had fallen off my chair laughing - almost not an exaggeration), I told her that I thought it was brilliant. "It's honest - although I do not think you are whiny - and intriguing. It seems like only people who get it, and thus get you, would respond." (Incidentally, I initially suggested that she use generous, intelligent, vibrant. OK, I actually said zestful, but she pointed out that sounds like a soap commercial, and just thought of vibrant now. Lively could also work. I still sort of like zestful, even if it is sudsy.)
Then I thought about what three adjectives I would use to describe myself. I realized that I would have to steal two out of three of her words because they are so true for me - judgmental and anxious. My third would be petty. I could substitute spastic or stressed for anxious and mocking for judgmental if I was forced to, but anxious and judgmental are just so perfect. Obsessive could also be a good choice. (If also forced to choose three positive ones, I would opt for entertaining, wonky, chatty.)
I hate ending blog posts by posing a question, but what three adjectives would you choose?
"What do you think of whiny, judgmental, and anxious?" she asked me.
After I picked myself up from the floor of the Indian restaurant (I had fallen off my chair laughing - almost not an exaggeration), I told her that I thought it was brilliant. "It's honest - although I do not think you are whiny - and intriguing. It seems like only people who get it, and thus get you, would respond." (Incidentally, I initially suggested that she use generous, intelligent, vibrant. OK, I actually said zestful, but she pointed out that sounds like a soap commercial, and just thought of vibrant now. Lively could also work. I still sort of like zestful, even if it is sudsy.)
Then I thought about what three adjectives I would use to describe myself. I realized that I would have to steal two out of three of her words because they are so true for me - judgmental and anxious. My third would be petty. I could substitute spastic or stressed for anxious and mocking for judgmental if I was forced to, but anxious and judgmental are just so perfect. Obsessive could also be a good choice. (If also forced to choose three positive ones, I would opt for entertaining, wonky, chatty.)
I hate ending blog posts by posing a question, but what three adjectives would you choose?
Friday, August 21, 2009
At MoMA
Rebecca and I went to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) on Tuesday. Thanks to my $25,000 tuition at the New School, we saved $20 on my admission and $12 on Rebecca's and got in for free when I showed my school ID card. If that's not a bargain, I don't know what is.
We wandered aimlessly, and came across a work by Carroll Dunham, which depicted square objects that looked like trees, monsters, or robots with shooting penises:
For a few minutes, we were stunned.
"When I went to museums with some other friends, I used to play a game we called, 'Can I make, too?'" Rebecca said. "I think the answer here is yes. It looks like a doodle made by a fourth grader!"
"Nah, I think you don't give him enough credit. I say an eighth grader. Fourth graders might not draw so many penises."
We continued through the museum, coming to a room with white walls and black writing on it. The art project is to have a museum staff person measure your height and record it on the wall with your first name and the date. The swirling black writing concentrated in the range on 5'3" to maybe 6'00" looked like a swarm of angry bees against the stark white paint. This was pretty awesome, Rebecca and I agreed.
Ah, modern art. I scratch my head (or laugh) at most of it, but then something really connects with me.
We wandered aimlessly, and came across a work by Carroll Dunham, which depicted square objects that looked like trees, monsters, or robots with shooting penises:
For a few minutes, we were stunned.
"When I went to museums with some other friends, I used to play a game we called, 'Can I make, too?'" Rebecca said. "I think the answer here is yes. It looks like a doodle made by a fourth grader!"
"Nah, I think you don't give him enough credit. I say an eighth grader. Fourth graders might not draw so many penises."
We continued through the museum, coming to a room with white walls and black writing on it. The art project is to have a museum staff person measure your height and record it on the wall with your first name and the date. The swirling black writing concentrated in the range on 5'3" to maybe 6'00" looked like a swarm of angry bees against the stark white paint. This was pretty awesome, Rebecca and I agreed.
Ah, modern art. I scratch my head (or laugh) at most of it, but then something really connects with me.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Passing the Steamy, Hot Crotch Test
The streets of New York sizzled under the beating sun this afternoon. Humidity enveloped anyone foolhardy enough to walk around in a blanket of steam-room air. Sweat dripped from brows, armpits, and other bodily areas.
It was in this weather that I decided that I did not want to pay $2.25 to take the bus to my doctor's appointment. "It's only a mile," I reasoned. "I can walk on the shaded side of the street." I allotted plenty of time to saunter over there.
By the time I arrived at my new gynecologist's office (thanks for the referral, Dr. F!), my underwear were soaked through. Since I was 30 minutes early, I hoped that would allow me to dry out in the overly air conditioned office. Better yet, maybe he'd run late. While I waited, I pondered how much I would hate being an OB/GYN on a day like today.
Fortunately, before he performed the exam, the good (and wise) doctor brought me into his office to go over my history. We chatted about the Mets. (They are dead to me this season, by the way.) I told him about my exciting medical history - the PCOS, the undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment, the breast reduction surgery - and he wrote it all down. We discussed about my increased risks for uterine and breast cancer and diabetes. He complimented the friend who referred me to him, and we remarked on how crazy it is that her son is already turning one. Thanks to all the talk, I even had enough time to get cold and put my cardigan on. This was good.
When the time came to do the dirty deed, the doctor did not pass out. He didn't even make a face. At the end, he said that everything looked normal and that he'd see me next year. Whew.
It was in this weather that I decided that I did not want to pay $2.25 to take the bus to my doctor's appointment. "It's only a mile," I reasoned. "I can walk on the shaded side of the street." I allotted plenty of time to saunter over there.
By the time I arrived at my new gynecologist's office (thanks for the referral, Dr. F!), my underwear were soaked through. Since I was 30 minutes early, I hoped that would allow me to dry out in the overly air conditioned office. Better yet, maybe he'd run late. While I waited, I pondered how much I would hate being an OB/GYN on a day like today.
Fortunately, before he performed the exam, the good (and wise) doctor brought me into his office to go over my history. We chatted about the Mets. (They are dead to me this season, by the way.) I told him about my exciting medical history - the PCOS, the undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment, the breast reduction surgery - and he wrote it all down. We discussed about my increased risks for uterine and breast cancer and diabetes. He complimented the friend who referred me to him, and we remarked on how crazy it is that her son is already turning one. Thanks to all the talk, I even had enough time to get cold and put my cardigan on. This was good.
When the time came to do the dirty deed, the doctor did not pass out. He didn't even make a face. At the end, he said that everything looked normal and that he'd see me next year. Whew.
Monday, August 17, 2009
American as Apple Pie
Until this morning, I struggled to understand why so many (white) Americans are seething about the plan to offer health care benefits to all Americans. I thought about a photo, showing an older white man screaming at Sen. Arlen Specter (who looked like he just ate something that left a very bad taste in his mouth, which cracked me up, but that's another point) that ran last week on the cover of The New York Times. The enraged man shouted, "One day, God is going to stand before you and he's going to judge you!"
This morning, however, when I looked at a NYT headline that announced that the public option would likely be dropped from whatever plan passes, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain), dropped the seed he was eating and jumped on his wheel. Really, is not America founded on the idea that some people have rights, and they will protect those rights and do everything they can to prevent others from obtaining them? Those self-righteous colonists, shouting at King George, were essentially the same angry white men who then turned around and made sure that women, people of color, and white men without property could not vote or hold public office. In addition, a good portion of the public could not go to school, work in certain fields, marry who they pleased, observe their religion without being harassed, or in the most extreme cases, be considered human beings. They said Jews could not serve in the Continental Army (although they were happy to get Jewish money to pay for it, while insisting that Jews were unpatriotic for not serving in the army). Etc, etc.
The real problem with America is that it is utterly un-American to believe that all people are equal. When people fight to preserve a system that benefits only a few at the expense of others, they are upholding the true American way. There may be better opportunity here for people than in many other places in the world, but really, that's just saying how truly awful many places in the world are. And how wonderful it is that there are so many un-American Americans who want to extend rights and freedoms to all.
This morning, however, when I looked at a NYT headline that announced that the public option would likely be dropped from whatever plan passes, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain), dropped the seed he was eating and jumped on his wheel. Really, is not America founded on the idea that some people have rights, and they will protect those rights and do everything they can to prevent others from obtaining them? Those self-righteous colonists, shouting at King George, were essentially the same angry white men who then turned around and made sure that women, people of color, and white men without property could not vote or hold public office. In addition, a good portion of the public could not go to school, work in certain fields, marry who they pleased, observe their religion without being harassed, or in the most extreme cases, be considered human beings. They said Jews could not serve in the Continental Army (although they were happy to get Jewish money to pay for it, while insisting that Jews were unpatriotic for not serving in the army). Etc, etc.
The real problem with America is that it is utterly un-American to believe that all people are equal. When people fight to preserve a system that benefits only a few at the expense of others, they are upholding the true American way. There may be better opportunity here for people than in many other places in the world, but really, that's just saying how truly awful many places in the world are. And how wonderful it is that there are so many un-American Americans who want to extend rights and freedoms to all.
Friday, August 14, 2009
My Girl Robot - Heh Heh
A few years ago, some credit card company ran an ad on TV which
depicted a woman talking about charging all the items needed to build
a robot. The voice that came out, though, was that of the sleazy guy
who stole her credit card and used it to build a girl robot. The ad
ended with the guy's horny laugh. It cracked my ass up.
depicted a woman talking about charging all the items needed to build
a robot. The voice that came out, though, was that of the sleazy guy
who stole her credit card and used it to build a girl robot. The ad
ended with the guy's horny laugh. It cracked my ass up.
I could not help but think of this commercial yesterday. While
running for the bathroom at Home Depot, a guy looking at cardboard
boxes asked me if I could help him. As I wore a black suit, not a
bright orange Home Depot apron, I found that odd. If I didn't get to
the toilet ASAP, I risked shitting myself, but soemthing made me stop
and say, "Sure."
"Well, I'm making a movie with a robot in it," he began, and then I
missed his next few sentences because I could not stop laughing in my
head. Maurice, the hamster who runs the wheel that powers my brain,
fell down in hysterics. I tuned back in to hear the guy say, "...and
I need to know if this cardboard box fits me so it will look good in
the film. If I get in it, can you tell me how I fit?"
"No problem." Somehow, I kept a neutral expression on my face. I
hoped my sphinctor was as strong as I believed it could be. How could
I miss this?
The guy unfolded the box. He stepped in it so that it enclosed his
torso and thighs. Pressing his forearms against the inside of the
box, he held it up around him. "Am I bulging out?"
The box was roomy enough to fit at least one other average sized
person. "Um, no. You have more than enough room. Not even close to
bulging out."
"Hmmm, maybe it's too big." He frowned. "Well, thanks for your help."
"No problem," I called over my shoulder as I galloped toward the
bathroom. Ten mintues later when I emerged from the bathroom ten
pounds lighter (oh, it was a bad, reminding me of the "snake surprise"
scene in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom"), he was no where in
sight. I hoped he was off having fun building his robot. Heh heh.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Unicorns
I passed by a boutique the other day, and in the window was a fabulous white dress with a unicorn spewing pink squiggly lines out of its horn:
Later, I called to ask how much the dress cost.
"It is $420," the woman replied.
"Oh."
"Shall I check to see if we have it in your size?"
"Um... no, that's OK. Thanks." I hung up fast.
Then Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, fired up his run. Perhaps I could find it online cheaper? I stopped by the store to check out the brand. The unicorn dress is made by a company called Death by Drone. Intriguing...
When I looked it up online, I discovered that the dress I covet is named, "Evil Eye Through the Garden of Suffocation." Now I was a little scared. I also discovered that it is also $420 on the Death by Drone website.
Even if it cute, and even if there is a blazing red jewel in the eye of the unicorn, that seems like a lot of money for a silkscreened cotton dress. But what do I know? Maybe I should splurge and go for it. Right. After that, I can feed my pet unicorn a bowl of gold and we can frolic under rainbows together. Harumph.
Later, I called to ask how much the dress cost.
"It is $420," the woman replied.
"Oh."
"Shall I check to see if we have it in your size?"
"Um... no, that's OK. Thanks." I hung up fast.
Then Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, fired up his run. Perhaps I could find it online cheaper? I stopped by the store to check out the brand. The unicorn dress is made by a company called Death by Drone. Intriguing...
When I looked it up online, I discovered that the dress I covet is named, "Evil Eye Through the Garden of Suffocation." Now I was a little scared. I also discovered that it is also $420 on the Death by Drone website.
Even if it cute, and even if there is a blazing red jewel in the eye of the unicorn, that seems like a lot of money for a silkscreened cotton dress. But what do I know? Maybe I should splurge and go for it. Right. After that, I can feed my pet unicorn a bowl of gold and we can frolic under rainbows together. Harumph.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Where Can I Get a Pair of Michael Pollan's Rose-Colored Glasses?
I agree with the basic tenet of Michael Pollan's writing about food: what is mass consumed in Western culture is full of chemicals, leads to unsustainable farming practices, and is bad for everyone's (and I include the earth as everyone) health in the long run. My (organic, grass-fed) beef is with his analysis of how people ate in the past, and what we can do today.
Over at BlogHer, I address the gender absurdity he ignores. (In a sustainable, farm-raised nutshell, he says that people spend less time cooking wholesome foods at home because women have jobs, and does not ask the pivotal question: why don't men pitch in now that women have less time? Instead, it is the fault of feminism for rushing women out of the kitchen. Sigh. I suppose you can say feminism also failed in convincing men to do "women's work," like cooking, so the lack of time spent cooking is therefore also the fault of feminism.)
The other problem with Pollan is how he looks at the past. I read In Defense of Food for my book club, and we all thought it was condescending bunk. He claims that we should go back to cooking and shopping the way that our great-grandmothers did. This idealized notion of home cooking assumes that our great-grandmothers didn't work 14 hour days at shirt-waist factories, were not bent over fields doing sharecropping, or otherwise occupied in a struggle to earn some sort of income for their families. Further, it assumes that people had access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Photos that I have seen of cities from a century ago tend to depict vendors standing in the street with raw sewage at their feet. Of course, that assumes that my great-grandmother even had the money to buy fresh items - the reason that the Federal Poverty Level is based on the cost of a basket of food is because food was the biggest expense in a family budget in Ye Goode Olde Dayes.*
My guess is that my great-grandmother did not spend hours cooking after she arrived home from the sweatshop as a young woman; she was just glad when people in her household had anything to eat. In fact, back in Pollan's Ye Goode Olde Dayes, the infant mortality rate was much higher and people died (for a lot of reasons) younger than our diabetes-infested society members do today. One of these reasons is that poor people (who make up a lot of the population) had limited access to nutritious foods.
Pollan wants to return to a past that never existed for many people. Without acknowledging why affordable, fresh food and nutritious has always been a problem in some way or another, he prescribes solutions that are ridiculous. Spending more time preparing healthy, delicious food at home is a good goal, but how can we achieve it when fresh food remains unaffordable to so many, as it always has? (Seriously, when I was at McDonald's last week, I got a small meal for less than $4 - I can't eat for even close to that at my local farmers' market.) How can we change the industrial farming practices that Pollan so rightly abhors as stripping plants, animals, and the earth of its nutrients, and make sure that people can afford to buy what is produced? How can we re-direct farm subsidies that go toward harmful practices to get better, affordable food? How do we help people find the time to cook, and make sure it is an enjoyable way to spend time so people will choose to cook?
Blaming feminism and ignoring the realities of the past is easy. But it won't solve anything.
*Today, the cost of housing is by far the largest line item.
Over at BlogHer, I address the gender absurdity he ignores. (In a sustainable, farm-raised nutshell, he says that people spend less time cooking wholesome foods at home because women have jobs, and does not ask the pivotal question: why don't men pitch in now that women have less time? Instead, it is the fault of feminism for rushing women out of the kitchen. Sigh. I suppose you can say feminism also failed in convincing men to do "women's work," like cooking, so the lack of time spent cooking is therefore also the fault of feminism.)
The other problem with Pollan is how he looks at the past. I read In Defense of Food for my book club, and we all thought it was condescending bunk. He claims that we should go back to cooking and shopping the way that our great-grandmothers did. This idealized notion of home cooking assumes that our great-grandmothers didn't work 14 hour days at shirt-waist factories, were not bent over fields doing sharecropping, or otherwise occupied in a struggle to earn some sort of income for their families. Further, it assumes that people had access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Photos that I have seen of cities from a century ago tend to depict vendors standing in the street with raw sewage at their feet. Of course, that assumes that my great-grandmother even had the money to buy fresh items - the reason that the Federal Poverty Level is based on the cost of a basket of food is because food was the biggest expense in a family budget in Ye Goode Olde Dayes.*
My guess is that my great-grandmother did not spend hours cooking after she arrived home from the sweatshop as a young woman; she was just glad when people in her household had anything to eat. In fact, back in Pollan's Ye Goode Olde Dayes, the infant mortality rate was much higher and people died (for a lot of reasons) younger than our diabetes-infested society members do today. One of these reasons is that poor people (who make up a lot of the population) had limited access to nutritious foods.
Pollan wants to return to a past that never existed for many people. Without acknowledging why affordable, fresh food and nutritious has always been a problem in some way or another, he prescribes solutions that are ridiculous. Spending more time preparing healthy, delicious food at home is a good goal, but how can we achieve it when fresh food remains unaffordable to so many, as it always has? (Seriously, when I was at McDonald's last week, I got a small meal for less than $4 - I can't eat for even close to that at my local farmers' market.) How can we change the industrial farming practices that Pollan so rightly abhors as stripping plants, animals, and the earth of its nutrients, and make sure that people can afford to buy what is produced? How can we re-direct farm subsidies that go toward harmful practices to get better, affordable food? How do we help people find the time to cook, and make sure it is an enjoyable way to spend time so people will choose to cook?
Blaming feminism and ignoring the realities of the past is easy. But it won't solve anything.
*Today, the cost of housing is by far the largest line item.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Tragedy and Bad Public Policy
While at a picnic with friends and their toddlers at Hudson River Park this afternoon, I heard a big bang. The park is wedged between the West Side Highway and the Hudson River, so I just assumed that it was a truck or some other large vehicle on the highway. I was paid little attention when a number of my fellow picnickers ran toward the river. When emergency boats began circling the area a few minutes later, I realized that the big bang was not what I thought it was.
It turns out that the big bang was a private plane crashing into a helicopter. The plane's wings clipped the blades of the helicopter, and both aircraft plunged into the river. Tragically, all three people on the plane and seven people in the helicopter died.
Husband is actually surprised that these horrible instances don't happen more often, as the lower altitudes above the Hudson River are unregulated. Today Mayor Bloomberg said that while he was sorry that this happened and extended his condolences to the families of those lost, he opposed regulating the airspace as it would be bad for tourism. I'm not sure that the families of the six Italian tourists who died in the helicopter would agree. I certainly don't.
It turns out that the big bang was a private plane crashing into a helicopter. The plane's wings clipped the blades of the helicopter, and both aircraft plunged into the river. Tragically, all three people on the plane and seven people in the helicopter died.
Husband is actually surprised that these horrible instances don't happen more often, as the lower altitudes above the Hudson River are unregulated. Today Mayor Bloomberg said that while he was sorry that this happened and extended his condolences to the families of those lost, he opposed regulating the airspace as it would be bad for tourism. I'm not sure that the families of the six Italian tourists who died in the helicopter would agree. I certainly don't.
Friday, August 7, 2009
MMM (More Medical Mishaps)
Somehow, both of my little toes developed humps. I think they were initially blisters that turned into calluses, but whatever they are, they hurt like fuck. I need extra wide shoes so that the Hunchtoes of the Upper West Side don't rub against the shoe while I walk. The problem is that even my gym shoes are not wide enough to get me through a full day as a New Yorker, which requires a lot of walking, even though I've been sitting at a desk for hours while doing a consulting job. I'm trying my hiking shoes today. Bah.
After limping to Cosi for internet access, I called my ob/gyn to schedule an appointment for September. (I had to google her phone number.) When I saw her last year, I really liked her. I found her after reading an article she wrote for Glamour magazine about the dangers of Brazilian waxing. It was meant to be.
"Are you an existing patient of Dr. O'Connell's?" the receptionist asked me.
"Yes," I replied.
"Oh, well next week is her last week before she leaves here forever."
"WHAT?!?! May I ask where she is going?" I prayed quickly that I could just follow her to her next doctoring gig.
"Massachusetts."
It took everything I had in me not to scream motherfucker. When I first moved to New York, I retained my gyn in the suburbs of Chicago and made my yearly appointments when I was in town to visit my family. I loved that doctor. Then she moved to Champagne-Urbana, which is about four hours from Chicago, so I sucked it up and found a doc here. I hated her.
My co-worker then referred me to her doctor, who I adored. After two or three years, she completely fell off the planet. (Dr. Pollitz, if you are out there, I miss your care!) I saw my friend Sara's doctor. Sara swore by him, telling me that he always took lots of time to talk to her and answer her questions, but he was super late to my appointment and rushed me through a history while I was sitting on the exam table in a paper gown. I was not impressed.
A few months after that disappointment, I visited my friend Dr. P in Florida, where was doing a fellowship. Dr. P had a subscription to Glamour (good bathroom reading?), and that's when I found the article by Dr. O'Connell, whose byline noted that she worked at Columbia Medical Center in NYC. I decided that this was my future doctor. I waited another few months for my yearly cooter exam time to arrive, and had a very nice appointment with her. Which of course is inevitably why she is leaving.
Now I have painful toes and no snatch examiner to boot. Motherfucker.
After limping to Cosi for internet access, I called my ob/gyn to schedule an appointment for September. (I had to google her phone number.) When I saw her last year, I really liked her. I found her after reading an article she wrote for Glamour magazine about the dangers of Brazilian waxing. It was meant to be.
"Are you an existing patient of Dr. O'Connell's?" the receptionist asked me.
"Yes," I replied.
"Oh, well next week is her last week before she leaves here forever."
"WHAT?!?! May I ask where she is going?" I prayed quickly that I could just follow her to her next doctoring gig.
"Massachusetts."
It took everything I had in me not to scream motherfucker. When I first moved to New York, I retained my gyn in the suburbs of Chicago and made my yearly appointments when I was in town to visit my family. I loved that doctor. Then she moved to Champagne-Urbana, which is about four hours from Chicago, so I sucked it up and found a doc here. I hated her.
My co-worker then referred me to her doctor, who I adored. After two or three years, she completely fell off the planet. (Dr. Pollitz, if you are out there, I miss your care!) I saw my friend Sara's doctor. Sara swore by him, telling me that he always took lots of time to talk to her and answer her questions, but he was super late to my appointment and rushed me through a history while I was sitting on the exam table in a paper gown. I was not impressed.
A few months after that disappointment, I visited my friend Dr. P in Florida, where was doing a fellowship. Dr. P had a subscription to Glamour (good bathroom reading?), and that's when I found the article by Dr. O'Connell, whose byline noted that she worked at Columbia Medical Center in NYC. I decided that this was my future doctor. I waited another few months for my yearly cooter exam time to arrive, and had a very nice appointment with her. Which of course is inevitably why she is leaving.
Now I have painful toes and no snatch examiner to boot. Motherfucker.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Could I Be a Bigger Asshole?
As I contemplated my return to school at the end of the month,
nervousness seized me by the balls and squeezed. Was I scared that
someone would again compare my sentences to Oscar Meyer bologna? Did
I fear that my literal interpretation of Sebold's "The Emigrants"
would inspire laughter in my peers? No. I wish.
nervousness seized me by the balls and squeezed. Was I scared that
someone would again compare my sentences to Oscar Meyer bologna? Did
I fear that my literal interpretation of Sebold's "The Emigrants"
would inspire laughter in my peers? No. I wish.
Instead, I sweated about whether the incoming class would have nice
and interesting people I would want to befriend. "I hope not," I told
my cousin. "I seriously don't have time for new friends right now.
I'm busy enough trying to fit everyone in as it is." What a fucking
asshole thing to say! It's so mortifying that I must share it over
the internets, as quite frankly, I have been missing my blog friends
enormously and wish that we lived closer together so that I could
worry about not having enough time to see them.
Some of my blog friends witnessed (and encouraged me to engage in)
hamsternapping at a recent blogging conference we attended, which was
an asshole thing to do, but when Maurice's twin is begging for
liberation, how can I just walk away? (Maurice is, of course, the
hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain. He's been very
happy since Herbert came to live on my nightstand.)
My thievery is extra relevant at this minute, as I contemplate my
asshole status (it could be bigger, I think - not that I will attempt
to achieve a higher rank of assholitude) from McDonald's, where
insomnia, a lack of food in my apartment, and a strange craving for a
cheeseburger sent me. I bought a Happy Meal. For less than $4, I got
a "beef" patty with cheese, sliced apples, and a small (refillable)
beverage of my choice. In addition, I received a Teeny Beanie, Pops
the Gorilla (aka "Pops, El Gorila" according to the plastic bag the is
suffocating the little guy). I realized two things: this is a lot of
stuff for a family on a tight budget; and I probably could have
obtained Herbert (formerly known as "Fluffball") through legitimate
means. Ooops.
Man, I clearly need sleep...
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Girl with the Doody Earring
While there are many good things going on lately, I remain frustrated by how the apartment renovation is proceeding (it's moving forward and looks great, but if the contractor changes the plan one more time and then acts as if it was my idea, I will strangle him) and last weekend my bubbe had a stroke while visiting my sister in Iowa. She's fine, but things were very complicated because she is a demanding and irrational person under the best of circumstances, and these were far from it. Hence, quality sleep evaded me every night this week.
During one of my wee hours of the morning awake sessions, I sat on the fancy new toilet, fiddling with my earrings. When I dropped the silver ball that I wear in my cartilage pierce and I heard it clink on the dusty floor, I got down on my hands and knees and searched. I couldn't find it. I figured that it was because I had no sight enhancing apparatus on, so I fetched my glasses from the bedroom. Still nothing.
A sinking feeling occupied the pit of my stomach. I lifted the lid to the toilet and peered in. There sat my earring. This would be no big deal except that I was using the toilet when I dropped my earring. Also, I had recently lost another small earring that I wore in my cartilage pierce in the shower, and a search for a replacement yielded nothing suitable other than the little ball I already owned. (It seems that super small earrings are not in right now, even for little kids.)
I pondered the dilemma for a few seconds. Should I perform a deep (dirty) water rescue? If so, would a rubbing alcohol bath for the recovered treasure be enough to prevent my from contract e. coli through a hole in my ear?
I really did not want to walk around with a hole visible in my ear when I had a job interview, so I took a deep breath and reached in. So far, I'm not suffering any ill effects. Husband, however, may want to think twice before nibbling on my right ear.
During one of my wee hours of the morning awake sessions, I sat on the fancy new toilet, fiddling with my earrings. When I dropped the silver ball that I wear in my cartilage pierce and I heard it clink on the dusty floor, I got down on my hands and knees and searched. I couldn't find it. I figured that it was because I had no sight enhancing apparatus on, so I fetched my glasses from the bedroom. Still nothing.
A sinking feeling occupied the pit of my stomach. I lifted the lid to the toilet and peered in. There sat my earring. This would be no big deal except that I was using the toilet when I dropped my earring. Also, I had recently lost another small earring that I wore in my cartilage pierce in the shower, and a search for a replacement yielded nothing suitable other than the little ball I already owned. (It seems that super small earrings are not in right now, even for little kids.)
I pondered the dilemma for a few seconds. Should I perform a deep (dirty) water rescue? If so, would a rubbing alcohol bath for the recovered treasure be enough to prevent my from contract e. coli through a hole in my ear?
I really did not want to walk around with a hole visible in my ear when I had a job interview, so I took a deep breath and reached in. So far, I'm not suffering any ill effects. Husband, however, may want to think twice before nibbling on my right ear.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
August Rush
School starts in less than four weeks. My lofty plans for summer are
about one percent accomplished. I polished up four stories and
started a fourth, but that is not going to get me through the semester
if I wind up with a full time job. Gah!
about one percent accomplished. I polished up four stories and
started a fourth, but that is not going to get me through the semester
if I wind up with a full time job. Gah!
This week, against my better judgment, I took a consulting job in my
old field. I fear being sucked back into old issues that are never
resolved, but these damn renovations are not paying for themselves,
that's for sure, and the project has a very concrete end date. So
far, though, my one day on the job was nice. Since I quit my job in
May, I've missed the comraderie of colleagues.
I also have an interview this afternoon. Any job prospect excites me,
but also reminds me how little I got done over the last three months.
Actually, I tend to get more done when my time is constrained because
it forces me to focus. Still, I don't know where time has gone. An
age old lament...
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Sunday, August 2, 2009
How 'bout some laundry with that soap?
I was unable to exact vengeance on Husband's laundry for his wish that
I am less petty. With my consent, he fired up the intentionally small
inaugural load (mostly my stuff) while I was out with my cousin
enjoying the first sunny, mild day NYC has seen in weeks. When I
arrived home, I discovered that Husband not only used five time the
amount of necessary detergent, but that he put it in the fabric
softener slot.
I am less petty. With my consent, he fired up the intentionally small
inaugural load (mostly my stuff) while I was out with my cousin
enjoying the first sunny, mild day NYC has seen in weeks. When I
arrived home, I discovered that Husband not only used five time the
amount of necessary detergent, but that he put it in the fabric
softener slot.
We ran the machine for about six hours to clear out the suds.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
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